Just My Stories

Panic

2011-12-15T07:18:00.000-08:00

The kind looking man sitting across me was saying that these are just the beginnings of symptoms of OCD. “I am fairly sure these can be treated without medications. Lets look at a more holistic approach...” For the next three quarters of an hour, he took me through my personal issues, gently counselling me at every stage till I was fairly convinced that I am a healthy person with a healthy mind and I can live a normal life.

The trigger (I am not completely sure about this) was a power point presentation I had seen in my son’s school as part of their culmination day activity. The presentation showed the grave consequences of misuse of water with the prediction of a doomsday just 50 years from now when our children would have less than 1 glass of fresh water a day to drink. Such predictions are always exaggerated, based on highly approximated figures but that did not help to lighten my mood as I walked out from the room with horrifying images plaguing my mind. That was a year ago.

Now, a year later, I am suddenly greeted by dark thoughts sneaking into my mind. What if all the water resource of the world gets depleted in a few decades? What will happen to our kids, and their kids? Then one day I get stuck in a real bad traffic jam and anxiety knocks on the doors of my mind. How many thousands of new cars hit the road every day? What if when my kids are grown, the roads are so full of traffic that no-one can ever reach anywhere? I see an aeroplane flying high and wonder how much fuel it must consume per flight. Then, before I know it, the treacherous thoughts invade my mind. How long would the energy resources of the planet last? What will happen to the rain cycle once when all forests are cleared for urbanisation? Will there be enough fresh air to breathe in the near future or will our grand kids have to wear oxygen masks? And so on, the thoughts become stronger every day. They baffle me with their persistent energy. They rock and torture my mind, giving rise to a whole lot of uncontrollable anxiety. I am unsure as what to do. I am incapable of showering, eating, thinking. I want to fast-forward my life to see what happens. I panic at how to get through the day. I cannot discuss this madness with anyone out of fear that I would be laughed at. At last, out of desperation, I confide in my husband. He suggests that we seek professional help.

The first doctor I consult talks with me for precisely five minutes. She concludes that I have OCD and prescribes three medicines which I have to take for a long time. I hesitate. I google the definition of OCD and get the following... “Obsessive–compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear, or worry, by repetitive behaviours aimed at reducing the associated anxiety, or by a combination of such obsessions and compulsions.” I study the symptoms of OCD, they all seem to match my condition.

My husband suggests that I seek a second opinion. After giving it a thought I decide to reach out to an old friend whom I can trust. She helps me immediately with the reference of a ‘wonderful’ doctor who had helped her mother in the past. And that is how I find myself sitting across this kind looking man, late one Saturday evening. He is talking to me. He wants to listen to everything that matters to me. He takes time to talk to my husband. He suggests to me to break the monotony of my everyday life, to try and do things differently. While talking to him I realise that I have been very lonely for very long. I had felt pangs of loneliness when my husband would be away on his profession (he is a sailor) and a different kind of loneliness even when I am surrounded by people. I had given up a blooming career in advertising eight years ago to devote myself to the children. I guess I had started to structure a routine to make my life easier but in the process my days have become predictable, monotonous.

I walk out feeling that I am normal, perfect. I will try to live more spontaneously as I used to. We stop for ice-cream before heading home. I see an aeroplane flying. I don’t panic. For the next few weeks I am a happier, more relaxed person. I don’t arrest the thoughts when they knock on my mind; I greet them and say hello to them and tell them I don’t need them. I follow all the instructions of my doctor. I meditate. I laugh loudly and freely.

Then one day out of curiosity, I decide to do some research online; not the most reliable source, but still. I discover that we have plundered this planet and depleted one-thirds of its total resources over the last three decades. Our extravagant and wasteful lifestyles (especially of the developed nations) are fast upsetting the delicate natural balance and cycles. No amount of technology can make life sustainable beyond this century if the current rates of wastage of resources continue.

Some of the dark foreboding anxiety grips me. I am on the edge of panic. Then my daughter runs in with a paper and crayons and I immediately visualise a lovely life bringing up my kids with joy. I know that I can deal with my thoughts, I know that technology will advance fast enough to provide an answer to every problem mankind may have, I know that if I have faith, the Universe is a great provider.

I am normal now. I ask myself some perfectly sane questions which any person of sound mental health may contemplate without panicking. “Is it really necessary to stretch the gifts of nature to the limit?” “Are continuous materialistic aspirations and fulfilment making us continuously happier?” “Now that the wheel has been set to motion, can any power stop it, or control it?”

My daughter begins to passionately colour the sky a lovely shade of blue. I sincerely pray that it stays that way. I know I am normal but another stray thought sneaks in through the backdoor of my mind and I wonder, “Are the world and the vast humanity that dominates it normal? If so, why are they not panicking?”

The Shoe Keeper

2011-12-02T07:26:00.000-08:00

The building was old but comfortable. The ceilings were low. There was a basement and four floors, the top one being reserved exclusively for minor surgical procedures. The ground floor lodged the reception, the enquiry and billing counters, the pathological lab and a waiting area. The waiting area comprised of two narrow corridors with chairs on both sides. It was here that I sat while I waited for my number to be announced. I had an appointment with the ENT specialist and the doctor was late.

From where I was sitting, I could see the balcony at the entrance with the rows of open racks for keeping the shoes. It reminded me of a temple. This medical center had a rule wherein patients and visitors were required to remove their shoes before they enter. The man attending the shoe racks is about fifty. He has a big grin permanently spread across his face. Whenever I visit the medical center, I am immediately greeted by that grin while he courteously directs me to the rack where I should keep my shoes, handing me over the token with the corresponding number. Sometimes when all the shelves are full, he reaches out to take my sandals and keeps them in a corner on the floor while announcing, “No token required Bhabi, I will take care of these.”

My attention now shifts from the shoe keeper to the harried mother who has just entered noisily carrying a baby in her arms while holding the hand of an older child. She plonks down on an empty chair with a huge sigh but only for a second. Her elder child runs off towards the staircase and she runs after her while the baby in her arms starts wailing.

I am bored and my eyes rest on the man sitting across me who had been having a long conversation on his phone for quite some time. From his tone and a few words I catch, I figure that his conversation is about business. He is starting to get agitated and his tone loses some of the earlier politeness. Soon, I can make out, he has embarked on an argument. He is almost screaming now.

The chair next to mine had been so long occupied by a woman. She had been waiting patiently since even before I came along with her husband who was sitting on her other side. Now the husband had begun to lose his patience. He gets up with an expletory under his breath and begins to pace the corridors.

The harried mother is back by now feeding biscuits from a snack box to her child. There is a slight commotion near the billing counter and I can hear raised voices. Invariably, there must have been a confusion as to who was standing where in the long queue.

I look at my watch. It strikes me that I have waited for nearly three quarters of an hour. By this time I could have completed a household chore or two. The man dressed like an executive who has waited for about twenty minutes was coming to the end of his patience. His time, I gather, is much more valuable than mine. He is constantly glancing at his watch and dialling on his cell phone.

My mind drifts. I idly ponder why everybody is so hassled. Is it really that they are missing out on something very crucial in life while spending their time here, waiting? I hear a muffled sob and notice for the first time a young girl sitting alone in the corner across me. Why was she crying? Is she facing some dreaded ailment? Is she afraid of what she may hear from the doctor? Has she been unlucky in love? My mind wanders aimlessly as I consider these possibilities. Maybe it was something else altogether. I wished I had brought along the book I had been trying to finish since ages. Oh, how I wish I had remembered to carry the book. At least I could have ‘utilised’ my time better.

There is a slight ruckus as a female attendant walks by carrying a trolley loaded with tea and snacks for the staff. I long for a cup of tea. The businessman on phone was now making a series of calls. His mood seemed to have gone sour. It must have been some money issue. I carelessly conclude that most of the tension we bear is either due to money or power or love; or rather attachments to these things. And love covers the whole gamut of relationship issues. I feel wise having reached this conclusion. But before I can ponder more on this, my doctor arrives. He is led by a nurse to his cabin upstairs. I am relieved. Now I don’t have to wait much longer. I start mentally to sum up my throat problem as I would state to the doctor.

A short while later, I am done with the doctor’s visit. I leave the place feeling relieved that my symptoms are nothing more than a minor infection. While I hand over my token, the shoe keeper flashes that permanent smile at me while he bends to retrieve my sandals from the lowest rack. I wonder for a moment what is it that keeps him so motivated to perform his routine dreary job, twelve hours a day, every day. Doesn’t he have any issues with money, power or love? His cheerfulness is too good to be true! I stop for a moment to return his smile and say ‘Thank You’. It strikes me that for the first time I had taken the time to do just that. Time after all is so precious! Besides me a lady is impatiently asking for her token. He turns from me to attend to her with the same eager smile. I suddenly see a sea of faces rush by, each holding its own thoughts, all of them wearing a mask of discontent and anxiety.

As I turn to leave, a small disabled boy with one leg comes hopping, leaning on a crutch. He addresses the shoe keeper as ‘Papa’ and asks for money to buy some food. The shoe keeper delves into his pocket and hands him a few coins telling him to buy a banana. I see a glimpse of fatherly love light up his face as he addresses the lame boy.

I leave. I realise that I am not wise enough. Some things must be more precious than cravings for money, power and love. I walk out completely ignorant yet with a strange feeling that today I have learned something new. Humanity is held together by an indomitable force that surpasses everything else, and truly wise are those who have found it.

Unfinished Story

2011-11-30T05:38:00.000-08:00

.....because everyone’s story is always a little unfinished....

The call came at 3 PM. She was not aware that she had dozed off. Perspiration dripped from her forehead. Absent mindedly she reached for the AC remote as she saw the name of the caller flashing on her cell phone. Rohit sir. The name hit her like the waves lapping up the shore with an insistence that defies reason. A long finished chapter of her life was blinking at her. She let the phone ring for a few more times and then took the call.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Nivedita?” His voice held the same tone, formal, yet intimate. Or was it just her fancy?

“Hello Rohit Sir, how are you?”

“I am good Nivedita. How are you?”

“So you still have my number?” It had been a month over five years.

“Of course I have. How are things with you? How is your writing going?”

She did not tell him that she had not written a single thing in a very long time. Instead she told him that she was married and busy with motherhood. She told him about her three year old son. She told him that he had curly hair like her and that he needed her all the time. She told him how busy and tired she always was. She did not tell him that she had no zeal anymore for writing; that she had mentally confined her passion to a non-happening element of her life. She didn’t tell him about the unfinished book lying among her old files in the computer.

He spoke about old colleagues and people they mutually knew. And then he proposed the assignment to her.

It would be just a week’s work, he said. She would need to travel to an island near Mauritius. The magazine needed somebody like her with in-depth understanding of all the aspects of travel and a balanced approach to presenting a novel destination. The magazine needed her at a short notice, so the pay would be attractive. It would be just a one-time project with no commitments.

“At least consider it,” he urged. “I know you are very busy but this could be a change in your monotony of life.”

She trembled imperceptibly. How did he know that her life was monotonous? How dare he know?

“Travelling for a week is out of question,” she said. “I have a small baby.” She knew it was not ‘out of question’. She knew that her mother-in-law was always available for such ‘emergencies.’

“Look Nivedita, all I ask is that you give it a due thought before discarding the opportunity. Please! Its a request from me.”

Why was he doing this to her?

He had been her boss and mentor. He had taught her the nuances of travelogue writing. And he had caught the radiance of her wavelength of thoughts like no-one else. He had laughed spontaneously at the clumsy ideas that generated in her mind and worked with her to give them shape and substance. He had fine-tuned her creative masterpieces.

Sometimes a beautiful thing fosters in an inappropriate ambience. Have you ever seen a lovely wild flower bloom in a neglected field where it will inevitably be torn and eaten by a roaming goat or cow? Their intuitive bond, the fodder for so much creativity and success had blossomed in an environment of harsh reality under the illusion of romance. Where there is romance, there is always love in some shade or the other. Nivedita’s success story had continued under the guidance of Rohit Sir’s patronage and exuberant enthusiasm. The enthusiasm overflowed and filled to the brim of many an afternoon cuppa they shared at their favourite cafe. Life was one long picnic of work, stimulation, passion, success, and more work with romance playing hide-and-seek in between these ingredients.

Then one fine day she realised that he felt the same connection that she did. And that was the beginning of the end. The background took over, the flower faded. Reality snatched the reins of life from romance. She had always known that he was married with a good wife but that had never seemed to matter...till he had woken up one day to realise that he was hopelessly attracted to her. Reality ensured that guilt, self-denial, avoidance and awkwardness would soon gush in to ruin and tear apart the raw beauty of a wildflower in full blossom.

The heartbreak that had followed was sharp and totally unexpected. It uprooted the very essence of enthusiasm from her heart. Life became a duty to be completed.

“So, will you give it a thought, please?” He was pleading now for her contribution to his magazine.

She felt ridiculous tears well up in her eyes that contained an emotion beyond pain. Her baby cried out for her attention.

Five years and one month ago she had taken the hardest decision in her life and quit the job and blooming career of her dreams to write a book. Yet the man on the other end still had unflinching confidence in her. Suddenly that book seemed very important. She had been married soon after and delegated herself to domestic duties. There never seemed enough time to devote to that book.

“Nivedita, are you there?”

“Yes, yes, I am. I will think about it and talk it out with Aninda. I promise I will give this due consideration.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll wait for your call.”

They exchanged good-byes.

As she washed her face and prepared to feed her son his afternoon juice, Nivedita smiled. She realised that she would accept the assignment and start on her book again. She realised that sometimes a connection from the wilderness is essential to make things happen. Sometimes just a phone call can open a dusty window and let the light of enthusiasm bathe a long neglected corner. Sometimes one has to travel a whole circle to rediscover one’s talents. Life goes on.

.......Some stories have no beginning, and no end....

My Book is on Amazon .....

2011-11-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

My friends outside India who want to read my book, "Strange Connections" is now available on Amazon. Please click on the link below....

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_19?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=strange+connections+by+subha+majumder&sprefix=Strange+Connections

It is priced at $5 and is a collection of 27 short stories touching and probing the themes of love, lust, passion, fear, hope, death and forgiveness.

Note to all my Readers

2011-11-08T21:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers,

Due to your continuous support and encouragement, my collection of short stories published by Leadstart Publishing and entitled "Strange Connections' is about to be released in the market.

The book will soon be available on the international online stores like Amazon and Ebay, but it is already available in most online stores in India including the popular Flipkart. The book will be delivered in 3 days at a discounted price (10% discount), payment only on delivery.

If any of you from India would like to buy a copy of the book, or read a summary and review of the same, you may do so by clicking on the following link...
http://www.flipkart.com/books/9381576564

Hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing the book and I truly feel that all my readers are somewhere, in someway connected to this experience.

Love,
JM99

Pace

2011-09-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

They sat on the veranda overlooking the busy city. She poured two cups of lemon ginger tea and they sat in silence absorbing the sights and sounds of the city. The city had a pace and the pace was a disguise to make the people feel vital, their work indispensable. The pace diverted the people from the only things that matter, from the few empty moments of life, full of meaning. The pace held the city on a tight leash and made it swing with self importance and pride.

He looked at his wife. She still looked pretty after fifteen years of marriage. He wondered what had caused her to have the affair. He had been a dutiful husband as far as he knew. He was a bread winner and a provider. He had tolerated all her quirks and eccentricities. Yet she had had an affair; she had found another man more attractive and had shared herself with him. The hurt and resentment churned within him and he felt nauseated. He looked at his wife. She had attractive eyes with long lashes. When she smiled, her smile lit up her whole face and her eyes danced in the glow of that light. Why had that smile embraced another man? Why had those eyes caressed someone else?

He looked back over the journey of fifteen years and wondered exactly what had gone wrong where. He had done fairly well in his career to provide for a life of comfort and luxury for themselves. He had never let her wishes and desires go unfulfilled. He looked at the city hustling by below; he absorbed the beats of the frenzied pace. Pace. It must have been the pace that cajoled him and slyly led him away from her. He thought about the impossible deadlines at work which he had consistently met. His success had created new standards and raised the benchmark for future successes and he had played along, a puppet to this pace. His mind wandered over the various late night meetings, the weekends spent in attending seminars, the constant travel on business. He wondered whether it was the design of this pace or the mere refusal by him to share his work tension with his wife that had first created the wall and hurled him towards Tania. Tania was his colleague and partner at work. She attended the same meetings and seminars with him, she worked with him to meet his deadlines; she understood his work pressure, his commitments, and shared his success. She was his confidante, the one with whom he could unwind and freely discuss his anxieties and celebrate his triumphs. She was his colleague, and also his good friend.

His mind played back on the day when his wife had discovered some text messages on his phone from Tania and suspected something. She tried to make light of it but he knew she was being eaten up with jealousy. He should have assured her perhaps that there was nothing more to it apart from a couple of office colleagues sharing a lewd office joke. But he had led his ego command him. He had been irritated and annoyed at his wife for making a big ado over nothing.

Perhaps she had needed comfort then but he continued ignoring her fear. This had caused a further rift in their marriage. His days were eaten up by the pace of work, his evenings were empty. Now looking back he knew that he could have set it right then. Perhaps he could have planned a vacation with her or put aside one weekend to spend alone with her and really talked to her only if she had given him the opportunity to make an effort. But she had continued to ignore him, busying herself with her household and motherhood duties. She had now joined a music class and she devoted all her spare time in it. And so he had not made that extra effort to bridge the gap. He had not known that one day that gap will expand to engulf his life and swallow up their marriage.

He turned instead to Tania to share his thoughts, feelings, emotions; Tania who always understood and who posed no threat to his ego or his marriage; Tania who continued to be his good friend.

She looked at her husband sipping his tea in contemplative silence. A familiar feeling of warmth tugged her heart. She yearned once again for him to see, to understand.

It had been a while since she had stumbled upon and gradually unearthed the level of intimacy he shared with another woman. Yet, try as she did, she could not detect a single instance of indiscretion on his part. She came to understand that he shared his heart and soul and not his body with another woman. And this began to kill her. Strangely, a physical affair would have been easier for her to cope with but the thought that her husband belonged to another woman in emotions and feelings enveloped her with deep grief and resentment. She felt unloved and unwanted. She tried to ignore him hoping that he would care enough to coax her back into the bond they had shared, but he did not even notice her silence. Her desperate loneliness gnawed at her heart and drowned her in a sea of self pity. She took the advice of a friend and decided to enrol for music classes in an attempt to nurture her long neglected passion. But even music could not assuage her hurt.

He was away, always away. The children missed him, didn’t he realise? Even when he was there, he was not actually with her but in a world of his own, a world where she had no clue how to enter. Her loneliness gave way to frustration and she felt a void opening up before her. She panicked.

Jai came into her life as a support that helped her get back to her feet and avoid falling into the pit. He came as a distraction to bring back the romance and colours in her life, to make her smile for a while and look forward to life. She remembered that phase as a mist of golden days and clandestine meetings with her lover. Her heart had felt light, her steps lighter. She had fancied being in love all over again. Yet, as all good things come to an end, that golden phase had run its course. All that was left of it now was a feeling of shame coated with guilt. She pulled her thoughts away from it and concentrated on her lemon ginger tea.

He watched his wife tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears and adjust her spectacles. He knew that if she smiled, he would smile too. The busy city hastened along down below oblivious to the beauty of a raw unguarded moment in time. She raised her long lashes and looked at her husband. She wondered if she should confide in him and disclose her affair but she feared that it would hurt his male pride. How could she explain that her affair was because she had loved him so much?

He knew he loved his wife, or else why did he not take advantage of her affair and use it as a reason to break ties? The answer was that he wanted this woman, had always wanted her. He knew that he should keep the knowledge of her affair secret or it would break her, he could not bear to humiliate his wife.

The city blurred away with its cacophony of sounds and its frantic pace. All that was left was a moment of rare insight and understanding shared by two souls who have always loved each other. She poured them another cup of tea each. He watched her gentle hands firmly tipping the teapot. He caught her hand then and she looked into his eyes. The warm aroma lifted his spirits as the pace of the city died away. Her eyes embraced him with warmth. He smiled.

Gateways To The Heart

2011-09-01T05:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a smile is enough to enter somebody’s life.

It was just such an innocuous and spontaneous smile that first drew his attention to the girl. She was browsing the bookstands in Colaba with the assured ease and familiarity of a housewife bargaining over the price of tomatoes everyday with the same vendor in the familiar market. In spite of her bright orange sundress and tall stilettos, she looked as if she belonged there, amidst the dust and noise and the rows of second hand books on the pavement stalls. She could have been smiling to herself over a phrase or a sentence in a book but when she looked up and her eyes collided with his, her smile was still there, radiant, generous and warm enough to envelop the whole world in it.

Five minutes later, they found themselves in the corner cafe, frequented mostly by foreign tourists, the jukebox playing a popular 70’s number. They laughed openly and chatted animatedly over everything and nothing in particular as only two strangers can. Their impromptu date seemed to be the most natural course of event in the world.

Over the next three months, they met again several times, mostly in and around the same area. They lunched, dined, watched movies, browsed bookshops and music stores, bought each other simple, silly gifts. Then one day the letter came. And it opened a doorway to her dreams.

