While the Music Lasts.....

When Mohan emerged from the ramshackle hut, it wasn't just the roof that quaked. Vimla shook her head in disbelief while the little Sona jumped up with joy. Sahil stood stunned too looking at his father who was a picture of merriment, although quite a tattered one from here and there.

"What is all this buffoonery?" yelled the bewildered Vimla who was flipping the rotis on her chulha. She was about to burn one of them but Sahil warned her in time and she quickly lifted up the roti from the burning tava.

"This father-daughter team is going to make me crazy, Sahil." muttered Vimla. "Where were the two of you for the whole day? Don't you think you need to stop pampering this little girl of yours."

Sona in the meantime had hugged her father who then lifted her up. "You look like that hero who was singing....!" Sona's excitement was beyond words. 

"Arrey Vimla.....she just wanted to have some harmless fun. The film that we saw had this hero wearing torn pants and he was singing.....Now, you know I cannot sing like that but I thought of giving my gudiya a little happiness, that's it.....Don't you worry, the torn pieces are inside only. When you get time, just patch them back on these clothes," beamed Mohan.

"Ahha - hero.....then remain a hero....I will not stitch them." Vimla posed as if she was disgruntled. Sahil stole a smile too. Secretly, the two were enjoying all the silliness of Mohan. Vimla remembered her own father whenever she saw her husband being so playful with the kids. As for Sahil, he was content to see that despite the poverty, his father tried hard to make them smile. "Let me sing and you dance," he joked. 

The three started their own rock band. Vimla could resist no further. She started smacking the steel plate with a spoon. The music was loud. Maybe a little cacophonous. But it was the music of their life. 

Linking to Blog-A-Rhythm's Wordy Wednesday #4 #BarWoWe Picture Prompt.

Stranger Than Fiction

"If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this : In love, we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."

So begins the best-seller The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. The book is a fictional rendering of World War II and the German occupation of France by the Nazis. It tells the story of two sisters, Vianne and Isabelle, who have natures completely opposite to each other. The novel deals with issues of heroism, bravery, patriotism, treachery, the necessity of survival, and the irony of the morality we live by. This post, however, is not about the novel. This post is about that recurrent figure Isabelle relates to in the novel. That figure is straight from real life. That figure is a part of that shameful history we all inherit. That figure is of the British nurse Edith Cavell, whose life was much stranger than fiction.

Image Source

Hundred years ago, and this is not a tale, a nurse by the name of Edith Cavell in German-occupied Brussels, was executed by the German firing squad. The date was October 12, 1915. Her only crime was her compassionate humanity. She had aided soldiers from both sides during the First World War. It is said that she saved more than 200 Allied soldiers and sent them back to their country. The Germans considered this treason which was punishable by death. 

There was no alternative punishment for this crime as per German law. No other country could come to the rescue of the nurse who had saved so many lives. Edith, in her last moments, said that for her "...patriotism was not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone." She also wanted to be remembered forever as a "nurse" who had done her "duty", and not as a martyr. But her execution enraged the Allies. Edith was a woman who wanted to spread the message of only love and humanity. Her death was a blow to humanity itself. The Americans joined the war too. 

Did Edith know no fear? She said that she had seen "death so often" that it doesn't feel "strange or fearful" to her. 

Isablle in The Nightingale, does feel fear. She wants to be "brave" like "Edith Cavell risking her life" but she is "scared". 

In case you are thinking that Isabelle's character is modeled after Edith, I must tell you one more thing. During the Second World War, another woman, as brave as Edith, would emerge. Her name was Adrienne de Jongh and she played a prominent part in aiding Allied soldiers against the Nazis. Isabelle's character is close to de Jongh. 

Life is a twisted tale. Much twisted than fiction. Much stranger than fiction.


Linking to Day 1 of the #BarAThon Challenge by Blog-A-Rhythm

Heart of the Matter

Heart of the Matter

They sit together each with a pencil in hand

To heal their wounds

For every conflict sorted, they will draw an arch

From biggest to smallest...

They promise

         To give each other Time

         To respect each other,

         Some space in-between so that

        they stifle not their love with doting too much

        Honest they will remain

        Will understand that their ego is smaller

        Than the sanctity of their love...

        Agree that they will stumble...

