Authors Note
Content
Content
“I know right”, Sameera squealed, her high pitched voice hurting Mrs. Gupta’s ears more than a 2- year old infant’s crying would have. “Oh for God’s sake, please don’t grunt in that voice of yours, which would even make a mare in labor sound melodious!” Mrs. Gupta was widely acknowledged for her politically incorrect way of stating things bluntly. Sameera Gupta squirmed in her chair. It was not her fault that her voice was such. She had always been high pitched, but that fact did not matter somehow when she was a child, not till her late teenage years. Her mother had been the first to ridicule her, hoping that she would at least try to mellow down her tone, but in vain. Others too made fun of her, calling her names which she found derogatory. All this did nothing more than to break her once firm self-confidence, filling her with anxiety each time she opened her mouth to speak. She was never able to understand why was she being punished for something that wasn’t even under her control. She still can’t. The glass in Mrs. Gupta’s hand fell to the ground and shattered to a thousand pieces. “Oh look what you did now!” “This isn’t her fault dear, you had the glass in your hands.” Mr. Gupta always took Sameera’s side.
“Damn alright! My fault! She was the one who stole my attention from the glass, and when it falls, it is my fault. Great! You are not going to get lunch today, and this is your own fault.” Mrs. Gupta stormed away out of the kitchen and her house. She did not forget to bang the door after her. “Don’t mind her. She is always like that”, Mr. Gupta stated in that soothing voice of his. “She’ll be back alright an hour after lunch time and will have brought us a samosa or a chocolate pastry or a Mc Donalds wrap.” Sameera knew that. It happened at least once every week and most of the times it used to be triggered by inanimate objects, like today’s shattering of a drinking glass. She got up and curtly swept the broken shards of glass off the kitchen and out to the balcony. There she used oven mittens to fill them in a small black polythene bag, which she placed neatly outside her door beside a bigger bag of similar characteristics. The garbage collector was due in a couple of hours. Sameera Jain, soon to be Sameera Gupta, was a robust girl, wearing a light brown complexion. Her hair curled over her shoulders, cascading down to her thighs. Her morning chores included brushing all tangles out of her pitch black hair
and folding them into a neat bun, but her fiancé liked to see them ripple down. So she didn’t perform the chore today while coming to see Jr. Mr. Gupta. Her poor fortune that he was called out urgently for some work and she had to wait upon him while sitting in his apartment in the presence of Mrs. Gupta. She was relieved to hear that Mr. Gupta was at home too. “Don’t you find her despicable?” Mr. Gupta asked her while keeping his eyes focussed on the sudoku in today’s newspaper. “She is a little loud,” began Sameera. “Just a little?” Mr. Gupta still had his eyes on the sudoku. He filled in a number at the bottom left corner as he spoke. “I have spent 29 years with her and I find her despicable enough.” Sameera continued. “Well, yes, she is despicable, but I somehow am not able to actually despise her. At times she seems appalling alright, but still I am sort of...fond of her. Maybe because I know that she will turn into her sweet charming self after a couple of hours or so!” “Is this the true reason?” Mr. Gupta completed a row of numbers in his sudoku. “Yeah. I mean I guess so.” “There you are wrong, my child. The real reason is love. I love her, and so I put up with this short term madness of hers which recurs every few days. And it is the love you bear my son that you are able to put up with her this behaviour. She ridicules you, but you know that she approves of you and cares for you somewhere. If after marriage, the love between you and my son recedes, which always happens after marriage, you will start despising her these very traits which you are fine to put up with right now. Love dwindles. Arush might start getting vexed by your voice some time later. You might start getting restless due to one of his peculiar habits. What will you
do then?” He got stuck on one of the trickier columns of the number puzzle. Sameera pondered over his words. “But you have coped up with her for 29 years. As you said that love recedes after marriage, you should have stopped putting up with her and might have been long divorced now.” Mr. Gupta looked up from his newspaper, looking thoughtful. “Oh well. You put me in a fix.” He said after sometime, returning to his sudoku once more. Numbers weren’t fitting in the middle grid. Sameera continued. “Love is, what I believe, just the superlative degree of affection. There is this person you like. Sometimes you like him more, sometimes less. Sometimes you look down while talking, sometimes you just sit staring into his eyes. Sometimes you don’t even shake hands, sometimes you are just hugging him every other minute. The degree of affection towards every person varies over time. But there is always a certain threshold level of affection present, each pair of people have different threshold affections between them.” She hesitated a little. She has said so many words in her voice, but the addressee didn’t seem to mind her pitch. She was pleasantly surprised. After waiting for a moment, she resumed. “Your threshold affection with Mrs. Gupta is high. It surpasses the momentary disdains caused and keeps you together for a long term. There are people with low thresholds. A seemingly insignificant turbulence might cause their flight of love to stall beyond repair. I feel that our relationship, Arush and I, has a high threshold. Small disruptions won’t be able to disbalance our ship of romance.”
