You are not all I want

I wish to feel the morning breeze

and taste the morning dew

I wish to smell the lilies

and watch the sunset hue

I want to tread on unknown lands

and form friendships all along

To wake up on a boat

To be the subject of a song

To see the lights of a far off village

that glisten on an evening still

to pour my love in the glass of the universe

until it fills and spills

I wouldn't say you're all I want

for that would be untrue

I am just a gypsy, and life my dance

that I want to share with you


Linked to Poets United. Visit them and read a lot of inspiring poems. Savour art! :) 

She is a child, after all

The smell of cigarettes and shoes, the noise of ‘chai’, and a predominant feeling of dust all over me; I’m drowsy; and I force myself to look out of the train window as someone mentions ‘Bandra’. I get down, uncertain, fast heart-beat, heavy steps; I’m thinking of the orphanage I ran away from, I’m tired of running, my breath is heavy, hot, difficult; its hot, very hot, and suffocating, too many people, there’s sweat, and stink, and shove, and I’m too small; I wish I could be taller, soon. Someone shouts, “You! Boy!” I turn. I see khaki. I run. Again. Fast. Very fast. Till I am far far away. But I keep running. Because I can’t stop. I try to stop. I can’t. Why am I so small? Why am I running? Oh the ditch! I need to stop running!

It was a dream. I need to wake up. I can’t open my eyes. There is still noise. And wailing. Numbers. Lots of numbers.

“What about 143?”

“85% burns. Still unconscious”

“Hmmm, Observe for some more time. We need beds. There’s a fucking queue outside.”

I still can’t open my eyes.

“Glucose!” “We can’t do anything” “No”, Wailing, “Sorry”, “Get the injection!” “Fast!” “Who the fuck left it here” “Burns” “We are out of bandages” “Number 21”

Why can’t I open my eyes? I feel pain. It boils. Overflows. I should sleep. I’m slipping. There’s a thud. In my chest. It’s the scent! Oh God!

I run and run for a long time. I stop there. The chai shop. I run no more. I breathe. Chacha Jaan. The saucepan. Brown masala chai. Ilaichi. Hot. Money. Labor. Tears. The tea boils. Overflows. Like something else that I can’t remember now. It stains the slab. I clean it with the cloth on my shoulder. For a very long time. “Ek chai”. I pour it through the filter. I get tipped. One rupee. Gandhi on the coin. I wonder why.

They order it from the house today. I carry the metal stand. 6 cups. Daddu on the khaat. He smiles. He talks cricket. He talks of his days, years ago. It was a better world. Cheap. Good. He laughs. She laughs. I look at her. She smells of lilac and jasmine oil, or something like that. She runs behind her brother, and laughs. Adjusts her anklet, and laughs. Teases her mother, and laughs. Her eyes water. She smudges all her soorma with her dupatta. I smile. She is a child after all. I feel much taller, stronger. She is a delicate little girl. God bless her.

The scent fills the air. I see nothing else. Just her small feet and her green dupatta tangled in her anklet.

“They are coming!” I see them, coming towards Mohammad Ali Road. I see swords. And sticks. And a lot of saffron. Fire. Shouts. They are at her gate. They are banging. I hide and watch. Jumman comes out, and the other brothers and cousins. The gate is locked quickly. They are fighting. They are hurt. I know one of ‘them’. He plays cricket with Jumman and me. He is not himself. No one is themselves. It makes no sense. My heart will pound out. I need to hide. I am ashamed. Why can’t I fight? But I don’t. I am scared. For life. For her. I can’t run. Anymore. I peep out the back window. She is outside the back door. With the other women of the house. And her small brother. She clutches his hand. She stares back. With her big, black eyes. Will she ever smudge her soorma again? They are already there. I squat. I press my head between my knees and squat. I wait for them. They kick me. “Hindu ya Musalman?” I wish I knew. I can’t speak. The boy I know sprinkles the kerosene oil. They step out. Everything burns. Instantly. For a long time.

“She is critical.”

“Hmmm..We observe for a few minutes”

I inhale her scent. I shut my eyes hard. I won’t try to open them anymore. Give her a chance. She is a child after all.