        But each will stretch out, hold the other up...

        They promise, they will hear

        The beating heart, the breaking heart

                         will hear when there are words,

                         when there is silence...

They look at the paper

Arch within arch,

Reaching in, to the very core

To the heart of the matter,

They seal the deed,

And wed again.

Note - 

This was really a challenging prompt. I scratched my head an umpteen number of times, thinking, thinking, thinking. Interestingly, there are 7 arches in the picture. This reminded me of the saat (seven) phere (going around a pious fire as a priest chants some prayers) the bride and groom take with each other on their wedding day. These seven rounds around fire seal their marriage as per Indian customs. This made me think of a relationship that was meant to last forever, but is breaking apart. The couple here realizes that they cannot let each other go, and hence sits down to resolve the conflict. Arches symbolize the transition they will make, the inner journey they will take here. They make seven promises in the poem and re-marry each other.



Linking it to B-A-R

A Stretch of Lazy Limbs....

Getting to a place of comfort can be uncomfortable. Remember being born, eh? No...? The witnesses do. The spectators, the participants, the assistants. They are eager to hear the cry - the cry of life. If the child has to live, s/he ought to cry. That will ensure a life. So they strain their ears to hear it - the cry of life. Isn't it incredible how life and tears are inseparable? You cry the moment you are born. You do not remember the pain of birth you have experienced at the time you first saw the light of the day. Out of the womb, out of the comfort zone you inhabited for months, out of that cocoon you thought was your home. A place where you were curled up, literally, with just the fluid you made to keep yourself safe. But you had to come out, and come out you did, to a place that gave you more room, physically speaking, and mentally too. A place for you to grow not just vertically. A place you would know as your home, your city, your country, your planet, your universe. A place to expand your horizons, a place to spread and flap your wings, to get ready for the flights that might define your very being. 

What after that .....?

And then the preparation begins. Parents prepare you. Teachers prepare you. At least they try to prepare you - for life. But something else happens too. A clipping of wings, perhaps. An adherence to age-bound, time-bound, culture-bound norms. You question, you are snubbed. You wonder, but your imagination is nipped. You wiggle. You cannot give up. No. You were not born for this. Struggle ensues. There is a rebellion somewhere. A toppling state of affairs. A new birth, maybe. Of new thoughts. Of freedom. From shackles. From bondage of worn-out thoughts. 

Image Source here

It is a better place in some sense now. But it was not easy to reach here. Not easy to cross the obstacles. To win over the muddled mazy paths. No - comfort ain't that comfortable. It comes from a stretch of the lazy limbs. 

But what if there was no struggle. Would there be a birth then? There would just remain a lull, a halt. No end-point. No beginning. No in-between. No life.

But that does not happen. There has to be life. There has to be action too. Action, willing or otherwise. And it impacts you. It impacts those around you, living and non-living. You don't believe me. Well, sit. Just sit and do nothing. And then get up. Check the seat you sat on. If it is cushioned, it is bumped in. It bears a little indent where you sat. If it is not cushioned, it has still taken your body's heat. It is warm. So, whatever you do, it will have an impact. Willing or otherwise.

A gesture, a smile, a tear, a wind, a rain-drop, a fall, a getting-up, a friend, a foe - they all impact you. They characterize you too. Your smile impacts you and your surroundings by spreading invisible waves of happiness. These waves cheer up the horizon, so to say. Your tears release you from pain, from guilt. They cleanse you and everything around you. Winds impact with the whiffs of scents they carry. Someone is close to you, you are not alone, never. A rain-drop titillates. A cooling sensation it is. A trickling titillation. 

You fall. You bruise. You get-up. You put a balm. Bruise covered. But lesson learnt too. What if the lesson was cryptic? What if you fail to understand? Well - simple. You fall again. To get-up again, and again and again. That's how you learn or not learn. That is what spells out your life's path. The actions that you take or refuse to take, and the impact that they leave behind. That is who you are. It is up to you what life you live. A life of living moments or a mere existence of quietus. You choose, you decide. Willingly or otherwise, the day you are born, you get busy living or get busy dying.

Image Source here

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Linking it to B-A-R

She is a Woman

Image Source here

She loves to elaborate

She is a woman

No monosyllables for her

She revels in details...