It had been Isha’s most intimate aspiration to pursue her Ph D in Microbiology at the University of Purdue. She had applied last winter wholeheartedly following every detail in the process, yet not daring to hope lest her heart be disappointed. That one letter brought in a surge of relief which was then replaced by pure and wild euphoria. It opened the gateway to her ambitions, her future. It took some time for her to take it in, to believe that her dream was unfolding before her eyes. Instinctively she picked up the phone to share her joyous delirium with Ritesh when she was suddenly struck by the realisation that the very letter which opened up her world of future possibilities would take her very far away from him.

They met at the corner cafe for lunch. They laughed and celebrated the good tidings of a great future. Then they lapsed into a contemplative silence and finally she broke down into a fit of sobs. He found himself consoling her in spite of his own heavy heart. Their love was real and what is for real must also be forever. They vowed to keep in touch regularly. After all, this is the age of the internet and long distance calling is not as exorbitant as it once was.

A few weeks later she was on a flight, embarking alone on a great journey towards a promising future. He had been with her at the airport till the last moment and they renewed their vows through a mist of tears to stay in touch every day. Now, comfortably seated in the airbus, she found herself alternating between joy and sorrow till she gave up her attempt to read a magazine and succumbed to a few hours of sleep.

The USA greeted her arrival with a casual blend of diversity and action. From the moment she landed her feet on US soil, her each moment was engaged in exploring, making various arrangements, seeking out people, understanding rules, and finding herself hostel accommodation. She termed that phase to herself as the tornado of ‘settling down’. Her academic pursuits started almost immediately in full vigour. And along with it, she found herself making a few new friends over the next few weeks.

Back in Mumbai, Ritesh found his days to be empty and his evenings melancholy. He immersed himself in work and stayed back late evenings in his office to put in that extra bit. His creativity, vigour, passion and energy all found expression through his work. His life became a ritual of erratic meals and insufficient sleep that all revolved around his main focus, i.e. his work. Within a span of six months he was promoted from a marketing executive to an assistant manager of the international courier company where he worked.

As promised, they kept in touch every day through emails, chats and phone calls. They shared each other’s triumphs and failures, joys and woes. However, pursuits of dreams have a way of demanding unwavering dedication and time and very gradually, almost imperceptively, these aspirations and the punishing schedules they demanded began to loosen the connection of emails, chats and phone calls. They always explained to each other their respective schedules, were forever understanding and accommodating of each other’s struggles and deadlines. After a while, their mail exchanges dropped to once a day, then twice a week and then the perfunctionary one mail in a week. Their chats almost disappeared and phone calls became less frequent.

Isha excelled in her academic pursuits and soon gained quite a few admirers and friends. One of her new found acquaintance was an Italian named Piedro. He was amusing, entertaining, always full of jokes and high on life. In short, he was a good fun to be with. They started hanging out together along with a few other friends, all foreign students. Perhaps it was the loneliness hidden amidst her daily activities or the absence of someone to unburden her irritation or trepidation on, or it could have been the sheer chemistry of two different people in a foreign place, but the fast companionship between Isha and her Italian friend soon graduated to a level of intimacy where they started sharing each other’s hopes, fears and getting a glimpse of each others’ aspirations and lives.

Ritesh busied himself by taking on challenging projects and impossible deadlines and making them possible. He came across various women in the sphere of his work, even dated some, but he was not serious about any of them. His longing for Isha was hidden and locked in a safe deposit zone of his mind and he became fanatically passionate about his work.

Away from sight, away from mind....spelled true in essence for Isha. In the absence of Ritesh with whom she could once share each moment of each day, she found herself gradually gravitating towards Piedro as the nearest contender for all her attention. Within six months she moved in with him and they embarked on a delightful and adventurous affair. Focussed in her research and busy with her affair, she hardly had the time or the energy for anything else. Communication with Ritesh became scarce and infrequent and one fine day she decided to write to him and tell him about Piedro.

His eyes were blurred. He had drowned a bit too much of Scotch and his head was feeling light and dizzy. When he had first read the mail, he had quickly closed it and shut the contents from his mind, meaning to reread later, at ease. But somehow her words found a way to haunt him throughout his busy day and even busier weekend which he spent attending a management seminar. He found himself unable to concentrate on the seminar and the picture of Isha with an imaginary Italian guy invaded all other thoughts in his mind.

In the evening, he left early which amazed everyone, including himself. He went home, showered, listened to some music, tried to compose himself and then opened the mail again. Her words pierced him like a dagger and he realised for the first time how much he had taken their relationship for granted. He could live a solitary life knowing that she was pursuing her career dreams but he could not imagine living a life where she was not the unconscious centre of all his emotions. He locked away her words, along with the emotions it triggered in him, in the same safe deposit zone of his mind and tossed away the key. He resumed his life.

Two years later.....

Isha had proved herself brilliant in her chosen subject of research and was working part time as an associate lecturer as she neared the completion of her thesis. Her affair with Piedro had run its course. They had traversed the whole path from not wanting to spend a single moment apart to not being able to tolerate anything about each other anymore. Piedro was too casual, irresponsible, immature and too happy go lucky to be an achiever. Isha was too serious, focussed and career oriented to enjoy and live life every moment ...the way Piedro would live. They separated like oil and water. Isha devoted all her time to her academic pursuits.

Ritesh was now the area manager of a multinational travel agency. He was engaged to marry to a good looking, homely girl arranged by his parents and approved by him.

Sometimes it is a stroke of tragedy and intense sorrow that can bring some forgotten person back to one’s life.

Isha’s mother died suddenly and unexpectedly from a road accident. Isha flew all the way back to Mumbai to attend to the last rites of her mother and whilst fighting the tide of loss and depression, she had a desperate urge to check base with her old friend. So she took a deep breath, and dialled the familiar number etched in her memory with the ease and comfort of someone who has been dialling the same number every day.

He practiced in his mind how he would offer his condolences, how he would greet her after all the time that had lapsed and the events that have changed their equation. Yet, when he met her at the familiar cafe in the corner, all his practice was tossed to the winds. He went up to her and they hugged and let the tears wash away the years. They ordered their same coffees and talked small talk. Then gently, sincerely, he tried to assuage her pain with unrehearsed sincerity that arose naturally and spontaneously from some long forgotten ‘safe zone’ of his psyche. She cried unabashedly and smiled naturally. They laughed without reason. They laughed for all the reasons. She did not care a damn about her smudged eyeliner. He was least bothered about all the weight he had gained. They sat in that cafe, listening to the familiar jukebox, living the moment as intensely and naturally as only soul mates can; savouring their time together; each moment containing more depth and meaning than a whole decade of living life for irrelevant reasons.

One year later....

She has an offer from a leading pharmaceutical company in India. He had broken his engagement and has several career options in the USA.

The tides of fate can turn this way or that but what is more important is the assurance which lies beyond the twists and turns of the paths of life, of the love that resides somewhere just beyond the reach of reason.

And miles away from each other, they chase and pursue their life missions with the assured ease of having known all the things that lie between a smile and a tear; of finding love and then losing love only to rediscover that love can never be lost.

Sometimes a sincere smile and a genuine heartbreak are the only true gateways to the heart.

A Wild Impulse

2011-08-04T04:26:00.000-07:00

Impulse can be a very strong force though its origin is unknown. Perhaps it is an intrinsic desire, or a passing whim, or just a moment of void that causes the sudden force of impulse to take over the reins of life and leave you such that you can never be the same again. It was on one such wild impulse that I allowed him to enter my dreams, or better said, I allowed myself to fall in love.

There was already a sharp chill in the air though it was early October and we were all huddled around the campfire. I had wrapped the baby in a blanket and held her close to my breast. Taoji (uncle-father’s elder brother) and Buaji (aunt – father’s sister) were sipping hot chai (tea) from a flask and Badi Ma (Aunt – father’s elder brother’s wife) was half reclined on the chaddar (sheet), about to doze off any moment. The wind was blowing through the mountain forest to our left, shaking the sleeping trees and making them whisper conspiratorially, and making me tremble with its sheer audacity.

His name was Khalil. He was our guide for the tour. And today, having gathered us all after dinner, around the fire, he began his tale.

A long, long time ago, in these forests, there lived the spirits of the woods. These spirits guarded and protected the forces of nature that nourished the forests. And one such spirit, known for his wild adventures, was called Kara which means ‘wild’ in the language of the tribes. They said that Kara fell in love with the beautiful daughter of a woodcutter named Tasha. Now, when the ruler of the forest spirits found out about his love, Kara was warned to harness his passions as the spirits forbade any of their own to fall in love with a human. But Kara, being true to his name, did not heed the warnings. He would take the form of a mountain goat or a wild horse and try to catch the attention of Tasha. But Tasha was always lost in her own world to notice.

One day, when Tasha was out to fetch water from the spring, Kara emerged from the woods as a handsome young man and the first glance from Tasha was enough to seal their destinies in the bond of love. After that, very often Tasha would come alone by the mountain stream and wait for her lover. Kara would surprise her by suddenly springing from apparently nowhere. But he was a spirit and could do as he wished. In his reckless passion, he forgot one golden rule of the spirits of the forest, that no matter what, they could not take the form of a human, unless it was absolutely necessary to guard the forest.

At this point, Buaji coughed. Badi Ma blamed the chill in the weather. Taoji looked sternly at the women and with one glance he stopped them from continuing their banter. Someone from behind asked impatiently, “What happened then?”

I looked at him. The fire seemed to dance in his eyes. He was a simple mountain fellow with a proud moustache that determined his arrogant demeanour and for the cultural session tonight, he had donned a local costume of the Pahadis (mountain folk). His features were rough and weather beaten and there was a deep resonance in his voice when he spoke. His voice… it was that which had entrapped me and which held us in a trance now, as he wove a story around the fire.

So it was, that the news of Kara donning the form of a youth for attracting a human girl reached the ruler of the spirits and in his anger and fury, he expelled Kara from the forests. Kara now became a free spirit who belonged to nowhere. He would pace the rocky mountains and play around the waterfalls. Each morning he would wait for his love to emerge by the spring with a clay pot to fill water. Then one day she did not arrive.

At this point, he paused, as if waiting for a furious gush of wind to play havoc with the fire and eventually tame down. While the flames leaped and dodged, Buaji shivered and asked me yet again, “Is the baby warm? Check her feet, feel her hands. Are they cold?” I obeyed dutifully. I was after all the mother. If I cannot keep my own baby warm, who can? What a lot of fuss these old ladies like to make!

One day she did not arrive...continued our story teller. The news had spread in the village that Tasha was seeing a young man who could become invisible at will. The village elders resented this news. They knew that he had to be a spirit from the forests. If the spirits of the forests knew, it would augur disaster for the village. No spirit can romance a human girl. The villagers were afraid to invite the wrath of the forest guardians. Last time when a female spirit had enticed a village youth, the entire village had been burnt to ashes by a forest fire. Something had to be done! Tasha was locked up in a room. The village exorcist was summoned and he came armed with a broom, a stick and some fallen feathers of the mountain birds. Tasha was tied to a tree despite the protests of her father. That night, on the eleventh day of the lunar cycle, the spirit of Kara was evoked by reciting some strange chants. Then, drums were beaten and the exorcist started to beat up Tasha with the broom stick in rhythm with the drum beats. Madness pervaded the skies. A clap of untimely thunder made the villagers shudder. The feathers were scattered all over the half dead screaming girl. A piercing voice asked the exorcist to stop. It could have been the spirit of her mother but the exorcist took no heed. He called out for the spirit of Kara to come and embrace Tasha and with one final blow he hit Tasha across her ribs with the stick. Just as the moon disappeared behind the clouds, she screamed out one word...Kara!”

But now she was beyond pain as the spirit of Kara had shrouded her and warded off all the pain and humiliation. She was free; free like the winds and the dust. And together with Kara, she flew off to claim the freedom of the world that only true love can claim; the freedom that comes from having everything by not owning anything, of belonging everywhere by belonging to nowhere.

They say that every 11^th day of the lunar cycle, the spirits of Kara and Tasha still come to visit this village and they pause by the mountain spring for a while and if you listen carefully that night, the voice of Tasha beckoning Kara still resonates around the mountains.

Thus the story teller concluded his story. He had cast a spell, which along with the night and the fire held us enchanted and captivated and for a while no-one said anything. The flames danced mysteriously and gazing at them intently I was momentarily transported to another dimension where time stood still and untouched. It was only the intensity that mattered. And I could hear the voice of Khalil as if coming from somewhere far away, in a distant dream telling us what our next day’s travel itinerary would be.

Then the baby started wailing and the spell was broken.

Next morning we visited a temple on the hills and some exotic sites with amazing views of the valley below. All throughout Khalil kept us entertained with local tales and customs, yet we knew that he was not from this place originally but from the city of Lucknow, miles away. Having allowed myself to fall in love I let myself be totally mesmerised by his persona, his undercurrent of passion when he spoke, his magic of words and his dark, brooding eyes. But most of all it was his voice that caressed my fancy and made my heart beat faster. Oh, the joy of being in love!

In the evening, I left the baby with Buaji for some time and decided to go for a walk all alone. This was the last evening of our tour. Tomorrow, we would all be in a flight, heading back home. I decided to take the time to fully assimilate the sights and sounds and scents of the place that I had absorbed in the last few days. I was at peace with my solitude and hummed a note that had been playing in my head since morning.

Suddenly, I rounded a corner in the hills and came face to face with a wooden house with an inviting porch. Again driven by the same impulse I found myself climb the few steps to stand on the porch. The view from there was mind boggling. So lost was I in the moment that I did not hear footsteps till a familiar voice boomed “Hello”. I turned around and found myself facing Khalil. “Welcome to my humble abode,” He said.

“You live here?”

“This has been my home for the last eight years.”

“And your family?”

“Back in Lucknow. Our whole parivar (family) lives there.”

“What made you choose this job so far from your home and family?”

He looked amused and smiled an arrogant smile.

“What makes dreams ride miles away from the dreamer?” he asked in response.

“So this had always been your dream?”

“Not really,” said he, “As a youth I had always wanted to study Hotel Management and start my own inn, but fate took over. My father died while I was still in college, and I had to take charge of the finances of the family, get my two younger sisters married off. I never had chance to pursue higher education.”

“Are you….are you married?”

“Yes. I have a ten year old son. And yourself?”

“You have seen my baby.”

“I know she is yours but you have not given birth to her.”

I was startled out of my senses by his perception. I wanted to ask him how he knew but then, some things can only be respected by leaving untouched.

“You are right,” I said. “She is my sister’s child but I care for her as my own. My sister is no more.”

“She is your child by choice, which means that she is incredibly lucky to be wanted by you.”

I was touched and to my dismay, my eyes flooded. I quickly found myself blinking away the tell tale tears. I looked away.

“That is an amazing insight coming from a stranger,” I said, “Given that most people think I am inexperienced and not a good enough mother, just because she is not my biological child.”

“Look there,” he pointed to a tip of a distant hill that was surprisingly untouched by the forests that invaded the entire landscape. “What do you see?”

My heart was playing tricks with me. “I see a place untouched by the evidence of life; yet more alive in its intensity and vitality.”

“Yet most people would say they saw a barren tip of a hill.”

I turned around. He was looking at me, his eyes, boring, imploring, reaching naturally beneath layers of my mind.

“Why does it matter what people think?” he asked, “She is your daughter as much as the virgin mountain tip is full of life.”

I don’t know why but I asked him then, “What is the meaning of your name?”

“Khalil means friend,” he said, “and I am a friend of the mountains, the wind, the wild trees and….”

He left the sentence unfinished. How did he know? How could he possibly know that I longed, craved, to be caressed this way?

The wind picked up and the forests all around echoed with its sound. I welcomed the chill. I spoke to the hills and the valley below, knowing that they will connect to the strange passion blowing from one heart to another. My entire body was tense with anticipation. And then I heard a low, deep laughter. Maybe it’s the spirit of the forests, I thought.

My companion had left.

Next Morning……

We were all packed and ready. The suitcases and bags were being lifted by the hotel porters and placed inside the dickey of our van. Last minute photographs were being taken.

Badi Ma called me to pose with the baby outside, near the flower bed in the lawn with the hills as backdrop though we had taken hundreds of such photographs already.

He came to see us off. Taoji asked us all to pose for one last group photo with our guide. I couldn’t. How could I? How could I insult and ruin the moments of connection with a photograph that could be seen and touched? How could I let a picture try and capture all that is unsaid? How could I stifle the free wind of the wild that connected two hearts in a wild moment and entrap it through the camera?

Some things are too precious, they are always better left untouched.

“Hand me over the camera,” I announced knowing that my world will never be the same again, “I will take the picture.”

The Thief

2011-08-02T06:15:00.000-07:00

The thief crept in stealthily while I slept and raided my world. He took away all that had ever been mine....my house, my belongings, my wallet, my car, my jewellery. If value can be traced beyond material possessions, then the thief, by masterful craft broke into the safety vault that held my dreams, my memories, my love. He usurped them all.

And as I shifted uneasily in that restless zone between wake and sleep, he wrestled with my fortune and discovered the key that opened the door to my name, my honour, my colourful trophies from moments in life. Oh how I prized them! They were my souvenirs displayed behind the glass doors of the show case of life. The thief left the glass untouched; he simply opened the door and took away the symbols that contained so many victories!

I wondered in my disturbed dreams if there was anything left, anything that the thief might have overlooked....and as I thought so, he came to me and with the passionate devotion of a lover, he stripped me one by one of all the layers of clothes that had so carefully hidden my naked self and given it the illusion of an ‘image’. With my clothes, he unravelled layers of my persona, my deepest fears, my greatest hopes, my wildest fantasies.

I wondered why I stopped dreaming. There was nothing left now. No dream to paint my sleep, no visions, no voices. There should have been a void. But the thief was a skilled expert. He filled up the entire void with an endearing feeling of peace. The peace crippled me. It humbled me. I felt incapable of panicking, though my world and I were stripped.

The thief washed away my life in one night. And when I woke up in the morning, blinking in the sunlight, I realised that the Sun was still shining in my world. And then I opened my eyes fully to see a beautiful treasure that he had left for me.

I knew then that I had traded my world for freedom. And in that freedom reigned the only love that could never be stolen, as it could never be owned.

A Special Note of Thanks to All of You

2011-07-31T22:49:00.000-07:00

Mumbai,

1^st August, 2011

To My Dearest Followers,

This is a very Special Note of Thank You to all of you who have supported me from the time I picked up my pen to compose my first word in my blog. Although I do not have a mind boggling number of followers, but the quality of your encouragements through all your comments as well as emails have prompted me to send across my humble collection of short stories to a handful of reputed publishers in India. Now, 2 months later, my first collection of short stories which I have named “Strange Connections” is underway. The editing & the cover design work is going on and the earliest the book is expected to hit the market will be in December.

I would especially like to thank Legacy who inspired me to write again after a ten year break from creative writing. I have also mentioned the following people in my acknowledgements :

Drachma – For being the first to encourage me and always being my ardent reader.

Psycho Basher – For the complete and unconditional support.

Cayman – For always being there and for giving meaning to my writings.

And to all those whom I have not mentioned, every single word from you has been my inspiration to reach out & connect to a nameless stranger who knows me intimately through my writings.

Thanks for all the inspiration guys. You all are simply wonderful!

With Love,

JM 99

The Gulmohar Tree

2011-07-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

Right in the centre of the construction site of the new five-star hotel stood a gulmohar tree. The tree was an impediment to the layout of the plans for the premise. There was no other option but to bring it down.

Over many long and laborious years the roots of the tree had slowly penetrated the earth, spreading out intuitively to suck in the life force that made the tender sapling bloom into a strong and proud tree. The roots branched out unevenly in apparently random directions but sure in the knowledge and wisdom of experience. The roots brought stability and security in the whimsical tides of fortune. It held the gulmohar tree firmly and obstinately. It prevented the tree from sailing on a raft of clouds to experience the euphoria of flight. It stopped the tree from walking away from disaster. It grounded the gulmohar tree decisively and surely to its home and its identity.

Over many a summer and monsoon and autumn, the sapling had shot up and reached for the heavens through its branches spread out to greet the call of the wild. The branches divided and subdivided to embrace the creativity unimaginable to the roots. They sang with the birds and danced with the breeze. They embodied the deepest aspirations and expressions of the soul of the tree and bore flowers of radiant, unparalleled beauty. They brought fulfilment to the gulmohar tree.

The tree weathered many a storm due to the strength of its roots and sought many an ideal due to the expanse of its branches.

The engineers of the construction site pondered upon the most effective method in bringing down the gulmohar tree. They debated whether to uproot it from its stump or to cut off the branches first. It is always a dilemma which is more painful.....the death of the life flowing through the body or the ruthless murder of the spirit of life. What can the roots support if the branches are amputated? What is security without dreams? What good are the branches when the roots are wrenched off? What are dreams without strength?

In the middle of the construction site stood a gulmohar tree; and while the engineers were busy making plans to replace the tree with the foundation of a swimming pool, the tree lived and breathed and dreamed life to its overflowing brim, blissfully unaware and unconcerned about five star hotels and profitability of business.

After all, the tree had learned that the intensity of life matters more than illusions of permanence.