वात्सल्य

चाँदनी थी धवल, शीतल थी वात

कार्तिक की पूर्णिमा की पावन सी रात

पर नदी के तट पर था क्षण क्षण का संघर्ष

रेत पर लेटा था नन्हा सा, हाय, ममता का रूप वो वीभत्स

नन्ही सी हथेली में बंद था एक जीवन

क्षण क्षण रुक कर दम भरती थी धड़कन

क्रंदन कर सकने का भी कौतुक ना था शेष

कैसा था हाय यह माता का क्लेश!

पर सृष्टि के कारक की लीला अपरंपार

उसकी ही कल्पना का नाट्य तो है संसार

की देख लिया उसको वात्सल्य की उस मूरत ने

मर्म को भेद दिया निष्कलुश सी उस सूरत ने

वक्ष से लगा कर, सहेज कर ले आई वो घर

"ईश्वर के इस उपकार को सींचूँगी जीवन भर"

यदि जीवन की कथा होती है पूर्व लिखित

तो मुस्काया होगा विधाता, सुनकर उक्ति ये विदित

उर के आँगन में बसे उस तुलसी के पौधे को

निम्मो कहकर पुकारा गया

अश्रयों से सींचा और आशाओं से निखारा गया

माता की गोद, सखियों की टोली

क्रीड़ा की उमंग और तॉतली सी बोली

कब छूट गये पीछे भान ना हो पाया

काल चक्र की गति थी या अपने मन की ही माया

आँखों में अग्नि, हर कदम में दंभ

हृदय में तरंग और साँसों में हड़कंप

विश्व विजयी मुस्कान लिए

माँ का आशीष, अरमान लिए

महासागरों के पार, जो है अनोखा संसार

था उसकी प्रतीक्षा में, सजाए संभावनाओं का हार

"शीघ्र लौट कर आऊँगी, किस्से सभी सुनाऊंगी

माँ बोलो ना परदेस से, उपहार क्या क्या लाऊंगी"

अनगिनत स्वप्न थे, अपार था हर्ष

फिर भी माँ की मुस्कान का था अश्रुओं से संघर्ष

थरथराते होठों से बोल न निकलते थे

मन में पल पल ममता के टीले जो पिघलते थे

पीछे छोड़कर भाव विभोर सा संसार

निम्मो आ पहुँची सागरों के पार

अथाह आसमान की नीलिमा के तले

भविष्या के अनगिनत स्वप्न थे पले

समय के साथ स्पर्धा थी जैसे

दौड़ रहे थे निम्मो के दिन रात वैसे

कि एक दिन गाँव से पत्र वो आ गया

रोशन जीवन में अंधकार-सा छा गया

"चली गयी छुड़ाकर वात्सल्य का आँचल,

माँ क्या रुक ना पाई तू मेरे लिए पल-भर?"

आँखें जैसे खोई हों टूटे सपनों की समीक्षा में

निगल ना जाए रात इन्हें भोर की प्रतीक्षा में!

टूट कर ढह गया साहस का हर स्तंभ

अब कैसी अभिलाषा! कैसा कोई स्वप्न!

कोई नही जानता था उस हृदय का क्लेश

जब लौटे वो कदम वापस अपने देश

घर की चौखट पर था सन्नाटे का शोर

और मुख पर अंतिम दर्शन से वंचित नैनों का बिछोह

दीवारों की तस्वीरों में बीते हुए सुख का दुख

शब्दों से रहित था उस सुवाचिका का मुख

पर माता के प्रेम को स्वीकार ना थी हार

मेज़ पर रखा था एक अंतिम उपहार

उन परिचित हस्ताक्षरों मे लिखी पंक्तियों का चयन

दे गयीं थी वो एक नव निर्माण का वचन:

"जीवन में एक सितारा था,

माना वो बेहद प्यारा था,

वो टूट गया तो टूट गया,

अंबर के आनन को देखो,

कितने इसके तारे टूटे

कितने इसके प्यारे छूटे

पर बोलो टूटे तारों पर

कब अंबर शोक मनाता है"

(जो बीत गयी, सो बात गयी)

With all due regards to Harivanshrai Bachchan and the magic he created with his words!

