दो कमरों का घर

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सब कहते हैं बड़ा मकान खरीद लो 
कब तक किराया भरोगे 
दो कमरे छोटे नहीं लगते क्या तुम्हे ?
बच्चों को भी जगह चाहिए। ... 
नया घर होगा, नई खुशियां आएंगी 
मैं सोच में पड़ जाती हूँ 

ये दो कमरों का मकान 
घर ही तो है 
मानती हूँ दीवारें थोड़ी पुरानी हो गयी हैं 
पर वो जो लकीरें तुम्हे चुभ रही हैं 
वो मेरे बच्चों की पहली लिखाई हैं 
वो पहली तस्वीरें, जो किताब में होतीं तो मैं संभाल भी लेती 
हर जगह ले जाती 
पर दीवारें नहीं उठा सकती 
सोचती हूँ कुछ पल और जी लूँ उन्हें 
धुंधली हो जाएंगी अपने आप जब 
तब नया घर ले लूंगी। 

तुम कहते हो जगह चाहिए 
शायद देखा नहीं तुमने 
साथ बैठे कितने अभिन्न हो जाते हैं हम यहां 
साँसों का संगीत तक सुनाई देता है..... 
थोड़ा रुको 
जब कदम बढ़ेंगे महत्वाकांक्षाओं के साथ 
अपनी जगह भी खुद बना लेंगे 
तब तक जी लेने दो यह करीबी 
हर किसी को नसीब नहीं होती 

दो कमरों का मकान है 
यादों से सजा 
भावनाओं से भरा 
थोड़ा बिखरा सही 
थोड़ा मैला सही 
पर खुशियां भी सजी यहीं हैं 
आंसू भी थमे यहीं हैं 
तुम्हारे लिए ईंट और पत्थर की तंग दीवारें हैं 
पर मेरे लिए यही घर है 
मेरे दो कमरों का मकान। .... 

Linking to #MondayMusings at Everyday Gyaan

Let the Light Shine Bright This Year

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This New Year,  I came across two brilliant posts on word of the year as blogger - one by Shailaja and the other by Alana, I wondered whether I should have one too. And if yes, what would that word be? Three words kept holding my attention - Joy, Promise and Light. I could not in any way decide on one and let go of the other. Then, help arrived. In the form of a sign. A surprise so unexpected that it filled me with joy and showed me the promise of future. A promise that lay in the endeavors I would make if I remained true to myself. The surprise was a book I received through the Costco Connection Book Giveaway wherein Costco members can enter for a chance to win a signed copy of the book of the month. Since I had entered so many times with no luck, I had quite forgotten about it. But last night, when I checked the mail box, a white bubble wrapped package awaited picking. Still having no clue as to which book I had got, I opened the package and what did I see - Anthony Doerr's All The Light We Cannot See......

The book was on my wish-list for a long time but because it was in such high-demand, it was forever off the library's book-shelf. I could not believe my luck as I stared at the book, smiling like a child who had found a lost toy. 

And, if you have guessed it by now, the word of the year for me was decided. It would be - Light.

I remember a story I had read a long time ago. A master had to run some errands so he asked his disciple to take charge of his house. The only task the disciple had to do in his master's absence was to keep darkness out of the house. The master left. As the day descended, darkness started creeping in. The disciple was clueless. In his ignorance, he started beating around with a broom, thinking that would be enough to keep the darkness out. By the time the master returned, the disciple was exhausted and the house was dark. The master lit a candle which radiated the surroundings. 

What does the story tell us? 

The disciple focused on the darkness while the master brought out the light. 

Shifting the perspective towards one positive thing helped negate the gloominess of the house. 

We mortals have our flaws. We suffer from jealousy, anger, bias, ego and what not. All this blinds us. Our hearts close. Our eyes are shut. We forget what it means to be receptive, or loving or caring. We fail to see the light. It is not possible that we will not make any mistakes. We will. But when we fail to rectify the wrongs that we have done, we fail to see the light. We choose to be blinded. 

This year I will make every effort to see the light and be guided by it. 

This year I want to see What Else is Possible? A beautiful thought that stays with me from the past year. I borrow it from Andrea Davis Pinkney's The Red Pencil, a stirring portrayal of the genocide in Darfur, as seen from the eyes of a twelve-year old girl, Amira. Since I cannot do complete justice to the beauty of this thought, I am including the bit where it appears in the book:

Will you too, dear friends, see the light this year?

Will you too try to find out what else is possible? Will you too be guided by the light within and without to open the closed doors of your hearts?  

Linking it to Alphabet Salad Word of the Year Linkup - 2017 and #MondayMusings at Everyday Gyaan

#DearZindagi.....

