Bringing up Dad...!!

Yes, I had a tough time bringing him up and he has still not grown.



He thinks otherwise. He feels, I have not grown yet and addresses me as he used to, when I was a skinny, worm-infested, thin-armed 8 year old boy.

‘Chhilkaa...!’(Hindi: छिलका), that’s how he addresses me even now. In presence of my wife, my children and my in-laws, he addresses me as ‘Chhilka’. He meant that I was not skinny, but was a skin...! does he still think the same about his 74 kilos, 43 years small little boy? We need to ask him.

We need to ask him many things. One day I will, surely and tell him how tough it was to bring him up.

When I was a child, Babu (as I address my father) embarrassed me when he arrived at the Parents’-Teachers’ meeting in his blue factory worker suit, straight from his factory, riding his heavy Hercules bi-cycle, which had a black hard seat with no cover. And in the campus of the posh Saint Thomas High School, Babu became very prominent among the cars and two-wheeler owners. I often would refuse to accompany him around the school but then he would pull me by my ears and insist that I take him to the teachers. He never grew up!

Sometimes he visited my friends’ house along with me. I was embarrassed when he would sip the tea out of the saucer with a blissful ‘Sllllrupppp’ sound! So embarrassed I would be that I would pretend to be making that awful sound, just to make my friends and their families believe that I was the one who was ‘unpolished’ between the two.

Babu is an efficient and a very careful buyer. No, actually, I think he is obsessed with reading whatever is printed on the packing material. He would go through the MRP, date of Manufacture, Weight etc of a product t start with, next he would read the composition carefully and then the manufacturers. And he mastered the art. So much so that if you offered to try a new detergent, he would as well say that the new product also contains the same amount of Sodium tri polyphosphate but is costlier by Rs 16 and weighs actually 25 gm less! That was his accuracy. But that sometimes irritated me. When I would be down with fever, he would often prescribe the medicines by the Chemical Composition and I would fumble at the rack, looking for the right medicine bottle. He would also pick up un-read packets straight from the kitchen dustbin and dispose them only after he had memorised whatever was printed on those. No packing material could escape the scanning by Babu. He has not grown up from that too.

During the winters, he would often wear a simple shawl while chatting with the neighbours. At some point of time, in between, his eyes would fall on the antique Celsius thermometer hung above the equally antique television. Babu would look at the temperature and start feeling the chill; and then he would cover himself up with pull-over, socks, gloves and a grey monkey cap.

He did not have mercy on me when he met my Tamil girl friend. “Oh you are a Dravidian...” my wise Babu nodded. And then to my utter disgust, he continued, “So you worship Ravan and curse Ram?” Now, where from he had gathered the idea, I had no knowledge but surprisingly my girl friend and Babu struck instant rapport so much that anyone would doubt that Babu was the Ravan and this Dravidian worshipped him! He said yes to the matrimony and I got married to my Tamil girl friend. My Babu informed the relatives, “My daughter-in-law is from Tamil Nadu, which is a place in Madras.”

He continued to embarrass me by emerging out of the bathroom in his small towel, even in presence of my newly-wed bride! He managed to cook the most inedible stuff and praise his own skills. He even narrated to my wife, how he had caught me kissing the neighbourhood curly haired girl, when I was just 7.

“Did you HAVE to tell her that?” I confronted. To that the proud, broad-chested Babu answered, “So what! I have narrated this to your in-laws also!”

Surprisingly my wife and Babu have been the best of pals. To me he is still the merciless Babu who, according to me, left no stone un-turned to mortify me!

But then, I understand certain things now. I understand that Babu did not waste time to go home and get dressed in his best for my Parents’-Teachers’ meeting. He did not do it to avoid any pending work after the factory hours. He did not do it, so that he could be home on time, to look after me. To look after my food, to look after my studies.

With his meagre earning, he saved enough to send me to the best school in town and pay for my higher studies and build a cosy home for me. He cooked nutritious, however inedible food for me, played in the rain with me, taught me the bi-cycle, bought me the motor-bike and got me married to the girl I loved. He raised me, singly.

Yes, I understand certain things now. The blissful sound while sipping the tea was the result of the painful mouth ulcers he constantly had. He took care not to hurt his open ulcers and practically sucked the tea out of the saucer instead of sipping it. He was over-worked and poorly nourished and that’s why he always had those ulcers, the doctors said.

He was careful to save every extra penny to make my life better, I know now. I understand his wry sense of humour and understand why he has such a good rapport with my in-laws and my friends.
Babu is still the way he was. Today, when my children invite him to watch the old Bollywood songs on You-Tube, my Babu still writes a post-card to Vividh-Bharti to listen to his favourite numbers on Manchahi geet! And I must admit, all of us jump with excitement when Babu’s favourite Neemi Mishra on Vividh Bharti calls out, “Bokaro se Shri Jagadish Kumar ne Abhi toh main jawan hoo..sunnaa chaha hain...”

Yes, when we have an old baby like my Babu, who needs a grown up Dad anyway?

After all....
Zaheed yun hi badnaam hai
Gham se tujhe kyaa kaam hai
Yeh muskuraati zindagi
Zindaa dili ka naam hai
Dil dil se muskuraaye ja
Kuchh gaaye ja, bal-khaaye ja
Abhi to main jawaan hoon
Abhi toh main jawaan hoo


Anindita Baidya

Photograph: From Internet

Ek lamha, lautaa hai bechaaraa...

A poet and philosopher once mused, “Let go off the object of your love. If it comes back to you, it was always yours, if it doesn’t, it never was yours!” The poet, however, refrained from mentioning the time. When, when will it come back? How long will it take? Once the sun goes down, or after spending hundred moonlit nights of longing and pain or when the darkest hour of the night gives way to the first ray of light? When, when will it return?

Life and love travel on parallel paths, Ruhaani had learnt. Life had taken her hands sternly and led her way to a different path. The wounds she had secured for herself lay deep inside and not even a scar was visible.

How long would have she waited for that wandering bird?

Should she open the doors to a new ray of the sun or keep the darkness as a veil over her? She was posed with difficult choices to make, neither of them being even one bit easy.

She got no chance to answer or choose, though. In three years after her wanderer had left, she crossed the seas and built a new nest on a new branch.
Mrs Ruhaani Naqvi. She lived her life in Adelaide, was a doting mother and was Wasim’s love, life and wife.

She had crossed the seas, having taken away from the busy city of Lucknow, leaving behind the letters, photograph and memory of Amar, her wanderer, as she had named her.

But after thirty years, she returned. To Lucknow, to her home land. Her childhood memories played before her eyes and her youth still lingered around the courtyard of the old house. The laughter, the tears, the sound of the wedding band, all lived through, even though the moments had gone away!

And her love? Her wanderer? She had no clue. But she had one desire. The return to this familiar land had triggered familiar waves of craving in her heart. As if, a drop of rain had fallen on a parched piece of land and the little seeds inside sprouted to life.

She did not know why she planned a visit to that Old Boys’ Hostel, Room no 13 in the Engineering College. Just once. She warned herself, “Just Once.”