Numbers were falling into their places. Only a single grid was left. “A nice observation Sameera, I must say. But how are you so sure that your threshold with Arush is high enough?” “A year and a half of seeing out and getting engaged, we have had our share of quarrels and disagreements. But we survived all of them without any fuss. And then intuition is after all a woman’s best friend.”
and went in the kitchen. The sweet savoury smell was from the syrup laced crunchy dahi-badas present in that polythene.
The door flashed open and a sweet smell filled the air. Mrs. Gupta entered with a small plastic bag in her hands, huffing and puffing with each step. Sameera duly took the bag from her hands
“So relaxed? Looks like you took an eternity to solve your puzzle.” Mrs. Gupta jested. Mr. Gupta had a lazy smile resting on his face. “Oh no darling. Just 29 years.”
A heavily breathing Mrs. Gupta seated herself into the chair occupied by Sameera a moment ago. Mr. Gupta kept the newspaper down, sprawled back his head and laid smiling. The sudoku had finally been solved.
Monday sat at the breakfast table, hunched over the morning newspaper, finding article after article full of death and drear and pointing fingers and gloom. The ink seemed to form a raging river, and ever so often, words would swell up in ragged, sharp towers like a shark’s teeth and clamp down, chewing and tearing at the information, reducing it into a violent disarray of tangled words, of angry consonants, and ill-meaning verbs. Holes upon holes would gape open in the nets of journalists who had written these panic-mongering tales, and words would slip through and spill out and choke Monday. Sliding all over the table, they brought a red light and a message that read ‘Why go out today? The world shall eat you whole.’ The sky mimicked that message. Grey, overcast and threatening to rain, it swelled like rolls of dark velvet, hiding the sun away like a secret. So
often it looked like this, you began to wonder if the sun did indeed exist. Warmth and beauty but a myth to Monday, every sad sign emulated the previous. With the shot-glasses now empty and the cigarettes spent, Monday gathered up her things and headed out the door. It was already raining, though not the sort of rain you could ignore or put up an umbrella against. Oh no, the sort of damp drizzle that you didn’t even notice was really there, until you were soaked to the rattling bones and coughing dryly, everything ruined and sodden and wilting, the kind that hung heavily in the air like mist, floating in and around you, sneaking into the folds and crevices of your skin and clothing, settling on your hair and laying down to sleep on your neck. Monday’s feet dragged all the way to the car, eyes bleary and still laden with sleep, her mouth already pre-set into a stifled yawn, and even the muscle tissue stretched unwillingly. The briefcase was undoubtedly heavier than usual and today’s tasks at hand swam in front of her eyes. Unending and unforgiving, they piled on, like a great stack of letters from unknown people, each one needing to be opened and read thoroughly, addressed and then thought about before actions could be put into motion, each one a tiresome and loathsome effort, a congestion of energy that did not want to be spent - with no beginning or drive or purpose, just that they needed to be done, without reward or achievement at the end. Goalless and soulless. No light at the end of the gloomy tunnel, it stretched on infinitely, threatening to consume Monday and spit her out only after it had
drained all life and hope from her. The car would not start, of course it wouldn’t. It coughed and spluttered but would not burst into life. It sat there, pathetic in its attempts and without desire. A giant metal paperweight parked in the driveway, useless. Monday’s long fingers curled into a resting cage against the side of her barren skull, taking the weight and splayed under the pressure. She tilted her head and peered out the window with pain at the washed out and watery sky. With disdain in her glazed eyes, she surveyed the long stretch of grey road: everything was grey and sallow – the weather, her skin, the road; the car-way was grey too. There was no color, no expression, only the blank slate of misery that coveted Monday’s world. She exited the car, and kicked the front right tyre swiftly with the side of her shoe. Sharp pain bit into the bones of her ankle and throbbed up her calf – what a stupid idea! The gargantuan grey paperweight sat there mockingly; somehow this was entirely Monday’s fault. Even her own actions against the inanimate led them to inflict pain upon her, with the only real blame being her own. Everything was at fault; her world was pointless. Monday gave up and went back into the house, where she crawled into her stiff and lonely bed to retire to sleep for an uncertain amount of time. After all, there were no clocks in the house. She could create infinity in her sleep. Yet, as she slept, all she dreamed of being was Friday.