A smile might suffice some days

But she needs an extra something sometime

She is a woman.

Many have cursed her, branded her

She is a temptress, a seductress

She is the cause of Fall

The reason of Original Sin

What had she wanted?

Was she the only one who had wanted?

Why did they question only her?

On her head is the burden of sin

In her heart a throbbing pain

Pain of love

Pain that gives her grief and joy

She likes it

She knows not why

She is an enigma not just to others

but to herself too.

She is a woman.

She has fought many battles.

She still fights.

She fights for her dignity.

For her rights.

She fights to exist

She fights to live.

She has an infinite fountain of love within her

waiting to burst out

It lies restrained

Like energy that is within reach yet wasted

Only because it is unnoticed.

Let her open up.

Stop her not. 

Bind her not.

She is born to be free.

She is a woman.

In her dances Creation itself

In her sings Creativity

In her glows the spark of life

In her the serene ocean hides.

Let her flow

Let her fly

Let her....Let her...Let her....

She is a woman.

Written for B-A-R

You might also like

I Survived but a Dream Died #OrangeDay

Disobedient Wife

रेत के घर

This poem is written in response to the picture prompt by Aditi Kaushiva

"कल समुद्र के किनारे जाना 

कुछ रेत के घर बनाना 

एक छोटा सा महल भी होगा 

जिसमें कहीं मेरा निशाँ भी होगा 

जब लहरें शोर मचाएंगी 

इठलाती हुई पास आएंगी 

सब कुछ ढह जाते देखना 

मुझे फिर मर जाते देखना 

लड़ तो तुम नहीं पाओगे 

लहरों से क्या टकराओगे 

खुद भी तो रेत से बने हो तुम 

एक दिन तुम भी बह जाओगे 

यही तो किया तुमने 

कमज़ोर दीवारों से घिरे 

निरर्थक व्यवहारों से पले 

उठा न पाये सर कभी 

झुके खड़े हो आज भी 

सुन न सके उन तरंगों की धुन 

नई सोच से नए सपने काश बुन देते तुम 

मेरे पिता बन जाते तुम 

कुछ गुड़िया भी घर में लाते तुम 

पर सोच तुम्हारी काँटा बन

पैरों में मेरे चुभ रही है आज 

मैं जाती हूँ अब तुमसे दूर

नहीं मुझे अब तुमपे नाज़ ...."

Image Source here

कल रात नहीं फिर सो मैं पाया

सपने ने जैसे मुझे जगाया 

आइना मुझको दिखलाया 

एक कमज़ोर शख्स से मिलवाया 

पिता हूँ कैसा मैं 

जो आती मेरे जीवन में 

मुझको भी जीना सिखलाती 

कुछ रंग गुलाबी बिखरा कर 

मेरे कुंठित काले मन को 

नित नया रूप वो दे जाती 

निर्जीव खड़ा मैं गुनहगार 

कल सुबह वहीँ पे जाऊँगा 

लहरों से न मैं लड़ पाऊँ 

मैं फिर भी महल बनाऊंगा 

एक घेरा ऐसा डालूँगा 

जो अनुचित दूषित  सोच को 

दरवाज़े से बाहर रखेगा 

तू आना मेरे घर बेटी 

इस घर को खूब सजाना तू 

और इस दोषी पिता को माफ़ी दे 

इक बार गले से लगा लेना। 

Similar posts you might like

Disobedient Wife

I am Born Again

Winds of Change : Embracing the Girl Child

बेटी की शादी

What is Potential but a Life full of Possibilities

What is Potential But a Life full of Possibilities.....

Today's Wordy Wednesday Prompt has been given by Elly Stornebrink. She is a wonderful blogger and a lively person. It has been a pleasure to discover her through this platform of Blog-A-Rythm. 

For the word-prompt 'Potential', I am submitting my entry below.



Work hard

Believe in yourself

You can surmount mountains

You can overcome hurdles

You have the potential

To do what lies within your reach

You have the potential 

To do what remains outside your reach

After all,

What is potential

But a state of mind

That gives you the ability 

To achieve

To rise

You just have to trust -

Trust your inner voice

Prod yourself further

On the path that lies ahead

Look behind sometimes

At the footprints you leave

Learn from the places that have some muddled prints

They tell you where you faltered

They tell you that you tried

They tell you that you have lived

A life exploring your potential......