11.11.2010

Its easy to stoop, to be blatant and crass. Sometimes I feel trying to be right all the time is an onerous task. Its starkingly surprising how easy it is for a person to distrust, to hate, to criticize another.

Even though this blog is a place close to my heart, I have always tried to distance my personal life from it, since it is nobody's business. But there is so much to say at times, and its such an easy vent; hence, please forgive my outburst.

Everytime that I face a situation like this, a little something inside me breaks. I do not shy away from accepting that I still have that perfect-world picture in my head, I still believe in the basic goodness in every human being and I still start out by trusting people and making friends. But occasionally, my fairyland turns into a fierce, ugly battleground where no one is no one's friend. I am not perfect either. But I know what I am not. I never trample over someone to prove something. I never hate someone to the extreme of harming him/her. I might wish to at times, but I have never done that. I am not a hard worker but I try to be one. I try to learn, explore, question, but not at the cost of my basic principles of honesty and helpfulness. Beyond this, I really don't care what you think of me. I'm proud of the fact that I accept and acknowledge my mistakes and I think it takes a lot of courage to do that, as much as it takes to point someone else's mistakes to them and not talk about them behind their backs. This is and probably will be the most direct post I've ever written but I wanted the message to go across. I know in a few minutes, I will go back to being in love with the world, but right now, it stinks!

Confessions :)

Indulgence has been around for more than 4 years now. 4 years of predominantly silent observation interspersed with some outbursts of emotions and creativity. It stands witness to the creative and spiritual journey I have had from 1st year of college to a professional life. At times, its naive, over-simplified, at times, too impassioned, and at others, too dreamy. I always write on impulse, and that is the reason for the long periods of lull. Writing happens to me. I never review, re-write, or re-read more than once. If I do, its very probable I eventually wouldn't post it. However, I wish to change. I wish to be a more disciplined writer who starts with an idea, nurtures it over time, chooses just the right words and then embellishes it with better phrases and beautiful imageries before presenting it.

As I read through Indulgence, I have the urge to make minor alterations here and there. But there are a few things that I think will remain as its identity: the blog description and the 'about me'. They continue to be relevant even today. I still evolve. I still consciously try to improve on at least one count each day, I remain a perennial learner, head over heels in love with life, and I truly believe this relationship will remain as rosy :)

An individual's perceptios are subject to constant change. There came a point when I became content, truly happy and in sync with the world, it was peaceful and perfect. But thank God, it was only a phase! Perfection is boring. There has to be something that bothers you, irks you, stirs you and provokes you. Something to which you respond passionately, hysterically. Some cause to keep your mind ticking and your heart racing. Something that keeps you awake till morning, something that kindles and quenches a million flames inside you. Something that keeps you alive! Ignorance is bliss. So when life becomes too blissful, go out there and explore, live it a little more. Find reasons to celebrate. But also find reasons to complain. And change.

I have gone through phases of utter loss in self belief. At one point I felt, I couldn't write anymore. I tried to write a decent something and failed-many times. And then I realized where I was going wrong. I had started writing for an audience, unlike earlier when I wrote only for myself. In fact, I would try hard to hide what I wrote to keep anyone from reading it. May be earlier, when it was not this easy for mediocre talent to get published, people wrote with more honesty and fluidity, and worked harder for improvement. But then, it was upto me, to try and not hide. To not just portray some shades of my thoughts but to be able to be myself, entirely, the whole package- the lovely things and the not-so-lovely ones. I'll try to do that more. I'll try to be.

Emerald Colored Lake

[I realized this post might appear vague and incomprehensible. I went overboard with my incoherent blabber in this one. :)

So, just to simplify, its a letter written by a girl who has been sent to a mental asylum. The letter is addressed to her elder sister. Hopefully, this knowledge would add more meaning to the post as you read it.]

Dear Aapa,

I am happy. I have finally got wings. I am learning to fly. This morning, I flew across to the mountains through a haze of cold fog that settled between the earth and the sky to dissolve the boundaries between them. I kept flying until my wings slowly melted in the warm morning rays and I landed onto an emerald colored lake, where I fell asleep, because the water was so still.

These days I sleep a lot, and dream a lot. Ammi used to say, dreams are like bubbles. I believed that, until recently, I stretched out my hand and felt a dream.... D-R-E-A-M....and guess what, it wasn't that fragile.