Reality with a twist, often some added wits. Some morally rich yet entertaining, Others mysterious and captivating. Some more, hilarious though idiotic. And then, action and heroics. Chases and falls, occasional runs into walls. Sometimes a big bully, just looking fiercely. What about the villain? Looking for the hero’s attention? Oh! these one were in zillions... Culminating in pacified tension. The mysteries like puzzles teased the mind with every riddle, clue or suspect they did find. Sometimes loony and at times nail-biting. All in all, thrilling. And so, a childhood animated by some that were loved and some hated. The favourites were watched with dedication. However, with age comes a different appreciation. The innocence, comedy and artistry so fine, brings back memories of a younger time.
It glittered in the dark, the gold border of her dress. She had been the queen in the play. Her face had been slapped with foundation and powder, her cheeks reddened with rouge. Her lips had been painted a bright pinkish-red. Her long tresses had been pulled back into a large chignon with jasmine twirled around her hair. The sides of her hair had been braided. Little shimmer had been dusted on her eyelids; her eyebrows had been drawn into sensuous arches.
A big red vermillion dot had been drawn on her forehead between her brows. A small nose pin had been slid on one side. A heavy dupatta with cheap brocade had become her odhani, the ends tucked into her skirt and trailing behind her, held by the smaller girls playing her maids. Paste jewellery had been made with gold foil and paper that adorned her ears and neck. A small tiara had been made from a salvaged part of rim of a tin. Her father had beaten it flat and chipped off the
sharp edges so that his daughter could wear the crown with ease. Her mother had pasted some old bindis and broken glass bangles that twinkled with the light, embellishing her crude crown. She wore her mother’s glass bangles- green and red, they fit just right. Her mother sewed a string of flowers from the morning leftovers and made her wear it around her neck. Her skirt and blouse had been hand-me-downs of some kid who had refused to wear it since the border had worn off or because it had been over grown, tossed in the far end of the cupboard until some spring cleaning or Diwali cleaning required her to revamp her cupboard.
her mouth. She would get angry if her favourite character did not turn out as she had expected. When didi would keep the book back and dismiss the children, Gudiya would keep sitting and decipher the story and replay it in her head. She would ask didi all her doubts and once satisfied, she would walk back, often lost in the story. The five kilometre walk back through the narrow lanes and by lanes gave her enough time to put herself into the story and imagine the script. Often she would break into acting or make up lines of the character she liked the most. If she was unhappy with the story she would mentally weave her own end.
That didn’t deter Gudiya. She looked at herself in the mirror that didi held out to her. Didi, their teacher and trainer, her life and her mentor had belonged to their chawl and managed to study a little. She was now working with some NGO and had organised some programme for the parents of all the kids she taught.