Thankfully the hostel was closed for the Summer Vacation. Ruhaani negotiated with the Security Officer and got a permission to visit Room No 13, for half an hour. And thus she went ahead.

As her feet treaded that path, moments hidden in oblivion thirty years ago, sprung into life, one by one. She touched a Vinca plant. The lost moments were still lying there. Picking up the lost moments, she went into the room

And there she froze for eternity. “Wanderer..!” she muttered, “Yes, here you sat and looked surprised when one day I walked into your room, demanding why you had just stopped sending me the letters. But I could not question you. Just looking at you I would always forget what I had in mind. So deep would be my trance that I could not even remember your face once I returned home. Why did that happen to me? But that day, I spent an hour with you. Thanks to the rain outside, I had to wait longer before bidding you good bye.”

Ruhaani sat for sometime in the neatly made bed. It did not belong to any student now and that is why she was allowed to make a visit to this room. Co-incidence? Or did fate know that she would return?

Ruhaani could almost see Amar in the yellow T-shirt and Black denim, sitting beside her. She found that the hours, days and years had ticked away but the moments were still scattered across the room, on Amar’s table, on Amar’s floor, on her fingers, on her hair. She could almost see the music system speaker which the budding engineer had made out of two earthen-pitchers.

She had never met Amar after that day. That was the day when the harsh reality was finally condensed in his dew laden words. That was the day when Amar said that he never thought of building a nest; he was all ready to fly over lanes, meadows and oceans, all alone.

Nest! Ruhaani had, but built a glass castle in her dreams. Amar’s words had broken her trance and with it broke the glass castle into thousand pieces and she stood on them, her feet bruised, bleeding and hurt. She had herself treaded on her own dreams.
Her spell was broken by the ring of her mobile phone. She suddenly found it too loud. Only half aware still, Ruhani picked up the phone. Aashif was on the line. She had planned this rendezvous with her lost moments, taking Aashif into confidence. Her friend, confidant, angel, Aashif had dropped her at the hostel gate before proceeding towards the railway station to pick up Wasim.

“Yes Aashif,” Ruhaani, now back to her full consciousness, said.
“Ammi, come to the gate, I have arrived. Abbu and I are waiting for you at the car.”
And Ruhaani proceeded homewards, with her family.



Anindita Baidya
Photographs: from the internet

I love him....and he does not like Sambhar....!

....so what? The yet-to-be married would question! Love will anchor you, what does Sambhar have to do when there is love? It has to. The married friends may agree.

I am Meenakshi, A Tam-Brahm (Tamil Brahmin) born in Tirunelvali, nurtured within a joint family, nourished with love, care, Karnatic music and Sambhar. Do not misunderstand me; I do not go about talking about my caste and religion to everyone I meet. But for the benefit of the story, I have to.

Well, after completing my BA in my home town, I proceeded to Mumbai for an MA and then my life changed forever.

There I met Shubhro, an aspiring Bengali architect and fell in love with him. And married him. So do I say, “Aur khatam ho gayee story?” No Friends, my story begins here.

Before the wedding, I often visited Madhu and Keshav, my friends, who were already married. I shared my deepest secrets, wildest dreams and worst fears with them. I also remember saying, “Shubhro and I think alike. We have no difference, except for the difference in food taste.” Madhu warned, “Wait and see how that difference proves to be a larger than life one!” I ignored her. Love will sail us through, I convinced myself!

After the marriage, I visited my in-laws’ rural household at Bardhaman. Relatives from far and near arrived to meet the MADRASI bahu.

“I am not from Madras, you see!” I tried to explain, “I am from Tirunelveli!” To that, the elder ladies said, “Oi holo...” which translated literally, implies, “It is all the same, dear!” but the attitude was more of, “Who cares...” and I was hurt! But then, to them, Madras was a Geographical area in the south India, which contained in itself, Karnataka, Kerala, Andhra...whatever. And residents of these areas, Madrasis.

But the younger generation listened to the interesting stories of my hometown and the young girls were interested in the herbal paste I used for bath and the saris I wore.

My palate was in for a shock, for sure. I have been a pure vegetarian throughout my life and here I was in a household where not one vegetarian meal could be thought of. If I chose only dal-chawal, there was the fish head in the dal and if I chose curry, I found shrimps with bottle gourd.

But my considerate in-laws helped me tide over those days and took extra care to prepare special vegetarian dishes for me but in that one month at Bardhaman, my tongue started tingling for tamarind taste.

Back in Mumbai after the holiday, I was on my own to cook whatever I liked and live as I wanted to. Or so I thought!

I was by then getting used to sharing a bed with another person; I was also, after a few protests getting used to Shubhro waking up in the morning and switching off the fan before leaving the room! He would often forget, he explained, that there was someone else in the room too!

My culinary skills were ready for the new challenge. So day after day I would prepare the best of Sambhar, rasam, curries but I also noticed that day after day Shubhro’s appetite was decreasing.


The cat was let out slowly. He did not enjoy Sambhar, he said. Ok, so I cooked Sambhar for myself and made dal for him, but he wanted Masoor dal, he said. So I had to cook two different dals.

I had decided to be a full-time home manager and thus took over the entire job of managing the household and kitchen on my own. So, Shubhro, once a great cook, as claimed by him, had to remain out of my work-station.

So began our new life with our new journey. I could not figure out why he wanted that sugar and cardamom in the potato curry and he was shocked to find that the spinach was put into dal, he wanted it dry, he said. Now that I had the control of the kitchen, my Shubhro craved for fish, which by default was not brought in.

Gradually my work space was expanded to accommodate Shubho and his fish. He was not much of a meat-eater and about eggs, I had no problem in boiling one or two for his breakfast which satisfied him. But fish was an integral part of his life and now that I was also an integral part of him, he was faced with difficult choice to make!

My wise mother-in-law once narrated a small piece, in praise of the favourite Ilish (Hilsa) and Bengali’s love for it. She said, according to them, “The Himalayas lie at the summit of the earth, on the Himalayas, sits the Lord Shiva, from his head (summit) flows The Ganges and on the Ganges is the Ilish.” So, the Ilish is above all; above caste, creed, religion, sex. Thank you Ilish for delivering the message of equality among us.

This piece of wisdom dawned upon me and I thus welcomed the fish inside my kitchen. After all, Shubhro had never had a meal without fish and how could I expect him to do so, now?

So, gradually peace was restored. He of course enjoyed the idli-chutney as much as I loved the loochi (Poori). He enjoyed the aroma of filter coffee in the early morning and loved the lingering aroma of sandal wood paste in our bath room. Whenever I was down with the cold and flu, Shubhro would prepare a hot rasam and pamper me! But he could not develop any affinity for my humble sambhar and I continued running for life whenever the fish was fried in the mustard oil. Now that was double offence: fish and then the mustard oil!

There were some other differences which we never spoke about to each other too. I would often wish that he would read with me, Eric Segal, after dinner and he remained stuck to my Sauten, the television. I sulked for a few days and when I confronted, he said, how he wished I watch the Indiana Jones series sitting by his side! Oh, both of us had hidden wishes which never were vocalised.