The Complete Picture

2011-06-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

I smile.

I have a sip from my cup. Green tea with lemon and honey. Here am I, perched on the window seat of a perfect life, having a perfect cup of tea. Only thing is that the perfect life is an incomplete puzzle and I have just glimpsed the missing part that will complete it. I have just seen the complete picture. My perfect life is not perfect any more. Perfection lies in completion of the picture.

There is a key somewhere in the universe that will determine the one single move that will place the missing part in its proper place and give meaning to a truth beyond the definitions of reason. Or it may be a series of moves synchronised by a higher hand. Why do I feel that the orchestra is already set in motion? Why do I feel the inevitability of the impossible? Why do I know that what is wrong has never been more right than now?

I look outside the window beyond the lazy traffic and see a makeshift pavement tea shop. I see men from the poor walks of life...the daily labourers, the watchmen, auto drivers, the construction workers; I see them huddled together enjoying their tea , their gossip, and their mutual company. My eyes fall on a particular figure for no particular reason. He sits there on the ledge, contemplating over his tea. I see imperfection in him. I see perfection in him. I feel he is no different than what I have ever been. Does the universe hold the key for him too? Will he one day find the missing part to complete his puzzle? He should, for after all, he is same as you and me.

I feel incredibly fortunate. I have a vision. It does not belong to my life and the window seat. It belongs to the mountains and the sea and every bit of me. Maybe the vision is my life. It belongs to me. The flower that I hold and whose scent I breathe in belonged to a bush which is part of the garden that I see, that borders the walls of our compound just below my window seat. We all belong to each other, we all hold together the complete picture. The vision saved my life. I have hope. Beyond my window seat lies a pavement tea shop. Beyond imperfection, lies completion.

I cry. There are no words to describe the rhythm of the beats to which my soul is dancing. There is so much joy in those tears. There is so much longing in that joy. There is so much contentment beyond that longing. There is so much pain in that contentment. There is so much love in that pain. And there is the whole universe in that love.

I smile.

The Silent Pond

2011-06-15T08:11:00.000-07:00

The pond was still and calm, and its depth unexplored. It was tranquil and playful and full of bliss. How large it was I do not know but it encompassed all known concepts of peace and love. It was steady and I could glide in its still waters with the enthusiasm of a child and the ease of a practiced professional. The pond was lively in its calmness and joyous in its serenity. It reflected the colours of the trees and the flowers around it and danced with the silver moonlight at night. The pond was the only life there was that I knew.

That was until someone threw a pebble in it. The pebble caused a ripple that disturbed the stillness of the pond. The slight disturbance grew more intense as the pebble was followed by more pebbles. Soon everybody was throwing pebbles at the silent pond. There was a turmoil. The ripples became angry waves and the waves became currents and exploded with alarming speed to knock every part of the tranquil pond. There was no more laughter, no more joy. Before my eyes, the pond changed into an angry ocean full of tides and undercurrents, threatening to swallow the simplicity I knew.

The ocean had strength and passion. It lured, it shouted, it spoke a hundred words. Yet it could not speak the profound truth reflected in the pond. It roared and was joined by the howling wind. Together they screamed of treasures found and treasures lost. They howled of deceit and anger. They abused the tides and cried of abandonment. They did not understand love.

Men rode the waves on mighty ships. Some were out to challenge the world, some to make a fortune, and some just to ride an adventure. Nobody understood the language of the child. The ocean raged and fumed and tossed the mere mortals out in grave fury, indifferent to the emotions of humans. Its fury frightened some while others were enchanted and attracted. But no-one understood its meaning.

I was wrapped in the mystery of life unfolding and changing before my eyes. I forgot about the silent pond. I dreamt of the merchants and pirates of the sea. I was sucked in by the unfathomable secrecy of the ocean.

I fought to free myself from the conspiracy of the waves and the abuses of the winds and somehow, a haunting note penetrated the chaos and whispered to me some long forgotten songs. I trust the song and follow it as I know I am loved and secure. Somewhere, very deep, in the realms of my mind, I know that I have been caressed by joy and divinity profoundly in a space and time where there is a silent pond that reflects my naked self intimately.

(I dedicate this post to my dear friend Cayman, who led me back to the Silent Pond i had forgotten)

Ten Rupees

2011-06-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

The humidity was unbearable. It was a cloudy day in June, summer had given way to the rains. As per the usual ritual, monsoon had hit the thirsty earth with thorough vengeance; then, perhaps a bit exhausted, had taken a pause. The pause was filled with gloomy, cloudy, sultry days that craved for evenings when the Sea Gods would send a breather in the form of the sea wind to blow away the perspiration from the face of Mumbai.

It was late afternoon on one such day that she sat on the front seat of the BEST bus(local bus of Mumbai), normally reserved for ladies. She was lucky to get a seat, as usually she had to wait for the Mahim stop where a large number of commuters alighted, to get a chance to sit. As she settled deep in a reverie, absent-mindedly absorbing the passing sights of a tired city, the throng of people occupying every possible space in the bus gradually built up to a point of saturation. There were now two standing lines and the conductor squeezed his way to and fro with practised perfection to reach out to the crowd, impatient to buy their tickets.

Shweta wondered idly how long would it be that she would need to commute in this fashion. With her next pay hike due in October, she may be able to afford an auto rickshaw at least one way. She may settle for an apartment where she need not share the rent with four other working ladies. Maybe, she could afford a twin sharing apartment. She dreamt of the occasional dinners she could afford at her favourite ‘Carlton Court’ corner in Bandra, instead of settling for the local ‘Udipi’ restaurant every evening.

Her flow of thoughts was interrupted by a commotion somewhere near the rear of the bus. The commotion soon gathered volume and strength as several people joined in. Straining her ears and turning her neck to get a view of what was unfolding, she heard the bus conductor scream, “Just get off! Then he breathlessly continued, why do such ‘evra’(slang for mad) people get on the bus when they don’t have money for the fare? Saala chutiya!(f***ing bastard) Wasting everybody’s time! ”

The interplay of the high humidity and the general struggle of everyday life allowed tempers to soar at the slightest provocation. The person to whom the expletives were addressed to, seemed to stop his pleading and announced, “All right, all right, I will get down. I don’t need your sympathy, all for mere 50 paise!” Shattering the exchange, Shweta heard the high pitched voice of a lady with Parsi accent. “Why make so much fuss for 50 paise? Bechara (poor thing), he must be garib(poor)! Let him on.”

Without the slightest hesitation, the conductor’s voice boomed, “Maaji (respected mother), I face 20 such commuters every day. If I were to pay 50paise from my pocket for each of them, I would end up paying ten rupees every day, the cost of my daily vada pav; and I cannot afford to miss my lunch every day.”

This was followed by a stunned silence till someone uttered “Badabar hai! (He is right!)”

Shweta vaguely wanted to donate 50 paise to save the day but she was incapable of acting. Deep in her mind, she realised that her probable pay hike may be better utilised for the weekend course in graphics designing that she was always planning to take.

After all, six months of her luxury in a twin sharing apartment combined with cosy meals and comfortable commuting may cost her the opportunity to have the requisite qualification for a better career. Compared to the basic unfulfilled need of a ‘vada pav’ lunch, even the better career prospect seemed humble. But still!

She shuddered and silently thanked the opportunity for a front seat reserved for ladies on a crowded BEST bus (public bus of Mumbai) in peak hour rush.

The Quarrel

2011-05-08T19:56:00.000-07:00

The quarrel started over a minor issue. Mrs Menon’s daughter Ria and Mrs. Sen’s daughter Parul were playing in the shade of the Gulmohar tree on one fine, sunny morning. It was a midsummer morning and the kids’ schools were closed for the summer vacations. They had been playing badminton and hopscotch till the sun became too hot to endure. So they took their dolls and kitchen sets and started playing in the cool shade of the tree. All was going well, till Ria thought it amusing to pull the dress off Parul’s doll and in the process managed to break the doll’s arms. Now Parul was feeling tired and quite hungry and at that moment the damage instilled on her favourite doll under her very eyes proved to be the last straw. On a child’s impulse, she reached out and pulled Ria’s hair. Ria, being the more timid of the two, found herself helpless and scampered off to her mother, howling.

Within ten minutes, Mrs. Menon, a big, heavy set lady came storming to ring the bell at the Sens’ apartment. Mrs Sen was entertaining a client at home as her office was undergoing renovation. Paying no heed to courtesy, Mrs Menon embarked on a long and very descriptive assault on Mrs Sen’s daughter’s aggressive, impudent behaviour. Mrs Sen, sufficiently embarrassed, vowed to intervene later as she was having a guest. This further fuelled Mrs Menon’s anger as she increased her volume of uttering expletives and refused to budge from the door. Mrs Sen, who was by now sufficiently humiliated in front of her client, and seething with rage, slammed the door on her face.

Things took a turn for the worse very quickly, as Mrs Menon wasted no time to gather all the ladies of the building and report that she had seen with her own eyes Mrs Sen resort to ‘inappropriate behaviour with an unknown male in her house during the absence of her husband.’ A few of the ladies who were generally bored housewives and desperate for entertainment in any form, seconded her allegation. They claimed that they had all seen Mrs Sen with dubious looking men in her house at all hours of the day when her husband was at work. In no time at all, Mrs Sen’s reputation was laid to dust.

In the evening, when the respective husbands returned from work, the matter took a different turn. The moment the exhausted men returned home to toss aside their brief cases and sink down on the couch demanding a blissful cup of tea, they were ambushed by their incensed wives. The poor men hardly had time to breathe when they were pounced upon with exaggerated details of the day’s activities from two totally different perspectives.

Mrs Sen, who was always the polished, diplomatic kinds, soon manipulated her husband to lodge a complaint with the housing society regarding the Menons’ lack of civic sense in leaving their garbage out near their neighbour’s door each morning and making their dog relieve itself on the common staircase landing. Before he had a chance to shower and gulp down the tea, Mr Sen was off to the Society Secretary’s place with a written complaint against the Menons. He even gathered a few signatures on the way from a handful of ‘witnesses’ who happened to be none other than his Bridge partners every Sunday.

By the next morning, the whole building accommodating thirty two apartments, were teeming with excitement. There was quite a lot on the ‘unofficial agenda’ of the monthly meeting of the housing society scheduled for the coming Sunday. Mrs Sen had a reputation to save by counter accusing her assailants while Mrs Menon was driven to prove a point.

The birds chirped and the breeze made waves on the carpet of grass. It was a light, cloudy day in summer, perfect for a picnic. Butterflies fluttered along the path of tiny violet blossoms hidden by the grass. Two little girls rolled on the green carpet, playing with the butterflies and laughing in spontaneous delight. Ria and Parul cherished every moment of their holiday, lost in an innocent world where fights happened everyday to be forgotten.

A little way off, in the club house hall, a meeting was on and two very agitated families were playing a different ball game, trying to settle a quarrel with heigtened zeal and purpose.

The Wait

2011-05-07T10:05:00.000-07:00

The rains had paused on an impulse after drenching the city for twelve long hours. Alas, in the concrete jungle of the big city, the rain loses its romance to overflowing gutters and mud puddles. Against this backdrop, she waited, on Paltform number 1 of Bandra Station, under the big station clock. She waited, trying to ignore the stench in the air and the tide of mud-splattered, perspiring bodies pushing past her in waves, to catch a foothold in the Churchgate local.

Her dress was sufficiently ruined, thanks to the sadistic delights of auto rickshaws speeding over the mud puddles, drenching her in muck from head to toe. Her pretty sandals were caked with mud from the station stairs. She was waiting for her date. Between cursing the effects of rain and the lack of punctuality of her boy friend, she glanced at the station clock every few seconds.

Her mind was in a state to invite chaos. So she let herself be tormented with the recent memories of a ruthless boss who hogged the limelight at her expense. The fury and resentment that these thoughts invited, paved the way for a chain of never ending bitterness towards a roommate who had not returned a substantial portion of her hard – earned salary, towards an unrelenting landlord, an uncompromising colleague and finally, her inconsiderate boy friend who dared to make her wait under such pathetic circumstances. She knew that he would finally arrive with a big grin on his face and an even bigger bunch of red roses as a sincere attempt to compensate for her distress. She knew that she would finally relent.

He stood on the overcrowded bus, sandwiched between a plump lady and a college girl, the umbrella of the former poking his back, while the wet, spiky hair of the latter brushing against his face. He had stood this way for the past half hour during which the bus had progressed barely a few yards. Evening traffic was always bad, and coupled with an outpouring of monsoon shower, it completely paralysed the city. He glanced at his watch again. He was running late, too late. He knew that despite the delay, he would have to make a dash for the florist at the junction of Linking Road and S.V Road, and then sprint the remaining distance to the station dodging moody auto rickshaws and careless pedestrians. He cursed his last minute meeting called by his sadistic boss that had ensured that he miss the earlier bus. Now he had no option but to hang on to the jerky and painfully slow bus ride and brace himself for the inevitable tongue lashing which awaited him. Someone from the rear of the bus had switched on FM and the magical notes of Kishore Kumar drifted to fill up the imposed pause in life....pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho (every moment of my life I feel you with me)

She glanced at the station clock once again. And then, inadvertently her gaze fell on the beggar. She had seen the same beggar many a time at around the same spot, next to the corner pillar. His hair was long and tangled, his beard dirty and unkempt. His left foot was amputated and there was an open wound on his right knee which was infected, possibly septic. His tragic plight was such an eyesore that the reflex of any sane person would have dictated him or her to look away and save one’s mind from a blend of disgust and pity. But today, he was not alone. A stray dog, very thin and bathed in mud, shared his intimate space. As she looked on with bewilderment, the beggar tore a piece of stale chapatti which was placed on a piece of newspaper and fed the dog with extreme care and devotion, then he tore another piece and took a bite himself. The dog nuzzled close and the beggar looked contented and at ease. There was no trace of any chaos in his mind. As she watched, losing track of time, the beggar and the dog continued to share the chapatti in utter bliss and with that chapatti they shared a mutual companionship of unconditional respect and love. The eyesore has disappeared, and the mental block had cleared. She saw a unique beauty of life unfold before her eyes, a beauty so raw and tender, that it invaded her soul with its touch. The squalor and odours of Bandra station vanished from her sphere of sensations and in its place there was the scent of wet earth mingled with nostalgia.

The little girl selling the flowers was dripping wet; her meagre, tattered frock clung to her slender body. She was asking less than half the price for the dozen roses. She was hungry, and desperate for some money to buy bread. She was running from car to car, knocking on windows, pleading for someone to buy her roses.

He forgot about the usual florist in the usual corner. He took all her roses and paid her liberally. Then, on a weird impulse, he turned around and gave her a single rose from the bunch he had bought for his lady. It had started to drizzle again and he had to hurry to reach his destination.

They took an auto rickshaw to Bandstand. The rocks were submerged by the tide. They gazed at the last hues of orange shading the horizon and scattering its vibes on the Arabian Sea. They waited for an eternity saying nothing but absorbing the spirit of the rains romancing the city of mud and grime. There was no need for impatience for there was always enough time for everything.

(I dedicate this post to my dear friend Cayman who has inspired me with a little story on Cayman time)

Space

2011-04-28T03:52:00.000-07:00

The glass walls of the elegant office cabin on the 45^th floor of Emerald Towers looked out at the beautiful twilight touching the city of Mumbai. The alleys and lanes and by-lanes zigzagged their way through the maze of concrete and shanties as the city in all its unpretentious splendour spread its arms to greet the inevitable embrace of the Arabian Sea.

He stood on the beige carpet looking out at the maze and beyond, scanning the city which 12.5 million called their home. He was searching for some space; some space to breathe, to escape from his harrying thoughts, some space to just be. On his desk, beside the laptop and the bunch of printouts lay his wallet containing a few crisp notes. An array of colourful plastic cards flaunting various logos, which had till then filled up the space of his wallet, lay carelessly scattered on the carpet.

It was past seven thirty in the evening. He was done for the day. Yet he felt himself incapable of going through the routine of winding up work and dashing straight home. The mobile was ringing; possibly his wife checking where he was, under the disguise of the familiar question, “When are you coming home? I am making rajma and pulav tonight.” He ignored the rings.

Space. It was in quest of space that he had locked himself up in his plush cabin. On an impulse he had thrown out the cards from his wallet. They took up too much space. There was one that bonded him to a particular restaurant to have recurrent meals there to earn points; yet another to a retail chain where the platinum membership promised incredible deals to keep him off competitors’ territories. Then there was a card tying him to a particular multiplex experience, another to a gaming experience, yet another to an elite club and so on. His life seemed to be controlled and his choices stifled by the conspiracy of the plastic cards that ruled him like an obliging puppet. Yes, the cards were taking too much space in his life.

Now as he gazed at the skyline of the city, he realised that it was not just the cards. Everything took up space; his relationships, his memories, his commitments, his work schedules and deadlines, his dreams, his failures. And in the midst of all this, there was no space for him, Anirudh Mehta, 38 years of age, Chartered Accountant. Even his name and title and his business card took up space. Claustrophobia hit him and he wanted a breath of fresh air.

He sent off his chauffeur and found himself driving, negotiating peak hour traffic and heading on a different route than usual. He stopped a few yards off the base of the flyover at Marine Drive, opposite a sprawling five storied building that stood next to the Aquarium. The lights were just coming on and one by one the jewel-studded Queen’s Necklace (as the entire stretch of that seafront promenade is known in the evenings) revealed itself in its full glory. He carefully removed his blazer, tie, and shirt and stripped himself to the bare minimum of trousers and vest. Throwing off the pile of discarded clothes along with his cell phone on the back seat of the car, he decided to take a walk along the sea front. The salty air carried a trace of nostalgia, something that invited a momentary flicker of a familiar sensation and then disappeared. He walked briskly heading towards the direction of Malabar Hills. He felt light without the unnecessary burden of his formal clothes. He wondered how long he should walk to catch a fragment of that elusive space that could hold him.

A few yards down, he was interrupted by a nagging beggar woman who kept following him and tried to touch him with her filthy fingers hoping that he would be disgusted enough to toss a couple of coins her way in the haste to get rid of her. Anirudh was irritated as expected, but on a weird impulse, he surprised himself by doing something unexpected. He told the woman to wait at that very spot as he needed to complete his walk and that he would return in an hour’s time. If she would still be waiting, then on his way back, he would give a ten rupee note as value for her time. This suggestion threw the pestering woman off track and she retreated promptly wondering if she had been following a lunatic.

This incident somehow made Anirudh feel light headed and he chuckled to himself as he walked oblivious to the amused stares of passersby, who, taking in his attire and manner may have been impelled to reach the same conclusion as the beggar woman. After a while it dawned on him that he had exercised a wonderful option, in fact a key instrument to ward off unnecessary intrusion to his space. And that instrument was choice. He had chosen to break the pattern of his familiar thoughts and actions and attempted something different. All at once, the concepts of ‘space’ and ‘choice’ overlapped with each other to point towards the same thing.....freedom.

His intuitive mind was guiding him now through a zone where logic didn’t know the way. He realised that to find space he had to get rid of needless encroachments that cluttered his sense of self. He had to be free. He had to choose to let go of his past; the past where things happened and did not happen; where he failed time and again and then tasted success whose essence was immediately swallowed up by some other loss. He had the choice to forgive. He had to free himself of the desires and fears of tomorrow that took up all his space today. He had a choice to be detached from worries of uncertainty. As if on cue, the sea wind picked up pace and eroded the record of thoughts that played and replayed on his mind incessantly. The sea breeze carried the allure of freedom. Just as he crossed Chowpatty Beach and Wilson College, the wind had eroded everything except an all pervasive feeling of self and at that moment there was a space so huge that it engulfed his complete sense of being. He felt himself expanding to fill in that entire space till the space and he became one.

The city hurried by, never stopping, never asking, never intruding. The traffic lights changed from red to green, then yellow, then red again. The scent of pani-puri and bhel pervaded the evening air. People talked, children laughed, a lone blind man sang an off key note. A bunch of eve teasers made lewd gestures at a teenage girl who was jogging along with earphones plugged in, blissfully unaware of the injustices of the world.

Anirudh slipped on his shirt and checked his phone. He answered the missed calls of his wife and chose to ignore the business calls. He understood that he had a choice to keep his work away from the space of his personal time. He had a choice to refuse to be a slave to plastic cards or to familiarity. In his sphere of commitments he had a choice to keep his soul untouched by personal history. He had a choice to trade irritation with amusement, a choice to forgive himself; in fact wherever he looked, he had a choice. He kicked the engine and the car plunged forward. Just as he was about to change lanes, he spotted the beggar woman on the sidewalk cradling a child on her lap. He slowed the car abruptly and lowered the glass. As the car passed the woman, he tossed his wallet at her; a deep chrome wallet bearing the Hideskin logo and containing 2 five hundred rupee notes, a few coins, and a lot of empty space. He was priding his mastery over the incredible option of choice.

The car whizzed through a blinking yellow light, flanked by a jungle of zooming traffic and drowned by a cacophony of unnecessary honking. The unbearable lightness of space all around and within him found him choosing the familiar route once again through the peak hour rush in Mumbai where 12.5 million people live and breathe every single day, fighting for a scrap of roof and some space.