Dear Zindagi,

कहाँ से शुरू करूं ? Ruth Ozeki की किताब A Tale for the Time Being पढ़ रही हूँ।  कहानी में Nao , जो प्रमुख पात्र है, इस ही सवाल का जवाब सोच रही है और उसको जवाब मिलता है कि जहाँ हो, वहीँ से शुरू करो।  बात अच्छी लगी तो मैंने सोचा की क्यों न ये करके देखा जाए।

तो नवम्बर की मीठी ठण्ड में सुबह ५ बजे उठ कर नाश्ता और lunch-box तैयार करती हूँ।  सारा काम ख़त्म  होते ही अदरक वाली कड़क चाय और bread के दो toast बना कर बैठ जाती हूँ, तुम्हे ये letter  लिखने के लिए।  India में होती तो मम्मी और भाभी भी चाय के साथ कुछ गप-शप लगातीं और चाय पीने का मज़ा दोगुना हो जाता।  पर New Jersey के शहर Edison के एक apartment में बच्चों के उठने से पहले ये चिठ्ठी लिखने का मज़ा भी अलग लग रहा है।

बाहर बिलकुल अँधेरा है। खिड़की के blinds हटा के देखती हूँ तो आस-पास बस छोटी-छोटी टिमटिमाती lights नज़र आती हैं।  न कोई चिड़िया अपने घोंसले से बाहर आयी है और न ही कोई इंसान।  Blinds बंद करते हुए ख्याल आता है मम्मी की kitchen की खिड़की का।  पिछली बार जब India गयी थी तो वो खिड़की तो जैसे मेरी दोस्त ही बन गयी थी। जब भी बाहर देखो तो, Dear Zindagi , तुम अनोखे अंदाज़ में मुस्कुराती इतराती नज़र आती थीं। कोई गाय अपने झुण्ड के साथ जाती दिखती थी, तो कोई scooter वाला ऑफिस जाने की जल्दी में तेज़ रफ़्तार से निकलता नज़र आता था।  कहीं स्कूल uniform में बच्चे bag और पानी की bottle उठाये बस का इंतज़ार करते दिखाई देते थे।

खिड़की के बाहर, सड़क के किनारे एक पेड़ था। मम्मी ने माली से पूछ के बताया कि वो kigelia का पेड़ है - हिंदी में बलम -खीरा कहते हैं। न जाने मैं कितने साल उस पेड़ के नीचे खड़ी हो के अपनी स्कूल बस की wait किया करती थी।  उसी पेड़ के नीचे पापा ने एक चबूतरा बनवाने की सोची।  गर्मी के दिन बहुत थकान वाले होते हैं India में। पापा ने सोचा की बहुत चलती सड़क है , तो क्यों ने राहगीरों के लिए एक पानी की प्याऊ बनाई जाये। पक्का चबूतरा बनवाया गया।  मिटटी के मटके रखे गए - आह क्या खुशबू होती है मिटटी के मटकों के पानी की ! आते-जाते प्यासे राही जब वहाँ रुक कर पानी पीते तो लगता था कि प्याऊ का होना जैसे सार्थक हो गया।  पर ऐसा बहुत देर तक नहीं चला।  जानते हैं क्यों - क्योंकि शायद पानी की प्यास पूरी करने से ज़्यादा ज़रूरी कुछ और लोगों की अनजान पर महत्वपूर्ण ज़रूरतें थीं जो मटके या मटके के ढक्कन को चुरा कर बेचने से पूरी हो पाती थीं।

खैर, प्याऊ का अस्तित्व बनाते मटके गायब होते गए।  हार कर मटके रखना छोड़ दिया।  बेचारा चबूतरा तनहा हो गया।  एक सुबह खिड़की से देखा कि zindagi  एक नए रूप में चबूतरे पर सजी थी।  प्याऊ की जगह चाय का खोका खड़ा था।  सर्दी हो या गर्मी, चाय पीने वाले मौसम नहीं देखते।  धीरे-धीरे जमघट बढ़ता गया और चाय वाला तुम्हे, Dear Zindagi, एक बार फिर से ख़ुशी से जीने लगा।

कुछ दिन बीते। जाने चाय वाले की चाय ख़त्म हुई या फिर उसको zindagi ने कुछ नई राह दिखा दी, वो भी चबूतरा छोड़ के चला गया। पेड़ की हरियाली चबूतरे के खालीपन को कुछ दिन तक भरती रही।  कभी दोपहर में खिड़की से बाहर नज़र जाती थी तो दिखता था कि दो बंधु पेड़ से कुछ तोड़ रहे हैं।  बलम-खीरे का उपयोग जोड़ों के दर्द, गठिया के उपचार आदि के लिए किया जाता है। शायद घर के किसी वृद्ध के दर्द दूर करने के लिए बंधु पेड़ पर चढ़े होंगे।

एक दिन देखा एक सफ़ेद गाड़ी से एक आदमी बाहर निकल कर चबूतरे पर कुछ कपड़े रख रहा है।  सस्ती टी-शर्ट्स, जो न सिर्फ कीमत में पर देखने में भी सस्ती लगती थीं , उनका खरीददार कौन होगा, ये सवाल मन में उठा।  पर जवाब जल्दी ही मिल गया जब सुबह, दोपहर और शाम, कई दिनों तक, चबूतरे पर लोगों की भीड़ लगी रहती।  साइकिल सवार हो या बड़ी गाड़ी चलाने वाले अंकल, सबको उन टी-शर्ट्स में कुछ तो बात लगती थी।  समय बीता और zindagi का ये रंग भी किसी और गली-कूचे को रंगीन करने निकल गया। 