“Shout at each other but don’t sulk!” Madhu and Keshav advised us and we immediately complied.

So amidst our agreement on quarrels, dislikes, differences, we also discovered how similarly we thought about our future, how alike we were in thoughts about what our children should watch on TV and we had no differences while deciding that both his and my parents should be with us at their old age. We shared the same passion for music, only if, he said, I could understand the Rabindra-sangeet he sung for me, I wished he understood Thiruvasagam lyrics but we enjoyed music so Tagore or Thiruvasagam, we drowned ourselves in the ocean of bliss!

And the roads we treaded may be similar to the ones most of the couples have done but for us, it was for the first time.



Two weeks from now, we will be celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary. We have two beautiful angelic children. My daughter is a prodigy in Karnatic music while my son does the honours for his dad, cooking up the best of fish-dishes. He aspires to be a cook, he says.

No I do not eat or cook fish yet. But I love this fish-eater called my husband. And well, he continues disliking Sambhar till date.......










Photo from internet

इकरार

आईना देखकर शरमा गई
जैसे किसी ने कुछ दर्ज़ किया
चेहरे पर, कोई ग़ज़ल

पैर जैसे आसमाँ पर
मन सपनों के डेरे में

आपके सवाल का क्या करूँ?
कहाँ रखूँ इसे?

सर पे बिठाऊँ,
हथेली में छुपा लूँ,
या आँखों में बसा लूँ इसे?

ज़रा रोक कर तेज़ धड़कन को,
ज़रा साँसों को थाम कर,
लो.. जवाब देती हूँ मैं,


हाँ, मैं बनूंगी जीवन-संगिनी तुम्हारी....



04 November 2011
Anindita

Photograph: From Internet

धीरे चलो.....

जितनी भड़कती है चिनगारी
उतना जलता है आशियाना
भर जाने पर पानी बहुत
रिस जाता है मिट्टी का टीला

छलक जाता है पैमाना
गर भर जाए ज़रूरत से ज़्यादा

थक जाओगे अगर दौड़ो
इस तेज़ी से तुम
ज़रा मध्यम रहे
कदम तुम्हारे, दोस्त!


कि ज़िन्दा रहे देर तक
ज़िन्दादिली तुम्हारी
और थके नहीं आँखें
रास्ते की लम्बाई को देखकर


Anindita
Written on 16.11.96


Photograph: From Internet

My humble salutation to Gurudev

On the occasion of his 150th Birth Anniversary, I gathered up enough courage to write some lines. I am too small to write anything about Gurudev so I decided to pen down only about my experience with Gurudev’s works.

I was introduced to Gurudev when I was a baby. I knew him as the man with interesting hairstyle, a long beard and intense eyes, in that large photograph in the drawing room of our quarter at Ranchi. That photograph never ceased to send some waves of awe as well as fear, perhaps because of that long beard. I remember a dream when I was a child; I dreamt that Baba and I were onboard a bus and he pointed towards a person saying, “Look, Rabindranath is travelling in the same bus” and I saw this man with that same long beard, counting some cash! I talked about my strange dream in the morning and my Ma only smiled.

Later, Gurudev came into life in the form of institutionalised, organised music school affiliated to the Rabindra Bharati. However, even before that, I was already growing up fantasising holidays as ‘Aaj dhaaner khete, rodru chhayaaye...” and admiring the mystery of ‘Aalo amaar aalo’., courtesy my mother. And my music teacher introduced me further into Rabindrasangeet.

At that age, I did not quite understand the meaning of those lyrics. ‘Aamraa shobaai raja..’ for me, was a beautiful, enjoyable song, the notations being simple, in Daadra tal which could for sure fetch me a distinction at the exam. However, my first song in presence of a crowd, I remember, was ‘Tumi kemon kore gaan koro hey guni!’ during my Part I examination when I was very small. The examiner and the room full of examinees appreciated my song. My last song sung in an exam was ‘Chorono dhoritey diyo go amaare...’ about 23 years ago! Everyone will agree that this is not an easy song to sing! With mind occupied with not missing the rhythm, following the tabla, I had sung it with low self confidence!

The best part of Rabindrasangeet to me, has been the Sanchari; I just loved the change in the tune and the graveness of the Sanchari. Be it, ‘Chomokibe phaagunero pobone...’ or ‘Chiro-pipaashito baashonaa bedonaa...’, I just loved to repeat the Sanchari again and again.

My academics changed into love, dedication and worship only after my vagabond spirit was released from the boundaries of organised learning. Strangely, only after I stopped taking lessons in music that I started enjoying it.

From songs, I was introduced to Gurudev’s dance-drama and of course poetry.

But Gurudev as the philosopher, I recognised only after I started my job-life. When life had rendered to me some share of sadness and happiness, loss as well as benevolence, I took a quiet shelter in his works.

During difficult days at work, Gurudev’s works based on the Upanishad were my source of sustenance. I went to work after listening to ‘Shobaaro majhaare tomaare sheekaar koribo hey...’, I marvelled at the infinity of the cosmic power with ‘Bhubono joraa aashono khaani...’, I gathered strength with, ‘Aamaar poraan binaaye ghumiye aache Amrito-gaan...’.

What attracted me most was that Gurudev’s writings on the Almighty never described any form; Almighty was not a man or a woman, not even a human form. The unending power was described as ‘Groho-taaroko chandro topono, byakulo druto bege, koriche snaano, koriche paano, Akkhyo kironey...’. Almighty was a ‘Satya-sundoro’.

Gurudev’s works helped me tide over my father’s death when I understood that death is the beginning of an eternal bliss with the ever present stream of light. ‘Amar ei deho khaani tule dhoro, tomaar ei devalay e prodeep koro..’ and thus I let go off my father knowing that one day I will also be one with that light!

At the border of India and Pakistan at Wagah, I once stood, questioning what made human beings divide and harvest aggression when we all are same. Gurudev’s words, ‘..where the world has not been broken into fragments by narrow domestic walls....’ strengthened my thoughts and I believed that I was not wrong!

Gurudev has thus been in every nuance that life has offered. What could be more passionate than ‘Momo hridayo rokto-raage tobo chorono diyechi raangiyaa’ and ‘......tobo odhoro ekechi shudha-bishe mishe momo shukho-dukho bhangiyaa’.

What could be a more retiring submission than, ‘Nijo haatey tumi gete niyo haar, phelonaa amaare chhhoraaye...!’

I had sung this song 23 years ago with a low confidence, in presence of the examiner but today when I stand before no examiner but only before the Almighty, tears do not stop while humming, ‘Bikaaye, bikaaye dino aaponaare, paari na phiritey duyaare duyaare..’ when I am tired but then Gurudev is there to lift up the spirit with, ‘Klaanti amaar khoma koro Prabhu..’

So here I am, in full awe and inspiration with Gurudev but not one bit of ability to write about the great Philosopher.

In love, worship, music, prayer and life’s rhythm, my humble salutation to GURUDEV!