I love my new home. I feel free. I no longer see the world through a window. Here, they let me step out of the door into the garden, and bathe in the sun. Remember how I was scared to laugh because then I always had to cry later on? Here, in the garden, I laugh a lot, because the others join in to laugh and cry in chorus with me, so that the balance of the universe is maintained. Balance between laughing and crying, between loving and hating, between windows and doors; there are many such balances-this is what a friend here tells me. He is wise. Sometimes, I also join in to cry when someone else feels like laughing. You know, its not really that bad to cry.

And yes, thanks for sending my favourite butterfly to me. When she lived in the painting back home, she never flapped her wings. I always wondered why. My wise friend tells me, may be she flapped her wings whenever I flapped my eyelids. So now, I have befriended the butterfly. She doesn't play that trick with me anymore. She seems happy too. Sometimes we play hide and seek. But then she cheats me and flies out of the garden. I am not allowed to go there. So, I get angry and shout at her. The nurses then give me an injection. Its a sting, like the one that occurs when I bite my palm with the corners of exactly two teeth. And then, I get wings again.

The other day, it rained while I slept. And when I woke up, the garden was full of my favourite scent. I tasted a little bit of earth. I felt very happy, very free. Then I went back to sleep. My friends here tell me its because of the medicines. But I think its like a blessing - that I don't need to identify where D-R-E-A-M ends and R-E-A-L-I-T-Y begins.

A Vague Dream

How strange is the chase

for dreams that don't have a visage

Nor a definition

A vague hill...fluid, unbounded

A valley of unidentified flowers..

yellow and white

a soul, soul-mate-like

unnamed, without a face

but well-defined fingers

that slide behind my ears

to tuck a stray strand of hair..

And time..is frozen..

ice-cold. But its pleasantly warm

under the skin of my cheeks

I see no colour

hear no sound

as I try to identify

You....

But all I am left with

is a dream

and its characteristic uncertainty

that tests my patience

bit by bit, crystal by crystal

through a narrow decade-glass

of Not Knowing

The mist above the hills

grows denser

and you walk away

leaving behind the illusion

of a smile, and the reality

of longing




This poem is linked to the Poetry Pantry at Poets united. Do visit them to share your work, or just to read some beautiful poems by other poets. 

Such A Story

I am craving...for a nice, sweet, simple love story. One where they see each other and notice their hearts skip a beat. Where they steal glances at each other whenever he crosses the well where she comes to fill water. Where eventually, he gathers the courage to smile at her and she feels a thud in her chest. And the next day, she smiles, her face flushed. And this time, he feels the thud, and the thunderbolt. Where they finally meet and walk together in the yellow mustard fields. Where he plays the flute under a tree and she lies down in his lap, almost asleep, being caressed by the music and the gentle afternoon breeze. Where they look at each other and don't say anything...just smile...or may be cry. Where he fills the red sindoor in her maang, and she finds herself, completely transformed, completely surrendered to him, in that one moment. Where he goes off to the fields and she cooks for him, and waits for him. And the droplets of sweat glisten on her face when she holds up the lantern while opening the door for him. Where he sees a choodi-vendor and buys some choodis for her, smiling in his own thoughts. And she notices a missing button in his shirt and stitches it deftly, carefully, as if she could pour all the love in those stitches. Where they spend lazy afternoons alternating the hand fan between them, staring at the ceiling fan that never moves. Where she sells her bangles for his mother's medicines, and he kisses her on the forehead, both of them, overwhelmed, in that moment. Where they sit on the chaar-pai outside the house on a summer night...talking about the stars. Where the night plays its part, and the wind plays its own part, modulating their breaths, their heartbeats. Where he goes away to the city, and she waits....imagining, every moment, what he must be doing, writing a letter each day.....and keeping them safely....to give them all together when he comes back. Where he watches the moon after a long day at work and wonders if she's watching it too. Where they can't sleep the night before he is to come back. Where tears flow unrestricted in that moment of reunion until the throat gets blocked...by weird longings, belongings, admissions, anticipations.

It has been very long...since someone told me...such a story...