पर चबूतरा तो मानो सबको मोहित करता था।  कुल्फी वाले भैया ने वहां खूब कुल्फी बेचीं।  लोगों को गर्मी से राहत मिलती और भैया की जेब थोड़ी गर्म हो जाती। 

हम खिड़की के इस पार  खड़े यही सोचते थे कि अब ये जाएगा तो कौन आएगा। जैसे कोई मंच  हो मानो , जिसमें एक पात्र अपनी भूमिका निभा के जाता और फिर दूसरा आ कर उसकी जगह ले लेता। 

zindagi आगे चलती रही।  पर चलते चलते कभी पैर थके तो कभी जूते फटे।  चबूतरा सब देखता रहा। जहाँ कभी कपड़े , कभी पानी और कभी चाय या कुल्फी थी, आज वहां जूते रखे गए।  लोग आये।  जूते पहन कर देखे।  किसी को भाए तो लिए नहीं तो आगे बढ़ गए घड़ी की उस सूईं की तरह जो किसी का इंतज़ार नहीं करती।  

Dear Zindagi , कितने रंग हैं तुम्हारे!  तुम्हे जीने के लिए इंसान क्या नहीं करता। क्या हो तुम - एक उम्मीद , आगे बढ़ता एक कदम, एक छलावा, या एक भटके हुए राही की आखिरी मंज़िल ? उस दिन जब वो शराबी, जिसे किसी ने पागल कहा और किसी ने तिरस्कारा, क्या वो तुम्हारे आँचल में छुपा तुमसे कुछ सवाल नहीं पूछ रहा था? चबूतरा शायद उसको एक पालने के जैसा लगा होगा तो वो नशे में चूर हो वहां सो गया।  kigelia के पेड़ के तले कुछ गहरे सपनों में खो गया।  सब ने दूर से देखा और कहा कि शायद कोई पागल है, नहीं तो कौन भला ऐसे सो जाएगा।  कुछ पल बीते, कुछ घंटे और फिर पूरी रात।  शायद तुमने उसको बहुत थका दिया होगा zindagi .... तभी तो इतनी देर तक सुषुप्त रहा। सबने सोचा की शायद मर गया।  नींद में चबूतरे से नीचे सड़क पे भी लुड़क गया।  भीड़ जमा हुई।  सबकी साँसें थमी थीं कि जाने कौन है , क्या हुआ है।  कोई हमदर्दी से पास नहीं गया शायद, पर उत्सुकता ज़रूर उसके पास खींच ले गयी - सब जानना  चाहते थे कि ज़िन्दगी ने उसका साथ छोड़ा या नहीं।  

कुछ पल बीते।  साँसें चल रहीं थीं।  चेतना लौटी और शराबी/पागल अपनी मंज़िल की ओर बढ़ गया।  देखने वालों को कहानी मिली सुनाने के लिए और देखने के लिए मिला zindagi का एक और रंग। चबूतरा चुप-चाप एक मज़बूत मंच बन डटा रहा, जैसे कह रहा हो कि कोई भी मौसम क्यों न हो , मैं zindagi को बुलाता रहूँगा , कोई गीत गाता रहूँगा। धुन कभी दर्द देगी तो कभी हंसाएगी, पर ज़िन्दगी यूँ ही चलती चली जाएगी। 

ये सब लिखते हुए न जाने कितने पल बीत गए।  लगा कि मैं  फिर वहीं उस खिड़की के परदे खोल रही हूँ।  पर परदे उन यादों के खोल रही थी जिन्होंने मेरी ज़िन्दगी को सजाया है।  कुछ खट्टी यादें, कुछ मीठी यादें -  नम आँखों से टपकती यादें, मुस्कुराते होठों से छलकती यादें।  कहानी तो चबूतरे की लिखी पर स्कूल से सफर करती हुई आज के पल में आ के ठहर गयी।  कितना कुछ खोया इस सफर में - पापा की हंसी , भाई की शरारतें, बेपरवाह बचपन।  और कितना कुछ पाया - भाभी के रूप में एक पक्की सहेली, मम्मी की निकटता, बच्चों की मासूम शैतानियां। खेल खेलना खूब जानती हो तुम zindagi , कुछ लेती हो, कुछ दे जाती हो।  

क्या शिकायत करूं तुमसे.... मालूम नहीं।
सोचती हूँ बस चलती रहूँ। 
मंज़िल कहाँ है, क्या पता।  पर ये जानना शायद ज़रूरी नहीं। कुछ रास्ते छुपे रहें तो ही अच्छा है।  न जाने किस मोड़ पे कौन सी  खिखिलाहट रू-ब -रू हो जाए।  रही बात आंसूओं की, तो उनसे बातें करना तो तुमने सिखा ही दिया है। 

स्नेह सहित 
zindagi के मंच की एक पात्र 


“I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda“

सपने

कल सुबह जब उठो तो सुनहरी धूप की गर्मी में कुछ पल नहाना

नमी में डूबे गीले पत्तों को सहलाना

नए दिन की शुरुआत का गीत गाते परिंदों को सुनना

बदल रहे मौसम के इशारे समझना

गर्म दिनों में सुबह की मंद शीतल पवन से अंतर्मन को पुलकित करना

पतझड़ हो तो गिर रहे पत्तों की बारिश में कुछ पल खो जाना

शिशिर ऋतु की ठंडी बर्फ से देह और मन को चकित करना

वसन्त में नन्हे पौधों से थोड़ी बातें करना।.....