(I dedicate this post to the city which has been my home for the past 20 years, where I learned to experience freedom in many forms and which, in spite of my occasional curses, never ceases to inspire me and has taught me that space lies in the incredible power of free will. The sprawling five storied building facing Queen’s Necklace is the government women’s hostel which is home to some of my most beloved memories during my college days.)

Comedy in Japan

2011-04-22T10:08:00.000-07:00

She stood there, the young lady wearing the ridiculously oversized T-shirt and jeans, clutching a Japanese doll, 2 Japanese floral umbrellas, and some Haniwa handicrafts which she had managed to buy from the street side shops flanking the market area of Takashimaya Shopping Centre, Sakai, Japan. She looked hilarious enough for me to choke on my mid-morning coffee. To top it, she was about to burst into tears. My purple glasses told me that she was 26, Indian, married to a sailor, on a trip to this port of Japan for just 3 days for which she had researched intensely in advance for 3 weeks! She actually believed she could sample a specimen of Japanese culture in just that time.

The prankster in me had taken over from the moment she set foot on shore. I made sure it was Sunday. It was very important that all banks and money exchange counters be closed. She set out on her solo trip with 10,000 yens and a map of Sakai in her pocket and with stars in her eyes. It was easy to blow off most of her money as cab fare and then train fare and then bus fare till she finally reached the heart of Takashimaya. She made it easier for me from there by pouncing on any trash in the pavement shops believing with heart and soul that she is buying a worthwhile souvenir for her wall unit back home or a rare gift for her best friend’s neighbour. As expected, in no time she was left penniless, stranded, and with no way to communicate.

Yeah, that was the fun of it. She spoke English reasonably well (albeit with a weird accent) but of what use is Greek in Russia? I mean to say, of what use is Shakespeare in the heart of Japan? I fell off my high chair laughing when she made wild gestures at that smiling old man asking for directions to the correct railway platform and was politely guided to the ladies room of the station instead!

Now she stood there in the sun, clutching her priceless treasures and checked for the nth time if any Japanese currency was still left among the wad of dollars. I told myself, let’s be imaginative, what the heck! So I pushed this tall American fellow who was having a trying time searching for the ideal cell phone and made him skip two turns just so that he comes face to face with the lady. If you had seen her reaction, you may have been prompted to think of a lone traveller in a desert who had his first view of the oasis. She was so overjoyed to see the American, for a moment I thought she was going to hug him. Here at last was someone she thought who could understand English and would listen to her endless stream of woes and provide the right solution in a platter. My day was going better than I expected!

Obviously, the American could not help in any way beyond the English. He simply shook his head and confirmed that there was no money exchange open on Sunday and was about to attempt a quick exit. I was thinking of my next trick and must have lost my grip on the drama, for just as he was about to walk past her, he unexpectedly added as an afterthought that he was staying at Hotel Rhiga and with an abrupt change of intent, he plunged into being the Good Samaritan and help a lady in distress. He grabbed the map from her hand, drew elaborate directions and labelled them in ENGLISH and as if that was not enough to ruin my fun, he even gave her a few coins as bus fare that would ensure that she reaches the destination. He promised that the hotel had a counter where they would exchange her dollars.

Now, I could have intervened if I wanted to but the look on her face spoiled all chances of that. She was bursting with a new tide of hope. My purple glasses told me she was doing quick calculations in her mind and had already converted the dollars into yen. I knew she had her eye on that expensive burgundy and gold silk kimono. She was out to capture the spirit of Japan in 3 days and 300 dollars!

In spite of some excitement I had with her shoes which made her stumble a couple of times and drop her floral umbrellas, she did finally make it to Hotel Rhiga.

Poor girl! I actually didn’t need the purple glasses to know that her heart was about to be broken. The hotel only offered money exchange services to resident guests. Her hopes nosedived and she herself dived for the nearest couch in the hotel lobby. And there, in the full view of all the people lounging around, she unabashedly burst into tears. My, oh my, enough of my pranks! I had to help this woman somehow before she made a total fool of herself, if she hadn’t already.

Now, did I tell you that I am often clumsy when I try to act in a hurry? I did send someone immediately to her rescue but it turns out that I sent the wrong guy. This idiot tried to actually put an arm around her supposedly to console her. If she was distressed before, now she was infuriated. And before I had a chance to pull a few strings, she had hurled the floral umbrella right on his shoulders and was about to follow it with the rest of the contents of her shopping bag. Quick! I needed to act! Plump, old ladies are always handy. I found exactly one such lady at the gift shop and shoved her right in the way. Well, it at least saved the day for the doll and the terracotta handicrafts and gave a chance for the idiot to run for his life.

What followed next was not exactly part of my master plan. The lady I had chosen actually spoke some broken English and she was a resident of the hotel. In a fit of tears our lady in distress narrated how she did not even have the means to return to the port where the ship was waiting for her. As if in cue for competition, the plump old lady soon overtook the younger one and wept whole heartedly with unnecessary intensity and vigour. The absurd scene invited quite a few bemused spectators and my purple glasses told me that soon things will go out of hand. So I sighed, I had to use my precious resource which I always save for precisely such emergencies.

Well, the dust of common sense that I sprinkled had the desired effect. Both the ladies stopped howling. The young lady handed over her precious dollars to the obliging grandma who in turn exchanged the same at the hotel money exchange thus exercising her privilege of being a resident guest. Unfortunately that augured the end of my Sunday fun. It is always a great entertainment when folks remain stupid.

One would have thought that after the profuse display of gratitude our young lady would have the common sense to go back to her ship and stay put there till the vessel left the port. But no, she actually skipped and whirled out of the rotating doors, her heart set to capture the flavour of Japan! And tell you what; she even managed to add that burgundy and gold silk kimono in her shopping bag among a whole lot of equally useless things till she barely had enough money to cover her return fare!

And did I tell you it was a Sunday and no-one understood Shakespeare in Japan?

..................................................................................................

(Dear readers, this was a pathetic attempt to make you laugh. I have had enough of folks telling me how my posts brought tears to their eyes. This time it is for a couple of friends going through challenging times who I know can do with a good laugh. And btw, you have guessed right. The ridiculously dressed young lady was me 11 years back on my maiden voyage after marriage with my Captain hubby and the Japanese doll and Haniwa handicrafts still grace my wall unit. I had the great brainwave of gifting the useful floral umbrella to my mom-in-law. Any guesses who the narrator is?)

Obsession

2011-04-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

She knocked on my door on that rainy night. It was just past the midnight hour and the incessant rains lashed the window panes mercilessly. The wind howled in agony. It was one of those nights when I craved to drown a bottle of Scotch and lose myself to blissful oblivion rather than tempt the anguish causing havoc in my mind. She could have gone anywhere in this huge, crowded city. There are a million places to lose yourself if you want to. Yet she knocked on my door.

I was surprised, well not really. The rains always create a strange backdrop, where time flows at a subdued pace. It unearths forgotten thoughts and kindles latent desires and gives them an illusion of romance. Against that backdrop, something unexpected seems the most natural thing in the world.

She stood at my door, drenched, sari clinging to her slender frame, drops of water dripping from her long, dark hair, her lips glistening, highlighting the seductive appeal of her chiselled face. She was Nandini, my best friend’s wife.

Pritesh and I were childhood buddies. We both hailed from the same city of Ahmedabad and shared the same school and same memories. At one time, we dated the same girl and were simultaneously rejected by her. Professional aspirations brought me to Mumbai where I slowly built my business from scratch, married the girl my parents had chosen and lived a respectable and monotonous life. My wife Toral is a pretty woman with all the homely virtues of making the perfect pickle, mending the torn buttons of my shirt without being told, and keeping our humble abode clean and tidy with rare zeal. She is easy to please; a trip to the jeweller often achieves the result. She laughs and cries over silly soaps in the television and is absolutely unaware and unenthusiastic about anything beyond the cocoon she lives in.

Pritesh, on the other hand, went to USA to pursue his dream of becoming a neurologist and after completing his MD from a reputed university, he worked as an intern in a leading hospital in New York City. It was during his internship that he met Nandini who had a boutique in the city, showcasing ethnic Indian wear. They had a brief courtship and plunged headlong into holy matrimony before knowing anything about each other save their respective names and the needs of their bodies in bed; both insufficient ingredients for a lifelong bond.

I first met Nandini at the dinner party hosted by Pritesh to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. He was in India on a short break. Having missed the chance to attend his wedding in USA, I was naturally curious to meet his wife. I had obviously expected a westernised lady, with contemporary tastes. But I was totally unprepared for the lady who met my eyes. She was unlike any woman I have ever seen before. Tall and svelte, she was wearing a transparent, golden chiffon sari and an elegant black blouse. She held the centre stage, shaking hands and chatting animatedly with a combination of graceful poise and unabashed charm. She captivated her eager audience with the easy flow of conversation and seemed to be equally at ease while discussing the sensex figure and Bollywood gossip. I was spellbound and tongue tied, hopelessly entranced, and spent the evening in a daze.

Back home, I could hardly sleep. I tried in vain to remind myself that she was my best friend’s wife and these are tender grounds, not to be treaded on. Yet I ended up fantasising about that very woman. Little did I know that I had allowed myself to kindle a spark that would one day flare up to a full-fledged fire and engulf my entire consciousness to a point of obsession.

A week later, Pritesh called me to say that they would be shortly returning to USA. I took this opportunity to invite them home for lunch the very next day. My wife was happy to display her culinary skills and prepared an elaborate seven course meal which turned out really well. Strange that I remember that detail as most of the afternoon was lost in conversation with Nandini. I had not exchanged a single word except a courtesy “Hello” with her the other evening. But this time, in the comfort and familiarity of home, I opened up and talked like never before. We struck an immediate connection. Our conversation was filled with passionate outbursts of events and memories that were special to us. I did not remember when was the last time I had enjoyed conversing with someone like this. I don’t even know, hardly noticed the reaction of my wife or Pritesh; the latter I vaguely recall had stretched out on the living room couch and fallen asleep after a while.

At around 4.30 in the afternoon, my wife went in to get some tea. I suggested to Nandini that we go inside in the study and switch on the AC as it was a sultry summer day and the temperature reached 36 degree Celsius. We played some music and I poured two glasses of wine, to hell with the tea. This was highly improper, but I was hardly myself.

You put a man and woman together, intoxicate them with conversation that drifts closer to personal issues and pour them a bottle of red. I am sure 90 times out of 100 they will end up in bed. The remaining ten percent can be accounted for by situational constraints or extreme self control. In our case, it proved to be the former as my wife entered with a tray laden with tea and some sweet delicacies. If she was surprised to see us there, with the wine and music and all, she did an outstanding job of hiding it. Anyways, the spell was broken. Soon Pritesh got up and joined us and the afternoon drifted back to normal.

That was the last I saw of Nandini. I did hear that Pritesh and she had separated and were working out divorce settlement. The strange situation that had arisen in our house that afternoon somewhat changed my equation with my wife. I was annoyed that Toral had accepted the scene so naturally and did not badger me with a series of questions and accusations which, to be fair, would have infuriated me more. But her total lack of interest made me mad. I almost longed for her to be jealous. Her nonchalance irritated and confused me.

One year passed. Nandini had never made any effort to contact me. Neither have I. I assumed she had moved on with life. I was not even aware where she was; till that rainy night.

I remember that evening very well. We were invited to the anniversary of my husband’s best friend Pritesh. It was a cocktail dinner at an elite restaurant. I am always uneasy in such situations. I hoped my husband would understand my nervousness and put me at ease.

I had met Pritesh once before, just after our marriage. I remember him as a very thoughtful, composed looking guy who always had kind words for everyone. I was curious to see his wife. However, when I saw her in that room, I was disappointed. She was flamboyantly dressed and was talking too much and laughing too loud and too confidently, absorbing a lot of adulation without batting an eyelash. Maybe I am prejudiced by my conservative roots, but in my heart I do have a modern outlook, if only my husband would care to understand. I do appreciate beauty and brains in women but Nandini appeared to possess neither. She was like the cheap temptress one browses privately in glossy magazines. It was beyond me what spell she cast on my husband as he seemed enthralled by her whole evening. He had eyes and ears only for Nandini and he hardly noticed what he ate or what he spoke. Least of all in his sphere of attention was me, his wife.

A week later my husband invited Pritesh and Nandini over for lunch. Obviously, he took it for granted that I would willingly lay out a fitting meal. I actually didn’t mind. It had been a while we had guests coming over. And I am happy for the care I took to select, prepare and display the meal as it was warmly welcomed by Pritesh. How wonderful it feels to be appreciated for something! My husband made a fool of himself by directing all possible conversation and attention only to Nandini. I knew Pritesh felt a bit uncomfortable, so I suggested that he take some rest. The heavy meal, along with the afternoon heat had had a drowsy effect on us. As Pritesh was resting, I cleared up the table, all the while trying to gauge what it was in her that demanded such unwavering reverence. All I heard them discuss were vague political theories, few exotic locations, some upcoming artistes, a business scam, etc. They had no interest in actual people, actual life. I doubt they were aware of the current price of onions or how many children our maid had or the name of the boy who cleaned our car. My husband would obviously snort at the mention of such frivolities; they do not fit into his lofty world view. Little does he realise that they touch our world more than his obscure philosophies do.

When I walked in with tea that afternoon, Pritesh was still asleep on the couch. I took the opportunity to let my eyes rest on his reclining figure for a second, and wonder what it would be like to be the wife of a man who had a kind word to say every day. I may be traditional in my appearance but my thoughts are not guarded by conventions. As I stood with the tea tray on my hands, I let my thoughts roam stray and imagined myself to be married to this man who was sleeping on our living room couch. How lovely would it be to have dinner each evening, with the man who understands my thoughts, knowing that I am loved for being myself. As I stood like that for those few abstract moments, Pritesh opened his eyes and was startled to see me staring. Somehow, that broke the spell and flow of my thoughts. I realised that he was just another man, a polite stranger, who had appreciated my efforts to cook; a feat that didn’t necessarily qualify him to be my soul mate who could read my unspoken words. With that realisation, it dawned on me that I was desperately unhappy in my marriage and without knowing myself, I must have been searching for a refuge to unleash my deepest yearnings.

I knew they were in the study, the AC was a pretence, they wanted to be alone. The wine and music at the odd hour did not surprise me; I was still recovering from my own trail of unrestrained emotions.

Over the next few months, I noticed a subtle difference in the attitude of my husband. In the past, he had at least pretended to be concerned about my happiness. He had indulged me in the occasional shopping spree and I let him believe that was all that is needed to complete my sphere of contentment. This delusion cheered him up greatly; maybe he prided himself on performing the duties of a husband with patience. But now, the slightest of things started provoking unnecessary irritation from him. Since charm and overt display of emotions was never my forte, I let myself slip into an abyss of despair. Then one day I discovered I was pregnant.

She stood there on my door, eyes inviting. Well, it was a night of storms, the perfect excuse to let in someone under the pretext of refuge. Who was I fooling? From the moment she walked in, I knew where this was headed. One year was a long enough time to overcome any infatuation I may have felt had it not been for the fire burning in my heart, scorching my soul. I lent her some of my wife’s clothes to change into. I suggested some tea. She turned it down. She wanted something stronger. The bottle of Chivas Regal stood on the table, inviting an opportunity to tread unknown paths. As if by design, the lights went out; an occurrence which is not uncommon during heavy rains. I uttered an expletory under my breath and went to the kitchen to hunt for candles. As I shuffled through the drawers, I heard her tiptoe behind me. My heart almost exploded. You put a man and woman together on a rainy night with the lights out and the rest is history.

The bright lights penetrated the thin veil of my living room curtains and woke me up. My eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. It was 12 noon. I must have been smashed, completely. My head hurt, the tell-tale signs of a bad hangover. Traces of my clothes lay scattered on the carpet. Amidst them I glimpsed a peach embroidered handkerchief. Confused, I stared at it. The memories of last night invaded my mind in a sudden wave and with it came a gush of inexplicable emotions which I could not name. My heart was hollow and all the currents vibrating within were like the empty voices in a cave, banging against the walls, repeating and mocking each other.

Last night I had lived the fantasy that had started as a stealthy thought a year ago and gradually expanded to invade my entire life. Then why was I feeling so futile? Nandini had made love to me. Then why was I not experiencing the ultimate fulfilment? Why were my feet not in the clouds? Why did the memories collide with each other and disappear in a meaningless blur and all that I remember is her hoarse tone admonishing my childhood friend?

The pain in my head was killing me. I forced myself to get up and switch on the coffee-maker. I suddenly missed my wife. I had been meaning to call her to come back. It had been three months since the day we lost our unborn child. My wife was still trying to emerge from the depths of bereavement. She had been away all the while at her parents’ house.

The coffee was ready. I poured myself a mug and tried to clear my brain. I had been shattered. When the doctor had announced our fate that left us with no options to consider, I had felt victimised, incapable. Why was I fighting this alone? If both my wife and I were drowning in the same waters, why didn’t we pull each other up? Why were we fighting separately? The coffee must have worked as some of the fog cleared from my brain. Nandini. It was Nandini or the thought of her that had created this wall. From the time I had set my eyes on her, I had placed her on a pedestal and attributed everything that was lacking in my life to her. It was I who created that aura around her. Her image grew larger than life in my mind’s eye till it burnt me in that flame of obsession. Stripped of that aura, she was just a very ordinary woman who bitched about her ex-husband while making love to his best friend. And I, what about I? Who was I? I must be the most wretched and worthless soul on earth.

I drained the coffee and poured myself another cup. I imagined my wife in this kitchen, making paranthas for breakfast. A familiar longing tugged at my heart. It was not the paranthas I craved for, it was the woman who had gone through the routine of making them for me every day. I missed the woman who was subdued, average, unassuming; the woman whose smile could light up the room easily. I missed my wife. Why did it take me so long to understand the incredible virtue of simplicity?

I wait each day for the call to come. I wait for my husband. I want to rise from the shadows of the gloom that is fast consuming me. I am not broken yet, my spirit longs to go on, to recreate, retune. Then one day he arrives. There is no phone call to announce his intention, no elaborate arrangements to greet him; he just arrives. And when I look at the man who has come, I realise he is not the stranger I had shared a house with. My heart smiles in expectation. He is my husband and he has come to take me home.

The fire had burnt itself. It was time to sweep away the ashes and light a new flame.

Game of Choice

2011-04-14T05:33:00.000-07:00

The temple bells were ringing somewhere not very far away and the sweet pungent smell of fodder filled the air. A young goat was bleating. There was some residue chill in the air from last night although daylight permeated the small, damp, barn. There were footsteps approaching – soft and gentle. He smiled, it was Fatima’s. Soon his sister would wake him up with a bowl of fresh, warm milk and jaggerine. The sweet smell reached his nostrils as he turned over in his bed of hay. He saw the face of his sister, a young girl of ten, bathed in the pure, nascent rays of the early morning sun when suddenly there was an earth shattering explosion.

The man woke up with a start. His whole body was tingling. His soul was on fire. The temple bells nearby were ringing with full vigour. He drowned half a bottle of water and looked at his watch. It was 6.05 in the morning. Still 10 minutes to go for his alarm to ring and one more hour to kill before the first phase of the plan. Strange, that he saw the same dream again. It had been ten years and the dreams have not stopped. He could still feel the smell of the cows she carried as she brought him his bowl of fresh milk straight from the cowshed, each morning.

The first call came. It was as expected, brief, coded, and precise. He had a breakfast of fruits, managed a cold water bath from the tube well and offered his practiced prayers. Why did he see her face today? Was it a sign? He removed the contents of his duffel bag and laid it out on the floor. His sharp mind scrutinised every object to the last detail. He had gone through the same routine last night and the night before but today, a new object was going to be delivered. He looked at his watch. Time seemed to be moving in slow motion. Once again he resisted the urge to dial a number far away, in a small village at the foot of the hills, just a heart beat apart. He had trained for ten years to forget the number, and the village, and the hills.

His watch showed him ten past nine. The visitor would arrive soon. He tried to mumble the prayers he was taught once more when he heard the sound of a motorcycle. He peered out from the half drawn wooden shutters and saw the vehicle approaching. Everything was as expected.

The man who knocked was tall, and walked with a limp. He handed over the parcel. Not a single cordial word was exchanged. The man asked for some water, was offered a bottle which he gulped down, then he said a prayer for wishing success. It was again a prayer that had been taught so well; a prayer that brought out all the passions from an unfathomable depth of human psyche, a prayer designed to erode everything save the single point of an all-consuming obsession.

It was a beautiful evening in the city of Mumbai. The sea breeze was caressing the soul of the city, pleading the people to slow down, to take in the beauty of life, to breathe. Men and women were rushing to catch the locals at their usual times, not a minute later. They had to reach home, take their wives out for shopping, meet their girlfriends at the same place, help their kids tackle the maths homework, cook for their husbands and children. There were a thousand reasons to go home. Work was over and Mumbai rushed in its hurry to catch a foothold in the evening locals. No-one had time to understand the sea breeze. Life was hard, and the pulse of the city ran over the railway lines.