बन्दगी

हो इबादत ऐसी मेरी
कि जुस्तजु न हो पूरी
रहूँ तेरी तलाश में हर पल
यह प्यास रहे यूँ अधुरी

तु नूर है या है हवा
तु मुझमें है तो मैं कौन हूँ?
दोस्त है क्या, रक़ीब कौन है?
तु हर चीज़ में है तो ग़ैर कौन है?

इन्हीं सवालों से रहे हर पल
शाद-शाद मेरी बन्दगी
हज़ारों सवाल, कई जवाबों से
रहे यूँ आबाद मेरी ज़िन्दगी


Anindita Baidya
5 May 2011

Photograph: from internet

My Clay Dolls...

When you broke my clay dolls, I cried. I cried and cried till you made me new ones and then two of us coloured those in orange and blue. We spent the sunny afternoons in the shade of the banyan tree, with you teaching me the art of playing marbles.

You trained me in riding the bicycle and nursed me when I injured myself after falling from the towering big black Hercules. You carried my school bag and gave me your water bottle when I distributed my water among friends.


You held me in your arms when I cried for Ma while she was admitted in the hospital, while having our little twin brothers and when Ma got busy with the twins, you suddenly became my world and sky.


And I grew up, with you and like you. Everyone says I look, behave and think like you.

But years and space, like a broadening canal, have made you and me so far away from each other.

I long for you yet cannot see you. I want you to witness my new life, yet you are not around.

I still have, close to my heart, held my clay dolls and want you to see the changed colour.

Who will help me if I break my clay dolls again?

Big brother, come back...please come back in my life once again!

JHUGGI......

When he was being born, his mother faced complications; there was no medical assistance and despite everyone’s apprehensions and fear, he took birth, on his own, as they say. Therefore, he was named ‘Doctor’.

Doctor was one of the few children I met in one of the ‘Palnaghars’ (crèches) run by a local NGO. Doctor was a four year old child, whose mother worked at the nearby brick kilns and other construction sites. Doctor had never seen his father. In fact after his mother was two months pregnant, she never saw her husband. Some said that he had fled to the faraway Middle east, others said that he had died in some accident, yet some said that he had re-married and settled in Mumbai. Whatever the explanations were, Doctor’s mother had to keep the wheels rolling and the hearth, burning; so she moved on.

Many children, living in the Adarsh nagar slum were not as lucky as Doctor to spend the daytime at a crèche. Doctor’s neighbour, 10 year old, Pikloo did not go to the crèche. He spent the mornings at a local school and during the afternoons, he was on his own, sometimes playing with his mates near the railway track with marbles or sometimes peeping into Usha aunty’s shack , to watch the programmes in the portable black and white TV.

Unlike Pikloo’s elder two sisters, he did not go for daily wage. He went to school. His parents worked hard and dreamed that one day Pikloo will earn enough to have a better house and a decent life. They, however, did not have any dreams for their two daughters. They are much too afraid to entertain any dream for the girls.

Doctor’s mother, Pikloo’s parents, Usha aunty and her husband had all arrived from the neighbouring villages with the hope that a city life will give them all that their small land in the villages did not give. In return, they lost their peace, privacy and security. Usha aunty remembers, in the village they lived, she never had to worry about carrying her husband to the hospital; whenever he was sick, there were neighbours or relatives taking turns to be with her husband.

Usha aunty reached the city in search of a better earning, after selling off the little land to pay for her perpetually ill husband’s treatment.

And what have Pikloo and his sisters lost? Much more than just their childhood! The ten year old Pikloo is a witness to the drama of a cruel life being staged at the Adarsh Nagar Slum. In the one room hut that the entire family shares, Pikloo has witnessed the daily quarrels between his parents, he has overheard his parents blaming the Government, cursing the school-teacher, hating the municipality and above all, cursing God!

Pikloo knows that Mahee maasi in one of the huts is seriously ill and bedridden. He also knows that her entire family was very ashamed of her illness and so had left her suffering here, alone. Mahee maasi’s husband also abused her; beat her up before he left the slum. Pikloo has witnessed where from Usha aunty earns the money for her husband’s treatment. He knows what happens when, in the dark vigil of night, heavy trucks stop at the highway far away and he knows why Usha aunty goes out of her hut then.

Pikloo’s mother sometimes says that they will place him for adoption. About that, Pikloo has big dreams and small hopes! He visualises himself, being adopted by some affluent businessman and his wife, whom he will un-reluctantly accept as ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy’; he visualises that one day he will return to the slum, just to meet his family, wearing red-black striped shirt and knee-length denim with six pockets. He will arrive in a car and while his Mummy and Daddy will wait near the car, he will slowly approach his ‘old’ house and meet his family. His old friends and neighbours will gather to see the affluent businessman’s son as he will take out little gifts for everybody; wrist watches for his sisters, a sari for mother and a nice white shirt for father.

And what do Pikloo’s sisters dream? They often, in their dreams, travel to their village, in the shelter of the unending blue sky and the banyan tree where they have left their clay dolls. They long to return to that land to complete the unfinished play....


Photographs: fron internet

Shubho Nababorsho

A very happy new year to all my friends.

As we enter into the 1418th Bangla year, my memory takes me to my childhood days spent at Ranchi. Memories of those days linger even today and trigger a nostalgic vein......!

Nababarsha usually would also arrive with the worries of terminal exams. Nevertheless, the joy of New Year surpassed all worries, pain and trouble.

Those days, I vividly remember, as the eyes would open on the New Year morning, the mind would sing to itself, “Aajke poila boishaakh” or ‘Today is 1st Baisakh”. This phrase, in subconscious mind, I would keep repeating throughout the day. Parents and elder cousins had taught us that 1 Boishaakh is “Poila Boishaakh” and not “Aeklaa boishaakh”.

Those days, we did not splurge on dresses like we do now. We would have new dresses thrice a year: during the New Year, Birthday and Durga Puja and so the occasions were very special. And for the New Year, Ma and Baba would buy me the summery, light cotton frocks, usually the embroidered pastel coloured ones. My parents would also, sometimes, end up buying only the necessary new school shirt or may be a night suit. So, we would get what was needed not what we fancied and we were okay with it.

We went to school on New Year day and throughout the day the mood would be in the highest spirit. During the evenings, we would gather at the humble Bijoya Sammelaan and fulfill it with pranam to the elders, some music, recitation (aabriti) and yummy snacks.

I also spent a couple of New Years at Kolkata where we visited our friendly jewellers for ‘Haal-khaataa’ or the opening of new books of accounts. We would return home with packets of mishti (sweets) and a brand new calendar, neatly rolled and tied with coloured rubber bands. I remember how crazy mother was about New Bangla Calendars and Ponjika (Panchaang).

On returning home, we would retire to bed only after writing the letters to our relatives, “Shubho Naboborsher Pronaam jeno”. The habit of writing these letters on New Year and Viajaya Dashami kept alive the practice of Bangla.

