"Hold Fast to Dreams...."

Image Source

She stared at the pages of her diary. For the past fifteen days, this diary had been her sole companion. Something had happened to her lately. Nobody knew what. She woke up one morning without any memories. She knew not her name, and who she was. 

In the facility where the doctors were trying to treat her, people came and went. They would come with photographs and other trinkets with which they tried to goad her out of this oblivion. First ones to approach were a child accompanied with his father. The man claimed to be her husband. And the child's little hands craved for her motherly touch. She felt a pang in her heart as she reached out hesitantly to the boy and hugged her to comfort him. But in her heart was just a torment. Who was she? "You are my wife", the man had replied. "Mom", the boy had cried.

Later came an old couple. They were her parents. They embraced her with a touch that gave her some relief. They brought with them stuff that had been dear to her when she had not forgotten anything. Stuff like books, paintings and her favorite food. Her gaze remained vacant as she held each of those things in her hand. "You are our daughter", the couple had pleaded before they left the room.

Some came who were about her age, though she had no idea how old she was. They were a jovial lot, her colleagues. They brought memories from the school she worked in. They humored her with silly jokes. They told her that her students missed her a lot. "You are a teacher, you ought to come back soon", they advised.

A woman simply clad in black and pink dress came and recited her favorite poem to her - Dreams written by Langston Hughes. 

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Before leaving the room, her friend tried to remind her that she had had many dreams she wanted to pursue. "One was to write a book, remember?" and saying that she dropped the diary in her hand.

She stared at her diary again. She took a pen and started writing something.

On the first page she wrote - Wife

On the next she wrote - Mother

On the next - Daughter

Then, Teacher.

Then, Dreamer.

Then in capitals, she wrote - WHO AM I?

and she closed the diary shut.

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

Also Linking to IndiSpire #132 

Book Review - The Story of a Suicide by Sriram Ayer

In 2012, I sat in front of my TV anxiously awaiting the judgement that would be meted out to Dharun Ravi, an Indian immigrant student at Rutgers University, New Jersey. He had through a webcam witnessed his room-mate Tyler Clementi's private moments with his boy-friend and later on had invited other friends and Twitter followers to witness the same through his web-cam. (The second part however never happened.) The entire incident resulted in Tyler Clementi's suicide.

As I sat watching the trial on my TV, I was at loggerheads as to where my sympathy should lie. I saw Tyler's mom waiting for a fair judgement. Her son would never return. Her loss was irreparable. On the other hand was this boy whose immaturity had landed him and his family in such a terrible situation. Dharun's mother sat in a corner weeping silently, praying for minimum punishment possible for her son. Dharun was charged on account of invasion of privacy. His crime was not categorized under 'hate crime' or 'discrimination' since nowhere did he show bias towards Clementi's being gay.

The case reflected how a foolish use of technology had ruined so many lives. It highlighted how important it was for us as parents, and for the society as a whole to act responsibly. If only, kids like Dharun knew that they had no right to invade the privacy of others. If only, kids like him realized that whatever they do could have serious consequences. And also, if only kids like Clementi had the love and unconditional support of their friends and family. If only kids like him knew that they would be accepted and loved for who they were.

Image Source

The Story of a Suicide

I began my post with the case of Dharun and Clementi because when I read The Story of  a Suicide by Sriram Ayer, I was reminded strongly of that tragedy. But the book however has more issues to deal with then just this. The key players of the story are Hari, Mani, Sam, Aditya, Priya, Charu and Alex. Hari's parents, 'He', and the twitter friends are important too in the role they play in the development of the plot.  The title of the novel is well-chosen. This is the narrative of not a man or a woman committing suicide. It is the story of suicide itself - how it happens, what factors or forces are responsible for shaping it up. It is not as if an individual decided to end his/her life and went about doing it. There are circumstances that make it happen. The novel is an exploration of those determinants at work.

I am going to divide my post according to the themes I felt are crucial in understanding the story as a whole. Then, I will conclude showing how each theme intertwines in the plot to bring about a completion in the narrative.