जानती हूँ तुम्हारे सपनों की तालिका बहुत लंबी है

बहुत दूर तक जाना चाहते हो

सितारे छूना चाहते हो

पर उन सितारों को देखने वाला भी तो कोई होना चाहिए

वो ऊपर आसमान में टिमटिमाते चाँद और तारे यूँ ही तो नहीं बने

अस्पष्ट अँधेरी रातों में जाने कितनों को राह दिखाते हैं

अपने अस्तित्व को सार्थक बनाते हैं।

अकेले भागते रहे तो कभी थकोगे भी, कभी गिरोगे भी

कोशिश करना कि कोई हो जो तुम्हे थाम ले, उन पलों में संभाल ले

तुम्हे टूटने से पहले समेट ले, तुम्हे बिखरने से पहले बटोर ले

तुम्हे याद दिलाये फिर से मुस्कुराना

कुछ पल ठहरना

फिर से चहकना

फिर से खिलखिलाना

सपनों की वजह से पीछे छूट रही ज़िन्दगी को

फिर से थामना

फिसलते जा रहे ख़ुशी के लम्हों को

संजोना

याद रखना कि सपने कुछ पूरे होंगे

कुछ अधूरे रह जाएंगे

पर ज़िन्दगी के गुज़रते लम्हे फिर वापस नहीं आएँगे।

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Linking to Write Tribe's  #FridayReflections prompt

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” – J K Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Use this quote in your post or as an inspiration for one.

One Amazing Thing

"I screwed up my life big-time, a lot of ways. Did a lot of stupid stuff. But at least I saw one amazing thing."

------One Amazing Thing by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni


2013 was a blow. It was a year that filled our lives with much sorrow. It was a time of emotional ups and downs. Two deaths in the family and a birth. My father-in-law's sudden death was followed by an unexpected calamity - the departure of my only brother. I was expecting my second child, my daughter, whose arrival I could not in any way celebrate. I became cold in many ways. I started forgetting people's birthdays, something I had been very particular about since I always liked to wish them on their special days. I would hate when someone remembered mine, because all it reminded me was the last surprise celebration my brother had planned for me. I stopped praying. It seemed futile to sit with folded hands and eyes closed when there was no one out there to listen. I looked around and saw death, loss, grief, pain everywhere. I wasn't the only one to suffer. I would look at a solitary cloud floating in the sky and that would take my back to my brother. It was as if he was in it, flying freely while I stood on the ground searching for him, in vain. When on the road, I would be lost in the deep woods that bordered NJ freeways. They would beckon my spirit silently and I seemed to follow, hoping that he was there, calling me, waiting to talk to me.

But he was not there. He could not be.

I had to come back, empty-handed, always.

Life was utterly hopeless.

I had to find a way out. But I did not know how.

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Then one day, a close friend of mine called me. She was feeling very low. I tried to cheer her up on the phone, Later I wrote something for her. It was my first blog post - For You, My Dear Friend. It was from here that I named my Blog, When I Stopped to Smell a Rose. I did not know what would happen next. It wasn't as if all my agony had swept away. No, I still felt that void. I don't really thing it can be filled in any ways. But it did touch my core in an inexplicable way. My heart ached to write.

I had started on a journey almost unawares. I was clueless as to where it would lead me. But I was willing to be led. Some unheard voice guided me along. Some unseen hand nudged me gently and I started walking.

It was later that I realized a strange thing. I had posted my first poem, my first writing on my grandmother's birthday - October 15.  It was a strange feeling, an astonishing realization, a sign I willingly acknowledged as a blessing. It was an amazing thing to see that tiny speck of light amidst the bleakest, gloomiest part of my life.

I remembered all the birthdays I had celebrated with her, the cards I had made for everyone special to me, the happy moments that had given me so much precious memories to hold on to. Do you think I cried then? No, I cleansed myself of the heaviness of the sorrow that was crushing me.

I got up, and I decided to walk around, with others, to lighten them up, to cheer them up.
To smile.
To make them smile.

Through the foggy blindness of my pain, through the blurry denseness of others' misery, a hope sprung inside. And I decided to write.

I have continued. Somehow, despite occasional setbacks, I have continued. What started on October 15, 2014, has completed two years.

My blog has survived.
My hopes have survived.

The lone distant cloud still fills my heart with yearning and the deep woods still intrigue me.
But something stays put. Something holds me together. The healing continues.

All I need to do now is to extend a Big Thanks to all of you, my family, my friends, my fellow bloggers, who have tolerated me despite my irregularity.

I never thought I would be here. But who can, really, even if one plans. Do we ever have any absolute knowledge of even one moment of future. No, I don't think so.

