"Hold Fast to Dreams...."

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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 

पापा की बेटी

बचपन से ही पापा की दुलारी बेटी थी।  प्रतिदिन सुबह पापा को उठ कर कचहरी के लिए तैयार होता देखती।  काला कोट न जाने कैसे सम्मोहित सा कर देता।  काले चमचमाते जूते टक-टक करते अपना संगीत सुनाते और मुझे मोह लेते।  जब तक गाड़ी आँखों से ओझल न हो जाती , मैं टकटकी लगाए दरवाज़े या खिड़की पर खड़ी रहती थी। जबसे स्मृतियां बनीं , जबसे चेतना जागी , मुझे बस एक बात याद है - पापा की तरह मुझे भी वकील बनना था ।  

सुबह-शाम सपने देखती कि मैं भी काला कोट पहन कचहरी जा रही हूँ। अदालत में अपनी दलीलों से सबको हरा रही हूँ।  कि पापा की तरह समाज में मेरी भी पूछ है , रुतबा है। 

आज जब सोचती हूँ तो लगता है कि वकील बनने से ज़्यादा मैं पापा की छवि चाहती थी।  पापा की लुभावनी छवि - मुस्कुराता चेहरा, बेबाक हंसी, निडर व्यक्तित्व , सकारात्मक दृष्टिकोण।  आखिर वही  तो था उनकी सफलता का कारण।  और मैं बचपन  की मासूम अनभिज्ञता में दोनों को एक समझ बैठी। 

 रातों-रात नहीं बना था पापा का  रुतबा।  न जाने कितनी रातें पापा ने जाग कर गुजारीं होंगी।  न जाने कितनी किताबें जो पापा के दफ्तर की शोभा में चार चाँद लगाती थीं, पापा ने पढ़ी होंगी।  और न जाने कितनी बार नाकामयाबी की ठोकर भी खायी होगी।  मैं तो बच्ची थी।  मुझे सिर्फ पापा की खनकती हंसी सुनाई देती थी।  मुझे बस मम्मी के स्नेहित स्पर्श हर्षाता था।  मुझे बस भाई के संग मस्ती भाती थी। 

पापा कभी कचहरी के किस्से घर पर नहीं लाते थे पर यह जग-विदित था कि पापा कि अपनी साख थी।  पर पापा ने बहुत संघर्ष किया था यहाँ तक पहुँचने के लिए।  और मम्मी ने उनका पूरा साथ दिया था।  मम्मी बताती हैं कि पापा ने वकालत शुरू ही की थी और मेरे दादाजी का निधन हो गया था।  पर पापा ने हिम्मत नहीं हारी।  दिन-रात मेहनत करते थे।  किराए के घर के पैसे चुकाने के लिए गुल्लक में पैसे रखते।  घर में गैस का पहला सिलिंडर मम्मी की आमदनी से आया था।  मम्मी कॉलेज में पढ़ाती थीं।  पापा के पास आने-जाने का साधन भी नहीं था तो किसी और के साथ जाया करते थे।  एक दिन उसने मना कर दिया।  पापा का मन आहत हुआ और पापा ने स्कूटर खरीदा। मम्मी और पापा जैसे उस दुपहिए वाहन के दो पहिए थे।  एक-दुसरे का मज़बूत सहारा।  एक के बिना दूसरा अधूरा। 

कहते हैं न कि सबको हीरे की बस चमक दिखाई देती है।  सब भूल जाते हैं कि वह कितना तपा है उस चमक के लिए।  ऐसा ही सफलता के साथ होता है।  सबको चका -चौंध दिखती है।  संघर्ष कोई देख नहीं पाता।  