Sad is the state of those

Who trust not, try not

Sadder the state of those who stop and smother lives

Lives that had the potential to be lived

Lives that had the potential to bloom like fragrant flowers

Lives of little unborn girls

Who had the potential to do what any boy can presumably do

Lives of little aborted girls

Who might have surpassed all boys

If only their potential had not been killed

After all

What is potential

But a life full of possibilities

A heart that can beat

A mind that can think

A body that can breathe

In a soul that can believe

Many potentials don't see

The bright sun

The silver moon

The twinkling stars

The rain-laden clouds

The azure sky

The vast oceans

The verdant earth....

Many potentials don't hear

The music of life

The harmony of cool breeze

The rustling of leaves

The splashing of waves....

Many potentials don't bathe 

In the fragrance of Aurora

In the scents of blossoming flowers

In the balmy tender touch

Of motherly affection.....

Ah

Potential killed...

Killed by prejudice

Cries alone

In some corner....

Untouched, untapped

And yet sullied and stained

Irony of life.....

If you liked the poem and the thought, do read the following two posts on similar topics I wrote earlier. The first one is a guest post I wrote for ideasforideas.org and the second one is a post from my other blog meredeshkimitti.wordpress.com.

I am Born Again

Winds of Change - Embracing the Girl Child

Food for the Goddess

They often left food for her near the lamp. It would miraculously vanish and they thought Goddess Imoinu ima was pleased by them and appeased by their offering.

 Deb was an eight year old domestic help in their household. He could not play like Ajoy because he was not born with the silver spoon in his mouth. He had no access to the mouth-watering delicacies that Ajoy was forcefully fed by his mother. He had to satisfy himself with the left-overs.

One day, Deb could not clean the house as he was sick. The master of the household got very angry. He had invited the head of an NGO running in his area. The NGO worked for poor kids and saved them from child labor, malnutrition and abuse. Ajoy's father had a given some substantial amount of donation and secured his position as a good samaritan in a hopeless world. The unclean house enraged him and he beat Deb and threw him out of his house.

A crying Deb, jobless and starving, had nowhere to go. He waited for someone to come from the house and take him back. But nobody came. He decided to spend the night under the tree he had often watered.

That night, surprisingly. the morsels of food left near the lamp, for Goddess Imoinu Ima, remained untouched.

Ajoy's mother was panicky in the morning.
Ajoy's father was called.
Their was a long pause.

Then suddenly Ajoy's mother realized her folly.

"The Goddess is angry because you threw out Deb. Bring him back', she pleaded to her husband.

The husband was god-fearing man too. He rushed outside.

Deb was still sleeping. He touched his hand. Deb got up and apologized. The master of the household made him promise that Deb would do his duty well. Deb promised.

Deb was back in the house.

Ajoy's mom was feeding Ajoy. She did not ask Deb to eat anything. Deb started mopping the floor. The day went just as always for Deb.

Night came. Food was left near the lamp.
It was gone in the morning. The Goddess was appeased.

Everyone was happy in the household.

Picture Prompt provided by blogger Parul Kashyap Thakur

A World full of Small Spaces....

An excellent prompt by a fellow blogger I have recently discovered - Usha Menonji

Being new to B-A-R, I just busied myself in submitting prompt-based posts. But when I read what others are writing, I realized my mistake. I seek apologies from all the previous bloggers who gave such great prompts to write on, and who I did not acknowledge in my blog posts. Do overlook this fault of mine. 

This world is a small place
A cozy nook 
Where love ought to flourish
But sadly it just perishes
As we all fight for space
Space built by ego
Fed by anger
and jealousy
We need a smile
And a hug
To break barriers
To come closer
But we know not how to bring that curve on our lips
We know not how to loosen up
We forget the magic of touch
We forego the magic of compassion
It is so hard to let go
We keep holding on to regrets
Nurturing hatred and indifference
Creating chasms where bridges ought to be
We pull down the curtains to let others out
Out of sight
Creating foggy visions
Straining stares
Frowning brows
Contriving in countless ways
To make an antagonistic world
Which is not small
But home to small thoughts and petty minds
A world of alienation
Of isolation
Of distances
A world full of small spaces.....