Times have changed and celebrations have changed. My senses still long for the feel and scent of a new crisp cotton dress, the spring air, the exam fever and to top it all, the aroma of special delicacies prepared by Ma on New Year.

Memories remain, years roll by...!

In memory and in celebration, Shubho Nababarsha to all my friends...

Aaloo ka chaaloo beta!

Aaloo ka chaaloo beta Kaha gaye the Bandar kee jhopdi mein So rahe the

So, the humble Aaloo finds a place even in the child’s nursery rhymes. The aaloo, king of vegetables has secured a place in the palate for itself which no other vegetable has.

The well-read will argue that potato is no vegetable. Solanum tuberosum is a tuber, a (subterranean) stem modification. To that, okay, I agree. But that does not lessen the Aloo’s importance one inch.

Be it aloo-gobi, aloo-paneer, aaloo-baigaan, aaloo-karela, aloo-palak, aaloo-methi, Aaloo is like the quintessential Naapit (barber) who is present at every occasion, be it a mundan, sacred thread, a marriage, a shradhh or a pind-daan! We Bengalis will even never miss putting large pieces of Aaloos in chicken, mutton, eggs and biryani.

And Aaloo can thrive on its own too; which soul in the world does not relish jhooro-jhooro aaloo bhaja to go with dal on a Bengali dining table to Aaloo kee sabji for the pooris to sirf aaloo for Upvaas to the French Fry at Mc Donalds?

However, friends, Aaloo also has also witnessed some regional preferences. While my trainees from the Southern part of the Vindyas complain about the (over)usage of Aaloo in the canteen, “Madam, too much Aaloo, Gas...” , those arriving from the Northern side look for Aaloo in every recipe.

Nevertheless, aloo is here, they say from the Western World and is here to stay. If the list of curries is not enough, look for the aaloo in all the delectable morning breakfast items to snacks to dinner preparations. From Aloo-paratha to samosa, vada paav, gol gappa, aloo-kaabli...what could we have done without aaloo!

A Ghost in a bowl..!

Ever since childhood, my curiosity about ghosts has never been satiated. As I grew, my search also grew and I devoured ghost stories and mystery TV serials.

I never had known that I would have a personal experience of a ghost until I reached a small hamlet in the Yavatmal district in Maharashtra, for my Summer placement.

My story will not do justice to my friend if I do not offer him the credit for all the experience I had!

Two of us, the aspiring Rural Development professionals reached Wardha and from there, to this hamlet. We mingled with the community and instantly struck a rapport with the staff at a training centre in the village.

One day, one of the staff, whom I will refer to as Didi, in the rest of this note, narrated to me her experience of Planchet, or inviting the spirit of a deceased person. I was immediately interested and my friend had glow in his eyes, thinking of the experience we would have.

So one sunny, sleepy afternoon, after we had finished the day’s work, we found a quiet room and a corner for the needful. We shut the door and except for a small opening (the ventilator), we shut all other openings.

In the now dark room, Didi wrote the alphabets A to Z and the numbers 1 to 10, on a small low wooden rectangular stool. Then in the centre, she placed a small steel bowl and asked us to put our index fingers on it. Having done that, she asked us whom we would like to invite. Our minds wandered from grandparents to National heroes to filmy personalities and at the end, she decided about a local lady, who, Didi said, was a very good person, which meant, that she would not be aggressive during the planchet!

So, she started inviting her, speaking in Marathi but even after a few minutes, nothing happened.

I could already feel a cold finger down my spine and was completely frozen but when nothing happened, I joked, “The lady must have been a fat person and therefore, her spirit is unable to enter through that small ventilator”, to which, Didi took huge offense and ordered me to shut up.

It took so much time that I almost lost my interest and was no more afraid.

And then, suddenly, the bowl moved!

Three of us were aghast, surprised and for the first few seconds, could not speak anything. My throat was parched by then, with fear. Didi asked a few questions and my friend followed. Then it was my turn.

The first question I asked was which year would I get a job and the bowl moved from 2to 1 to 4 to 5 which meant 2145. Now considering that this was happening in 1995, I was very upset about my job prospects as foretold by the noble soul! Then I asked, “What will be my life partner’s name?” And the bowl moved from y to x to z and I do not remember anything after that.

By then our fear had vanished and after thanking the spirit, we ended the planchet.

The story does not end here, dear friends!

Long after Didi had left, a doubt kept lingering in my mind. I asked my friend, how it all happened! He said, he knew and understood it. I asked him several times, “Bolna, kaise huaa, kya huaa” but he refused to let the cat out!

The bowl was placed at one side of a long stool in the room and seeing it, my fear returned. Looking apprehensively at the ‘possessed’ bowl, I continued pleading for knowing the secret. I kept sitting at one edge of a cot with my eyes stuck on the bowl.

In between, our friendly Kakkaji, the caretaker of the training centre came with the evening snacks, poha. Looking at the bowl lying there, he went to pick it up when I shrieked at the top of my voice, crying, “Kakkaji, mat uthhayiye kotare ko...!”

And he left, surprised. I continued pleading. “Bolna..”. My friend assured that after we had the poha, he would let out the secret. Poha was finished and I started requesting again. Now my patience was wearing out!

One more time, he said he would not tell and I picked up some of his survey schedules and threw them out, out of rage!

Till this day, he makes fun saying he just loved the way his survey schedules were made into roses, by me!

At last, with much pleading, requesting, threatening, he let out the secret, telling me, how the bowl had moved.

And dear readers, you will kill me for this... . . . . . ..
..
..
..
..
..
..

My friend, with a little extra pressure had moved the bowl while Didi and I kept our fingers lightly on the bowl, thus, manipulating the entire act!

I must admit that I was, at the end, relieved that there was no spirit at all!

Our Didi at Yavatmal still does not know the secret!

A twilight song....

As I sail away,
With the sun setting behind me
I wonder, whether every bird
Could find its nest
Back on the branches,
where they had left it

I wonder,
Tomorrow, will the lost song
Of the shephard’s flute
Find a melody once again

Will tomorrow, once again, the sun
Wipe away the cloud of doubt

Will the shore
Again call for me

Will the morning tide
In its silence
Again wait for me


Tomorrow, as the sun rises again
Will I return home
To sing my song once more
To sing my song once more......

Nigahebaan

Apne jazbaat mein nagmaat rachaane ke liye
Maine dhadkan kee tarah dil mein basaayaa hai tujhe
Main tasavoor bhi judaai ka bhala kaise karoo
Maine kismat kee lakiron se churaayaa hai tujhe


How could he let Nausheen go! Fighting a terminal illness, Afroz would have already been a dead man, had it not been for Nausheen! Nausheen kept him smiling, Nausheen showed him the blossom of spring, Nausheen saw to it that he never failed to pray. Nausheen fed him, cleaned him and Nausheen nursed him.

Saint Anne’s Nursing Home, Gul Marg. Anybody, in the small town, knew, what it meant being admitted to this hospital. It had two implications, one, that the patient had to be a very rich person and two, the patient would not live for long to return home. The Hospital was specialised for treatment and care for most of the dreaded terminal illnesses.