बात सपनों की हो रही थी।  मैं धीरे-धीरे बड़ी हुई।  पर सपना अभी भी वही आँखों में बसा था।  वकील बन जाऊं , बस वकील - पापा की तरह।  लेकिन समाज में बहुत रुकावटें थीं।  या कहूं कि बहुत त्रुटियां थीं।  मम्मी को, भाई को डर था समाज की कुदृष्टि से मुझे बचाना चाहते थे इसीलिए मेरा सपना उनकी उलझन बढ़ाता था।  फिर भी उन्होंने मेरा साथ दिया।  लॉ कॉलेज की प्रवेश-परीक्षा भी दिलवाई।  साथ साथ एक और सपना भी पनप रहा था - मेरी मम्मी का सपना मुझे लिटरेचर यानि साहित्य पढ़ाने का।  उन्हें बचपन से ही इंग्लिश लिटरेचर रोचक लगता था पर उस समय उनके कॉलेज में साहित्य की डिग्री उपलब्ध नहीं थी।  पर मम्मी अपना सपना थोप नहीं रहीं थीं मुझे पे।  बस मुझे एक विकल्प दिया था की अगर लॉ कॉलेज में दाखिल नहीं हो पायी तो लिटरेचर पढ़ लेना।  किताबें तो जैसे मेरे जीने का सहारा थीं।  बहुत किताबें पढ़ती थी मैं - पापा अक्सर दिल्ली से लाया करते थे मेरे लिए।  तो बस, इंग्लिश होनर्स की भी प्रवेश परीक्षा दे डाली।  

अब किस्मत ने कहा की सुनो मुझे भी तो कुछ करने दो।  तो हुआ यूँ कि परीक्षा के परिणाम पहले लिटरेचर के आ गए।  आखिरी तिथि भी नज़दीक थी दाखिला लेने की।  समय कम था।  मन में उलझन भी थी मम्मी के।  पापा ने मुझे स्वतंत्र  चुनाव के लिए प्रेरित किया था।  पर समय की कमी मुझ पर हावी हो गयी।  और मैंने लिटरेचर में दाखिला लिया।  कुछ  दिन बाद लॉ का परिणाम घोषित हुआ और मुझे जीवन भर के लिए एक अफ़सोस  दे गया कि काश मैं थोड़ा रुकी होती तो आज मैं वकील होती। 

पर लिटरेचर ने बहुत सम्भाला मुझे।  अच्छे-बुरे समय में  किताबों ने बहुत ज्ञान दिया।  समाज की जटिलता , स्वभावों की पेचीदगी, विचारों की उलझन, निर्णयों की विवशता - कितना कुछ था किताबों में।  आज दुःख नहीं कि सपना पूरा नहीं कर पायी।  आज ख़ुशी है कि पापा कि  सकारत्मकता मुझ में  सम्मिलित हुई।  वो खनकती हंसी मेरी न हो सकी पर मेरे जीवन को पल-पल अलंकृत  करती रही।  मुझे कहती रही कि अफ़सोस मत कर, बस ज़िन्दगी जी ले। 

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

He Drove All Night....

He drove all night

Wondering in the stormy weather

How silent would be the wife's anger

How stern would be his mother's temper

Thoughts like those might have slowed him down

But he went on......

For one more person waiting at home

Whose smile was true

Whose anger was cute

Who waited not for the gifts he would bring

But for the warmth and the love that would spring

From his eyes and his hugs....

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He drove all night

Fearing she might have slept by now

But he drove and he drove

To reach to her fast....

Gifts tumbled, dolls rolled

In the backseat....

Speedy highways posed a safety threat

With mile-long trucks in the side-lanes

Rains made it tougher

Winds made it harder -

Sleep tried to ensnare

But he fell not in its trap...

He cared not...

He had only one thought

To reach to her fast

So he drove all night...

He could see his house from a distance now

He could see all lights switched off

The darkness of the inside

Told him he had been late...

So he reached the doorstep quietly

And unlocked the entrance door

He put the gifts aside and sat down on the floor

He wanted to relax

But he knew that he had missed it

But work was demanding, deadlines inflexible

How would he explain it all to her?

How would he tell her he drove all night

But still couldn't make it in time?

Lost in thoughts, feeling quite blue

A touch startled her...

He looked up and saw those beautiful eyes

Happy to see her Papa come home

She hugged her as he lifted her up

And not a word passed between the two

Love has its way to send across the message

Nothing else was needed....

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The prompt He Drove All Night made me feel very nostalgic. I remembered the times my father would travel in the night to come home. There were times when work kept him busy and he was late. It was always a delight and a relief to see him reach safely.What else would a daughter want? As I write this poem, I miss him badly. He is gone so far that there is no return from there. But his laughter and his happy spirit touch my heart always making me feel he is close. This poem is for him, and for all the loving fathers in the world. 