Insubordination

The narrative of the novel hinges on the thread of insubordination. There are different levels of disobedience that are examined in the story. To begin at the beginning is Sam and his relationship with Priya. As becomes evident quite early, Sam is driven into technology so much that he can see nothing else around himself. His inattentive involvement with Priya ends their relationship. Tweets are more important than a meaningful conversation. But when Priya calls it off, Sam's ego is hurt, really hurt. If we begin to feel that he might really be in love, Charu enters and Sam is floored by her beauty and confidence. But Charu is a very different woman. It is never clear how committed she is with Sam. There are points of confusion, moments when she wants to fully surrender to Sam, and then when she completely cuts him off. Sam is a typical male in this regard. The conversations he has with Aditya, and the tweets he makes about women, reveal how he objectifies the female body. The disregard he meets at the hands of Charu and the rejection from Priya are way too much for him to handle.

Then, there is the failed disobedience of Hari with 'He'. The way 'He' traumatizes Hari as a child and the inability of Hari to oppose it is very poignantly handled in the novel.

Mani's failed attempt to commit suicide as he is unable to cope with the pressure of studies is another example of insubordination - his refusal to accept the standards set by society due to his 'inabilities'.

These three are different kinds of non-compliant behaviors at work in the novel.

Abuse and Negligence

In the stories of Hari and Mani are hidden the accounts of countless kids and teenagers who suffer due to parental negligence and social expectations. The pressure to stay within the bounds of conformity are too much to handle. The inability to see that abuse is lurking right under their nose is the cause of much misfortune. Hari is unable to overcome the childhood trauma even when it is not physically present. The scars left on his soul are sore wounds that refuse to heal. For Mani, it is the expectations society has from toppers that intimidates him and threatens to undo him. Both the boys find in each other a possibility of a relationship that will be based on trust and understanding. But past blemishes are not so easy to rid of, and so their relationship too walks on a tightrope.

An intruder called 'Technology'

It may well be argued whether it is technology or its senseless use that is the cause of all the trouble. I feel, that it is both. Technology has entered so much into our lives, it seems to have invaded our sanity too. The addictive spell of technology and the rashness of youth is not so great a combination. The urge to post our 'status', to lure of remaining 'anonymous', the ignorance of thinking that with anonymity we can also wash our hands off our mistakes, to live more in the 'virtual' rather than the 'real' world around us - all this remains central to the plot.

At the same time however, we can not overlook the larger patriarchal forces at work. The hegemonic ideas we conform to, the disciplines we consider 'normal' and 'normative' and the standards we maintain to 'judge' and 'punish' people go a long way in determining why we act the way we do.

Conclusion - Punishment and Patriarchy

 The 'disobedient' women in the novel, the docile child, the failed student, the enraged boyfriend, the unhappy parents - they all work in a given social set-up. They have become what they are in a society that has certain rules of decorum, certain definitions of respectability, certain stereotypes based on which men and women are expected to behave. Although homosexuality is not directly attacked in the story, the fact that it remains closeted in the novel speaks volumes about the homophobia at work. The tragic end of the novel is shaped by forces which were working on getting some other results, but which may very well have brought about a similar fate if homosexuality was directly targeted. As Gayle Rubin has rightly said, " The suppression of the homosexual component of human sexuality, and by corollary, the oppression of homosexuals, is .... a product of the same system whose rules and relations oppress women." The bonding between Sam and Aditya, the fetishizing of the body of the woman in the conversations they have, and the 'desire' to 'correct' the 'aberrant' behavior of the beloved are instances which reveal a sadist misogyny at work. When Charu writes the FB post where she boldly uses words that would be taboo in a polite society, she is breaking the rules of patriarchy that does not expect a woman to have a voice. The "homosocial" (borrowed from Eve Sedgewick's book Between Men ) planning of Sam and his friends is very much in keeping with the ideology of patriarchy that sits on dominance, discipline and punishment. The 'dominant' absolute male considers it his right to punish the intractable 'body' of the woman. She will remain an object of desire, a spectacle, and also a subject of punishment. 