But then, if we had the knowledge, would it be easy? The answer is again NO.

As I end the post, I want to share one more thing.
Last night, we dined outside. It would have been just like any other moment of eating outside but for one thing. Our table was next to a family who was celebrating an occasion. It was a very special one. The eldest member of their family, their mother-in-law, had turned 90! It was amazing to be part of this celebration although we were not part of the family. As we extended our wishes to the birthday girl, my heart was filled with amazement. I felt after a long time that birthdays are special!



Linking to Sanch Vee 's #FridayReflections  prompt

Did you think you’d be doing what you’re currently doing in life? Write a personal essay.

तुम मुझे सार्थक कर देना

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कुछ रातों से तुमने मुझे बहुत भिगोया 

कभी मसल कर कभी कुचल कर 

कभी यूँ ही उछाल भी दिया 

मैं सुन रहा था वो दर्द जो कहीं चुप-चाप तुम्हे सताता रहा 

तुम अकेली नहीं थीं 

जब कभी मचल कर मुस्कुराती थीं तुम तो तुम्हारी ख़ुशी भी जी थी मैंने 

आज तुम्हारा दर्द भी जी रहा हूँ 

वो कांपते हाथ 

वो आँखों से गिरता गर्म पानी 

वो सिसकियाँ 

वो माथे पर बनी चिंतित लकीरें 

वो थकी हुई निगाहें 

जो नींद को ढूंढ रही हैं 

मेरे पास ले आओ उन्हें 

क्या पता उनकी तलाश यहीं खत्म हो जाए 

जो चैन जो सुकून वो आँखें खोज रही हैं 

कौन जाने उन्हें मेरे स्पर्श में मिल जाए 

और क्या पता तुम्हारे सपनों की थमी उड़ान 

को यहाँ पंख मिल जाएं 

आओ तो सही 

बस एक बार 

मैं भी तनहा हूँ तुम्हारे बिना 

तुम्हारी आदत सी हो गयी है मुझे शायद 

सिंगार रहित 

बिन आभूषण

उलझी उलझी ही आ जाओ 

फिर मिल कर कुछ सपने देखेंगे 

मैं तुम्हारे आंसू पौंछूंगा 

और तुम मुझे सार्थक कर देना ...... 

Heart of the Matter

Heart of the Matter

They sit together each with a pencil in hand

To heal their wounds

For every conflict sorted, they will draw an arch

From biggest to smallest...

They promise

         To give each other Time

         To respect each other,

         Some space in-between so that

        they stifle not their love with doting too much

        Honest they will remain

        Will understand that their ego is smaller

        Than the sanctity of their love...

        Agree that they will stumble...

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

        They promise, they will hear

        The beating heart, the breaking heart

                         will hear when there are words,

                         when there is silence...

They look at the paper

Arch within arch,

Reaching in, to the very core

To the heart of the matter,

They seal the deed,

And wed again.

Note - 

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



Linking it to B-A-R

Book Review - Tomichan Matheikal's The Nomad Learns Morality

Literature does something funny to you. It makes you see meanings underneath meanings. It makes you probe a little more, question a little more. It agitates you, adds to your disquiet, makes you less dogmatic and more poetic. It also gives you a tool, a potent and compelling tool, the pen. It fires your thoughts, kindles your imagination, and intensifies your narratives with an integrity that is rebelliously coordinated. Tomichan Matheikal's The Nomad Learns Morailty  to put it in brief is good literature, with all the features mentioned above and much more than that. 

The book is a collection of 33 stories that deal with topics ranging from mythology to religion, history and politics. The themes are vivid - faith, doubt, human fallacy, God's devise, divinity, morality, sin, facticity, fantasy, truth,  illusion and deception. The collection begins with tales from mythology. When I asked Mr. Matheikal what he meant with mythology and religion, he came up with an answer that set me thinking. According to him, 

"Myths are literary expressions of human aspirations.  They acquire spiritual connotations eventually.  Gods and Devils are part of those aspirations as well as attempts to give meaning to life.  Add some rituals to spirituality and you get religions."

Much before civilization came myths. Myths were flexible, less deterministic than religion. They did not aim to take everyone in their 'fold'. With time however, societies grew sophisticated. Culture became more defined and rituals more pronounced. And myths acquired the status of religion. Human consciousness has been predetermined, shaped to a large extent by these forces. The author succinctly sets out to explore the narratives that he has encountered in his life. There are anecdotes from history, legends from mythology, and yarns from everyday life.

Let me start with something I requested from the author himself. I was curious as to why he had not added any preface or introduction to his book. Instead of an introductory note, he said he wanted to make a 'request'. This is his reply:

"When writers like Salman Rushdie write books like Satanic Verses, they are not ridiculing any religion or God.  They are probing their own inner conflicts.  It is their way of trying to make sense of the religion, its deities and also the fellow human beings who may appear absurd and baffling.  It is their way of making sense of life.  When I probe characters and events from religious books or other existing sources, I am doing the same: trying to make sense of them and life.  I also expect that my attempt at making sense of life can be of help to the readers.  Unless the reader understands this, the work will be a failure."  