The date was 11 July 2006. It was peak hour rush as Mumbai was returning home from work. Within a period of eleven minutes between 18.24 and 18.35 Indian Standard Time, seven serial blasts rocked the suburban railways, the lifeline of Mumbai. 209 people lost their lives and over 700 were injured. Of the 11 terrorists involved in the operation, one lost his life in the blasts.

The flames scorched his skin and the odour of burning flesh permeated his nostrils, and just as the pain reached the maximum threshold of human bearing, he saw a radiant face filled with life and the sweet scent of fresh milk drenched his last whiffs of consciousness. As the world slipped away to oblivion he said one last prayer, the only prayer that was not taught, nor conditioned by years of fostering obsessive hatred towards the killers of his sister. And with those prayers he asked for forgiveness from mankind. Those killers of a decade ago were in his blood, and now he was one of them. This was no game of religion; it was just a game of choice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k3iiC9LlJ0

( Please watch the video in the link above. The above story is a complete fiction based on a real event which rocked Mumbai 5 years ago)

The Island of Loneliness

2011-04-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

Lost in the vastness of humanity, there is a soul, a lonely soul. He lives in the guise of an old man in a small island surrounded by the strong waves of the ocean. He has lived there for a century and the island remains his home.

A long time ago, this island was actually a part of the mainland. It was green and lush and covered with thick foliage. It was a place where humans and other species lived, breathed, fought, loved and bred young ones. There was life and there were the companions of life...laughter, jealousy, greed, passion, romance. The daily chores of survival posed a challenge for passion and romance to survive and slowly they faded away and died. Laughter too vanished after some time and jealousy found no support to continue. All that remained was greed.

Greed, being lonely, invited a few friends. They were lust, chaos and obsession. Together they decided to create their own space. So they cut off from the mainland and drifted away till they were sure they had broken all connection with the rest of the world. The rough tides of the ocean shielded and protected them from any unforeseen foreign intrusion. Many centuries passed. The constant lashing of the waves made the island rough and rocky. Cut away from love, greed and its friends were stifled by their own company and died a natural, inevitable death.

Emptiness always invites new life. The island evolved itself to be a breeding place of many species of birds. One day, a storm created havoc and capsized a ship. The lone survivor, a young boy, was washed ashore, in the rocky coasts of the island. When he regained consciousness, the boy realised that he was saved from death. This realisation brought a tide of relief which swept through him. The relief was soon replaced by fear, the fear of being alone without a soul to share his loneliness. The fear soon became stronger and stronger and almost exploded in a burst of panic. The natural instincts of hunger and thirst prevented such an explosion and survival became the sole motivator to keep him going.

In the days that followed, the boy learnt to overcome his fears but the emptiness remained. He longed for a connection with someone. He longed to pour out all the tides of his restless mind, all the questions, the theories, the hopes, the anguish with someone who is also marooned in the same way; for that soul, he knew, would understand the meaning of his island. He began to hope that one day his saviour would appear and they would together manage to escape from loneliness. In the meantime, he made friends with the birds, the bushes, the wildflowers and berries and the squirrels that provided him silent company. After a while, the silent company became a language of signs and sounds which he began to identify and understand. He never realised how long it had been but he ceased to be lonely like before. His wait for a saviour was replaced by a wait for a soul who understood and would share with him the signs and sounds of the island.

Then one day, an expedition of explorers came to study the flora and fauna and the birds and bees of this long-forgotten island. The boy was overwhelmed with hope. Maybe, He had arrived. The boy was alone no more. He became the guide of the island. The expedition took a few months to complete their research. They dissected each and every aspect of the island to search for evidence that supported their theories and ended up losing the meaning of the island. As the boy tried in vain and yearned to make them see, he started experiencing a vacuum which was all encompassing and much deeper than the emptiness he had felt when he first arrived. He realised through unbearable agony that he was now more lonely than he had been when he was alone. And when the expedition, returned to mainland with their research results, they offered the boy the passage of return, for which he had waited for ten years.

The boy, who was now a young man, returned to mainland. He was soon surrounded by sights and smells and sounds. He strove hard to relate to the assault on his senses. He sought love, romance, and passion. He was told that they were long dead as there was no time for them in the mainland. He waited for that connection, which would transform all the activities and resources to a music of enlightenment. He soon became more and more disillusioned. He could not bear the loneliness he felt in the crowd. When you are lonely alone, at least you do not have a soul with you, from whom you can crave for understanding. Hence, that loneliness carries no pain.

Pain. It was pain that drove him to get on that boat and sail to the island that had been his prison. He set foot once again on the rocky shores and felt the waves drench his soul with relief. He was back home. He was at peace with this loneliness. There was no pretence about it. It was not guised to deceive.

Lost in the vastness of humanity, there was a soul, a lonely soul. He lived in the guise of an old man in a small island surrounded by the strong waves of the ocean. He had lived there for a century and the island remains his home. Then one day, he saw a boat approaching.It sailed with ease and purpose towards the lonely island.The waves broke into a thunderous applaud and the island echoed the sound in each and every heartbeat. He knew the signs. He knew the sound. It had been a long time, but now his wait was over, at last.

Temptation

2011-04-07T01:46:00.000-07:00

The woods were always dark, deep and intense. He could not remember exactly when it had been the first time that he had set out of his house in the morning, meaning to do all the tasks earmarked for the day and had found his way into the woods instead.

He had passed that way a million times, but then one day, someone had actually called out his name and the voice allured and dared him to explore and defy the unknown.

He entered the woods tenderly at first but was soon sucked in by some mystic indomitable force that enticed, charmed and captivated him, and stripped him one by one of all his carefully cultivated defences, leaving him a willing and helpless pawn in the game played by the elements. The woods were magical, more magical than anything he had ever conceived possible. There was a veil of mist that surrounded him and let him see just enough to lust but not enough to really trust. It vaguely created a turmoil and challenged him to make a choice as he treaded spellbound deeper and deeper. In his mind he knew, he always knew that there was no choice, he had already crossed the threshold. There was no turning back.

And if this path was leading to hell, he was prepared for it, or so he thought. He would have it no other way.Just then he would have the first glimpse of her. She was the Lady of the Woods, the ultimate temptress whose charm had held mankind in a trance created by her whim through centuries of evolution. She sat on the carpet of fallen leaves, defying and wearing the jewels of Reason itself. When she set her eyes on her prey they surrendered themselves with the full force of their will. And then they never knew what hit them next.

Many a times he had woken up, with a bitter-sweet taste in his mouth, shattered and ruined, but alive enough to believe in a road ahead that would take him to his home.

Many a times he had walked by those woods, swearing to himself that it had nothing more to seduce him with. He shut his ears and looked away, whenever he passed that way; but the voice, always the voice from the woods reached his head, anyway. And it always found a way to lure him back into the misty woods.

Then one day, he changed his way to work. So what if he had to circumvent the whole town and take twice as long to reach his destination? At least that way he would be safe. And he followed that safe route for many years. No more adventure graced his path. He was free; free from being captured and rendered powerless by an illusion. He led his life with dignity and faith. Gradually he even forgot the existence of the woods although the Lady of the Woods did appear a few times to haunt him in his dreams.

Then one fine morning, he woke up. The sun was shining, the sky was clear. A lovely summer breeze caressed his senses. He was free. But doesn’t freedom in truth entail a freedom of choice? Doesn’t it necessitate the freedom to kill the monotony of security? It slowly sank in that he was more bonded than ever before by offering himself as a slave to the life that forced him into a long and winding path everyday that went against the path of nature.

He made himself a rich brew of his morning coffee and sipped it savouring the essence of freedom in every drop. Then he showered and dressed with care and put on his hiking shoes. He chose to deliberately traverse the forgotten path that led to the woods. When he approached the now familiar trees, he paused, and smiled. The woods were waiting for centuries to be explored. Why had he not realised that before? He shouted out to the Lady of the Woods that it had been a while but he was now ready. His voice echoed all around and reverberated in every heartbeat of the woods. He plunged forth with pride, penetrating the layers of intensity as the mist cleared. Stripped of her veil, the virgin Lady of the Woods exposed herself for the first time. And then, with extreme joy and purpose, she raised her eyes to him. There was no seduction, just an appeal. Innocence revealed itself and they made love in the shade of the trees, with nature celebrating the triumph of love over temptation.

Conversations With The Flowing River

2011-04-05T04:30:00.000-07:00

She came to sit once again, on the banks of the flowing river, and spend the night under a starlit sky. The summer breeze caressed her hair and played with her senses. The jasmine spread its fragrance as a token of love to the night.

She wanted to talk to her lover.

Hello, she said, “I have often wondered what to call you. What is the name that you are known by?”

“I have none,” replied the river, “And neither do you.”

“My name is Esther,” said the girl, smiling.

“Esther is beautiful but you are more than beautiful. Tell me one name that can contain you, or define you. Try.”

No answer.

The breeze blew away the debris and uncovered the pure, blissful calm of the night. The river smiled.

“Fine, try to call me a name,” it challenged.

Silence.

The breeze blew randomly & embraced her in a hug while making small ripples in the water.

“You may call me passion,” said the river, “But in me you will also find your tranquility.”

“Some call me the force of life, I am impulse and joy,” the river laughed, “Yet I am serenity, peace, depth, I absorb you and your thoughts and carry them with me.”

The girl pondered on these sentiments. She had never understood love. Whenever she had attempted to understand, define, or contain love, it had eluded her.

Let the river flow on. There was no need to give it a name.

The night was caring and alive. A thousand unspoken words were whispered. “Can any communication contain more meaning?” she wondered.

“How can I take you home with me?” she asked.

“Try,” urged the river.

So she bent down on the sparkling, silver water, played with it, splashed it on her face, and filled her small container with some of it.

She carried it home, and placed the container on her sideboard with care. She went about her daily chores and returned in the evening, tired and spent, and sat down beside the jar full of river water. She stared it for a long, long time, seeking, waiting...

But there was no sparkle, no ripple, no lust, no freedom, no force, and no love.

The river had lost its essence in her attempt to possess it.

That night, she returned to the banks of the river, angry and hurt.

“You deceived me!” She cried, “I cannot own you, you do not belong to me.”

The river answered, “I never deceived you, I asked you to try. It will take many lessons but you will realise one day that only by not trying to possess me, can you belong to me forever, and I to you. The moment you try to limit, contain, define or possess that which is indomitable and free, your love is doomed.”

“Where do I find you then?” she pleaded, “I cannot come here to see you every time, I have places to go.”

The wind blew away her scarf and the stars twinkled with amusement. The river smiled.

“You will find me eternally with you, where you are, outside the space and time of the world.”

She spent the rest of the night in silence, soaking in the wisdom of the Himalayas carried by the river on its journey to the ocean. And then she fell asleep.

When she awoke, the sky was a reddish tinge, birds were chirping in excited anticipation of a new day. The river flowed on, full of new visions to be carried to new banks, far away.”

Her soul was refreshed, her thirst was quenched.

“Who are you?” she asked.

And as she said the words, the sky woke up and exploded into a festival of colours and sunshine brought warmth to her heart.

She could see herself in the moving stream of water, impatient, yet still.

“I am what you see,” said the river, “I am a reflection of your soul that is both restless and calm. I am undefined, like you, and that is why they call me Love.”

The girl got up, she had understood just enough to savour the essence, and not even try to give it a form.

Let the river flow on, she resolved. And then, inexplicably she felt herself to be light and free and loved ...all at once.

Identity

2011-03-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

Have you ever lost someone to whom you may have meant the world without your knowing?

Youth has a disarming quality. It cares not for meaning. It explodes. Sentiments are exchanged, but their gravity unknown. Words are shared, but their depth unexplored. Youth is impatient, spontaneous, impulsive. It has no time to pause, reflect, absorb. It takes life for granted. Youth feels immortal.

Youth is also proud as it is vulnerable. It seeks indulgence, it defies traditions. Above all, it is desperate for identity.

He called her the spice of his life. It killed me. I could have killed him, well, not really. Blame it on an unknown emotion, or its unreasonable counterpart...passion.

But then, I couldn’t really blame him. She added the variety to his days; she was unconventional, enigmatic, captivating... the perfect temptress. I absorbed the monotony of his struggle, wrestled the tides of his fortune, shared his dreams, believed in his path. I wanted to be his spice. He called me salt.

The currents of youth carried me a world away from him, yet something lingered. If for the life of me I knew the meaning of love, I would dare say, it was love that connected us across two worlds, two lives. But what does youth know of love? Youth is fickle and restless and lusts for identity.

I heard one day that he had fallen in love. Six months later, I received an invitation card for their wedding. I called to congratulate him. He was very happy, on cloud nine. I asked him about his fiancée. He said she was charming and sweet, like sugar. We talked for some time. Actually I have no track of how long we spoke; all I know is that there never was a moment of boredom whenever we spoke. Before hanging up, he reminded me that I was like salt. He smiled, I think, for I did. I had craved to be the spice of his life and now envied the woman who was like sugar.

And one day, I lost him totally, to circumstances. I do not wish to elaborate the facts that led to this point. It doesn’t matter for I still connect to him across the impossible desert of the unknown.

Last night, my husband and I were invited to a party of select friends. I enjoyed the gathering; the conversation was stimulating, the music good, and the cocktails perfect. There was a spread of starters and a variety of cuisines formed the main course. To my joy, there was an array of sweets and deserts. There was just one small shortcoming, and it proved fatal to the organisers of the party. The chef had forgotten to add salt in his dish of the day. A little bit of salt would have made all the difference. Without it, all the spice & desert were superfluous, excessive, and meaningless.

Last night I cried for the folly of youth. Sometimes an identity is lost in its presence, it has to be missed for its meaning to be realised.

Last night I smiled. I had found a name for a person I missed.

The Sculptor and His Statue (dedicated to Legacy 2000)

2011-03-20T05:58:00.000-07:00

Long ago, in a small village there lived a sculptor. The soil of this village was unusually red and the red clay was immensely mouldable and ideal for making various forms and figures. The sculptor was one of many who were of the same profession in this village. They would live by each day making various objects like dolls, cars, animals, toys, small figurines,etc. which would be sold in the village fair for a nominal sum. Sometimes traders would order and buy in bulk and then take these objects to be sold in handicraft exhibitions in the city for a considerable amount. But the main income of these sculptors was during the Pujas, i.e. the religious festivals when various forms of divine Gods and Goddesses had to be created which were then invoked and worshipped.

Now, this young sculptor was a tad different from others of his profession. He would use vivid imagination and unorthodox methods to make his creations. He would create the Goddess Lakshmi, who is the divine form of Wealth, and paint her face black. He would create Sarswati, the Goddess of knowledge and music, and give her a proud,dancing posture instead of the traditional poise of standing next to a swan. He once made a statue in the likeness of a notorious dacoit but depicted him as a victim instead of an executer of crime.

One day, the sculptor was playing with his clay. The festivals were approaching and there was a lot of pressure and competition among his fellow sculptors to create divine forms of the religious deities. But this young man was not feeling like creating anything divine. He sat by the banks of the river which flowed through the village, watching boatmen ferry their passengers to and fro across the river. He was lost in his own world among the chirping of sparrows and the gentle splashing of water. His mind was blank.

Suddenly, his eyes caught a slight movement...there was a ripple and a girl emerged from the river. She was very young with long, dark hair which was wet and hung loose draping her drenched, slender frame. She was neither beautiful, nor ugly. But what caught the sculptor’s attention and mesmerised him were the eyes. She had the most haunting pair of eyes covered by a mystic veil beyond which he knew, there were a thousand words waiting to be uttered. He captured the intensity of the moment in a timeless zone of his mind. He realised absentmindedly that he had found the muse for his next creation.

The young man selected a clearing among coconut tress by the river bank and worked passionately for days on end with his clay. Often he would shut his eyes for hours and capture the essence of the moment when he had set his eyes on her. Then he would look at the river, and the sky, and sit idly. Passersby often inquired what he was up to. People questioned him for his lack of interest in the festival season. His co-professionals were sure he had lost his head and lamented the loss of a good talent. Some even took pleasure in taunting him.

Late in the night, under a full moon, the sculptor would resume his work. Often he would destroy hours of labour and start afresh, never letting a slight diversion come between him and his inspiration.

At last after toiling for twenty seven days and nights, he laid the final touches to his creation. In his heart he knew this was more divine than all the forms of Gods and Goddesses he had ever created. He smiled at his lady and she replied with her eyes. He told her that he had waited for her all his life and she responded with her smile. He never expressed his devotion for her for it would have been superfluous. His devotion was writ all over her, in her flawless form, her perfect face, her haunting eyes. She was the embodiment of suppressed expression, of all that is unsaid in the world.

Soon the word spread that the sculptor had created something strikingly different. People thronged to catch a glimpse of his creation. The young man yearned for the world to see what he had seen, to feel what he had felt.

To his dismay, an old lady came forward and touched the feet of the statue. She had found her Mother Parvati (Hindu Goddess). To his greater dismay, the statue gave her blessings to the old woman pouring out love and blessings with her eyes.

A fisherman came forward and hugged the statue. She was the daughter he had lost. He wept profusely and she cried with him over an era of mutual loss and separation.

People gave his creation different names, attributes, traits and even history and to his intense annoyance she responded to each one of them as if she was created exclusively for that person.

In the evening, after most of the crowd had dispersed, the young sculptor sat in the twilight watching flocks of birds confidently following their flight patterns to return to their nests. He watched idly the last boats ferry their fare across the river. A small boy of about eight was playing by the river bank. He was chasing a ball and running barefoot. All of a sudden, he came face to face with the statue of the girl among coconut trees. He looked at the statue and exclaimed “Hey, that is my sister.” The sculptor looked at the boy, silently amused. He was still battling with his thoughts and trying to find some reason. What had seemed to him to be his greatest creation till date had been his greatest failure. Nobody had seen in the girl what he had. Nobody understood her the way she was meant to be understood. Yet she seemed to have a life of her own and responded whole-heartedly to the whims and fancies of each and every man and woman.

The boy, not getting any response, declared, “She got married three weeks ago and has left this village. She now lives with my jijaji in the neighbouring town. My jijaji is the postmaster there.” Having broken the sculptor’s world without knowledge or intent, the boy ran away, chasing his ball.

The sculptor sat transfixed for a long time and then, letting go of all his conflicting emotions, he broke down and began to cry. His “Maiden of Unexpressed Thoughts” had another identity which seemed to be beyond controversy and related by blood.

The sun set it the distance and the river bank was wrapped in a warm dark blanket. The last boat had safely ferried its passenger and now rested for the night. As the tears overflowed without restraint, he thought he heard a distinct laughter, low and melodious, like the gurgling of the river. He looked up and saw his statue. She was smiling, just for him. To his surprise, the veil was stripped from those eyes and she was playfully stirring his soul. And then he heard her voice, or it may have been the breeze playing with the leaves, but the voice found expression beyond words and told him that she has come to life for him, to understand the river of emotions that flowed in his heart and to give them an identity and a place... in her eyes, her haunting, beautiful eyes that contained all the words, yet unspoken.

And then he understood....how all the people had seen her, she was real, in all her distinct identities; more real than anyone in flesh and blood; and his heart leaped in pride to rejoice the humble achievement of his greatest ever creation.

The Manuscript

2011-03-13T03:44:00.000-07:00

Long ago, in a tiny village nestled at the foot of the great mountains, a Leader was born. The people in the village were thrilled as they had waited for this day since ages. The Leader grew up to be a shoemaker by profession. What made him different was the fact that he would discover secrets of the universe hidden behind mountain rocks, in the sparkle of sunshine on a leaf, in the sound of the gushing waters of a virgin spring, in the flight of a bird, in sunrise and sunset, in the coming and going of seasons, in floods and earthquakes, in life and death.

The Leader had a charisma and an inborn understanding of his fellow beings. When he spoke, old and young, men, women and children, all would stop their work to listen. People were inspired by him and came to him with various problems. They begged him for answers. He spoke to them of the bees and the sheep, and they returned home, not with answers but with the realisation that there had been no question.

The name of the Leader soon spread like wildfire and people from far and wide; kings and beggars, all came to see him; travelling days and nights to get a glimpse of the great man. They brought him fruits and sweets and delicacies of their land, and garlands made of the most exquisite flowers. They went down on their knees and worshipped him. But the Leader himself remained unfazed.

He went about his ways of patiently cutting strips of leather, soaking them in varnish, and spreading them to dry. Then he would skilfully cut the edges to form the shape of the upper part of the shoe and painstakingly sew the various components together, scraping off unwanted edges. With all his concentration, he would then insert a last to get the perfect mould and attach it to the insole. Then with utmost dedication he would trim and buff the sole edge and heel. Finally, with great care and dexterity, he would stain, polish and wax the shoe. He performed each of these acts with great devotion as if the unique purpose of his life lay in making the perfect pair of shoes.

The men and women flocked around him. They made their offerings. They asked him why he had to work; he was such a great man that the people from the village and beyond would be only too happy to take care of him. He just smiled and told them that he was born with the purpose of cladding their feet, that in his work lay his salvation.

The womenfolk would come to him after completing their household chores; they would ask him simple questions of how to win the love of their men. Mothers would bring their sick children for his blessings. Men would consult him on when to sow their crops, what should be the best time for harvest. Traders would seek his advice before departing for faraway lands with their array of merchandise. The shoemaker spoke to all in a language so simple that even the toddlers could understand. He always had a light which he shone to show the people that all the answers were inscribed in nature.