To NDA, With Love :)

On this nostalgic Sunday morning, I raise a toast to NDA, for being a part of our identities. To those endless preparations for talent nights, sports days, teachers' days, debates, elocutions, one-act plays, to those majestic corridors where we laughed and ran during the breaks, those morning assemblies and prayers, that 'Big Field' with that 'magic' brick boundary which could 'make your wishes come true' if you completed one round without falling. To the canteen and the panipuri wala. To the grand Julie Hall that we thronged for all occasions. To the chapel where we prayed whenever we were unprepared for a test. To the mysterious sisters' convent where we weren't allowed to go. To Mrs. Bhavana Shekhar for her motherly attention to details and for kindling my affair with the Hindi language. To Mrs. Rekha Srivastava for her oh-so-fabulous accent that could make anyone fall in love with the English language, to Mrs. Madan for being the strict disciplinarian that she was and for always pushing us towards those perfectly tailored 'to-the-point' CBSE format answers. To Mrs. Tresa David for her infectious love for numbers, to Mrs. Sujata Mukherjee for those free periods and Mrs. Sushma Prasad for being a wonderful person and encouraging class teacher. To Miss Ekata Harshavardhan for supporting us when we needed her despite the hard times that we gave her. To Sister Joan, wasn't she the most innocent creature possible? To her music classes where she made us clap at 'clap with your hands, our God is good' , and to her Value Education classes where she taught us the Ten Commandments with extra elaboration of the 'Do not covet..' part ; ) . To that 12th std English class where we sang a prayer of rain with her and it actually rained. To those long queues of Michaelites, Loyolites, Boscons, etc outside the gate, who no matter how much we pretended to hate, managed to boost our teenage egoes everyday. Toast to Sister Jayshree, we grumbled and made fuss but we knew you were the best administrator possible. May your soul rest in peace. Toast to Shubhangi, Chinu, Nishu, Sneh, Nidhi, Sachi, Garima....my comfort circle, my friends for life..and to the uncountable magical moments we spent together. To Ruchi, Pallo and Monica who meant to me in their own special ways. To every single day spent in that second home that shaped us into who we are. To those memories that are still as fresh as if it all happened yesterday. To that ideology of Notre Dame where strength of character and truthfulness came first and material success second. To the 'women of substance' that it strived to turn us into. To all the girls in red who will undoubtedly rule the world and who will always remain Damians at heart. No matter where they go. Cheers...

The Secret

Snehal walked on the sand- barefoot, lost- neither happy, nor sad, just peaceful. Full of sea smell and the taste of humid breeze. She sat on a stone, gazing at the horizon, at the sun that was setting away from her day to rise into his. She felt connected. To him, to the sun, to the unfathomable sea, to the changing sky, to the birds that returned home in flocks, to the empty shell under her toe. She looked up at the lighthouse and noticed two lovers watching the sunset from above, silhouetted in orange, dusky red, and then grey, as if morphing into souvenirs. Souvenirs of the beautiful moments that had slowly, stealthily grown into memories. And now, they were her most treasured belongings- the hysterical laughters, the unembarassed tears, the crazy stories, the fast music, the long drives; life, in hindsight, looked like a fast forwarded reel. Only at some points, it stoppped. Like the day they spent building castles of sand. Like the game during which they exchanged dolls as a promise to be together forever. Like the day he picked up a fight with the bully of the colony for her sake. Like the evening she spent waiting for him in the park, full of anticipation, anxiety, hoping he would come (though she hadn't called him and he didn't come). Like the night of college fest that they danced away. Like that night on the beach when they came close, when friendship crept away from between them like sand from a tight fist, only to make way for something else. Bigger or better was for fate to decide. She smiled at the moon. It smiled back, a mischievous smile, as if it held a secret it wouldn't disclose. She understood. She had secrets too. In her heart and in her womb. She inhaled the scent of wet sand and closed her eyes, trying to listen to the second heartbeat. She wondered if it smelt what she smelt, felt what she felt, if it was aware of the strange pangs of love that she felt for it, love that choked her, engulfed her, transformed her. She did not know the answer. But she was content with the not knowing. She felt complete. She got up to leave. Tomorrow he would be made party to yet another secret of hers. Rest was for fate to decide.