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

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Happy Birthday Mummy

Good Thoughts Lead to Good Deeds....

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When I was little, my grandpa always used to ask me to read newspapers. Every morning, reading the newspaper with the morning tea, was like a ritual. He would point out interesting things from history and would even pinpoint the mistakes, if the newspaper writer had made. Then he would write a letter to the editor to make corrections. This habit of his was passed on to my mom and from my mom to me. My mom would insist during my college days, to read the editorial column as the language written would help me improve my vocabulary and style of writing.

Speaking of the editorial column, I remember sifting through the newspaper to read the 'Thought for the Day' and contemplate on the topic or the thought it generated. It was a great mental exercise. These days, I have always liked the small articles on spirituality like those by The Speaking Tree. Some newspapers have also vowed to make one day a No Negative News Day and on that day, the issue that comes out is filled with positive, promising news. The articles that are included in such editions help the reader think more constructively and develop a habit of appreciation for all that is good in society.

This notion of avoiding negativity and dwelling more on the inspirational matter is something very interesting. In an age where we see lot of social evils, when we stop and focus on the admirable aspects of the same society, our mind starts to function differently encouraging us to become better in many ways. When a desire to become better enters an individual mind, it helps create an aura of wonder, gratitude and excellence that like ripples in an ocean, creates a long-lasting effect on those around that person. It is just like when we smile, the other person will reciprocate in a similar fashion.

For the society's betterment, I strongly feel, that snippets of spiritual wisdom ought to become the first page of every newspaper column. Short stories that teach by example help the reader make connections and question the prejudices s/he may have harbored. I also feel that these snippets need not be religion-based. They can be stories from great personalities of any faith. The prime aim ought to be to teach some basic ethical values.

What do you feel, my friends? Do you have any story or wisdom to share here?

I remember reading a short story in the Speaking Tree column where a student tries to fight the darkness in his hut by attempting to shoo it away with a broom. When his teacher sees him doing that, he tells the student that in order to dispel darkness, you need to light up the room. The message is so simple, and yet so deep. When we illumine our inner sanctum, the outside gets lit up with bright, positive thoughts too. And good thoughts lead to good deeds. Isn't it?

Do share your thoughts too. Thanks!

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

Also linking it to #MondayMusings on Write Tribe. 

Story the Broken Pencil Wrote

That morning seemed promising. It was cold but sunny. The chill of the breeze felt less bitter as I sat cozily in the corner of the coffee-shop I used to haunt every day. I was a writer who found not just peace but inspiration as I sipped my usual cappuccino and watched people coming and going. There was so much to notice, so much to observe. Some wore worries to their workplaces, while some wore smiles. Some fidgeted in hurry, checking their phones or watches every second, as if time would stop or change in doing so. Some were calm as a gentle breeze on a spring morning.

That day was special. It showed me something I did not see every day. She stood outside the coffee-shop. Disheveled hair, torn clothes, dirty little hands and in those hands, a broken pencil. The moment I spotted her, I would have looked away but as I told you, I am a writer. So I see what others overlook. I notice what others ignore. I engage where others shun. So I persisted in my gaze.

She had apparently picked it up from the sidewalk. As she stared at it, her first impulse probably was to throw it away. It was hardly of any use to her. She did not know how to hold it properly. She glanced at it from all angles, looking at its color and the tiny pictures drawn on it. I wondered what she was thinking. Then, she threw it away and walked a few steps only to retreat and pick it up again. This time, she tried to hold it hard against the floor, which broke it in two small halves. It startled her momentarily. I know it because she looked around with a start, fearing a beating maybe. But nobody had seen her, except me. And I was out of her sight.

She tried to make a mark on the floor. Maybe she did make some mark. I cannot say for sure, for I sat far from her and although I am a writer, I have physical limitations. So I narrate only that part of the story that I saw.

So let us assume she made a mark and was not amused with the results. Or maybe she tried to make a mark but failed. Whatever happened, she gave it up. Then she started tapping the broken pencil’s two halves against each other. She seemed to be humming too, for her frail body swayed to the tune of her lips and the tap of the pencil. Her eyes lit up. She seemed happy. She got up and danced her way out of my sight, leaving me enthralled by her performance, entranced by her story.

