The Good Daughter

Three cups of tea lay on the table untouched. The cookie jar sat next to the cups, undisturbed. The chirping of birds outside was crisper, owing to the silence inside the house. Meera wondered what to do. Her husband was out of town owing to some office work. His job was very demanding. Her daughter Naina left yesterday for her first job to the States. Meera had been so busy packing up everything for her - from her tooth-brushes to her dresses, from her shoes to everything she might need for the kitchen.

"It would take time to settle in Naina. You must have everything when you land so that you don't have to run here and there for small things." Meera had told her daughter.

"You worry so much Mom. I will be fine." Naina had protested just like any other girl her age. But she knew deep in her heart that her mother worried for her since it was the first time she was going so far from her.

The farewell was heart-rending for the mother. She had spent her entire life around her only daughter. As the plane took off, Meera remembered the umpteen lullabies she had sung to Naina. She recollected the many times her daughter fell while learning to walk. She relived the many moments they would look in the mirror admiring each other in their new outfits. Her first smile, her first tear, her first accomplishment, her first failure, her first love, her first heart-break, her first mistake - Meera had lived through it all. And now, she stood there waving good-bye to her little bird as she flew in search of her dreams.

Meera had returned to the empty house. Her past two decades of life had been her daughter's. She opted out of job as she wanted to give in her hundred percent to her little star. She would prepare breakfast for her, and wake her up for school or college. She would make her favorite dishes, buy things as per her daughter's tastes. Her friends were treated with some luscious delicacies. It was fulfilling for a mother to see her daughter smiling.

But now, what was she going to do? She had no appetite. She did not prepare breakfast. She looked out the kitchen window. This was the place where the two would often stand and talk for hours, watching the outside world go about its business. They would crack jokes at some weird sight, and have some serious discussions too. Today it was all silent. No-body was there to talk to. 

Meera cleaned the last night's dishes. She wiped the kitchen counter clean. Then, she went to the bedroom and straightened up the pillows that she had tossed here and there thinking about Naina. She looked at the watch and wondered how long she would have to wait before Naina's plane landed. She switched on the TV and incessantly changed the channels. Then, she turned it off. She went back to the kitchen window and stared blankly. She turned and headed towards her daughter's room. Th door was ajar. Meera peeped in, as if hoping to find Naina inside. All she met was nothingness. She traced her steps back to the kitchen. She started peeling some potatoes absent-mindedly. "What will you eat today Naina?" She muttered to herself in the dead silence. Just then the phone rang. Meera ran to pick it up. Naina had reached safely.

"There is something in the drawer for you." Naina told her mom.

"Stay safe Naina. Eat well. Take care of your health. Keep calling...." was all the Meera could say.

The call ended. Meera was relieved. She started chopping potatoes at a faster pace. Suddenly, she remembered the drawer. She ran to open it up.

There lay a letter, a pen and a book.

On the letter were the words:

When it rains outside and there is no umbrella, I will imagine you covering me in your aanchal. When I feel hungry, I will eat thinking that you are feeding me with your hands. When I look out the window, I will talk as if you are standing next to me. When I sleep, I will hold the pillow tight as if I am holding your hand. I will take care of myself for you. Promise me that you will too, for me. I want you to write, every single day, a letter for me. I want you to take up all that you gave up many many years ago. It won't be easy, but as you taught me, it is not impossible to do something if you have a heart in it. Read every night, as if you are reading to me. Begin with the book I am leaving. I know you will like it. And please Mom, take care of yourself, for me. I will miss you.....

Meera's hands were shaking. Her eyes all welled up. She took a few deep breaths. Then, she looked at the book. The title brought a faint smile on her face. It read : The Good Daughter

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P.S. - Three Cups of Tea is a book written by Greg Mortensen and The Good Daughter is a memoir written by Jasmin Darznic.