This same 'patriarchy' maintains a structure and places individuals accordingly. In such a set-up, it leaves no room for what it considers 'deviant' and hence there is no place for the 'third sex'. This provokes an 'indifferent' mentality towards homosexuality. It cannot be 'recognized' because no-body in the patriarchal set-up will acknowledge it. Hari's parents are the representatives of this very ideological positioning in the society. The dream sequence that Hari's father, Mr. Hegde has reveals that he is somehow aware of his son's 'different' leanings. The author insinuates that even through the account of Haridas, the labourer, who is revered in the theater but condemned outside. It is through the imagery of 'dance' that Mr. Hegde feels that his son's life is in 'danger'. The dream reflects the opposing forces Mr. Hegde is caught in between. There are 'beasts' out there who will kill his son, he screams. But what or who those beasts are is something he does not ponder over, or may be he does not want to.

He, like most of the heterosexual, hegemonic, homophobic society, refuses to acknowledge its presence. And for that reason, even in the book, the theme of homosexuality rests on the hinges of the narrative. It is there, very much there for us to probe, to understand, if only we are sensitive enough to give it its deserved space.

Abuse becomes the tool of 'discipline' and 'punishment'.

The illustrations of the book are hazy yet powerful. They reflect the confusion and chaos of a society that wears the pretense of politeness. Like the dream sequences in the story, they are at times blunt and catch you off-guard. They tease us out of our oblivion. They mock, they prick, they interrogate. 

Time to interrogate

Each chapter of the novel has a set of questions for the reader to brood over. These questions are exercises of introspection and analysis. They are meant not just for those who suffer a heart-break, or are abused. They are also meant for the supposed power-holders of the society - those who wish to judge, discipline and punish others. The relevance of this kind of interrogation is crucial since the way we handle the incidents in our life can make or break us. These questions are meant to evoke a response that can help us handle rejections, promote and practice compassion, and develop an understanding for those who are 'different' from us, but still as human as we are.

The havoc that is wrecked in the novel happens much with the aid of social media and the brutally indifferent use of technology. Thus it is imperative for the care-givers, the parents, the teachers and the guardians of our society to teach well the kids and the youngsters on how to use it to achieve harmony and not create chaos. 

Following are some important points I feel we need to go over: 

1) We need to understand and respect everyone's right to privacy.
2) We need to realize that whatever we do has consequences. Responsibility for an act, done anonymously or otherwise, can never be done away with. 
3) We need to teach the kids from an early age that the desire to possess can only bring about ruin. Freedom, and space in a relationship are the foundation of healthy relationships. 
4) If someone says No, we need to respect that decision.
5) We should assert our refusal powerfully if our dignity is threatened. To hide the matter, no matter how much we are afraid, can only bring more abuse. We have to speak up before it is too late.
6) As friends, we need to pay attention to each other when we are low. A confident and caring person is all we need in times of crisis.
 7) Virtual life, no matter how addictive, remains just that. It can never replace the authentic, committed relationships we can actually have if only we are willing. What is not out there is just a chimera. It can create illusions, and hallucinations, and can take you away from the real world. It can ruin you. 
8) Conversations - talking and listening - can really help someone in need.. We ought to pay attention to signs and words. Don't overlook just because you don't like it. Our likes and dislikes are less important that a life in pain. That life can be saved if we are vigilant.
9) Accept who you are, even when you are different from others. Be proud of yourself. 

Image Source

This post is written in response to Indiblogger IndiChange Topic - Review the book The Story of a Suicide by Sriram Ayer

Human spirit must prevail over technology - Einstein

Albert Einstein said, "Human spirit must prevail over technology." There was a time when we had no phone, no computers, no internet. That was the time of pigeon-carriers or postal mails. That was the time when we would ardently miss our loved ones. That was the time of hand-written letters. That was also the time of heart-felt joys and sorrows.

Gradually, things changed. Sometimes out of necessity, and sometimes just for convenience, the human mind invented things to make life faster, and to make distances shorter. Technology slowly took over. Snail mails were replaced by emails, and real emotions by emoticons. We became more virtual than real. Distances became shorter in terms of accessibility but ironically, the distances between the hearts grew wider.