Since I am a writer, I felt happy that even a broken pencil held a promise of joy. It did not teach her to write, but it did engrave on her face a moment of pure delight. Maybe, the broken pencil wrote on her heart a story of joy. Who knows! I however felt content, sitting in the coffee-shop that day, noticing people come and go. Yes, the story of that day was complete!

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

If you liked the above post, you might also like these two short stories I wrote :

If Only Things Had Been Normal

Food for the Goddess

Daughter's Diary

She sat brooding over her diary. Had she been a dutiful daughter? She kept wondering. She wished for a time-machine that could take her back to the good old days of happiness and togetherness. ...the times when she was still her dad's little girl, laughing at his jokes, finding comfort in his sturdy hands. 

It was all gone. The life ahead was solitary. She had to wipe her own tears. She had to stand for herself. 

Everyone thought she was happy. She would often smile. She had learnt that a smile was the best tactic to avert questioning glances. She had observed that her smile could hide the guilt she felt at having left her mother alone. So she would often smile.

Sometimes, she wondered why she felt so guilty. Sitting on her imperial blue sofa, she would frown and look down at her diary. That diary was her confidante. It was another matter that it was wordless. Every time, she tried to write, her eyes would well-up and tears would roll down her cheeks on to the blank pages. As a result, the pages had become stiff - very much like her own life. The moistness, the vitality was lost somewhere.

She had no right to be far from her mother when she needed her the most. She had no right to live a life of her own when her mother was weighed down by sorrow and loneliness. No, she had not been a dutiful daughter. She felt bad. She felt guilty. She had failed. Would she fail in other duties as well? Would she fail as a wife and as a mother? Perhaps, she had failed there too.

 Anxiety gripped her. She hoped for a time-machine that could take her and her mother to some cozy place where the two could smile. But then guilt possessed her again. Would it not be unfair to the people they would leave behind? She looked down at her diary. She picked up her pen. She wanted to write that she was dutiful. She wanted to write that she loved, she cared, she felt pain, she too cried. But instead of writing, eyes welled up again and tears rolled down. 

She called it a day.......

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

If Only Things Had Been Normal........

The princess’s beautiful pink brocade dress turned into tatters. Her hair, flawlessly done in braids and beads flung open at once, scattering the ornamented beads all over. Her feet tripped as she tried to keep her balance on bare feet. Her bejeweled shoes had disappeared too and she found herself walking with naked feet on the thorny, pebbly uneven ground. She let out a scream as she saw the walls of her palace crumbling and collapsing. Her toys and trinkets were all there, about to be crushed under the weight of the mighty architecture. As if all this was not enough, some evil power snatched from her hands her most beloved doll. In the tussle, the doll flew up in the air and the princess strained her head up to see where it might fall so that she could catch it. She raised her helpless hands and let out another scream. Her fair skin was tarnished and rough. She felt pain all over her body as it started showing signs of abuse and neglect. Her stomach churned making her realize that she had not felt this kind of hunger before. Forgetting about the doll which seemed to have gone for eternity, she looked for food and discovered a morsel being taken by a mouse. She ran after it but the little creature scurried away and the princess collapsed amidst the ruins of her colossal castle, her lips parched and dry………

“Get up and get going Rani.” Her mother’s voice raised her from her nightmare. She hastened up the hard floor and rubbed her eyes vigorously. She looked around. It seemed that she was searching for something.

“You better hurry up. We will not be able to lay our hands on anything if you remain so lazy”, Rani’s mom spoke angrily.

Rani did not hear. She seemed to walk in a trance and reached the corner of the hut. She picked up what she called her ‘pitara’, her treasure box, and opened it. Everything was there as she had kept it – a few ribbons of different colors, some glossy buttons, a tattered doll, a broken bow, a torn picture of a princess, an oversized cleft bangle which would not fit her tiny hands for ages. They were the treasures she had picked while her mother collected stuff her little mind could never comprehend. She would not part with them. They were her recipe of make-believe in her world of escape - the only proof of her childhood in a life that was harsh and heartless.