Afroz was not the only patient in the department. He was not the only one Nausheen nursed, either. But Nausheen was the only one Afroz laid his hope on.
Nausheen, a very able and skilled nurse, worked through the hours, tireless and never missing a smile and never missing a schedule. In the chart she held in her hand, she had all the information about all the patients she attended to. She cared for all of them equally, in a very affectionate and a very professional manner, at that.

But Afroz was no professional! He was a poet, a SHAYAR with a melting heart. And confined to the campus of the Nursing Home since six long months, Afroz took comfort in weaving little and big dreams and painting them with imagination and putting them in words.

Nausheen entered his life when the rest of the world walked away. Nausheen received him when others gave him away. It was Nausheen who held his hand tight when the Doctor announced the seriousness of his illness. The time had stopped for Afroz. In utter depression, he confined himself inside his room, leading himself to darkness.

One sunny morning, Nausheen, brought in the light! To the dying Afroz, she said, “You are fortunate enough to know how your life will end. Do you know, each one of us, including that doctor, those attendants, often wonder, how our life will end. We do not know what we have for store, but you know. End will come to all of us, that is the reality but today, God has let you wake up; today you are alive, as I am, and as those little flowers and the bees are. Come, we will go out and have a stroll and thank God for the wonderful life and pray for the ones who did not see the light today’.

From the little life he was left with, Afroz continued stealing the moments with Nausheen and arranging them neatly in his memory.

But Nausheen had to go. She had to lead a team to the tremor struck towns far away. Hundreds of suffering people needed Nausheen. Afroz had never, in the worst of nightmares, imagined a life without Nausheen. He was so used to her that he had almost missed the passing time.

“Go after I die, Nausheen” Afroz pleaded. Nausheen had no answer for that. Her duty was beckoning her.

And so one day Nausheen left. Afroz’s life was not enough for all the love he had for Nausheen, so he bid her goodbye, with a smile and stole another moment for his treasure. “God bless and goodbye, dear”, that is all he said and the poet rested quietly in his heart.

Tu mila hai toh yeh ehsaas hua hai mujhko
Yeh meri zindagi mohabbat ke liye thodi hai
Ek zara sa gham-e-dauraan ka bhi haq hai jis par
Maine woh saaans bhi tere liye rakh chhori hai

Nausheen’s departure got delayed by a day. From mid-way, she returned, to offer her flowers, prayers and tears on Afroz’s still body.



Lyrics: From Qateel Shifai's ghazal
Photo: From internet

There was my Mom..

When dad left for the heavenly abode, Mom said one thing, ‘Sonia, just because someone is not around, it does not mean that the person has left you. Your dad is here, with us, though his body is no more. Your dad lives in your and my heart, lit like a candle’. And that is how Mom kept Dad alive all her life.

I was a seven year school going girl and my younger sister, a toddler. From whatever understanding I had, about death, I asked her, ‘Has Daddy gone away into the skies, to God?’ Mom replied, ‘God is here, within us, which also means, Dad is here, along with us’.

With this belief, we gathered the pieces of our life once again and continued with life. Dad’s long illness had left us with little resource but then Mom said, the best resource she had was three of us: Mom and her two daughters.

I know, life has never been easy for her. She continued her job as the secondary school teacher in the little town of Karma, where we lived. A part of the house was rented out and we shifted all our belongings to the two room-kitchen space. But, in spite of all the hardships she had, we never found her losing the Faith.


She was there, always, all through our little steps and bigger marches in life. She was there, when I held my sister in my hands and hurt her unknowingly; she was there when I fought with the neighbourhood kids and broke my toys; she was there when I fell from the stairs and lost a tooth.

She was there when I learnt to tie a knot in the hair. After my initial experiment with my dolls, I insisted on trying it out on her. She agreed. I could see how it pained. When she cried in pain, I was upset, so she bore the pain and clutching her fist tight, she went through the ordeal only to show her excitement on my achievement.

As I grew older, I questioned her sometimes, why God had to give us more challenges than we could face. She said, it is ‘Raising the Bar’. God is raising the bar of resilience and making us stronger, she said.

When I reached college and met my first love, Mom was my confidant and a vigilant guide as well. She insisted on meeting him and knowing what he thought about the relation. Through my failed relationships, Mom was there. I cried into her lap each time; but one day decided to leave home since she disapproved of the relation I was then having.

Mom was there when I returned, hurt and failed.

A little frail, a little older and a little weaker, I saw her waiting at the door. Had I failed her? Were the years of her hardship gone a waste? I asked her, kneeling before her.

Mom, standing at the door, picked me up, hugged me and said, ‘Sonia, just because someone is not around, it does not mean that the person has left you. You were here, with me, in my heart, lit like a candle’.

And I once again cried into her lap.





Photograph: From the internet

अब की बार जब

घर आऊं, मैं माई,

अब की बार

जो हो गोद भराई

देना शगुन के चंद पैसे

भरकर मेरी झोली में

आशीष देना मन भरकर तुम

कि आये बहार इस गली में

गुलाब, चन्दन, कमल, पवन

आसमान भरे मेरे दामन में

अब कि बार, माई, इक बिटिया

आये मेरे आँगन में

Breakfast with God

Farida Khala’s house was beaming with some ten-twelve happy children, enjoying a lavish breakfast in her sunny lawn. These children lived in the slum, across the residential colony where Khala lived. Every Friday, Khala organized little breakfast rendezvous for these children. Gudiya, also from the same slum would lead her friends to Khala’s big house, religiously, every Friday.

To an onlooker, Khala would seem to be a benevolent, charity loving rich old woman. Only few knew that only a year ago Khala was a very different person. It was a day during the previous monsoon that Gudiya’s and Khala’s destinies were coupled in a strange manner to bring forth a renewed understanding before Khala, about God’s works in everyone’s life.

Farida Khala was 85. Time had painted brown strokes of age on her face. Her hair had turned rough and orange from the cheap henna she used. Baby, her full time caregiver would randomly run the henna brush through Khala’s hair, which made the white and orange dry strands look as if they were yearning for some water and oil.
Her wrinkled hands trembled since she suffered from the Parkinson’s.

Farida Khala was a mother of four children, who were all settled across the length and breadth of the globe. Farida Khala stayed in her large mansion in older part of Lucknow. She could not walk very far but took small walks in the garden. Companion, she had only one; her 50 year old, full time nurse, Baby, a plump, curly haired lady who loved spending her time watching all the cookery shows on TV but hated the kitchen. Farida Khala did not bother much, as long as she had someone in the house; someone who would provide her some insipid food and water and call the doctor, if needed.

With time, Farida Khala had grown to be more and more irritable. She was irritated at almost everything. She was irritated at the cricket ball which would land into her garden from nowhere; she was irritated at the kids who came to the rescue of the ball and said, “Sorry daadi” with naughty smiles. She was irritated at the cacophony of sparrows near her window pane; she was irritated when it was too sunny or too clouded.