But who is to be blamed for all this? Is it technology or the human mind that craves to go beyond the limit? Is it not our desire that wants us to have the latest smartphone or the latest cool gadget in the market? Are we not willingly wiring ourselves? Is it not the herd-mentality of ours that wants to take selfies, to post status about where we are, what we are doing, and what we are feeling at the moment? As if the world is dying to hear about it, about us.....How vain are we! When we like some post on FB, we also want our own presence to be 'engraved' in the technological space, so to say....not our footprint, but our virtual print. Just to be seen, to be noticed, to be praised. Technology aids in this, no doubt about that. But it aids because we chose it as our prop.

Image Source

In his novel, Guy on the Sidewalk, Bharath Krishna write,""Nearly everyone bid goodbye saying," You are on my Facebook anyway", or " You are on my WhatsApp anyway" as if Facebook and WhatsApp guaranteed relationships."  The problem lies within us. We want relationships without commitments. Technology helps us here. I wrote about this in another post We Need Each Other. We are scared to look in the eye. We recoil from gentle touch because we feel its strangeness, its unfamiliarity. We are afraid to be engaged in reality, so we pretend. Technology again helps in keeping up this pretense. 

And then we say, technology is ruining us. Is it really?

Is it not great to connect with your loved ones miles apart through FB or watsapp? Is it not a solace that the swiftness of message transfer has helped us stay in touch when we really really need to feel connected? The problem is not technology. The problem is our misuse of technology. The problem is our choosing mechanical, automated responses instead of earnest, warm feelings. 




Written for Indispire#128

Forgivess is a Choice - Difficult But Worthy....

In The Book of Forgiving, the author Desmond Tutu asks the reader to hold a stone big enough to fit your palm for six hours. It is to be held in the non-dominant hand for the allotted time while the reader does the work he usually does at that time. The author then asks us to note down a few things in a journal. Things like what one felt while holding the stone, whether certain actions were difficult to perform while holding the stone and whether the stone became one with the 'unforgiven hurt' that one carried in his heart.

I did not actually perform the said exercise but imagined myself holding it and facing difficulty in performing the daily activities I am wont to. I realized at once how crippling an effect it had on my mind. I could think of nothing else but the stone. I could not perform even in my imagination, a single act.

And that was the point the author was trying to make in his book too. When we hold on to our hurts, and our grudges, we are disabled. We are paralyzed. We are contained in a prison, so to say. 

Forgiveness is not easy to come by. Yes, Jesus is an epitome of forgiveness. In history, we have the supreme example of Mandela forgiving the wrongs done to him and his nation. But to be able to forgive, or to seek forgiveness requires tons of strength - mental strength. To be able to let go of the humiliation, and the pain one or one's loved one has been through is no mean task. 

Forgiveness does not mean forgetting. Desmond Tutu explains in his book that to be able to forgive, one has to live through the pain by articulating it, by accepting it. For not doing that can never lead to the path of liberation. True freedom from grudges can only come when one has accepted the hurt given or suffered. 

In everyday life, every single human being feels hurt when trust is broken, when expectations are  not met, or when some injustice befalls him or on the people he cares for. Friendships die, relationships loose their warmth. If we had the courage to speak up what hurt us the most, if instead of trying to brush a person aside from our life, we were able to confront that person, then forgiveness would be everywhere. But we don't do that. Not all of us are able to do that. We are trapped in our self-made prison of bruises. But letting that person go from our life never lets that person out of our mind. And therein lies the pain that we repeatedly inflict upon ourselves, reliving the moment of injustice again and again. It is not easy to forgive, for we have our egos to satisfy. We fail to see from any perspective other than our own. And we do not forgive.

But if we do, we leave behind us the agony and the torment of injustice. We refuse to become puppets of vengeance. If we seek forgiveness, which is a gargantuan task, we let go of our egos. We enfeeble our demonic thoughts of narcissism. We exhaust the beasts of hatred and revenge. We refuse to enter the vicious circle of blows and counterblows. We nip them in the bud.