“What is wrong with you?” Rani’s mother nudged her by her disheveled hair. The touch of her scabby hands brought Rani back to her senses. She closed her pitara and hid it in her place. She got up and tugged along after her mother. It was going to be a long day before she came back to her trinkets and her princess. She only thought of one thing while walking – The beautiful princess had looked so much like her. And how beautiful had she been before the nightmare began. If only things had been normal……  

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

At First Sight....

At first sight - the words speak of love. They have been spoken of in the context of love so frequently that the first response they evoke from the reader is that of love. But I don't talk of love here. 

About three years back, I used to walk my son to his preschool. There was a very close friend of mine whose son also went to the same school. We all used to walk together, to drop our boys and to pick them back. Those walks were memorable and fun. We would talk and talk, not knowing when we reached the destination. We did not care if it was a harsh sunny day or if it rained. We did not care if it was frigid. 

It was on one such walk that we met her. At first sight, she seemed just like any other old lady. She wore sunglasses, probably to steer away the blazing sun rays. She held a walking stick to support her aging body. She stooped a little. And she was walking in the opposite direction to us. 

Now, to tell you the truth, whenever I see old people, I have a strange urge to talk to them. They remind me of my grandparents who are now no more. They awaken memories of a childhood now past. They speak of wisdom and of knowledge that might be snatched away from us because they stand are close to their final destination. 

So it was that that day too I wanted to stop and talk to the lady. But since the kids were running, me and my friend quickened our pace, my one eye being on the lady though. It was just a few steps ahead when she called. For help, from someone. I halted, so did my friend. We saw the lady standing there, and so we thought maybe we did not hear correctly if and what she said. Unsure of what to do, we stopped our kids from running around. The lady called again. Yes, she needed help. 

I ran towards her. My friend looked after the kids. I asked the lady what was wrong. "Is everything okay? Do you need some help?"

The lady was scared. I could see it in her eyes. But I could hear her voice tremble. "Who are you? Are you sure you are good? Do you promise nothing will happen to me?"

The words pierced me. Oh, the distrust, the phobia, the fear!

"You are just fine. Please don't worry. See, we are with our kids. Look, they are running around. We came to pick them from school. Look, that is there school building. What is wrong? Please tell me so that I can help you."

"I cannot see." 
The words hit me again.

"I am sorry. Tell me where are you going? What help can I be to you? And please don't worry. We are good", I reassured her.

"We lost our way........ Came to the doctor......... Are new here...........My husband asked me to wait while he looked around....But I don' know where he is.....Has something happened to him....?" She was about to cry.

"Do you have a phone?"

"No.....er......", she was distrusting again. 

"If you have his number, I can give him a call." She hesitated. She had the number in her bag. She was thinking if she should open her bag in front of me. She still doubted if I was good.

Her perplexity and panic was making me sad. But I had to help her. I don't know how many times I told her that she need not worry since we were good. I never felt such pain in my heart. 

My friend in the meantime, having heard what she was saying looked around. She ran in the vicinity to see if she could spot someone. 

I made the lady sit on a bench. And although it might have frightened her, I held her hand and kept repeating my comforting words. I kept convincing her that she was in safe hands.

Luckily my friend saw an old man coming. She hastened towards him and asked him if he had come here with someone. Yes, he said. 

He came hurriedly to his wife. And thanked us. Never had I felt so relieved in my life. I could see the same repose on my friend's face. The old man shook hands with our kids. Then he told us they had lot of children, but unfortunate as it was, they lost most of them before they were born. They had one daughter who survived and they cherished her. 

I cannot forget the parting words the old man gave to us.

"Give your kids all the love you can now. For they grow up very fast."

To our kids, he said, "Never stop loving your moms, young men!"

And then we all went our way. My mind was riveted on just one thought that day, and for many days to come. Was I good? For her....

Image Source here

Image Source here

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



You might also like this poem I wrote when I saw an old couple in Walmart. Read Silver Love.

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Who is calling?

Tring-tring....tring-tring....!

Discovery consists of looking at the same thing as everyone else and thinking something different.

-Albert Szent Gyorgi

Alexander Graham Bell worked for years on the telegraph to improve its function and introduce the novelty of human voice to it. History sings praise of Bell as the inventor of the telephone. Had he not worked to bring about the changes, history of communication through telephone would have run a different course. 