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

कुछ प्रश्नों के जवाब मेरे पास नहीं

Image Source here

कहीं छुपी है या कुछ उदास है
विचारणा मेरी
कविता नई कोई मैं लिख नहीं पाती हूँ आज
कभी खोजती हूँ पठानकोट के आंसुओं में
तो कभी पेशावर में गुम हुई बच्चों की खिलखिलाहट में
कभी मडाया की भूख में किसी सूनी रसोई के खाली बर्तन में उसे
पर मिलती नहीं मुझे  ..... 
अयलान की चुप्पी खंजर-सा वार करती है
हेब्दो के व्यंग्य बेमानी झूठे से लगते हैं
कुछ खफा है आज कविता मेरी 
शब्दों की बेबसी मन विचलित करती है 
मैं कुछ पूछती हूँ तो कहती है कि कहीं बुझ न जाऊं 
कुछ भयभीत हूँ विचारमग्न हूँ कहीं हार ना जाऊं 

कहाँ है वो स्पर्श मर्म भरा 
वो अश्रु संवेदना से ओत-प्रोत 
वो शब्द जो घृणा की कठोरता को पिघला दें 
कहाँ हैं ?

मैं मूक हूँ कुछ कह नहीं पाती 
कुछ प्रश्नों के जवाब मेरे पास नहीं 


English Translation

There are some questions I can answer not...

She is hiding somewhere or maybe she is upset

My Muse

A new poem I can write not any more today

I try to find her in the tears of Pathankot sometimes

And sometimes I search for her in the lost giggles of the children of Peshawar

Sometimes I rummage in the empty vessels of the desolate kitchens of hungry Madaya

But I find her not.....

Alan's silence stabs like a dagger

Hebdo's jokes seem fake and redundant

My poem is bitter/angry today

Feeble words make me feel discontented

When I ask her, she says, what if she is snuffed out

I am scared, lost in thoughts - what if I am wasted

Where is that soothing touch

-Those tears flowing with compassion

-Those words that could melt all hatred away

-Where are they?

I am quiet, I can say nothing

There are some questions I can answer not...

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

It's October....!!!

A leaf - crimson and solitary falls near my feet as I stand in my balcony. There is slight chill in the air that makes me shiver a bit. The weather that was warm a few days back has changed and brought a cool breeze with a muddy scent as rains drench the earth. The changing color of leaves makes everything outside a breath-taking spectacle. The vibrant hues on the trees speak of the frost that will settle in the air soon. What is colorful today will turn bitter white and make us sit indoors and sip hearty soups and hot teas. Yes, it is that time of the year again when warm beds and snug blankets will tempt us to become lazy. It is October again.

Image Source here

Image Source here

Trips to farms, baskets full of lush apples, juicy beets, luscious berries, hay-rides, race through the pumpkin patch to grab the best candidate for jack-o-lantern - October has all that here in US. Kids get ready to be at their spookiest best as they choose their favorite costume to wear on Halloween. Stores welcome us with an abundance of candies and chocolates. Witches are wanted, houses are haunted, bats are in, spiders crawl around, and skeletons play the host. A whiff of sweet aroma emanates from the kitchen corners, reminding us of pumpkin pies, and the warmth of the scent of cinnamon-pumpkin cakes makes us all sugary sweet. Yes, October has it all.

Is it a wonder that October has celebrations in India too? The festival of lights, Diwali and the slaying of the demon-king Ravana happens around October. Even Durga, the principal goddess in Hindu mythology, chose to destroy the demon Mahisasura during this time which is commemorated by her ardent followers during Durga Puja. It seems that October is the demon-defeating month too....!

Image Source here

Image Source here

Image Source here

It was our nation's serendipity that a great luminary was born in October. Gandhi, the father of our nation, the Messiah of peace and non-violence, who sought to win one's right by non-violent persuasion left a legacy of pacifism that the whole world follows. It is surprising that as a school boy, Gandhi had a tough time. He is known to have done only moderately well in school. His report card had a note that he was "good in English, fair in Arithmetic, bad in geography; conduct very good, bad handwriting.."   Was it not the man's own serendipity that made him travel in that train in Pretoria where he tasted racial prejudice and was thrown out on account of his color? Perhaps. From a shy boy at home, to a leader of organized revolution abroad, Gandhi came a long way, and showed us the light at the end of the tunnel, when all that we could see was darkness.

Image Source here

It sure is a great time of the year. A time of beginnings and endings, a time of celebrations, a time of togetherness, a preparation to bid farewell to another year - a time for some nostalgia and some new hopes.

Let's greet it

Prospect of joy - It's

October!

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

Also linking in to Blog-A-Rhythm Wordy Wednesdays Word Prompt Serendipity

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

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.

Do Share you thoughts. Thanks

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.

Wow Badge for the prompt 'Hero, Missed Call, Discovery'

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.

[Do share your thoughts on the post. Thanks!]

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

WOW Badge for the prompt 'Wait'