One day, there was a great storm and it uprooted the tree under which the shoemaker used to sit and practice his craft. Unfortunately the tree fell on the Leader and he died. The people of the village were aghast at this tragedy. For days, no one spoke. The news spread far and wide and the world seemed to mourn for months.

Amidst this calamity, arose a panic. People were scared that now, having lost their revered Leader, they would be at the mercy of the forces with no one to guide them. They held a meeting at the village square to decide what would be the best course of action. Someone suggested that they make an earthen podium and raise a statue of the leader on this pedestal. This suggestion was unanimously accepted and very soon a larger than life statue was raised. Men and women worshipped it every day with offerings of garlands made of fresh flowers.

Some time passed. A new generation had been born. They led to a new breed of inventions that changed the ways of the world. With that arose a new breed of problems. The problems gradually gained momentum and started sneaking into every house, and were well set to capture the new world. Once again, there was panic and men and women frantically searched for answers.

A few old men remembered their old Leader and they searched their memory for every word that had been spoken by him. They scribbled down all that they remembered, every expression that had passed his lips, the description of the clothes he wore, the food he ate, the colour of leaves of the tree under whose branches he sat to make shoes. They wrote feverishly of all the things he ever touched and of the air he breathed. With each successive page written, they gained confidence and added to all known and observed facts, an element of their own imagination. So they wrote about all rights and wrongs as per the Leader and what he would have liked and what he would have not tolerated. Gradually, the writings took a life of their own and finally were compiled to form a ‘Manuscript’ or guidebook for generations to follow. The ‘Manuscript’ promised all the answers to problems provided one follows every letter written on them. It became a symbol of the eternal blueprint for salvation.

As new generations started following the ‘Manuscript’, there arose some uncertainty as to how to implement the facts written in it. As the older men who had written the ‘Manuscript’ had already passed away, a new lot of wise men, who were intellectually worshipped, began to revise the outdated ‘Manuscript’ and insert rituals and procedures that need to be followed to escape from disaster.

In course of time, the language of the ‘Manuscript’ became obsolete and there emerged yet another class of ‘interpreters’. These interpreters were men with great power and influence, so they translated each word and each phrase and each sentence in a way to add fuel to their position of power and strength.

Time flew on. Problems seemed to multiply and people started to fight over every word in the ‘Manuscript’. Some clever men and women saw through the selfish interpretations of the interpreters and began to lose faith in the ‘Manuscript’. They were joined by other men and women. As their group gained power and raised their voice, there arose another group of loyalists who defended the ‘Manuscript’ with their last breath. Both the groups became stronger and in due course of time, sporadic fights erupted between the two groups.

The sporadic fights gradually led to a full-fledged war. A certain sect emerged who gave this war a new dimension. People, who were victims of tragic circumstances were hijacked and brainwashed to join either the conservative or the rebel group in exchange for a feeling of ‘justice’.

There arose a new type of warfare where the subjects were unprepared and the tormentors unknown. New terror captured the world. And people never knew if the killer could be their neighbour.

Meanwhile, the original population of disillusioned folks and intellectual supporters continued their own battle. In the midst of all this exchange, the ‘Manuscript’ lay quietly gathering dust.

One day, a young boy, in the faraway mountains, discovered an anthill, hidden beneath the shadow of a boulder. An army of ants were hustling by, gathering crumbs to store. He watched fascinated, for days, till he started to recognize signs and pick up vibes of communication from them. The ants told him to work with dedication, in work would lie his salvation.

He was an ignorant boy, poor and uneducated. He helped his uncle make sweets for festivals. The boy knew nothing of the Leader, or the ‘Manuscript’. But he would make the most delicious sweets and people would come a long way to buy them and savour them for a long time.

While the whole world was tearing itself apart trying to defend or protest against the ‘Manuscript’ this simple boy learnt all the truths that were inscribed and displayed everywhere around him... hidden behind mountain rocks, in the sparkle of sunshine on a leaf, in the sound of the gushing waters of a virgin spring, in the flight of a bird, in sunrise and sunset, in the coming and going of seasons, in floods and earthquakes, and in life and death.

The Weapon

2011-03-10T04:03:00.000-08:00

This was an intense experience. I was floating somewhere in the dark, quite free and uninhibited when suddenly the light blanked out. Yeah, ‘the light’...although it had been dark, I’m sure. And now I was sucked in, into a profoundly deeper darkness that pinned me down. I was unable to move, completely paralysed, I had lost my voice, and even my power to think. In those few brief moments of absolute stillness I became slowly aware of a deadly companion who shared my space....fear.

So overpowered was I with fear that my senses stopped and I was face to face with the inevitable. Actually, come to think of it in hindsight, I have no idea what the inevitable would have been. My fear had seeped through my whole consciousness and crippled me to the extent that even my thoughts which otherwise roam free & wild, were frozen.

I guess from somewhere very deep, the primitive, primal need to survive caused a little stir in my mind. It was nothing more than a ripple, but it was the only movement I needed to break free from this darkness. The slight disturbance allowed a minor thought to sneak in. The thought told me that this isn’t real. You are either dreaming, or else you are in ‘that other zone’. Either way, reality will creep in and set you free. Damn my thoughts! What if reality had been a dream? In any case, I needed a weapon, something to attack the tormentor whom I could not see.

I should have prayed, surrendered myself to faith; but at that precise moment, honestly, even the idea of prayer was shut out. I was desperately hunting for a weapon. And then, miraculously, I found it.

I could loosen myself a bit; I felt my breath start to flow again, and a confidence slowly start to envelop me. I was fighting. It is difficult to fight when you do not know your enemy. But I knew a friend. So I fought with all my strength against everything that was against this friend. Gradually, I pierced through the walls of my prison and again reached that other darkness which was not so dark. I was free.

I knew I would wake up soon. I knew this was more real than reality. I knew I had allowed myself to save me, and by doing that, I have inadvertently saved you, my friend, for none other than you would have known where my weapon is.

Careless Whispers

2011-03-08T20:32:00.000-08:00

The sun was still a faint red hue peeping above the vast ocean when he arose. He quickly washed his face and put on his running shoes. Then slowly, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, he opened the door, and slipped out.

The morning breeze was inviting to his lungs, uninhibited, and carrying a salty tinge. He slowly jogged over the rocky terrain, building up a steady pace and five minutes later he found himself on the coarse beach. The sea in these parts was rough, untamed, even dangerous. He could immediately bond with the many storms that raged havoc underneath the steady calm of the ocean. He loved the beach, it was a universe in itself, vast, and full of secrets, waiting to be revealed.

Adit had chosen this quaint sea side town as the spot to revive his marriage. He was forty-five, that precise age when one is often left wondering whether the journey had been worth the scars. Ironically, this was the same place where he had brought Kavita for their honeymoon, almost nineteen years ago. Nineteen years had changed the world with its explosion of technology, consumerism, new political order, gay rights..the list continued. It had changed his own world; from being a hopelessly passionate youth with strong views that he freely advocated, he had come to a point where he was guarded, always measuring, and not really as sure of things as before. He was scared that one day soon he might even become cynical. He had blended and changed with circumstances, in an effort to adjust and attune, but now he wondered whether he had lost himself in the process.

Adit hastened his pace as the sun became a glowing ball, proudly emerging from the unfathomable depths of the sea. His thoughts went astray as he remembered his young bride on this very beach so long ago, with promise and expectation in her eyes. What happened to the promise? What happened to her expectations? Had the trail of nineteen years actually changed her eyes? Adit realised that he did not even know how her eyes looked today.

So immersed was he in his thought that he did not notice a young girl, about seventeen, dressed in sleeveless white T-shirt and shorts, capturing his movement with her camera. When he did notice, he was too close and he stopped his run abruptly.

“What the hell!” He exclaimed. “At least you should have the decency to ask before you shoot someone.”

“Really?” she said. “Nobody told me that.”

He had the distinct impression that she was trying to control a fit of laughter.

“Well, young lady, you cannot go about taking snapshots of anyone and everyone, some call it invading their privacy.”

“Strange!” she replied, “That is precisely what I do. I capture the world through my lens. Nobody has ever complained before; neither the sand nor the sea, nor the seashells.”

He wondered if he should even reply that one.

“And you are no different from the landscape,” she continued, “You, in fact, complete the frame.”

He looked at her. She was no longer amused, in fact she seemed very earnest.

For some reason he felt his annoyance ebb.

“Can you explain what you meant by that?”

“Yeah sure,” she said, and hesitated before continuing slowly, as one would speak to a child.

“You see, the rising sun had to unveil the secrets from the sea, but only those secrets that the sea would allow it to. There was a brief conflict and I was wondering how to capture its essence when you came by. You were an intense silhouette and the rays of the sun almost created a halo around your frame. Look..”

And she showed him a succession of snapshots, he wasn’t even aware that she had taken so many.

“You seemed to be the perfect replica of this conflict in the human form. You were running and you leave behind a trail of your footprints to be visible for this moment before the sea washes it away. Look behind.”

Intrigued by now, Adit looked around. Sure enough, he could see a long trail of his footprints, some of them already erased by the incoming waves.

“See?” she said triumphantly, “You have travelled that path, and some of the trace is lost, even to you. But that does not negate the fact that you have come that way.”

“I am a bit lost,” he said, “I seem to lose the bigger picture.”

“The bigger picture,” she said , “Is that the world creates a kind of hide and seek and apparent conflict through movement. But underneath the conflict, everything remains unchanged. Their essence remains the same.”

He thought of his marriage and the various conflicts over the years.

“Can I see, some of those?” he gestured towards her camera.

“Sure,” she looked pleased.

She led the way towards a cluster of rocks and sat down abruptly. He sat gently next to her.

“I have been here since last two days, “she explained, “You may start at the beginning”.

She showed him a picture of two children, playing around in the sand, bare feet. “See, they are challenging the world through their innocence. Innocence, of course, cannot be challenged as it’s rooted in truth, not facts.”

“What is the difference?” he asked.

“Facts may lie. Facts consist of actual words, actions, things that have happened. You may have hurt someone, that is a fact. But truth lies in the inner harmony, the permanence of your soul, the depth from which your feelings arise. That is timeless, changeless. ..like love. You may have hurt someone, even yourself, on the basis of all things that are facts, but not truth. The truth is that you have always loved.”

He gazed awestruck at the child-woman, less than half his age, who was teaching him to see his life through a new lens.

“See this picture,” she continued...

He could see a small crab-like insect climbing up a sand castle which may have been made by some-one. She had taken a close up, so the insect and the sand castle in proportion looked huge, almost a world in themselves, yet in the backdrop was the inevitable sea which would wash away this world, on an impulse.

“What do you see here?” she asked as the screen changed and he saw two distinct sailboats, with separate identities, yet sailing together in harmony.

“This one is my favourite,” she exclaimed. It was a name inscribed on the beach..’Tara’. A solitary seagull was sitting on the base of the ‘T’. “Someone must have inscribed the name of his lover,” she said, “And a lonely bird takes a moment of refuge in the token of his love.”

And so on she continued showing him snapshots, one after the other and he felt as if he was waking up from a deep slumber to see the world for the first time.

Finally, she came to the pictures she had taken of him running. There were six in all, in each successive picture, his frame appeared bigger, and from a tiny speck in the distance, he finally emerged to fill the entire frame.

“That’s you,” she declared, “You are both a small part in infinity, as well as complete creation in yourself. I had to take these pictures,” she hesitated before continuing, “I have been capturing the sea and its moods since two days, and then here you came, at just the right moment, totally lost in your own self, and I felt that the ocean with all its knowledge untold and the beach with all its mysteries buried, exists just for you, if only you would care to look. You define them and complete my album.”

“Wow,” he exclaimed! He was grinning like a schoolboy. “May I ask you your name?”

“What the hell!” she said, “You should just say...tell me your name. Why do you have to be so damn polite? I am Zoya.”

“Zoya,” he smiled, nothing about her amazed him anymore, “ That’s a beautiful name. You remind me of how I was long ago, or maybe I still am underneath layers of facts. You have just showed me a world that is perfect in its imperfection, constant in its change, and profound in its simplicity. You will never know what you have done to me without knowing. I wish you continue your passion and one day the whole world will see itself through your lens. I work in the media, Zoya. I happen to be the CEO of a leading PR firm. I have met many photographers through my profession. Some are good, some are excellent..technically speaking. But I have never met anyone whose photography can change a life. You are gifted beyond words and it would be a shame if you don’t pursue your talent, or keep it hidden.”

With these words he rose. The breeze was a shade warmer now. It was almost eight in the morning. Good Lord! His wife would be up and waiting for him to have breakfast together. She may even wonder whether he was besotted by a mermaid in his obsession for the seaside run.

Zoya watched the retreating figure, slowly jogging away to oblivion. She had come here with her camera as a last attempt to live her passion before the inevitable preparation for entrance exams of engineering. The words of her parents and elder sister invaded her mind. “Who will buy your photography? You need a decent profession that can make a living. We have strived all our life, sacrificing so much just so that you can get your professional degree...” She pushed the voices away and got up with renewed zeal. There was at least one person who could see the mysteries of life through her eyes. There may be more.

Adit had rounded a corner and disappeared from her line of vision. Little did he know that in a world of fear and scepticism, he had just saved a dream from dying young.

They sat before a spread breakfast on the terrace. From here the sea looked tranquil and playful. In nineteen years, the sea had endured many fierce storms, yet it had remained the same. He looked at the woman he had always loved. She was sipping orange juice and talking about her plans for the day. Adit smiled. The promise and expectation were still there in her eyes, and next to that, every other detail seemed irrelevant.

Friendship Award

2011-03-06T19:17:00.000-08:00

I received this Award which I perceive to be a gesture of intimacy, support, and overall a beautiful friendship from Psycho Babbling Basher. Thank you Psycho, you whom I have never met and only known since last two months, yet I feel this wonderful bond with you, as if we have known each other since centuries. I am sure that tomorrow if I lose someone special, you are a person on whose shoulders I can cry....any time of day and night, that according to me is the true meaning of friendship, rather than saying hi / hello and chatting everyday.

I would like to share 3 things about Psycho, in the tradition of this award :

1. She has a fascination for reading and stalks Paulo Coelho on the net.
2. She grew up as a tomboy, and is the favourite lady in the lives of 3 men - her dad, her hubby & her son.
3. She has phobia of snakes.

Now its my turn to pass on this Award to some people who have captured my heart and made this virtual world seem more real than real life.

1. To Psycho, for all the reasons stated above and more.

2. To Cayman, for having that hug ready for me.

3. To Alicia, for trusting in me and encouraging me by just being there.

4. To Drachma for reading and commenting on everything I write, and thus inspiring me so much without his knowledge.

5. To Legacy, for teaching me to live life NOW and being the original muse for me to pick up my pen after 10 years. Legs, if I ever write a book, I would dedicate it to you.

I would like to further personalise this Award, and leave it optional for all of you to pass it on. However, it would make my day, if all of you would accept it from me.

Strange Connection

2011-03-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

The evening dragged on and her head hurt. It might have been the pounding beats, or the empty banter of the assembled guests, or just the pretentious laughter all around mingled with the blur of indistinguishable faces... hazy, and covered with a layer of cigarette smoke. Like most parties, this party was no different. At least to her, it was a mere social event that she was obliged to attend.

Seeking some fresh air, she walked through the open French windows into the terrace, which was almost dark except for the light of a lamp which came from the lawn just below. Here at least she was peacefully lost and did not have to participate in meaningless conversations that just added to the throbbing in her temples.

She stood there losing track of time and breathing in the air that carried a faint hint of jasmines. From time to time, a fresh burst of shrill laughter from the party hall would pierce her solitude and shatter her reverie. She would wait for the noise to subside, then lose herself again to the night.

After a while she became aware of a strange and hauntingly beautiful note that softly penetrated the silence, and floated to her ears from somewhere not very far. Completely and hopelessly enthralled, she listened, almost in a trance. Where were the notes coming from? Who was playing them? She shot a glance over her shoulders towards the French windows but all she got from there was a cacophony of mumbled voices blended with some pounding, which may have been rhythmic beats.

With a shudder, she walked away, as far as she could get from the party, to the furthest corner of the terrace. And as she did so, she must have reached closer and closer to the source of the strange music. The notes flowed through her, stunned her mind, captured her heart, and stirred her soul. She was sure that she was living in another time and someone very special to her was there, just a breath away. She could almost touch him. She knew that if she smiled, he would almost certainly recognize her. They had, after all, been together through many centuries.

And she felt the tears flow down as she wondered whether he was lonely just tonight or whether the loneliness spanned many lifetimes. She wanted to tell him that she still loved him as she always had and always would be but then, he already knew that, right?

Down below, in the deserted lawn, under the Hibiscus tree, the young guitarist played his instrument as if possessed, for he knew that he had touched a strange chord tonight. The music that had been unknown to his mind till then, was flowing with a spontaneity and life of its own. He was on a mission tonight and he could feel her softly treading into the recesses of his mind, walking slowly towards the source of his creativity.

Very deep, in the realms of his being, he knew he had somehow reached the sacred point where all things merge and lose themselves to finally emerge as a new identity.....the only one that matters.

Maya

2011-02-26T01:52:00.000-08:00

There was a banyan tree in the middle of the park. Nobody knew how long it had stood there. Its branches had spread in all directions, embracing the universe. And, as is typical of banyan trees, its roots have sprouted down from its outstretched branches, perhaps to retain and strengthen the wisdom that the tree has collected over the years. Legend had it that the tree had seen more than two hundred summers. Perhaps, that is the reason the resort people left it untouched, as an ultimate symbol of legacy, when they renovated the gardens.

Maya was sitting under the banyan tree. It was an early summer evening and she had been sitting here almost the whole day, alternating between reading a book and napping. She had chosen to sit here and ‘waste’ her day doing ‘nothing’ while her husband and twelve year old daughter were out, exploring the countryside. And as she sat, the number of missed calls in her mobile went on increasing, but she wasn’t bothered, she did not even care where her mobile was. She had carried her laptop into her vacation as there were urgent mails to be answered and clients who needed to be addressed. But now the laptop slept peacefully under a pile of folded clothes in the wardrobe of their hotel suite. On any other day, Maya would have bothered about how her daughter was getting on, whether she had eaten, whether she had remembered to put on her hiking shoes, but today she trusted the moment and forgot to invite the worries in her mind.

She sat, complete in herself, embracing everything and everyone who had ever been or ever will be a part of her life. She was light of the baggage of her past, and of the illusions of future possibilities. She was living the only time one can live...that is now.

And the banyan tree provided her shade and silence. After a long while, Maya became aware of another person approaching her space. It was a woman. She was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a cream shirt with soft, brown buttons. The woman was taking a walk through the garden paths in and around the banyan tree. Something about her struck Maya as vaguely familiar. Just then, a breeze blew as if on impulse, scattering the leaves of the banyan tree all over. One leaf gently landed on the woman’s hair and at that instant everything was clear. Maya realised that she was looking at none other than her own self fifteen years ago.

The woman was crying, inwardly. She was drowning in an unfathomable sea of pain. She had just lost her three year old son. It was one of those intrusions of fate which come without warning, when there is just a pause, a blink of an eye, a single breath between the smiling face of the baby she was feeding and then...a pool of blood on the floor, and her baby, no more. There may have been a small yelp, a last cry, but she was not sure, it had happened so fast.

Maya longed to reach out to the woman. But there was a wall that shielded her wherever she went. The wall would not let any small reason enter that could inspire any meaning in her life. The woman screamed, inwardly. “I have lost him, I have lost my baby.”

“No you haven’t”, said Maya, quietly. The woman, startled, looked around, but could not see anyone. Maya smiled. She could penetrate the wall.

“Your baby, like you, is a child of the Universe. He is here, he is happy.”

“But where is he? He is no more with me”.

“Oh, look around, will you? What do you see?”

The woman looks around quickly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Okay. I see a tree, a banyan tree. I see green grass, some flower beds which I suppose are pretty, over there in the corner I see a swimming pool, some shades, and I guess that’s it.”

“Okay, close your eyes and see again what you have just described to me”.

The woman, intrigued, shuts her eyes.

She remains like that for a long time and finally speaks. “Yes, I see him now, my baby.”

“Where?”

“Why here, of course, running around the tree. And there, splashing in the pool and here again, rolling on the grass. He’s so happy.”

“Of course, he is. What made you think that he would not be happy? Just because he chose to end his play in one place and run to another?”

“But he is not with me.”

“Don’t you see? He was always with you, like the stars and the rain, and will always be there with you. Both of you are strands of the different threads that are woven together, with each other, to complete the blanket of the universe.”

“But why was his time with me so less?”

“That is only your perception. Your time here is no more or less than your baby’s or anyone else’s for that matter. There is no time. Just intensity. Feel it. Can you see? The time that is fleeting is elusive. Withdraw from it, and what remains is eternity. That is where you just saw your son, that is where you can find him, always.”

“But I long to touch my baby, hold him, love him.”