The collection begins with a 'chaste' and 'wronged' woman Ahalya and ends with the deceptive Queen of Spades. In between the two lies a whole panorama of life. The author dons the garb of the narrator in many places, trying to locate meaning in meaninglessness, and sense amidst absurdity. He attempts to be an interpreter and not a judge, for he himself is a reader. He is venturing through his texts to read through time and consciousness to find the many faces of truths and falsehoods. 

I present before you in brief, the strand of each story. I have asked some questions in some places.

In the stories Ahalya, Sarayu's Sorrow, and Snakes and Ladders, are the gods in their human incarnation existential' beings searching for answers that are almost impossible to find? The mistakes they commit, are they an 'authentication' of their life on this Earth? When Ahalya was given freedom from her 'stony' existence, was it an acceptance of her fault, a peep into her consciousness, or a recognition of 'desire' she had nurtured? Was it the delusion of 'chastity'? If everything was a matter of perception and choice, where did God Ram falter? At the altar of humanity itself? 

Autumn of the Patriarch

Is the 'greatness' of a figure of prominence like Bhishma a 'construct' that 'cages' him? Is it something that forces upon him the decisions he 'thinks' he has made willingly. Isn't the 'selfless partiarch' an oxymoron, an impossiblity, a contradiction? Draupadi's question sets Bhishma thinking. He wonders whether a 'woman' can understand the complexity of something as subtle, as complex as 'dharma'. Is 'Truth' something that needs to be even told? Will a 'woman' understand the meaning of it? And there stands Draupadi at the other end, asking a pertinent question - Can he not see the 'adharma' of it all?

Original Sin

We have heard it all. The story of our fall. But was that so simple? Is innocence the bliss that one should aspire for? What was the original sin? Where did Eve err? What if there was an even more sinister plan, something as mundane as simple boredom? What if God was in cahoots with Satan? What if?....

Children of Lust 

What was Lot's fault? Did he 'sin' against 'God' or was his fault something most of the protagonists in this collection are found making? Also, was his fault an outcome of something that God 'let' happen in the 'Original Sin'?

First Christmas - The greed for 'knowledge' has larger context here - the persona of the narrator seems to intervene - his greed is for a deeper knowledge, something that will encompass religion, myths, magic, Creation, sin, will and even time.

Achilles' story brings us back to 'The Autumn of the Patriarch' which asks similar questions. The question of the 'identity' and 'will' of woman are crucial thoughts running through both the stories. History, if re-written from the perspective of a woman, would probably include lot of unanswered questions, and would perhaps also compel us to understand the whole concept of 'dharma' and adharma'. And one would ask again if everything is fair in 'War' and 'Love' after all?

Barrel Life

The 'teacher' is a 'madman' and does a 'slave' work.  Sanity' and 'madness' are relative to each other and also a matter of perception. There is bias. There is interrogation and rebellion too. The conversation between the 'teacher' and the 'king' is something that will haunt you with an insight you might not have had before. The trappings of civilization, the conquests of kings, the minimalist living, the never-ending 'quest',  and then, the ending leaves you with another question mark. The strand is carried in the next story And Quiet Flowed the Beas which witnesses the downfall of the king and the crumbling of the conquest. Roxana, like many other women in history, stands at the periphery of history but her presence reiterates the questions of Draupadi, Ahalya and Sita from the earlier stories.

'Worship' has a different connotation in this story that is short and still makes you wonder at Nebamun who has 'authenticated' his life in a certain sense. It is ironical that that validation comes at a huge price.

Scholar, Priest and Politician is another excellent story which by way of history proves its contemporary relevance. Times change, beliefs are put to test through experiments and hypothesis. Heresy seems close by. These interrogations are a threat to 'power' and 'power-holders' and ought to be nipped in the bud. Meanings need to be twisted and spoken words misquoted to uphold the status quo. Intelligence and power wrestle and new-fangled ideas are conveniently brushed aside. Galileo's Truth extends the theme further. What is heresy? A pertinent question would be, who is being 'harmed' by the 'heretical' claims? Can 'thoughts' possibly be caged? Can 'tongues' be imprisoned? No, and yet the intelligent suffer as scriptures are stripped of their 'poetry' and read literally. 

'Heresy' finds a new meaning in the next story Caliph of Two Worlds. The most important line perhaps in this story, which has a lot of relevance even today is this

"The line between politics and religion is an illusion that can be shifted in any direction as required by the occasion." The usurping of the king can be viewed as a sin against God, but what if God's representative ordains it. Meanings change, are perverted and subverted, only to be reinstated in obedience to the God-man. 

Saga of a Warrior  - The title tells it all. It is the 'story' of a warrior, a figure from history. Whether it is accurate, or otherwise, is a matter for historians, who are themselves prone to errors. So while I leave that strand there, I want to emphasize the fact that the story of Khusru, as narrated from the view-point of his wife, has deeper meanings and throws light on how histories can be constructed differently and how every story can have elements of 'truth' and 'fabrication'. History written by 'sycophants' as the writer correctly puts it, is full of 'blunders'. Approaching them with caution is advised. History etched on the walls and erected as mausoleums also hides skeletons inside. Who is a hero and who is weak, who is hailed as a true warrior and who is stigmatized as a coward and a traitor should be objects of continuous interrogation. 