Bell is also credited to have made the first telephone call. It was a call that brought about a revolution in the way humans would reach out to other humans. It was a call from Mr. Bell to Mr. Watson, his assistant. The words that were spoken were

 "Mr. Watson - Come here - I want to see you,"

When Bell was working on the telephone, many people considered that it was not necessary. They thought that telegraph served the purpose of sending messages well and another equipment was not needed. But Bell overcame all discouragement and continued his work. It is said that after his invention gained public recognition, Bell had to face several patent lawsuits. Nevertheless, history regards Bell as the inventor of the telephone. He is truly a hero who left behind a legacy that immortalized him is the history of mankind.

It is hard to imagine a life without phone these days. Connecting to our friends happens through internet too now, no doubt. But a phone is a phone. How often do we check if there is a missed call on our phone? How many calls do we make each day, to talk to our friends and loved ones, to hear their voices and have a heart-to-heart conversation. It would be apt to quote that 

If we discovered that we only had five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to stammer that they loved them.

Christopher Morley

There was a time when people wrote letters to each other. Internet and telephone changed it all. The era of hand-written letters is gone. But it still holds its charm. When I was little, my grandpa used to exchange letters with his friends. I can still feel the eagerness that I used to have waiting for the postman to deliver the replies. I would rush to my grandpa with the letter in hand. Sometimes, grandpa would make me write too and uncle (my grandpa's friend) would reply with the letter addressed to me. My heart would flutter with delight if I received a letter in my name! And though it is all history now, it still titillates the senses if you get a letter by mail. The appeal remains.

So is it with the human voice. No matter how much we message each other, ping each other, update our status to let others know what we are up to, a call is a call and a voice is worth a thousand messages. We still want to hear each other out. We still make calls and are happy to receive some from our loved ones. Don't you think so?

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

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Wait

I wait and wait

For him to emerge

But he deceives

He kills all hopes

He turns up not

Just like Godot

Still I refrain 

from despair

Still I pray

Still I persevere

The white coat comes out

Shakes his head

There is not much time left

We go inside

Out of the waiting room

But the wait doesn't end

He speaks not to me

He looks not at me

I wait

I am just his little girl

He had been my hero

He still is

I stroke his forehead

I know he is leaving

The wait is over

His wait is over

He is free from pain

Not me, never

I yearn for my him

It seems like yesterday

When I had touched him, hugged him,

Felt him so close

But it is eight years now

I halt in his memories

But then someone else knocks

On the door of my heart

My entire childhood beckons at once

I call him

Speak to him

He says he is fine

But I know he is not

He sounds so distant

Once again I hope

I wait

I refrain from despair

But hope deceives again

I wait for a call

To hear all is well

But I hear not those words

I hear what I do not want to hear

I cannot see him now

I cannot hear him now

Life has become a waiting game

I cannot accept he is not here

He cannot leave

He should have waited

at least for me

I toss in the bed

Each night

Waiting

For my  only brother

To meet me in my dreams

He does not come

It has been two years

But I still wait

To see him once

To hear him once

He left just like that

It angers me

I want to fight with him

Just like we did when we were little

I wait

I wait

I wait.....

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

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[Read an open letter to Bharti Mittal on net neutrality here]

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Yin-Yang and the Creation of Harmony

We communicate with each other through language. Language is composed of words. We make sense of the world around us as we comprehend the meaning of these words. The meaning of the words is often grasped by our brains in relation to other words. This relation can be one of antagonism, or of agreement. So for example

Something that is good is understood as good because it is not bad. And vice versa.
Something that is viewed as wrong is viewed so because it has absence of right in it. And again vice versa.
Something that is seen as full is seen so because there is no space of emptiness in it. And vice versa.

There can be many examples cited in this style of opposition. It all points to the fact that in order to perceive something as it is, we need to know what it is not. The Chinese theory of Yin-Yang rests on this fundamental tenet of dichotomies.

The crucial part in understanding these binaries is that they always exist together. One is present because its opposite is present too. Their co-relation is cardinal to their existence. Harmony is achieved when the opposite forces are present in balance. The symbol of Yin-Yang is round. Half of the part is white with a black dot in it and the other half is black with a white dot in it. One is not complete without the other. The boundaries are not marked as rigid solids. Rather, they are curled, symbolic of fluidity. One flows into the other and vice versa.