The way we respond, the way we react decides what happens to us. 

In Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni's The Palace of Illusions, the protagonist Draupadi is besieged by thoughts like these when she witnesses the devastation around her. She has been the one to bring it all about, she realizes. But who wins. Does the one who win the war emerge truly victorious? As she watches in horror the way warriors on both sides fall, she understands, a bit too late that "the chariot of vengeance" requires "no horses or wheels". It feeds only on hatred, and ego.

Choices and responses define us. Forgiveness is a choice we all have, whether we are seeking it or granting it. And although it is a difficult choice, it is all that takes to make life worthwhile.

Image Source

Written for IndiSpire 124

#ThatDay .....

I attempted one-liners for this prompt. The second on is personal, while the other two are based on some harsh realities many people face. Do leave your feedback. Thanks!



That day, it rained so hard, not a drop of water was left to drink.

Image Source

That day, I bid final goodbye not just to my father, but to my childhood as well.

Image Source

That day, I couldn't stop crying as I saw the child-bride say goodbye to her toys.

Image Source

Written for IndiSpire #110

Delighting Only in the Flight.....

Image Source here

The red light brought his mind and car to a halt. He had been thinking a lot lately. His heart had questions his mind could not answer. He wished for a navigation system that could steer his life towards happiness and fulfillment. He had everything one could wish for in terms of prosperity. Then, why did he feel empty? He looked for answers in books. Eliot's poetry made him ponder over the hollowness inside him.

We are the hollow men

  We are the stuffed men.

 He felt stuffed too - stuffed with satiety. He knew not what to anticipate. Deadlines met, landmarks achieved, milestones reached. What lay ahead? What was it all for? For whom?

He felt hot. The air-conditioner was working fine. He needed to breathe. He inhaled deeply. It did not help. He opened his window. Car honks blared. Impatient glares stared at him. Traffic piled up from all directions. 'Empty men', he murmured quoting Eliot.

"Balloons, colorful balloons - your kids will be happy....Balloons....Sir...Sir...Take a balloon sir....just one sir." The voice startled him. He had heard it in ages - the unfeigned, unrefined voice. He looked around but could see nothing. He sank back in his seat and raised the volume of his radio.

Barely a few seconds passed when he heard the voice again. The peppy music that was playing in the car seemed artificial in comparison to the voice. He shut the music at once and straightened up to look outside. That's when he saw him there - a boy, probably nine or ten year old. He turned around just in time and their eyes met. Thin feet sprang towards him with an unmarked agility.

"Balloon sir - one for your kid. Which color you want sir - blue, green, yellow, red.....?"

"I don't have kids."

"Oh...." The confident gaze fell just for a moment.

"Girl-friend sir? Girls like it sir.....Surprise her sir.....I have heart balloon sir....See...?...."

"No girl-friend."

"Oh....sorry sir...."

He started moving.

"Here, take this money...."

"No Sir....Thank you...."

He moved to the next car.

"Listen. Come back....."

"I don't need it but give me the blue one."

"Blue, Sir? Good color Sir My favorite sir..". A big smile passed as the boy untangled the ribbon of the blue balloon and passed it on to his customer. As he took the money and waved goodbye, the man asked him, " Why are you so happy?"

The boy started laughing. "Sir, you not happy? Big car sir....suited-booted....not happy? Joking sir?"

This stunned the man. "Want a ride?"

The boy jumped up at the thought. "Me Sir? Ye-----yes sir.."

"Come inside. Quick...."

The boy clumsily put the inflated balloons in the car. Then he sat next to the driver.

"Belt...."

"What Sir.....?"

"Nothing." The man leaned forward and buckled up the little fellow.

They waited a few more minutes before the congestion cleared up. Questioning glances from around seemed to agitate the restless driver, but the boy beamed with joy. He even waved in response to some lousy looks.

"My name is Amit. What's yours?"

"Sameer, Sir.....No music in car Sir....?" The boy asked.

"Oh yes.." He turned on the radio.

The boy started tapping to the tunes. He seemed familiar with the song as he was humming too.

