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.

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.

Wow Badge for the prompt 'Are you afraid of the dark?'

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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It hits on me....

It lures me, it beckons me

It is the edge of the world

No, it does not promise me a pot of gold

Or eternal youth or unspeckled beauty

No, it does not warrant long-lasting riches or enduring health....

It hits on me with something else....

It creates images of faces I want to see

Of my Dad and my brother holding hands

It makes me hear sounds I want to hear 

Of their cheerful laughter and their hearty voices

It tempts me with the touch I want to feel

Of their warm hands and comforting clasps

It gives me a glimpse of the glee that is lost....

Should I reach out and touch those hands?

I wonder.....

I can't.....

Bells chime in the room

Sending waves of familiar sounds to my ears...

Mom waits for my call, 

Yearns to see me, hear me, hug me....

How can I go to the edge of the world

when I have so many things left undone here?

So many songs unsung?

So many smiles to spread?

So many tears to wipe?

So many little hands to hold and guide

to the path of life?

So many words of encouragement to write?

So many books of wisdom to read?

How can I go to the edge of the world

that sends visions of mirth and joy

when so many weeping hearts on this earth

are waiting to hear some strains of hope

I have work to do, loads of work to do

The edge of the world will have to wait....

For some other day, some other time.....

But it will be in me as long as I am,

In lonely thoughts

In solitary rooms

To give me a shoulder to lean on

To give me hope

To let me dream

Of those who can't be here anymore.....

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

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Waiting for a new Dawn

Waiting for a new dawn.....

A good start to the day begins with good mornings. Just saying it does not suffice. The events that happen in the morning sometimes tell how the day will go by.

That day as I got up, I switched on the TV and sat down to enjoy the hot ginger tea I had made for myself. The news channel was flashing the news of Sharad Yadav making sexist comments about the 'beauty' and the 'color' of women. It shocked me, needless to add, again. The journalists were digging into the story. I thought about where we were heading. I thought about the controversial documentary. I thought about the disrespect being given to women everyday in a society that boasted of its cultural heritage.

Then my mind pondered for a little while over the weekend prompt by blogadda - Goddess. I did not know what to say. I felt that even in the rupa of Goddess, what we worship is the beauty. Our idols are picture-perfect models bejeweled and bedecked by conservative notions of outward beauty. All idols that one keeps at home are usually models of shapeliness and refinement. Sadly, woman too is viewed accordingly. It is the body that is the focus of the eye. The soul vanishes somewhere.

We revere the goddesses for bringing wealth, knowledge and what not to us. We name our children after them. But then and how extremely unfortunate this is, we victimize the girls who go by those very names. Remember Laxmi who was acid-attacked?

We light candles and diyas in our homes so that we remain untouched by darkness and negativity, but we extinguish so many Jyotis of other houses. We are not even scared to enter schools and rape the motherly nun who imparts wisdom to little children. How perverted are we? 

Should we call ourselves worshipers? NO. We are the epitomes of a big deceitful society. We are cheats, hypocrites, sadists. 

Those who suffer do not expect God or Goddess to come for their help. Because when help was needed, not even a human being came. World has become god-less. World has become goddess-less. God-principle, the principle of goodness had died. 

All this was making me despair. Should I cry over this broken world? No. Should I have a new set of Goddesses created? Yes.

But what will they give? Mankind has eternal greed. 

Well then, these goddesses will give them the much required, need-of-the-hour knowledge of 'respect' to the other body, a schooling in the ideas of equality, irrespective of gender or strength or caste or status. 

Do these goddesses need to have a form? Do we really need a figure to worship? I was reminded of my grandpa who used to sing these beautiful lines...

अजब हैरान हूँ भगवन तुझे क्यूँकर रिझाऊं मैं 

भुजाएँ हैं ना  सीना है ना गर्दन है ना पेशानी 

तू है निर्लेप नारायण कहाँ चन्दन लगाऊं मैं

(I am puzzled O lord, How do I please you....
You have no arms, no chest, no forehead
You have no form, no shape, where do I apply sandalwood paste....)

As I thought how beautifully these lines depict that we do not need the form but should rather believe in the principle of the supreme power and presence of God, I realized that one needs to look beyond the appearance. 

Of course it is not possible for everyone to do so. So let us give form to our goddesses. They will be the ones who have the strength to question the wrongs, those who have the courage to stand against the offenses and the offenders. They will be the ones who teach you that being a victim does not turn you into a sinner. But turning a deaf ear, or a blind eye to crime does make you one. 

They will teach us how not to go astray. They will guide us that evil breeds in a society that ignores or denies its presence. They will teach us that God lives inside each of us. We need to recognize this, and let each one of us live with dignity. 

After all these musings, my mind was filled with hope, another feeling that never dies in the human heart. I hoped for a better future. Then, in an effort to educate my kids on the great women in history, I picked up the book  'भारत की वीरांगनाएँ ' and started reading it.

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

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