My other posts on B-A-R prompts

Power that is kind stem not from Cruel Mind

Scream

Silly Stillies

Power that is Kind Stems not from cruel Mind

(Power is derived from Latin 'posse' which means to be able. Grace takes its roots from Latin 'gratia' that means pleasing, kind. French grace means forgiving.)

The notion of power has often been linked to physical force. Power and its use and abuse are associated with control, confinement and conformity. This kind of use of power has at different points of history seen the rise of dictators and tyrants. Power that verges on senseless massacre of minorities and those considered 'rebellious' and 'deviant', is, not surprisingly, devoid of grace. This kind of power functions not just at the dominant levels of hierarchy. It is prevalent in almost every strata of social structure, as Michel Foucault, the French historian of ideas, had pointed out. It seeks to control and legitimize ideas and belief systems that are in harmony with the ideologies that are considered 'normal'. Foucault's analysis of 'madness' in this context is relevant here. He describes how 'madness' has been 'used' for conveniently muting voices of dissent and disobedience in an age of reason.

Power is all these examples has been used to mean something that restrains, something that contains. But there is another kind of power which is completely free of brutality. It is a strength sages derive from self-control and disciplining of the senses. It is a virtue that calms turbulent minds and stormy hearts. 

Remember the story of Buddha taming the wild elephant. 

When Buddha's cousin Devdutta unleashed his jealousy on the great sage by letting loose an elephant that was drunk and enraged by the cruel treatment he had been subjected to, Buddha remained unperturbed. A woman cried for help as she felt that the mad elephant would trample her child. Buddha did not succumb to any fear. Nor did he administer cruelty on the animal. He reciprocated with love. He touched the elephant. There was magic in his touch, a magic that stemmed from love that was powerful yet graceful. It was an affectionate caress that understood the pain of the mad elephant. The touch did not desire to defend. Rather it wanted to help.

This kind of power that Buddha possessed was power that was ‘able’ to ‘please’ rather than condemn or demean.

‘Graceful power’ or ‘powerful grace’ are not oxymoronic phrases. They define an attitude. They exemplify a state of mind that is free from bias, jealousy and barbarity. They define a mindset that aims not to curb but set free.

Power that pleases

stems from a heart

that is kind

not a mind that is cruel....

It is grace 

that pleases.....

Calm and serene

Like the ocean's water

Placid and balmy....

Powerful yet graceful.....

Do spare some time to read my other Blog-a-Rythm entries by clicking the links below:

Silly Stillies

Footprints That Changed My Life

Scream

Silly Stillies

Kids on adults taking selfies

‘They are so selfish, these adults, don’t you think,' cribbed the tiny tomato.

‘You bet, said his friend’, another teeny-tiny tomato

‘All they care for is these silly selfies.’

‘I know. Silly stillies! Look how they fake that smile.’

‘They don’t know how to put on a nice and big smile like we do.’

‘I wonder what makes them so happy.’

‘I just overheard what they said about us.’

‘What?’

‘They think we are a nuisance in these selfies. Oh my goodness. Isn’t that a crime? We little ones bring so much peppiness in their dull drab dramatic world!!’

‘Let us ruin it. Tug along. They won’t buy us a toy anyways. Let us be the Selfie-Spoliers.’

Moms on kids spoiling selfies

‘Can you not just play with your friends? We arranged play-dates just for you,' says one mom.

‘Uff….They will never mend their ways. Look how they push and crib,' says another.

‘They won’t come in the pic anyway.’

‘Why are you peeping? Stand aside. We will take you pics later.’

‘No, they are not listening. Ahh….they came in the last click.’

‘Take one more.’

‘Ready. Don’t make a silly face kids. Put on a nice smile. Don’t you know how to pose for a picture properly?’

‘Stop playing. Stand. Rather sit. They will be in the corners.’

Wink.

Click.

Done.

‘Look. We look great, don’t we?!’

‘Look at the kids. Wish they had posed nicely.’

‘We can edit it. Crop will do.’

‘Let’s take one more selfie. No kids this time.’

Kids are listening. They still tug along.

Click.

Wordy Wednesday Picture Prompt