"Your car is good sir...very good. But why no girlfriend sir? "

"What do you do the whole day Sameer?"

"I sell balloons Sir."

"No school?"

"Sometimes Sir. Not every day."

"Why are you so happy?"

"You not happy Sir?"

"I don't know."

"No family sir?"

"No."

"Friends?"

Amit didn't answer.

"Girl-friend Sir. You need a girl-friend." Sameer giggled.

Amit managed to smile. "See sir. She will make you happy sir. Why live alone Sir? "

"You have a girl-friend?"

"What Sir? Joking Sir....!" Sameer smiled.

Amit stopped to buy Sameer an ice-cream. As he was about to pay the vendor, Sameer asked, "You not eating sir?"

Amit took one for himself.

Sameer licked the ice-cream greedily, savoring every bit of it. Amit finished his quickly.

"Let me drop you back now." Amit steered through the busy road. They reached the spot they had started from.

"Bye Sir. Thank you Sir."

"Bye Sameer."

"Sir...Girl-friend sir....Then you will be happy Sir..", shouted the boy one last time.

Amit smiled as he watched the boy slowly disappear with his colorful balloons. His prance and his artless smile had impacted upon him like a balm for his smarting soul. He got down from his car, took the blue balloon and released it in the sky. He watched it fly away lazily, unmindful of the destination, delighting only in the flight.

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.


You might also like

Story the Broken Pencil Wrote

Darkness Scares Me not, It Stares at my Greatness...

If Only Things Had Been Normal

The Board

I survived, but a dream died....#OrangeDay

It is said that books take you to places you cannot go. These places are not just the ones that are physically remote. These are places hidden deep within our consciousness - places where lurk darker thoughts, sinister emotions, hidden pains, feelings of anguish, secret desires, ambitions crushed, goals to be achieved, undisclosed loves, words unsaid but often thought of consciously as well as unconsciously. Authors, sometimes omniscient like God, tell everything about the characters, and at other times, they leave it to the reader to draw conclusions. Narratives, by way of perspective, become powerful means of interrogation and understanding. Who we are, what we think, whom do we identify with, where are we in the timeline of history, what limitations do we possess which we are unaware of, and many more questions like these are answered through the books we read.

I came across some really good books recently which I would recommend everyone to read. They are inspirational, and tell us how one can achieve a goal despite financial or other hindrances. These books tell us how small we are, enveloped in petty thoughts and confining mind-sets. They tell us that greatness is achieved by serving humanity. They tell us that nothing is greater than serving others. 

Promise of a Pencil by Adam Braun
Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen
Things a Little Bird told Me by Biz Stone (Twitter co-founder)


The first two books tell us how a common person, without a lot of money, but with a deep desire can surmount all hurdles to keep a promise. Both the books also deal with the issue of education, and its relevance, its undeniable importance for all. They also give a peek in other cultures, especially, Greg Mortensen's book. The tile of Greg's book itself is window to the culture of the people living in Baltistan. A thing as simple as a cup of tea is all it takes to bridge the gap of hearts, or as they say, to break ice. Biz Stone's book is the confessions of a self-made successful businessman. Biz talks about creativity, about dreams, about ego, about risk-taking, about failure, about success, about the desire and steadiness of trying, and not quitting. 

I now want to dwell a little on a book that has kept me awake recently. A book that has made me cry, that has made me wince in pain as the characters in the book became part of me or, should I say, I became one with them.

This book is Khaled Hossieni's A Thousand Splendid Suns. 

Image Source here

This book is a splendid historical chronicle of Afghanistan from the Soviet occupation through to the time the Taliban take over. History affects all. It is told keeping in mind the closeted life of Mariam and Laila, the two protagonists of the novel. But it is so much more than that. It is the story of Mariam who dotes on a father who fails her. It is the story of Laila who has never seen her brothers as they have been out in the war-zone, and yet, strangely, her life is overshadowed by their absence. It is the story of Mamy who pines for her sons and stubbornly refuses to leave the war-torn country as she wants to see her sons' dream come true - the expulsion of communists from their territory. It is the story of a woman whose womb is barren and who endures the wrath of her husband who just wants a son. This woman is Mariam and her husband is Rasheed. It is the story of the one-legged Tariq who cherishes the friendship with Laila, and will, despite his handicap, fight for her honor without hesitation. It is the story of the two friends who part, love that is forsaken, friendship that is formed in the most unexpected corner of life. It is also the story of a little child Aziza who is scared at the sound of bomb-shelling and seeks assurance from her mother by simply hugging her. And the mother in return keeps her safe from all save the brutal father. 