“You can do that only when you get rid of your useless pain. Your pain takes up all your space, you whole being. It makes you an invalid. It cripples you. Throw it away, and all you will have left is pure and joyful love. Share it with all forms of consciousness, and you will feel your baby in your arms, always.”

“Who are you?”

“I am you without your ego.”

“How can you be me? You don’t even feel my pain.”

“I understand your pain. Your ego feels it, not you. You know there is no pain. That is why I am here.”

“Why can I not see you?”

“You will see me only when you chose to, but for that you have to first die.”

“If I chose to die, will you take me where there is no pain, where I can see my son happy?”

Maya sighed. She knew she had no choice. She had to kill the phantom which believed it existed. She slowly got up and left the shade of the banyan tree to stand in the glow of the evening sun. As she did so, the banyan tree bowed and whispered a few words of wisdom.

The woman looked up and saw Maya for the first time. And as the light of recognition dawned in her eyes, she surrendered her life with the full force of her acute will and felt the shadow slip away with the pain and the hurt and the anger, all useless remnants of a useless ego.

When you belong to the Universe, and the whole Universe is contained in you, how can you ever lose anyone?

Maya brushed some leaves off her dress while the sun set in the distant horizon as it should.

Half-way across the globe, the first rays of dawn woke her up with love. It was time to embrace another day.

The Perfect Cup of Tea

2011-02-17T23:26:00.000-08:00

Its 2am. My doorbell rings. I don’t hear it at first, as my mind and body are too busy erasing the stress of the previous day. Then the bell rings again and takes the form of temple bells in my dream. I drift off seeing the white pillars on a hill top. And yet again. This time, it is more like my morning alarm and I have to pull myself up. Weary though my mind is, my body clock tells me it’s not morning, yet. So I drag myself off bed as the doorbell rings again. I have no choice but to answer it. My heart beats fast; I’m on the verge of panic.

It’s Sonal, my maid, the woman who comes part-time to take care of my younger child and help me with the housework. She stands at the door, scarred and injured. I take a look at her, and the clock, and summarise the situation. This is not the first time that she has been beaten black and blue by her unemployed, alcoholic husband. I’m sure this won’t be the last. Her seventeen years of marriage has seen many scars, yet, for reasons unintelligible to me, she still lives with him.

She finds refuge at my place. She stays on, she will never return, she vows through my disbelief. I do all that anyone in my place would do....take her to the doctor; make her file a police complaint against her husband. (The latter gesture is more to protect myself actually, so that later he doesn’t complain that I have tortured her). Such things happen.

A week passes, she stays on. She doesn’t have a home or parents or siblings. She doesn’t think of the future. I am glad. I feel I am helping her, but secretly I am enjoying her services round the clock. I can watch some television, while she puts my daughter to sleep. I can sneak an early morning walk, leaving the kids in her care. I don’t have to square up the kitchen alone at the end of the day. I know this will not last. I buy her the medicines; take her for check-ups. Beyond that, I have no idea what to do.

Two weeks pass. I am sitting alone, browsing through some old photographs in my laptop. Sonal asks me if I miss my husband whose profession keeps him away from home most of the year. I don't pay attention; I am so used to that question by now, that I hardly acknowledge it. My loneliness goes so much deeper than any question or answer.

Suddenly I stop at a photograph of a snow covered mountain. I see myself standing outside the army quarter with my son and husband beside me. I am holding a cup of tea, savouring it with all my life.

I must have smiled for my maid looks at me bemused. Oh it had been so cold. We had been to Nathu-La Pass in Sikkim at the border of India and China. While my husband and five year old son had effortlessly climbed the last hundred yards, I was huffing and puffing and out of breath, gasping for oxygen in the thin mountain air. My saviour had been an army lieutenant who helped me sit, relax, and get my breathing back in order. As the day progressed, my family had struck a friendship with this guy and on the way back we took a detour to visit his army lodging. The fact that it was illegal, added to the appeal.

There, in the middle of no-where with snow stretching from horizon to horizon in all directions, I was surprised to see a low, tin accommodation, somewhat like an elongated kennel. So this is how our soldiers lived on the border!

We had to bend to enter. We found ourselves walking through a tunnel like room used to store things into a tiny room at the back. In the light of the single lantern we could see two bunk beds, a small stove, some utensils and books and few clothes hung here and there.

We were introduced to a young guy of about twenty and two, who was our friend’s room-mate. This young fellow offered to make us tea. So we sat on the bunk beds and asked fascinated questions while the kettle boiled and our new friend sorted the right mix of tea leaves with utmost precision. As my husband got busy with the camera, my son started feeling nauseated, so I took him out for a breath of fresh air. Our friend soaked the leaves on the hot water and with great care opened a jar of powdered milk.

Outside it was freezing, yet my son insisted I remove his jacket number 3. My army friend appeared on the doorway and pulled a chair for me to sit. He explained how the whole place gets buried in snow at times. I love the cold, and crave for the tea. My friend lights a cigarette just as my husband appears to click more photos.

The unique combination of my strange company and solitude must have hit a strange chord, just as our young friend appears with a tray of four steel, steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits.

I take care to treasure the moment, this fleeting moment in time, far away from civilization, on the top of a snow clad mountain in the border. He must have taken the same care to prepare the tea for unexpected guests, who presented a fresh touch of life and enthusiasm amidst endless days that all looked and felt the same. The first sip of the tea sealed a bond of unnamed connection with the mountains, the brave soldiers, the journey, my loved ones and me.

My maid Sonal points at the picture and animatedly breaks out into a series of questions. Snow in Mumbai is like Niagara in a desert.

I suddenly miss a good cup of tea. I realise that I have never had a single cup since that day that I cherished so much. I go to my favourite shelf in the kitchen. It’s loaded with all the labels one can dream of. Orange Pekoe, Darjeeling, the best of Earl Gray....an array of local spiced flavours, lemon tea, ginger tea, cinnamon tea, a variety of herbal...and of course my favourite mint tea for the summers. Yet I have never savoured a single cup.

Sonal comes behind me asks me whether I would like some tea. I look at her as if for the first time. I see a badly bruised woman with no past, no future. I see a woman who can laugh at my memories, who can sing with devotion to my baby. I see a woman who has left her kids with distant relatives and is waiting here to make a cup of tea to serve me. I suddenly crave for that perfect cuppa. I pull out a local masala chai and ask Sonal to put the kettle to boil. Then I leave the kitchen to hunt for the perfect ingredients.

In the balcony I arrange two cane chairs. The city bustles by down below, each sound and movement carrying a different kind of loneliness. Hell, the city is lonelier than the mountains which at least connect to the sky and the snow and the life there. I place two steel mugs for Sonal and myself and load a plate with crispy pakoras. She brings in the tea just as I snuggle on the comfortable chair, discard my reserve and loneliness, and prepare to actually talk life with another woman. As she pours the steaming tea, I know it’s going to be the best cuppa for a long, long time to come.

After all, its the context, rather than the contents that would give meaning to my tea.

The Man Walked On

2011-02-11T08:31:00.000-08:00

The man wore ordinary clothes... a pair of grey jeans and a nondescript shirt. A haversack was flung over his left shoulder. His shoes were old but of good taste. He carried with him a pungent smell of sweat and dirt, a smell of being a man.

The roads were almost empty. It was long past midnight. But this city never sleeps, so the occasional indifferent car would whiz by oblivious to the man and his path. The night was warm with a hint of a damp breeze. Monsoon was approaching; the first showers of the season would burst forth to embrace the longing of the thirsty earth, anytime.

The man walked, his pace neither slow, nor fast. He walked in a steady rhythm that perhaps matched the beats of his heart. He walked with a purpose shared by the breeze that spoke of the rains to come.

The wind that blows across the sea, also rages havoc in the desert. The wind belongs to no-where. It touches the soul of every speck of creation, but belongs to no-one. The wind cannot be possessed, neither can it own anyone. Perhaps the wind understands Love.

The man walked tirelessly. From time to time a cab would pass by, and on seeing the solitary figure walking on, would slow down in anticipation of a night passenger. Fares are always one and a half times more after midnight. But the man paid no heed, he just walked on.

The ink-blue sky was studded with a million stars tonight; some lonely, some clustered, all embracing infinity. Each may have had its tale to tell. Each may have sung its song a million times; and the notes may still be found floating somewhere in the universe. A whisper may have reached the man’s ears, for he paused for a moment, without any apparent reason. Were the stars talking to him? Well, that was for him to choose, and not the stars. But the strange note that had reached his ears and caused him to pause, must have been Love.

Silence held a blanket over the streets he traversed. A deep blanket which the faraway sound of a passing train could not penetrate. There were hungry children of the night and their cries seemed to stir the soul of silence. The silence spoke to the man and told him to open the chains that bound him. It told the man that he was free to choose his own destiny. The Silence must have spoken the language of Love.

When the first rays of dawn tentatively caressed the sleeping earth to wake it tenderly, the man was sitting on a bench in the pavement. He had placed his haversack next to him. The Sun’s rays touched him with the same devotion that it touched every blade of grass. The man felt a profound joy within. Somewhere in that touch, there must have been Love.

He was hungry. Across the lane, an early vendor was setting up his makeshift shop on a wooden platform on wheels. He sold peanuts and tea and biscuits to early morning walkers. The man waited till the shop was set up, the kettle was placed on the fire. He ordered some tea and biscuits and gazed in anticipation as the water started to boil. The vendor poured him a steaming cup and gently handed it to him with a smile. The man reached into his pockets and held out some coins, and returned the smile. They talked of the impending rains and cricket scores. The man refreshed his body and mind with the humble cup of sweet spicy tea, and a couple of home-made wheat biscuits. Perhaps he tasted the labour of love.

The sun shone brighter now. The city woke up to a flurry of activities. The tea vendor watched as the man, with careful precision flung his haversack over his left shoulder and began to walk. He wondered idly who the man was. He did not look or dress like any of the early morning walkers he knew. Where was he going? Perhaps he was going home. Or perhaps he had left his home for some other destination.

A young girl cycling by in shorts and T-shirt looked at the man. She found him attractive, he reminded her of a lover she once had. Perhaps this man had a lover.

The man walked on the side-walk. There were other pedestrians now. They were rushing by; each had a chore or task to attend to. Each was buried in his thoughts. The man let them overtake him. He knew his pace, he knew his city.

That day there were twenty cases of rapes, fifteen murders, and thirteen accidents in the city.

There were also infinite gestures of love, some visible to the eye, others visible to the soul.

And the man, the ordinary man, who may have been just about any man anyone ever knew, kept walking on. His story, after all, is the pivot around which the history of the universe revolves. So somewhere in that story, there must have been love.

The Rag Doll

2011-02-02T23:22:00.000-08:00

The boy stood, fascinated by the jiggory – topies all around him. They hung from the sky on laser fluorescent threads. Some of them smiled and cheered him. One threw him a lolly pop to suck. He was spoilt for choice, but he could buy only one. He had a smiley with him, which was the only currency accepted in Twinku Land. As he stood with wide eyes, trying to make up his mind, his Mamma came and pointed at a rag doll dancing in a circle. Maybe that’s the one she would have chosen when she was a girl. His Papa came & nodded, rag doll is fine.

So, not knowing better, he threw his smiley at the ring, and the rag doll stopped its dance. She was actually awkwardly poised with one toe pointing up, like a ballerina. She could not have been comfortable; she may have wanted to complete the dance.

The boy brought the doll home and kept her with him all the time. After a few days, the rag doll decided to dance again. The boy was watching Tom & Jerry and it irritated him. He broke the doll’s leg and continued to watch.

At night, he kissed the doll with the broken leg, and fixed a teddy’s leg in its place. Then he went to sleep blissfully, dreaming of cars that fly.

A few days passed, and his vacation ended. The boy would go to school now. In evening he would come home, finish his home-work and rush off to play football with the other boys.

One day, he came home to find the rag doll singing. It amused him, and he smiled. Thus encouraged, the rag doll composed note after note in her mind, and tried to sing them whenever the boy was around. He never noticed. Once, when his friends had come, the rag doll took it in her head to sing her most special song. This embarrassed the boy and he picked up the doll and stuffed it in a drawer amidst some broken bits and pieces from where she could never be heard again.

He must have forgotten about the doll but one day he saw a similar rag doll in a book, and suddenly remembered about his doll. So he searched the whole place out and when he finally found her, the doll was crumpled and torn due to days of neglect. So he told her that he loved her and ventured to ‘fix’ her. He gathered some odds and ends from here and there. He cut off her brown plaits and tied some golden thread. He coloured her face pink. He tore apart her orange buttons and glued blue ones in their place. When he saw the transformation, he was thrilled. He loved his doll and he knew it. He would never neglect it again, he vowed.

Ever since, he has been taking special care to shield the doll from the big, bad, world. From time to time he would change some little thing about her. Every night he hugged and slept with the doll and assured her that he loved her.

But she never could dance or sing anymore; actually she was no more the rag doll.

The Flight to Freedom

2011-01-28T02:34:00.001-08:00

The Flight to Freedom

(Brief Background – Makar Sankranti is celebrated in India on 14^th January to mark the winter harvest of special crops like sesame and jaggerine which are used as ingredients to make sweet dishes in every household. The occasion is celebrated by having kite flight contests everywhere where rival teams try to cut the strings of their opponents’ kites while aiming to fly their own kites the highest. The sky is filled with a myriad of different coloured kites often amidst background theme music and tray loads of home-made sweet delicacies served by the women of the house.)

Jaideep Mehta, better known as Jai, made his way through the narrow alley flanked on either side by a row of ramshackle hutments. The dilapidated dwellings which passed off as homes of the poor but not so poor to be homeless, were held together somehow by bits and pieces of brick, mud, plastic, and just about anything. It seemed to Jai as he passed rows and rows of such slum dwellings, that these homes were held upright mainly by a million dreams that invited a million seekers to this city every day. Not for the first time, he reminded himself, that anybody in his right mind would have abandoned the plan long back and quit, let the police do the formalities. Why the hell get into this at all, why bother? Yet, some imbecile voice within him kept prodding him on.

A few paces more, the alley led into an open square like a courtyard, and he found himself in a dead end. There were children in the courtyard, of all ages, huddled into clusters led by older kids in their teens. They seemed to be preparing for the big kite fight. Enormous kites of all possible colours and patterns were tried, strings were being checked and rechecked, there were hushed strategies discussed and challenges thrown by rival teams.

Jai walked into the heart of all this festive chaos, and stood trying to decide, whom he should ask for further direction. His abrupt advent was greeted by an immediate lull in the cacophony, and he felt many pairs of eyes studying him, taking in all the details of his appearance from head to toe. He was suddenly conscious of being the only well–dressed, or to be more precise, completely dressed person out there. For the younger kids were mainly bare-chested, wearing a pair of tattered shorts, the teenagers wore a sleeveless vest on torn jeans and the females were more modestly dressed in shabby salwaar kameez. All of them were bare feet. Jai walked up to a boy of about fourteen and showed him the slip with the address written. The boy returned a blank stare and Jai realised that he did not know how to read. So he mumbled a few words in broken Marathi (the local language of Mumbai).

“Is that Madan Chachu’s (Madan Uncle’s) house you are looking for?” The voice came from a girl about ten years old. “Please come this way,” she instructed, without waiting for reply. She led Jai through a narrow gap between two mud shacks and paced down a winding alley (which Jai could not have imagined existed) and slipped through a broken fence and disappeared. With an increasing sense of foreboding, Jai ventured to slide his thankfully lean frame through the hole in the fence and found himself abruptly in the wooden patio of a house made of actual bricks and cement. Having reached her destination, the girl flashed him a toothy smile and disappeared as fast as she had come before Jai could gather his wits enough to reach into his pocket and offer her a chewing gum.

Jai found himself standing alone; facing an open door to a room whose floor was made of mud and was freshly cleaned. On the walls were shelves where pots and pans and various cooking wares sparkled and shone. There was a cot in one corner with some shabby but clean linen neatly spread on it. The room had another door where a floral printed handmade curtain prevented him from seeing further. Taking several deep breaths, Jai went through his prepared speech yet again, and then having nothing more to do, he called out in the local language, “Hello, anybody home?”

The curtain drew back a little, and a pair of bespectacled eyes peered at him. Then a woman of about fifty came shuffling through the doorway and looked up at Jai with a curious half-smile. “Looking for Madan? He is my son,” she declared triumphantly.

“Err.. Actually, I am his employer,” Jai managed, “He ....” .

He was cut off by a loud voice from inside, “ Mamta, who’s it?”

“It’s Jai saab, our Madan’s saab.”

“Oh is it? Well why are you making him stand at the door? Come in, come in,” the owner of the voice appeared, tall, in his fifties, dressed in pyjamas and vest.

“Asha, do get some water for saab.”

As he said so, the man pulled out a faded plastic chair (probably the only one they owned and meant for such esteemed guests) and ushered Jai to sit.

Having no further option, he sank into the chair while a sari-clad, very pregnant woman came out with a steel glass of fresh lemon sherbet. So this was Asha, presumably Madan’s wife.

“What great luck!” declared the older lady, “You grace our humble abode on such an auspicious day. It’s Sankranti. Wait, you must taste some of the kheer (rice pudding) and sweets I have prepared with til (sesame) and gur (jaggerine).”

She shuffled out of the room dragging one leg behind, and Jai vaguely remembered his driver Madan recommending someone some herbal oil that had supposedly alleviated his mother’s rheumatic pain.

Draining his lemon sherbet, Jai got up. This was no time to deliberate and he plunged into his speech, “Actually, I am very, very sorry,” he hesitated...all he got was a confused, expectant look from the father.

He cleared his throat and started again, “This is no occasion for celebration, I’m afraid, Madan has been hit by a truck, he was driving the car alone, going to fetch a gentleman to our office, the truck came from the wrong side, it was totally the fault of the truck-driver, they’ve arrested him...”, he was rambling on, slightly gaining panic, “We tried, I mean, he was rushed to the best hospital in the vicinity, but by the time they reached me, he was ...gone... I mean, I would have done anything, anything at all but he never made it to surgery. I’m so sorry; it was not Madan’s fault at all..”

He was talking incoherently now; he realised and still went on just to prevent the silence. “I will do whatever I can, nothing can replace his loss, but I will help financially, I could find employment for his wife...”, he stopped suddenly as his gaze fell on the pregnant figure. She stood more still than death itself, one hand on her protruding stomach, gazing out of the door, seeing nothing...wide, expressionless eyes, with a chill that touched Jai and made him shiver.

He slowly shifted his gaze and looked at the figure that had stood motionless by the door, still holding a tray filled with sweet goodies. There were tears in those eyes, and almost in slow motion, the tears welled up and overflowed and from somewhere a muffled shriek tried to find vent.

Jai cursed himself; he cursed his eagerness to break the news himself, to try and make it more humane, to coat the blow with some promise of compensation. Compensation! As if!

He tried his best not to remember the day when his mother had received that call. His father had died in duty, trying to save the life of an elderly couple trapped in a fire that had engulfed their seventh floor apartment. Nobody had come forward then to explain the tragedy in words that could be understood. He remembered his mother running from pillar to post, asking questions, seeking answers, crying, always crying. The days flashed by...his mother starving, to feed him, trying vainly to get a job, any job, so that she could earn enough to cover his education. He felt the fresh surge of anger, for no-one had come forward; no-one had answered the questions.

He jumped out of his reverie by the piercing yell of a young voice. This new arrival was about six years old, covered in dust and full of frolic, impish grin on his face. “Hi,” he addressed Jai, “We will win!” Then he ran and hugged his mother who seemed to wake up and caress her son with the first dawning of an expression that lit her eyes and touched her face with a tenderness, too raw to touch. Amit shivered again.

The boy, oblivious of the drama that had unfolded and changed his world forever, ran straight to Jai. With the intuition of a child he aimed the words straight at Jai’s heart, “I am Chintu. Do you know my Papa?” Then, without waiting for answer, “My Papa will get me the biggest kite ever so that we can cut off the strings of Sachu Bhaiya’s kites!”

Thankful of the opportunity to break the accusing silence, Jai bent down and held the boy by his shoulders. “Come, let’s get you the biggest kite. And the strongest strings. Together, we will defeat Sachu Bhaiya. Our kite will fly the highest.”

“Really?” The boy looked ecstatic. “Come fast, will you, or Raju’s team will get ahead of us.”

“Wait Chintu!” The voice came from the forgotten figure on the floor where he must have collapsed. Jai had never seen such grit as he saw in the face of the father who had just heard that he has lost his son.

“Mamta,” he went over to his sobbing wife and put an arm around her, “Is this the way we treat our guests?” Then he looked at the boy who was getting impatient now, “Chintu, take, this laddoo is for you and give this to Jai Chachu, one must have sweets on Sankranti.

The boy took this opportunity and grabbed a few sweets. He stuffed one in his mouth and tossed another to Jai. “We will win,” he declared.

As Jai bowed his respect to no-one in particular and was dragged out by his young saviour, he wondered how lovely it would be to fly light and free up in the sky, without the baggage of years of hatred. The sun shone brightly and the wind had picked up by the time the two had prepared their kite for the flight. Chintu held the spool as Jai tossed the kite up in the direction of the wind. It was the season to let go of the past. Let the wind blow away the anguish. He had just learnt the amazing power of forgiveness and their kite will fly far and light, above the things that tend to weigh it down, to celebrate the festival with the clouds and birds.