Black and White 

The energies of Yin-Yang are segregated as masculine vs feminine, dark vs. light, active vs. passive and so on. But these energies are not absolute. They flow into each other, creating an interaction, a creation. This synergizing, this interplay is the force behind creation of universe. In many mythologies, binary opposites of male and female are seen as the driving forces behind the formation of universe. The Chinese view it as a cosmic interaction between Yin (female) and Yang (male). Indian mythology attributes creation to the co-mingling of Purusha (male) and Prakriti (female). For the Japanese,  these forces were named Izanagi(male) and Izanami (female).

We experience Yin-Yang in our daily lives almost everyday. If we are happy one moment, we are sad over something a little later. If we are patient and smiling for the most part of the day, our anger shoots up the moment we see injustice or dishonesty wrecking the peace of our mind at some other moment. All emotions have significance in our lives. If we don't get angry over the wrongs that exist in our societies, we cannot eradicate them. If we fail in this, bad forces take over the good forces and cause imbalance in societies. We love the balmy sun rays in the morning but we need the dark solace each night offers. We need to be active but without some rest, we will just snap.

Yin-Yang plays an important part in music. There are slow notes accompanied by fast ones and together they create memorable melodies. Architects too have made use of yin-yang ideas in buiding structures that are in inverse relation to each other. A notable example is that of US architect Steven Holl who has used the basic tenets of Taoist philosophy for building the Tianjin eco-city. You can read the details and see the pictures of the structures here http://www.designboom.com/architecture/steven-holl-tianjin-ecocity-ecology-and-planning-museums/.

The other day, I went to a children's museum in Philadelphia and had a fun time as my kids played with their bodies and minds. (I will soon post my post on that.) After having explored the major part of the museum, we landed on the space fantasy section. I welcomed the dark and soothing blue overtones of the interiors. The structure had been built in such a way that the space part was followed by a section called Cloud Hopscotch, which took us into rocket launch section. The first two sections were dark as I mentioned while the last one was meant for action and was full of light. The interplay of this dark and light gave a feeling of moderation, of solace. The music that played in the background of Cloud Hopscotch was an interplay of light reed notes to deep tones. It all catered to a playful atmosphere. It seemed Yin-Yang were at play.

One day my son was getting furious while trying to see how his glow-in-the-dark stick will work. It was day and he could not see the glow. I told him that he has to find a place that is dark. So is it with life. To understand light, we need to have a knowledge of the dark. Yin and Yang cannot exist in isolation. They have to be together, complementing each other, challenging each other.

Do I end here, or do I begin? I wonder, for the end means the beginning of something and the beginning entails the end of something.


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

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Shadows in my room

I am a child, a five year old child. I get scared by the shadows in my room. My mama takes me by the hand and tells me that there is nothing to be scared of. I don't believe her. She says there are no monsters here. I cannot agree with her. I feel that there is a giant behind the curtain and a witch underneath the bed. Despite mama's soothing words, I feel antsy whenever the lights are turned off. I keep the night light turned on. It helps little as it creates looming lurking shadows everywhere.

I grow up in years. I stop fearing the dark. I hold my grandpa's hands and walk down the streets at night to watch ram-leela (stage performance of the story of the great epic Ramayan). There are kids around me, there is chatter everywhere. Minutes pass, sometimes hours as we watch the saga of Rama and Ravana. Night seems to be fun. Stars twinkle above in the mighty sky, winking at me. They are my friends in the dark. They smile at me every night. When I reach home, my room welcomes me. Dim night light becomes my ally as I play with my fingers to make shadow-puppets on the wall. I make the shadows grow big and small. I giggle. It is fun to play with the dark and light.

Years pass. I am a grown-up now. My mama is often scared of the dark now. She insists that I be home before darkness falls. I can understand her fears. There are unseen shadows outside, with dark, infernal thoughts. I return home before my mama wastes herself with worry. Shadows in my room remain friendly, filling my world with the much-needed solace a tiring day has failed to provide. 