Aurangzeb too dies, but with some regrets and many questions. Will his son ever get to understand those questions? Will he try to seek answers to those questions? Perhaps yes. Like his father, when he lies dying. For now, he is busy. He needs to 'conquer' others' gods.  

Under the Peepal is a story I started with a little unease. Reason - Buddha. But that unease settled soon as the story's ironical rendering of 'nirvana' lays bare the mechanisms of present day life. The humorous positioning of Siddhartha, the son of an estate owner, with all modern day entrapments, with the cheeky narrator, I suspect, it is the writer himself, who audaciously enters anybody's life (how dare he..?!!!) heightens the drama minus the melodramatics. Who knew a Russian 'Idiot' would be of some help?

Maya significantly becomes the reason for renunciation and escape to scriptures. Illusion, or the breaking of it, is the cause of the fate she suffers. What will the narrator or the reader learn from it? Will he find a meaning, a resolution in the end? Destiny asks questions that pertain to the way things happen, and decisions are made or thrust upon us. Lennon's quote with which the story ends has relevance not just to this story. Are we 'meant' to be where we are? Why? Who decides this? Who plans it all? The story I assume has a personal reference for the writer who himself has been a teacher and has experienced the whims of the 'rich'. Lennon's quote becomes even more engaging when read in conjunction with the next story, The Devil has a Religion. Philip's fate hangs in the hands of Father Joseph whose absence only seems to offer an illusion of peace. The self-ordained God-man leads the 'chosen' one to 'damnation'. A Ghost and a Secret have the elements fit for a light thrilling read. The conversation between the 'ghost' and the narrator are reminiscent of the conversation between Alexander and Diogenes in Barrel Life. The narrator's failure to keep up his promise is a failure of human beings in general. The quest remains unfulfilled since the object of quest is something that is lost on the way to the destination itself.

Mayank Passes deals not just with matters of blind faith, faulty parenting, and duplicitous Babas. The entire education system is open for interrogation here. 'Phenomenananda' Baba is an excellent dig on the phenomenon of the God-men which has become so common these days. Michael and the Witch engages the reader by an apparent simplicity underneath which all lie some questions that need urgent answers. The narrator is walking to the 'edge' of the forest. The disappearance of woods is symbolic of a disappearance of good literature, taste, and sensitivity too. The narrator tries to bring 'change' through a 'kiss', which I read as an attempt the writer is making to bring about a questioning of dogmas, and prejudices through his pen. Will he fail or succeed? Even the witch does not know. Sacrifice is a heart-breaking tale. The word 'sacrifice' can have different meanings, and is here used both ironically and literally. Coma discusses the vagaries of employment and fate yet again. The protagonist Tony reminds one of Philip from The Devil has a Religion. The Lights below Darkness is an engrossing read. While the narrative hinges on who is going to be the Head of the English Department this year, other strands come in too - the way we perceive others, the assumptions and judgments made upon people around us, 'opinions' we hold, selfish interests that we harbor. The trope of 'wires' and the life that is entangled between them for in Twinkle Twinkle Little Star makes for another appealing read that leaves with you with some questions. Is the decision Rohan makes towards the end worth it? The short and piquant BMW of desires gives many a sleepless night. Anna, I Miss You narrates the dance of life and death and everything in between and ends with Yeats's beautiful words. It can serve as a metaphor for the writer's attempt at making sense out of life, and his wish to see what the world makes of it. The Queen of Spades is a brilliant adaptation of Pushkin's story by the same name. The writer's distaste for the 'rich' is seen in the characterization and his choice of words. Deception and illusion are key themes in the story and prove a worthy end to the entire collection.

Now for the title and the story with the same title:

  

The Nomad Learns Morality is a self-contradictory title. Who is a nomad? One who has no boundary. One who is a wanderer. What is morality? It is the qualification of conduct as good and bad. It happens in a 'society/ Morality of one society can differ from another. Morality of a certain time period can be in opposition to the morality of the other time. A nomad 'learning' morality is a nomad dispossessing his essence, his very being. The story is subtle and complex. It serves as a parable of life that we live today when attempts are being made from all directions to conquer gods, to trample faiths, to crush diversities. The terror of religious dogma is something that is scattered all over in Matheikal's writings. His blog articles time and again have dealt with the issue. The story takes it one step further. Read it together with Life's Journey which tells you that ''the distance between life and death is just a moment' and mocks at the absurdity of it all. Read alongside it Pearls....and Bullies which proves in a certain sense that the 'soft' ones are bound to suffer. It is in their fate. And yet, if they choose to just sit there and not act, it can get pretty 'boring'. There are tears, yes. There is pain, yes. But then, there are pearls too. 

I personally feel that Mr. Matheikal should include a bibliography for further reading for his readers. He should also add in brief a bit of a background for the mythological and historical stories for those who are unfamiliar with the same. This will ensure a better reading, understanding and analysis of his own narratives.