She, however seemed to be at utmost comfort with Baby and her ways. She did not seem to mind the sound of the television endlessly shouting at the furniture of the house nor did she mind the deafening silence Baby maintained. If Baby communicated, it was a one way communication, which was, television to Baby, that’s all. Baby’s auditory faculty was extremely well trained and verbal faculty was not used most of the time. She never missed any call from Khala but seldom said anything.

Farida Khala was so used to her loneliness that she was blatantly irritated whenever some neighbor dropped in. She only excused Philip, Baby’s middle aged nephew who visited them once in 3-4 months and slipped some cash into Baby’s palm and supplied them with sufficient stock of oats and pickled fish. The fish, Baby consumed in no time and Oats remained the staple diet of Farida Khala; who did not seem to mind even that.

Farida Khala was an ardent believer in the presence of God, which she justified by questioning Allah for the loneliness bestowed on her, for the big mansion and the silence she guarded and the youth of many of her neighbours she envied. She, like most of us, did not know what God looked like. Her God was framed within a wooden photo frame, inside which a matte cloth was decorated with the words, “Allah, meherbaan” done with a cross stitch with wool. Khala herself had made this decorative piece when three of her children went to the school and she was pregnant with her fourth. She knew, Allah was meherbaan.

But now she was not sure. So the grudging Khala spent her days in solitude while the city of Lucknow hustled and bustled outside her mansion.

It was a typical July morning, that particular day. It had rained during most of the previous night. Khala was supposed to catch the bus to Rae Bareilly, for attending her nephew’s nikaah. The bus would leave at exactly nine and Khala wanted to leave early. She would rather wait at the bus-stop than face a last minute rush.

Khala had her early morning bath and was ready to leave. She looked pretty and happy. Baby had coloured her hair quite carefully, this time.

Baby was ready too. She finished the chores and shut the windows. The wind was stronger than usual and Baby anticipated a storm. Grey clouds gathered in the sky. Baby decided that they should leave early, so she telephoned their regular taxidriver, informing that they would leave early.

Khala and Baby locked the door and were about to sit inside the taxi, when Khala’s eyes fell on a small girl, shivering and leaning on the gate. Her eyes said that she was very hungry. Her tattered clothes revealed her bony body. The sand coloured hair showed that they had not been washed since long. At the first instance, Khala’s instinct was to shoo her away but then she stopped and asked her why she was standing there, “Kya hai? Yaha kyun khadi hai?” Khala’s voice was very harsh. The girl only said, “Bhookh lagee hai” and her eyes were almost wet. “Arey, hamaare paas kaha khaanaa milega, hum baahar jaa rahe hain” Khala said in return. But it was Baby who spoke now, “Koi baat nahi, saamne waale chai kee dukaan se bread-chaai khilaa dijiye, Khala”. Farida Khala wondered why the otherwise silent Baby had to open her mouth now. But the taxidriver also agreed with Baby and nodding his red-turbaned head, he added, “Haan haan, khilaayiye, bachchi bhookhi hai, Uparwaalaa dua dega”.

It was purely out of her want to save her face that Khala bought a loaf and some tea for the girl. Along with the little girl, Khala and Baby also had some tea and offered some to the taxiwallah who thanked them happily and finished the tea in two sips from a saucer and was again ready on the steering.

Khala waited and watched the little girl, instead of rushing to the bus stand. She watched the little girl, dipping her bread into the steaming hot tea and quickly putting it ito her mouth to prevent the bread pieces from falling into the tea cup. Khala could not help but remember her youngest son who, similarly, relished his bread dipped in tea, when he was a little boy and was always clung to his Ammi.

“Kya naam hai tera?” this time Khala’s voice was soft and wet.

“Gudiya. Chai peene dijiye pehle!” the girl said sternly.

Khala let out an affectionate laugh.

Having finished the bread, Gudiya wiped her lips with her tongue making a ‘Ptchh’ sound, clearly indicating how much she had enjoyed the breakfast.

“Arey, chai kitna kam diya hai” she accused the tea-stall owner, looking at the tea-cup which was now only half full.

“Arey nahi, tere bread ne sok liya hai..” Khala explained.

They had not noticed the rain fast approaching them. Sudden sharp showers fell on them and the wind caught speed.

“Kaha rahti hai? Baarish aa gayee aur hamein bhi jaanaa hai”

“Aage jhopar-patti mein. Meri ma inta bhatti gayee hai. Main ghar jaatee hoo, daur kar chali jaayoongee” and the little girl, now satisfied, ran across the road.

Khala and Baby did not waste any time to proceed towards the bus stop. The rain made it a bit difficult for the driver to make up for the lost time.

By the time they reached the bus stand, the bus had already left.

A disheartened Khala now was very very angry. The gloom lingered throughout the day and the two ladies did not speak to each other. They seldom, anyway, spoke to each other but this time Khala’s silence disturbed Baby. No television cookery shows entered the living room that day and so the house was, all the more drowned in gloomy silence.

The next morning, as Khala sat by the window with her cup of tea, she wondered why she was so unfortunate. Why she had missed so many buses in her life.

Just then Baby entered the room and handed over the newspaper, folded near one particular news item. Baby indicated at the news-item, urging her to read it immediately.

Khala, curious, read the news, aloud. “…..The bus carrying forty passengers from Lucknow to Rae Bareilly, met with a severe road accident near Sultanpur in which 30 of the passengers lost their lives and ten others are fighting for life in the Government hospital…..”

Khala did not have the courage to read any further. Like a lightning, a frightening thought crossed her mind; what if she had not offered that unknown little girl the breakfast, what if she had reached the bus stand on time and boarded the bus!

The wooden frame on her wall seemed to look at Khala while Khala also looked at it with tears blurring her view.

Allah is truly meherbaan!

The heart knows it all……

Dear Ann, these flowers are for you. Every day, in the past two years, I have placed two extra roses in the bunch that you have bought from me. Those two flowers were, everyday, meant for you.


In the past two years, you have, every day, visited my little shop to buy those fully bloomed crimson roses. You preferred full blooms, you had said and after that, I have tended to my rose garden with utmost care and have delicately arranged the flowers every morning. Like the refreshing morning dew, you arrived every day. Like a breeze, you always opened the glass door of my shop and swirled yourself and walked right up to the roses.

Without fail, everyday, my heart was set on a spin when you entered the shop.

A late riser once, I had started waking up early and grooming myself well, without knowing if you even noticed me.

As days passed, the morning hour turned out to be the only meaningful time of the entire day. Before you arrived, my heart yearned for one sight of yours and after you left, the time came to a halt and the world revolved very slowly, around your thoughts until a new dawn arrived.

Dad knew, before I realised, that I was in love. Mum was always a hardcore rational. She said I could not possibly love someone just by looking at her and not knowing a thing about her. She said I was infatuated. Dad said I was in love. For my own comfort, I chose to agree with my dad.

Days went on and with the grace from the Heaven above, the moment arrived every day. I did not even know where those flowers went. They adorned your house, possibly. I did not want to know. Sometimes a remote fear would paralise my heart; what if all those roses went to someone you loved? What if, your roses and my unnoticed and unpaid- for roses were generously and lovingly being handed over to someone you loved? The thought was so cruel that I would soon brush it away. Ignorance is bliss!