Hosseini has crafted a flawless narrative that brutally shakes you to the core. The violence out there in the streets is told only as a matter of fact. It is what the protagonists cannot witness. Their life indoors, is more violent and affects them in a way the larger historical events do not. It is the abuse they face in their own home, at the hands of their own family, that forms the master narrative. History stands right outside the door. 

I wish to quote a few lines that have amazed me and left me speechless. 

"A man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing Mariam. It isn't like a mother's womb. It won't bleed, it won't stretch to make room for you."

"....each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into the clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below."

"Careful where you step," Babi said. His voice made a loud echo. "The ground is treacherous."

"....there was a scrambling, a bare-handed frenzy of digging, of pulling from the debris, what remained of a sister, a brother, a grandchild."

"But when it came to fathers, Mariam had no assurances to give."

"Aziza shrieked at the thumping of mortars. To distract her, Mariam arranged grains of rice on the floor, in the shape of a house or a rooster or a star, and let Aziza scatter them..."

"And the past held only this wisdom: that love was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, a treacherous illusion."


Hosseini writes in the Postscript to the novel that he wanted to explore "the inner lives of these two fictional women and look for the very ordinary humanity beneath their veils." And he has done that brilliantly. It is this very denial of 'ordinary humanity' from the male fraternity, from the power-holders (be they in the house or outside), that provokes a response of restlessness as we read the book. 

The UN this year has launched Orange the World campaign to increase awareness against the violence women meet in their day-to-day lives.

A few lines by me here... 




Born unwanted, raised
raised sitting at the periphery....
Married, sometimes sold off....
I survived but a dream died....

Sometimes looted, sometimes uprooted
prodded, traded,
squashed, crushed
trampled upon
I survived but a dream died....

Sometimes fertile, sometimes barren
Scoffed, rebuked
Used, misused, abused
I survived but a dream died......

Branded, disgraced,
veiled, exposed,
strangulated by masculine stares
choked up, touched, maligned,
innocent yet tarnished....
I survived but a dream died.....

Image Source here

Written for Indiblogger IndiSpire Edition 93.
Also liinking to Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Survival

काश वही दिवाली होती - Wishing for the old feel - Happy Diwali

It seems like it was yesterday but it has actually been a decade. I see myself standing in the balcony of my house, all dressed up for the day's festivities. People are gathering in large numbers. They wait to witness the burning of the demon-king Ravana. They wish each other, greet each other, hug each other. Sweets are exchanged, and the wait finally ends with the effigy coming down with a loud burst of crackers. The festivity does not end here. The countdown to Diwali, one of the most important Indian festival has begun. Bazaars are decorated, houses well-lit. Everybody waits for the day Lord Ram returned from his fourteen-year long exile, to his home-city Ayodhya after defeating Ravana. It has always been like that - the celebrations year after year after year. And yet, everyone waits for the day with much anticipation and delight.

Image Source here

Lost in reverie, I laugh. And then, I realize I am so far away from it all. Ten years back, I had taken the first flight in my life. No, not anything symbolic. My first actual travel through air. I landed in New Jersey, the little India in US. My first impression was not of being in a strange land. There were so many Indians here, I had to strain hard to see a 'foreigner'. But things had changed.

The realization dawned upon me as I gradually lived through the days, and months, and years. Festivals came and went like any other day. People here try to keep up with their roots, their rituals. But it was different here. Things became more deliberate. One had to plan for everything. Plan for long weekends, plan for Holi, plan for Diwali. Diwali was such a defining festival, back in India. But here, in the society I lived, which comprised more than ninety percent Indians, I saw not more than ten percent homes lit. There was no evidence of any festivity. Diyas were replaced by candles. Fresh sweets were taken over by frozen desserts, or cakes and cookies. And Diwali went like any other day, except for the occasional greeting 'Happy Diwali'!