I grow more in years, get married, become a mom. I see my baby crawling into the dark rooms fearlessly. As he grows up, he faces my friend shadows which he finds dreadful. I comfort him as my mama used to when I was little. He gradually realizes there is nothing to be scared of but still wants to have the night light switched on. I do that as I have a feeling of deja vu. I have been there, done that.

I empathize with him. I try to tell him there is nothing to be scared of in the dark. But I am scared now. When his dad is not around, when the house is so quiet. I wonder why the lights on the earth have made the stars above disappear. I miss their amicable twinkle. From outside I hear sounds that nobody seems to be making. I see shadows that are diabolical. I try to find peace in the shadows in my room. They help me forget the gloomy world outside, for sometime.

I am afraid of the dark. But I do not want to share my fears with my child. I tell him to be brave and fearless. We make shadow puppets. The night passes. He sleeps. I stay awake till I am too tired to worry. Tomorrow will be another day, another dawn.

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

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We will eat Ice-cream.....

Fresh, crisp grass shone everywhere. Spring showers had rejuvenated life again. Winter slumber scurried away as scents from spring flowers loomed in the air sending waves of fresh delight. Nature stood smiling, ready to embrace the little kids coming out of their houses. After all, she too had missed the chirpy companionship of her buddies. 

But one of her companion stood there with no smily curve on his face. He fidgeted and walked uneasily, turning and looking in one direction. It seemed like he was waiting for someone or something. His friends kept calling him, reminding that they did not have a long time to play as they all had to go to work. But he ignored their calls and stood there or just kept pacing to and fro restlessly. 

He was a nine year old boy wearing a tattered blue t-shirt and a dusty shorts. His appearance was far from clean. He might have been working the whole day carrying heavy loads to the truck and back again. It was not his age to work. No, not at all. But it was better to labor and earn bread on a daily basis than die of hunger pangs. He had felt his stomach churn and ache terribly when he had not eaten anything for three days. It had not been easy. He did not have any family. He had to look after himself. 

Summers brought him the sole delight of his life. At least for the past two years, this had been the trend. A chance meeting with baba - the old man who came to the park to sell ice-cream. Baba used to tell him stories. There was always a little boy in all the stories. Baba weaved yarns of fantasy as well as tales of inspiration. He had also taught him to read and write a little. Every single day of summer had been spent with baba. And every single night was spent in the dreams that the mind created out of the stories he heard from him. 

But two days had passed and baba had not turned up this year. Baba used to go away as winters came. He said that he had a family and he would go visit them in winters. It was warm there where his family lived at that time. But baba had been punctual in warm days. Why was he not here? Was he ill? Had something happened to him?

In his anxiety, the little boy headed toward the shanty where baba lived in summers. But baba was not there. Disappointed, the boy retreated to the park. From a distance, he could hear kids hollering for ice-cream. But instead of baba's vending machine, there stood a truck - a food truck selling ice-cream and other snacks. Friends yelled out his name but he was not in the mood to eat anything. Then a voice called out his name, "Vishnu.....kahaani sunega...."(Vishnu...will you hear a story?).

Vishnu's heart skipped a beat. 

It was Baba's voice!
It was baba's truck!!
Baba had come!!! 

There would be summer again in his cold life. There would be warmth again in his frigid heart. He rushed towards him. He tripped and fell down. His knees were bruised as they scraped against the pebbly road. But he did not care. His wounds needed no healing. His heart was repaired and that was all that mattered.

"This time I will tell you a story of an old man who bought a truck for his little son so that he would never have to part from him again, be it summer or be it winter," baba said.

"Every time I went away from you, my heart bled, Vishnu. So this time, I decided we are never going to part. I have worked hard all these years. I have no family but you. When I saw you two years back, it seemed that sun shining above had given me a reason to live. The first time I met you, I saw that you were my life. I don't know why. I might have died without you, I was so utterly wasted at that time. But when I saw you slaving your life away, I decided I would live for you. You will not work now. I will send you to school. Your early childhood is sadly lost. But in the coming years, I will do what I can to keep the sun smiling in your life. If it rains, we will shelter each other. If it is hot, we will eat ice-cream...."

Vishnu smiled. Tears kept flowing. Baba scooped out his favorite mango flavor. Then he sat him down beside him to spin another story.

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

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