And one day, I gathered enough courage to secretly follow you and find out what happened to the roses.

Indeed, those went to someone you loved!


Every morning, before visiting the little chapel, you would stop at your mum’s tomb and place the bunch of flowers on it, with utmost gratitude. You would then kiss the cold stone structure and say a little prayer before proceeding towards the chapel.

So, that is where my roses went to, everyday! Oblivion to it, you, on my behalf continued dedicating my flowers to your mum. And I continued receiving her blessings, that is what my faith tells me!

And that is why she showed me the way. I saw, written on her epitaph, were these lines:
"Forget not, what you dream,
Fear not your thoughts;
Have faith, have hope, have trust..
Through your life’s eves and odds.”

So began my journey, anew. My mum said if ever I wanted to be your life mate, I will have to prove myself to be an ‘able’ partner. My dad said, “In the journey, never lose the dream. Let love be your guiding star”.

So, armed with mum’s discipline and dad’s passion, I concentrated in organising the bits of my little life. The ritual of hiding my two roses, however, never stopped.

You would not even have noticed me or my shy and silent thoughts if Dad had not started his ritual of humming “…..every morning you greet me…” whenever you arrived. Despite Mum’s continuous warning, Dad continued; despite my tearing embarrassment, Dad went on.

And you knew it. You were not as shy a person as I was but you did not ever talk about it. You came, you went and in between, you bought the bunch of crimson gratitude in which I hid my crimson dreams.

Today, my mum says I am an ‘able’ person and ready to tell you what I have always wanted to. I deserve it, she says. I have passed her test, she says. I am a grown up, she says. But I know, deep within, I am the same shy person whose heart goes for a spin at your sight.

Dressed in my dad’s best suit, I am ready to knock at your door. With the crimson blooms in my hands, with an untold tale on my lips and a hope, a fear, a shiver, in my cruelly beating heart, I am here standing at the threshold of my dreams.

I may not be able to utter one word when you look at me. I may fail to tell you what I want to. Here I am, unaware of your feelings; I do not know what your answer would be, neither do I have a clue to what you think about me..

I leave it to my eyes. If my words fail, my eyes will tell you. If my eyes fail, your heart will tell you. Your heart will tell the tale of the two roses for you.

For, I know, the heart knows it all……..

My words to you...

There was the first little movement of, what was supposed to be your heart. It triggered the movement of all its little formative neighbours and it all started with that…….

An un-imaginable, incredible rush of the red coloured career via which the life support is being carried all over.

Your life has already begun.

I did not know that you were already there. I did not know that thousands of emotions were already being churned inside me. I did not understand why certain things were happening to my body.

Then the angel told me. The angel told me that wrapped in my love, you were on your journey. One day I would hold you in my arms. The angel told me that a relation was already born.

From that very moment, I have been weaving numberless strands of dreams. Dreams of different colours. White as the clouds, blue as the sky, pink as the blossom and green as the new saplings.

You are on your journey and my heart is beating fast. I cannot afford to be less careful with myself. I cannot afford to love myself any less, I look at myself in the mirror and see a new me.
As you are growing inside me, I am growing every moment.

And one day, not very far from this day, you will be in my arms.

Waiting for you, waiting every moment, my dear child….is your Ma…

Photograph: From internet

I am your dream. I live in your heart, rise in your sleep and rest in your consciousness. When you try to hold me, I disappear. I land like a fairy on your life’s petals. I am elusive, I am ephemeral, I am ethereal yet I am real. I am existent, I am endless.

To a poet, I am the harbinger of his countless emotions. To a beloved, I am the summary of her untold desires. To the children, I am their play replayed in their sleep, the zenith of their bed time story. I am the hundred fairies hiding in their pillows, awaiting to take them to a faraway land.

I cannot be touched, I cannot be tied, I cannot be possessed, yet I am all yours. I live through your deeds, I thrive in your convictions and I paint a better world for you.

Dream though I am, I do not let you sleep, I make you sweat and I make you strive. Entwined with your faith and your pledge, I take you high on the clouds until you hold in your palm, what you aspired for.

And then I take a new birth and I am all new again. I live and relive till eternity.

Don’t let me go away from you, ever….

Photograph: from internet

A reason to live!

Pansy, my little Pansy. I first noticed her bundled in white sheets, with eyes shut tight. Her wrinkled skin was as pink as a blooming rose. She looked so delicate that I was afraid to hold her in my arms, lest I hurt her.

Pansy. She is born with a complex medical situation termed as Hydrocephalus, which means, in simple terms, she has cavities in her brain filled with water. This condition has posed challenges before this little soul more than I could have, any day, imagined. She cannot stand, she sits with support, she cannot chew solid food and depends on liquid diet, she cannot speak, cannot feel, cannot emote. No one knows what she sees when her eyes move around the room.

After her birth, the doctors had said that she would not live for long. A week’s time may be, or a month but not more than that.

Pansy was in such a hurry to see the world that she took birth during the seventh month of her mother’s pregnancy. With all the complexities her mother had faced, no one could have believed that Pansy would take birth, alive. And then her family was sure that she would have a short life on the earth.

I am her full-time nurse. I hold her with extra care, in the softest of sheets I can. When I hold her, I feel like holding my entire world in my arms. I see the little bosom going up and down and tell myself, she is breathing. The ballet of life is still going on. She is still alive.

So convincing were the doctors about her short span of life that she was not given a name. The family, I could see, was always fighting to free themselves from the emotional bondage Pansy was taking them into, they were trying hard to be rational and stoic.

When I saw her, I named her Pansy.

Pansy came into my life at the time when I had found my own world being meticulously broken, by providence, piece by piece. My near ones, most of them, bid me goodbye and dear ones informed me that the life's accounts have been settled and there remained no dues in life’s balance sheet. So I started a new journey, at the age of 60, all alone, with Pansy in my life.

I have witnessed doctors being unsure about administering her immunusation, she will not live, after all, they said. The family organized no festivity to celebrate her birth, she will not live, after all, the family feared. They did not name her either.

But she has been living. I have seen the little body breathing, day and night, I have seen the delicate eyes sleep and wake up, every morning for days, weeks, months and past four years! Four years, she is still alive! And since four years, I have been her soldier. I have fought for her right to immunusation; I have fought for her right to have a name and fought hard for hosting a homecoming celebration. And this soldier has been a winner all through.

No one knows, for how long Pansy will live. Her parents are caught between the two ends and her siblings are eagerly watching over her. I have explained all of them, how special Pansy is and have ensured that the siblings are protective about her.

If only God could let the family move on, that is what everyone says. Yes, of course, the family has a future to move to. Pansy’s siblings have future to be secured.

Only Pansy and I do not have one. We have no future. We have only this moment, a moment to love. To bask in each other’s company, to watch as life passes by till it comes to a quiet halt some day.

Till then, we have a reason to live!

Photograph: from internet