Destiny's Child (Part 2)

2011-01-14T05:34:00.000-08:00

Amit’s Story

He read the newspapers every morning with interest, without passion. He knew the latest moves by rival political parties, but did not care for any opinion of his own. He would religiously follow the Ashes, the US Open, even Asian Hockey Championships, but did not idolise any team or any player. He flirted with various hobbies in his spare time but was not passionate about any of them. His lack of personal involvement extended to his relationships as well. His path crossed many in the walk of life. With some of them he would spend some casual time together, but hardly anyone would he treasure in the special zone called ‘friendship’. There was only one area where he could be said to be an ardent enthusiast, and that was where culinary delights were concerned. Amit was a connoisseur of food and he had a very developed sense of distinguishing the subtle variances in taste and flavour. It was on one such gastronomical expedition that he first met Sonia, receipant for the second prize in the 'most original recipe' category.

Amit represented his organization which was one of many corporate bodies invited by the Red Cross Society to judge a food competition which was hosted to raise funds for flood victims in Bangladesh. He was required to sample various innovative cuisines and submit his votes for the first three winners.

What drew him to Sonia was the quiet assurance in her manner and the composed dignity with which she spoke her words. She brought to his mind images of quiet evenings and contentment over a cup of tea, when he got home from work, images of a peaceful life filled with the aroma of warm, home-cooked meals. Amit was not swept off his feet, as he was never swept off his feet by anything. He was simply attracted towards the prospect of making Sonia Neogi his wife and sharing an easy, uncomplicated life with her. And so, after three weeks of casual coffee conversations, two movies, and one dinner, he proposed to her matter-of-factly one day while driving her home.

Sonia’s Story

She woke up again, with a start, and reached out by her bedside for a glass of cool water. She had seen the same dream again. She was with the man she loved, with whom she could laugh and cry together, with whom she would grow old, and he was walking by her side in the wilderness and they were sharing an intimate bond of mutual understanding. Suddenly, the path diverged and she realised, with inevitable pain, that she had to leave him. She must go home, for her husband was waiting. She felt the same pang of disenchantment and grief as she reconciled to the awareness that she was tied in a commitment that she had no reason to break.

Sonia had met Amit Sinha at a point in life when she had fulfilled her primary need to be independent. Her dreams of an MBA degree were abandoned due to the sudden death of her father who was her sole financial sponsor. Her father had left no will nor trusts in favour of her. Yet, according to the law of the land she was eligible for a part of his assets. But that was in theory. In reality, she neither had the strength, nor the financial muscle to endure a legal conflict with her late father’s family through second marriage. She tried to reason, some legal letters were exchanged, but all to no effect. Her dreams died young.

Sonia grabbed the first good opportunity that came her way. It was the job of a recruitment executive in a consulting firm. Although, she was a mere graduate, she spoke well and was sincere and committed to her work. Very soon she progressed to a Team Lead position and was independently handling client accounts. Two years down the line, she had saved enough to buy a small apartment near her office, on mortgage. She still pursued her experiments with cooking as a hobby. She never fell in love.

She had perceived Amit as a calm, rooted person who represented stability. He was not spirited, and he did not understand why she was moved to tears whenever she attended a Jagjit Singh live concert. But he cared for her and was a good person with right values which was more than what she had got from life so far. And so she accepted his proposal and they got married late one July evening when Mumbai was almost paralysed by flood.

Amit’s Story

He was irritated, as usual. The drawers were untidy, and there was dust on the shelves. She was busy with one or the other of her meaningless pursuits. Why couldn’t she just dedicate herself to keeping the house in order? As he angrily threw out the contents of his desk, his eye caught the label of a thin book, “Jonathan Livingstone Seagull” by Richard Bach. It was a gift from Sonia when they were engaged. Her first gift to him. He remembered how he had read it once it and found nothing more in it except the saga of a bird learning to fly. He also remembered that Sonia’s eyes had moistened and there was an expression in them which he could not fathom, when he had shared his feedback of the book. Must she get so worked up about everything?

But he knew that his wife was a good woman and when his annoyance would pass, he would be calm again. He had no real complains from life.

Rahul’s Story

He could drive the four hours route from Mumbai to Pune with his eyes shut. He knew each petrol station, each cigarette shop, each refreshment outlet along the way. He had been doing this drive every weekend ever since he bought a weekend serviced apartment in Lavasa, 80 Km from Pune. He no longer attended corporate parties or hung out with his friends. Most of them were married, anyway. He spent his weekends in leisure, sailing and reading, and sometimes practicing self composed notes on his violin.

He had stopped his car at the ‘multi-purpose store’ just outside Lonavala, to pick up a few CDs for his car. He had forgotten to replace the ones he had played the last two weekends. Just as he had climbed in, started the engine, and switched on the music, he heard someone call out to him. Someone came running over reaching his side of the car, as if afraid that he would drive on, “Wait, please! I think I am lost.” He was just about to lower the glass when his eyes fell on the rearview mirror and remained transfixed for what seemed an eternity. He was not sure of time or space as the notes of Lionel Richie permeated his trance with “Hello, is it me you are looking for? I can see it in your eyes......”

Sonia’s Story

She had wanted to ask directions, but she was no more sure of her destination. Her eyes held his in the mirror as years slipped away and she could see, reflected in the mirror, the National Highway just ahead of the by lane where she had parked. She could see her blue Santro, waiting to take her home. And across the highway, a small wasteland, through it a narrow footpath making its way into the wilderness. She knew now that she had a choice to make.

Destiny's Child (Part 1)

2011-01-09T02:21:00.000-08:00

Rahul’s story

It had been raining and his bike had chosen to skid over, spin and land him by the gutter...... coating his blue windcheater with a spray of mud and grime. Pangs of hunger had attacked him since morning as he had survived the past 24 hours on caffeine and the occasional cup noodles. Thus, famished and drenched with sweat and muck from head to toe, he finally reached the hostel lounge and headed for the canteen to have a quick wash and console his ravenous stomach with something like a proper meal. It was in the single, small mirror above the only wash basin at the corner that their eyes had met for the first time. She had splashed some water on her face and had just looked up briefly at the mirror. Startled at looking directly into someone’s eyes, she had held the glance a fraction of a second more than necessary and then walked away.

Rahul had always been the chosen child of destiny. Born of wealthy parents who had a trendy apartment in Malabar Hills, amongst the most posh and elite crowd of Mumbai, he had been doted on by his grandmother when he lost both his parents in an accident at the age of five. He was brought up in lavish splendour with a good mix of culture and discipline. From the time he attended primary school, it was clearly evident that he was way ahead of his class. When he reached fifth grade, he was the only contender of all academic awards as well as the recipient of various medals in sports and performing arts. In eighth grade he became the captain in both cricket and basketball (a feat which remained throughout his terms his college and university). By the time he reached tenth, there was no question of any elections for the position of Head Boy.

His achievements continued when he stood first in entire University in Electronic Engineering and proceeded to complete his MBA from the most premiere institute in the country. It was during his summer internship at the end of his second semester that he lost his grandmother to a long and painful ailment. As she withered and shrunk each day before his eyes, he felt an opening vacuum slowly engulfing him and about to swallow him up totally in a blanket of unspeakable loss. When she died, along with her she took away his only concept of belonging.

The long and cumbersome drive to his institute seemed meaningless now and he quickly replaced the comfort of his apartment with a single room at the campus hostel. His car was locked up in the garage and he bought himself a brand new Yamaha Suzuki which would serve his purpose in his new setup.

Rahul had never remembered any moment of his life when he was friendless, but the void that engulfed him after his grandmother’s death seemed a space where no friend had the key to enter.

That was till he met her.

Sonia’s story

Human Resource was the subject that fascinated her. It had taken her months of practice, solving sample questionnaires into the wee hours of the morning, to finally qualify through the written entrance exams that made her eligible for a chance to get access to the top management institutes. Her scores reflected that she had barely scraped through, just crossing the borderline between the 20% selects and the 80% rejects. The next round was Group Discussion. Her nervousness had not allowed her to eat a morsel since morning, and when her name was finally called and the groups formed, she thought she would faint of nervous tension. However, when the topic of discussion was selected by drawing chits and it read “Women make better managers than men”, she found herself to be on home grounds. She spoke with zeal and substance, not aware that her nervousness had easily ebbed away and she was sailing familiar waters. She qualified. The final round, a personal interview, was a cakewalk. So, still dizzy with disbelief, she found herself, a month later, attending classes in the business school of her dreams.

Sonia had never had a single proper lunch in all the years of her life that were sketched within the easels of her memory. To her, lunch had been equivalent to a sandwich and coffee, at the most a plate of steaming idlis (rice and pulse mixture grinded and steamed with a touch of salt and spice). But then Sonia had never had anyone to cook her a warm meal at noon time. The aunt she lived with, who was a spinster, was off to work at 8 AM sharp, only to return late evening with a bag of some takeaway or the other. Home cooked dinners were random. Sunday was a luxury when her aunt made the effort of boiling some eggs and potatoes to go with buttered rice.

It was probably this very indifference towards food that propelled Sonia to start her own culinary experiments at the age of fourteen. By the time she was eighteen and had moved out to her undergrad hostel, she had mastered a variety of creative recipes, but her favourite was spicy north Indian. In spite of all this achievement, she still gave lunch a miss, it had almost become a ritual. And then, one day, on her fourth month after joining MBA, a friend pestered her to join a lunch party at the hostel canteen to celebrate India’s win in the first T-20 World cup cricket.

She had arrived a bit late, straight from her class on Industrial Relations, breathless and slightly wet from the untimely drizzle that had drenched the late summer morning. She had no time to change or apply a coat of minimal make-up that she did on such casual occasions. She just about managed to hustle into the hostel canteen as the wash basin there would save her the trouble of climbing up further three flights of stairs to her room. As she splashed the cool water on her face, taking care to remove the smudge of her black eye liner, her eyes, damp and slightly unfocussed, settled on another pair of eyes in the mirror above. Startled, and suddenly conscious of being caught in a private moment, she was frozen for a second. She fancied that she saw vivid humour in the eyes that looked back. And with the random trail of feelings it stirred, she ran out of the room, away in the warm sanctuary of sunlight. The erratic rain, having caused the intended disruptions, in the routine of life, had stopped.

Rahul’s story

He was almost as obsessive as he was brilliant. And when he made Sonia the object of his obsession, it took him around seven days to find out everything that was there to find out about a girl from a small town. She was the only child, parents divorced and both remarried; neither had kept any active involvement in her life. She was brought up by a disinterested aunt who neither loved nor hated her as she was indifferent to everything in life. Her father still sponsored most of her expenses which was not very much. She was shy, terrified of the big city, sincere in her academic pursuits, had two close female friends, and was a terrific cook. And she had no boyfriend. That was the story of Sonia Neogi, twenty two years of age, student of HRD.

Well it was another story that the female who everybody else perceived as average looking and a trifle too serious, was the most attractive woman he had ever set eyes on. Whenever he saw her....browsing through pages in the library, sharing a tea-break with her friend, rushing along between classes...hair unkempt and flying, it stirred a deep, primitive longing in him and he knew that if only she could someday belong to him, he would belong to life again.

Sonia’s story

Their date was strangely not over coffee or movie, it was over a book reading by an upcoming author whom both admired, in the local bookstore. It was followed by tea and bhel (salty rice crispies with dash of lime and seasonings). In fact it was hardly a date. When he had first made acquaintance with her during a student’s campaign for AIDS awareness, she had seen the mix of confidence and humour defining every bit of him. She had felt his easy charm embrace everyone within his periphery. She had noted, how all his friends worshipped him, and she had been fascinated, slightly frightened, and deeply attracted all at the same time. Now, close together, sitting across from him, sipping ginger tea, she was touched by the intensity of longing and passion in his eyes, in his voice, even though all they were discussing was a novel experiment of an unknown author whom nobody would read anyway.

She had never been a romantic. Life had always demanded of her to persevere in her efforts to earn a place, where she will not have to worry about sustenance. She had hoped that love might follow, eventually. But now, sharing an evening with a man she hardly knew, she discovered feelings deep within herself, which she could neither define, nor understand. Probably, it was only the magic of an enchanting twilit evening, or maybe the hangover of a stimulating discussion, but if he had proposed to her at that time and moment, she probably would have accepted.

Rahul’s Story

She was gone. Exactly one day after their first and only tentative date, she had been summoned by an urgent letter and left. That is all he could unearth from anyone. She had disappeared without an address or a number. Her first semester exams arrived and concluded. But when the marks were displayed on the notice board, there was no mention of Sonia Neogi.

He graduated from campus with top rank and got the best job. He threw a lavish party for all his friends. He spent a fortune on an endless fountain of beer and rum and vodka. They laughed and joked and toasted the night to the life of opportunities awaiting them. The life he would live, without Sonia.

to be continued............

Coffee and More

2011-01-05T03:45:00.000-08:00

This is the niche cafe that I frequent these days, now that I can afford it. Its ambience is subdued without being dull, the music filling the space without blocking the mind. This cafe has a selection of books (not glossy magazines) and a fairly comfortable range of sitting arrangements from the low divans to high backed chairs. My personal favourite of course is the huge single couch by the window, and when I find it already occupied I just prefer to sit cross-legged on the rug, by the bookshelf. And without doubt, they serve the very best cappuccino whose aroma fills my lungs with the love of life. They even do my initials with the creamy froth on top of my favourite beverage.

No-one bothers me here; the service is polite and thoughtful, yet discreet & unobtrusive. Being the loner I am, this cafe suits me perfectly.

As I take my first tentative sip of my cuppa of an Arabic coffee I am trying today, I happen to glance up and my eyes inadvertently & immediately collide with the eyes of a man I know I have seen before. He is amazingly good looking and I wonder why I have such a harsh feeling nagging at the back of my mind. He takes no notice of me and drags his attention back from me to read his newspaper.

I continue my love affair with my Cafe Arabica and Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Unaccustomed Earth” but my mind is restless today. Somebody shouts from across the room giving specific instructions for her Eskimo Mocha. This disturbs everybody as such outbursts are deplorable given the overall ambience of the place. Then it strikes me, a gush of memories not so very long ago. Seems like yesterday.

We were doing our graduation and always hung out in a gang. One of our favourite hang outs was ‘Hari Kripa’, a modest coffee joint if you could call it that. It was actually just a shabby garage converted to a tea and coffee and snacks outlet with a few creaky wooden benches & tables without cloth thrown in. The place reverberated all the time with the non-stop chatter and laughter of college going students like us whose never ending appetite combined with meagre pocket money kept them permanently bonded with precisely such a haven.

She was a frequenter too, the girl with the most outrageously indecent sense of wardrobe and the loud irritatingly shrill voice. She would come in flaunting her handsome (too good to be true) boyfriend. It was not meant to be a secret that they were having a roaring affair which was most unfair to girls like me who were still unattached and prided ourselves with better taste in life than that bitch. Well, I say ‘bitch’ because we all called her that behind her back, not just because we were jealous sick (which was true) but also because she deserved it. Not once did she miss a chance to humiliate and taunt us, she would scream and bark orders at the poor waiters all the time and at one instance I distinctly remember her hurling her plate at a trembling new boy whose first day it was just because he had served her table last. So ‘bitch’ sounded good and how we all waited for her boyfriend to finally realise the universal truth and dump her!

Sometimes unspoken thoughts come to life and unbelievable dreams come true, but why does it happen to be the wrong ones? We all had finished our last exam that day, which was statistics practical and had come to ‘Hari Kripa’ to let down our hair, relax, gossip, argue.....the usual. The head waiter Motilal came to our table grinning from ear to ear and barely managing to conceal his excitement; he whispered in a hoarse confidential tone that the boyfriend had at last ditched her. It seems according to reliable sources (this was declared triumphantly as if our Motilal was the only person who had relied on such inevitable turn of events) that he had actually being using her throughout just to entice and seduce her friend ( it seems she actually had one) and having achieved his target, he has forgotten her very existence and did not even think it necessary to inform her. He belonged to a different class, a league above her. She had served his purpose and he had no further use of her.

Time passed. We saw no more of the girl or her Greek God (ex) and found new ways to entertain ourselves, new people, events, and ideas to talk about. One day, around three months later, while waiting for a bus, I saw her again at the bus-stop. She had been crying. Since she was alone at the stop before I came, she had made no effort to conceal her tears, and even after I arrived, and stood silently praying and willing my bus to arrive fast, she still cried......like a baby. I don’t think she was even aware of my presence. I followed her gaze inside the gift shop window across from the bus-stop and saw the handsome face weaving his charm on a petite girl with lovely hair (I could just see her back) I don’t know why my heart broke then. I guess I had not realised that she had been actually in love. Just because she was cheap, promiscuous, ill-spoken, ill-mannered, it had been very easy for me to discard her affair, very difficult to accept that love is, after all love, no matter who feels it. This girl did, with her heart and soul. Her man clearly didn’t. He had opened the envelope and discarded it without thought, once its served its purpose.

I drain my Arabica and get up. I drag myself back to the present; I have a client to meet in half an hour. As I pay my bill and get up, I feel his eyes look me up. This time, he does notice me, he smiles......charisma overflowing. I am sure he attracts many others who are mesmerised by that charm. They stare at him, waiting to engage his look. I head for the door and just as the attendant wishes me a good day (which he always does), I am driven by a deep primitive impulse and throwing away in one shot all the accumulated esteem and affluence of the intervening years which had made me graduate from ‘Hari Kripa’ to 'Cafe Sunshine’, I turn back and looking straight into his eyes I yell out ‘Fucking bastard!’

As I walk out into the blazing summer afternoon, leaving behind forever a shocked, scandalised sanctuary, I am sure I hear that innocent girl sitting by the window mutter under her breath “What a bitch”!

A Night of Dreams

2011-01-04T03:11:00.000-08:00

The headlines screamed out from the front page of the newspaper : " NOTORIOUS SMUGGLER AND KEY AIDE TO ABU RAJAN GANG KILLED LAST NIGHT IN SPECIAL ENCOUNTER" and under the caption, a black & white close up of the dreaded (now dead) man.

She stared for an eternity.......the caption playing & replaying in her head, begging for meaning. The letters coiled and recoiled in a blur of questions, her focus on the slightly distorted image....the face that was crystal clear in her mind where it had been captured and held for seven long years.

It was raining that night, business was low. The barowner was trying to engage all his efforts to ensure that the handful of patrons stayed on long enough to cover the night & its losses. Two semi-clad girls in their late teens were swaying to a sleazy number, glancing coyly at the drunk red eyes of the few men lustily swallowing every move of their body. That is when she was sent by the manager, to the foor, to sizzle the night and ensure that the glasses kept on filling.

She struck the perfect posture, flashed the enticing smile, made the most suggestive moves all accumulated results of hours of punishing practice in front of one cracked mirror. She was engaged for the kill, feet tapping, arms lifting, torso bending, in just the right angles. It was then that she felt his eyes looking at her from a corner away from most of the other men, a solitary figure among the shadows. She had the distinct sensation of his eyes engaging hers, he was not staring, just embracing her with his look. She wondered if it was a dream, for what else could it be? And barely conscious of what she was doing, she dropped her practiced perfection and became herself, her most seductive self. She danced like a wild peacock oblivious to the hungry night. Tonight she was Cinderella and he was her Prince. It was a dance of courtship, to attract her mate, a dance without inhibitions.....or vulgarity.

It was still raining when he took her out for a walk to Marine Drive. The barowner was beside himself with joy at the sudden turn of fortune, for all his worries have been swept away with one great stroke of good fortune. He even managed to sing an urdu couplet to the few remaining men, all too stoned to hear anything, with the effect of declaring that when the Almighty chooses to give, he bestows his worshippers with both hands.

They walked in the rain, with easy, relaxed steps. They talked. She spoke animatedly of movies she had seen and actors she admired. At one point he sang a couple of lines from her favourite movie song and tried a little jig. They laughed. Her feet ached, so he hailed a tanga (horse-cart) that usually ply for tourists whole night all along the Queen's Necklace. He bought her spicy pani-puris (crispy wafer balls filled with pungent tamarind & mint water) and iced lollies from a midnight vendor. She was the queen tonight.

They drank hot cutting chai (Mumbai special tea) from a stall by the pavement just as the night of dreams was pushed away by the inevitable, interfering rays of dawn. It had stopped raining. He had paid a fortune for one night with her and his time had run out. They parted.

For a long, long time afterwards she wondered what had made her accept the generous tip from the manager to spend a night with a stranger. She was an elite bar dancer, not a prostitute. She willed herself to bellieve that she had to worry about her rent, her son's school fees, but she knew that was not the reason. It was just that for the first time in her endlessly meaningless life someone had looked into her, a look whose intensity had transformed her from being an object to be enjoyed to being a very special woman to be cherished.

He had never touched her that night, neither did he buy her a gift to be kept and treasured. All she had with her was the experience to be savoured timelessly.

And as she sat staring into those eyes, the black and white image looked back into her. Somewhere in the background it must have started to rain for she could faintly hear or maybe feel the cool drops....she was not sure and she vaguely realised for the first time that she had never asked him his name.