I have tried to deal with each story as it has affected me. I have asked questions in brief in some places because those questions are my responses to his text. There are many things that are untouched in this review. I could not incorporate everything here. I urge, with a strong conviction, that if you have not read the book, please grab a copy and read it. Who knows, you might find the answers to questions the author himself is seeking. 


To buy the book, click here
To reach Mr. Matheikal's blog, click here

Dutch Tulips....

Image Source here

Dutch tulips

I would, if I could

buy for you

They blossom

like my beating heart - 

You in sight

Take my heart -

together we shall

reap a bed

Of tulips -  

vibrant valley of

our true love....

This haiku is inspired by the historical occurrence in 17th century Holland when tulip prices rose very high and tulips are said to have become the world's most coveted flower. In this haiku, a lover woos his beloved stating he is not rich enough to buy tulips but assures her that his love is true. 

Linking it to Carpe Diem Tulip Festival

My other Haiku attempts:

Dutiful Daughter

Birth of Storm

It Infects

Chalk Art

Secrets of the Night

Laughter After

Haiku Attempts

Wise Old Words.....

Underneath the happy countenance is a sea of wisdom that sprang from a life lived to the hilt.....
Image Source here

Advice comes in a variety of ways, from a variety of people. Sometimes solicited, sometimes unwarranted, it can make or spoil one's day. But good advice stays for long, and sometimes for good. Coleridge, the famous English poet has rightly put it words:

"Advice is like snow - the slower it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind."

Words of wisdom are like the foundation of a good building. The edifice cannot be strong without a good base, and wise words act like a sturdy support and prevent it from falling to pieces. We all have had our share of good as well as bad guidance. I am going to share here three chance meetings with complete strangers. The conversations almost always ended with a message, just like it happens in short stories with morals. All conversations revolve around children, and in all three instances, the people I met were probably grandparents in their lives.

1) On on my walk back from my son's preschool, I chanced upon an old couple. The lady was blind. The gentleman had gone looking for their's doctor's address. The lady was feeling scared and I remember making her sit comfortably on a bench nearby as we waiting for her husband to arrive. When the husband came, he was all ears to my son and his friend. He watched the two kids running around and told me in brief his own story of becoming a parent. The couple had been unfortunate for having lost many of their kids before birth and only one daughter, their loving daughter, had survived. The gentleman told me to observe and celebrate each day of my child's growing up. He said, "Give them all your love, for they grow up really fast." The words touched my heart as I thought of the moments the couple might have spent on her daughter and their unborn children. I thought about my own parents who had given me such a good life. And I looked at own son running around, growing up. He was born only yesterday and here I was taking him to preschool. As I write this, I realize that he is in big school now and has a sister who is two. Time really flies and they do grow up fast! 

2) Another trip to the park to let my little one expend her energies. As she tries to overcome her fear of swings, an uncle who has come with his grandson observes us. He notices that I am talking in my native language although I am in a foreign land. He starts talking and we discuss a few things. He talks about his own country and mine. He talks about America, about the safety women enjoy here, about the integrity of people living here. Then we talk about education, about culture and about our language. The discussion leads us to a point where I say that learning your mother tongue is important. And then uncle says, Yes you are right. Mother tongue is like our root. It tells us where we came from.' And those words stuck to me. Although I had not given much thought to it before, I realized that learning one's language was the beginning of an understanding of one's culture. It was the first step towards attaining consciousness regarding one's identity.

3) A trip to Walmart with my son who happened to be in a sulky mood and with my daughter who was whining for a bike. My husband was at the check-out counter. A gentleman came and said hello to my son who responded in not much of a proper way. I ignored. The gentleman asked my son how many toys he bought today to which my son replied, "None." "Oh, that's great. Do you know how many toys I had when I was your age? I had just a cardboard and a pencil. It was my spaceship, my pirate ship, my rocket, my boat, my castle my house, my everything. And I played with my imagination....." As my son stood dumbstruck at the thought of not having a toy, the gentleman went on to explain how things were different in his times and how this cardboard and his imagination helped him develop love for rockets. Even today, he told us, he belonged to a club where they made rocket models. The words that he spoke still echo in my mind - A cardboard box and a pencil and lots of imagination - that is what they should play with. I remembered Einstein's words "Logic will take you from a to b, imagination will take you anywhere.'

Being a mother of two, I cannot just forget these lovely reflections by complete strangers. They were all people touching the twilight years of their life. And they shared with me something that would help me steer my way through the journey of motherhood with love and care. Upbringing is a huge uphill task that weighs heavily on a parent's mind. It is not just the right education, but also the right conduct of life that we ought to teach our children everyday. What the three gentlemen shared with me were ruminations that would guide me in many ways as I bring up my kids.

“I am participating in the #SachchiAdvice Contest by MaxLife in Association with BlogAdda.”
Also linking it with #Monday Musings on WriteTribe 

A World full of Small Spaces....

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

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

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

My other posts on B-A-R prompts

Power that is kind stem not from Cruel Mind

Scream

Silly Stillies