As I expanded my circle of friends, we started planning too. But this was necessary. To introduce our children to our roots - to tell them about rituals we observed, about traditions that defined us. I did not want them to see diyas as candles to be blown out on birthdays. They were not candles. They had no other translation. They were diyas. They symbolized Diwali. And they ought to know this. There were other things too. Like greeting relatives, exchanging sweets. Like the special foods - call them oily, or heavy, or unhealthy - they still were the spirit of the festival. Like crackers. So we went to a temple where they could light them up. No, I am not much of a fan of crackers. But I wanted my kids to get the feel of it. Well, the feel was absent there. In a small place -small by the standards of open celebrations that we have in India- many had gathered and cheerfully lit crackers, and screamed with joy. I did not find joy there. It was missing. It was, well, 'deliberate'.

So, for once, I wanted to go back and celebrate Diwali like we did a decade ago. No, I do not want to change it, for it has already changed so much for us. The old feel is long gone. I wish it was back.

काश वही दिवाली होती 
जो बचपन में मनती थी 
घर के बाहर लड़ियाँ होतीं 
अंदर दीए जगमग करते 
माथे पर टीका 
मौली हाथों पे -
चावल-मिश्री और पताशे 
से सज जाती पूजा की थाली 
आरती कर के चरणामृत 
पापा फिर हम सबको देते 
तारों के जैसे उज्जवल दीपक 
थाली में रौशन जगमग जलते 
एक दीपक इश्वर के चरणों में रख 
सारी रात जलाते 
मैं भाई संग घर के हर कमरे में जा कुछ दीप सजाती  
फुलझड़ियाँ फिर खुशियां बिखराती 
काश वही दिवाली होती 

Written for IndiSpire# 90

Happy Diwali to All!!!

One Year of Blogging Completed and Still Going On....!

Image Source

One year back, I started a journey. It had no destination. It had no prescribed path. It was just an act - an act resulting from a will to break free from all negativity, to come out of pain. And in this journey, I learnt a lot. I made new acquaintances, new friends. Some inspired me with their warmth, some believed in me, some filled me with awe with their modesty and unpretentious knowledge. All in all, the journey taught me to just keep going on. The journey made me realize that the more I learn, the less I know. I learnt to be humble and persevering. I want to thank all my friends on facebook who read me and supported me. I want to thank BlogAdda which provided wonderful prompts every week, and IndiBlogger where I made lot of friends. I want to thank all the fellow bloggers who read me and provided valuable feedback. There are so many of you that I cannot name all here. So, a heartfelt thanks to all of you.


Last but not the least, I want to thank my Mom, who has been my light, my support always. She stands by me like a strong pillar, although to tell you the truth, she is barely five feet tall! Her spirit is so strong that she never fails to motivate me.

It also happened to be my late grandmother's birthday when I wrote my first post last year.  I realized it only after I had published the post. The discovery made me smile. It gave me a feeling of joy. I had been dilly-dallying on the idea of creating a blog since a very long time but it was bound to happen on such a special day. My mom's mom....she was a fascinating lady. Full of charm, graceful, and oh my...what a temper. As children, me and my brother were scared of her anger but we loved her a lot. She loved us a lot too. She would often make nice, yummy Indian delicacies for us. Her laddoos, shakkar-paras, her maththis.....I cannot forget how wonderful she was with whatever she did. I feel blessed to have started a new venture and I feel that she is watching me. Wherever you are, Badi mummy, guide me and help me sail on. My blog will be my feelings, my thoughts as they come to me. They will be stories from my heart, ponderings of my soul. They will be my therapy in times when I feel sad. And I hope that whosoever reads them will smile too. 

I am posting a link below of a story I wrote earlier last year which I don't think I have shared with my fellow bloggers. Please enjoy when you can and leave your feedback on the story if it touches your heart.

Nanna's Corner