Her friend, Abdul who often walked back with her would be the victim of her imaginations. He often ended up playing the parts opposite her, even to his own disliking. His viewpoint was never asked. Gudiya just assumed that he would relent- and given the wonderful friend that he was, he did. A scrawny boy of eight, Abdul worked with his father in their cycle repair shop. His three sisters would help his mother, who would go out with Gudiya’s mother to sell flowers. By morning she was Meena, dressed in a tattered saree selling flowers to women coming to the temple. By evening she would become Heena and cover her head. Her three daughters did the household chores. The eldest girl, Safiya also worked in a saloon. Abdul, would accompany his father wherever he went. He would assist his father in whatever jobs that had to be done. Initially, his father wanted to send all the children to didi, but given the futility of it, he let the boy go and learn only when he had nothing else to do. Abdul was slow and uninspired. To him, it didn’t matter what he did, he had plenty of free time and going to didi meant staying away from work- and work was unpleasant, so it was always
Gudiya didn’t like mathematics, numbers haunted her; she instead liked to listen to the stories that were read out to them. Switching between Hindi, Marathi and English, didi would enact stories that she read. Her voice would take on various pitches- a deep evil pitch for the villain, shrill naughty pitch for the comic parts and a simple tone for the narration. Gudiya would listen with all her interest, until then she would sulk at her maths book and sit lifelessly with her notebook across her lap. But as soon as the weekly stories would commence, Gudiya would take her bag and then drag herself to the front and sit enraptured till the very end. Her eyes would grow big when didi stopped at some scary, mysterious detail. She would scream if the protagonist got injured or hurt and cup her hands to
welcome. Going to didi also meant that he could meet Gudiya and play act with her, tease her and play with her. Sometimes they would wander off to the railway station and sit by the desolate tracks, putting their ear to the track, listening to sound of an incoming train. They would pick up trash lying near the tracks, sometimes they found, bottle caps and pens, and that would become their toys for the evening. If they felt like, they indulged in some petty thievery, and treated themselves to ice lollies or kaleidoscopes with their earnings. They would walk back in time, slowly trudging along the way, giggling and chattering. Gudiya would sometimes adorn herself with the trinkets they managed to get. It was near Diwali, which meant more work for people like them. Didi had planned to do some programme for the dwellers. She had managed to get across some local channels and people who could get her funds for her NGO. Advertising it now also meant better bonuses. Gudiya was chosen to play Sita and a boy called Amit was Ram, simply because he was the tallest. Gudiya was overjoyed. She talked excitedly all the way back to Abdul, who hadn’t been taken for the play. His parents didn’t attend Diwali celebrations and wouldn’t approve of him doing so either. He was happy for Gudiya, who seemed to burst with excitement. She told her mother, who kissed her on her forehead; she didn’t tell her father or her elder brother, they would find it silly. But eventually, her mother did tell them and they had smiled. Her brother would tease her though, but after a day or so, it didn’t matter.
Gudiya had become unbearable by then. She would only wait for the practice sessions and keep talking about it. When Abdul would not be there, she would go to the railway station and begin chatting with any stray child or even a stray dog. She would enact her part over and over to them. She refused to face reality. She stopped helping her mother, and despite being reprimanded sternly by her brother and father and struck by her mother, she only became more resilient. She would no longer sleep with her mother who ‘stank’ of sweat. She slept in the kitchen, dreaming of her role, her part, her lines. The day her costume had been given, she was so overjoyed she hugged didi and kissed her. It was a beautiful red and yellow faded skirt and blouse. A big flowing dupatta with a peeling gold border was also part of her costume. Didi had come one day with a tailor uncle and taken measurements and stitched the ill fitting dress to her size. Gudiya was enthused. For the first time she owned her own dress, made for her. Didi also made jewellery for her. When Gudiya had taken back her dress and shown it to her mother, her mother had opened her eyes wide, she picked up the jewellery, laughed and jeered at her daughter. Gudiya was angry with that reaction, she expected her mother to be amazed. But she didn’t let that ruffle her; she compelled her mother to add more embellishment to the same and asked her father to make a frame for her tiara.
She had been dressed like a bride, and when her mother had seen her on the stage, her eyes had welled up. Gudiya played her role with great expertise and energy. The paltry audience clapped and egged on didi when the event was over. It took all of didi and Gudiya’s mother to remove her makeup. She didn’t want it to be removed and wanted to live the dream longer. Seeing her tantrums, didi let her keep the jewellery and the dress. After all, what use was it to her? Overjoyed, Gudiya finally agreed to remove her makeup. Now the bright dress looked awkward on her thin frame, the grandeur was over, but Gudiya had not let reality set in as yet. She reached home with her father carrying her; she had slept off on his shoulder. The family ate their meal in silence and has retired for the night. Gudiya’s mother slowly removed her costume and slipped on a petticoat for the girl. She could make her wear this when her brother got married next month. She rolled it into a bundle and kept in one side. She kissed her baby and slept off. Gudiya’s mother woke to the hollering and screaming that she heard, a fire had broken out and she ran to wake her husband, who jumped at the sight of her. Her son had just come back from work and was alarming the neighbours to run out. Gudiya’s mother ran to the kitchen and quickly spread the dupatta from Gudiya’s costume and wrapped all their mingy provisions and savings. She screamed at Gudiya to wake up, who got up seeing her mother using the dupatta. She broke into an argument with her mother who slapped her into silence and scooped her up and
ran outside. The flames had devoured one part of their shack. They saw their shack being reduced to nothing by the languishing flames. Gudiya’s mother put her crying daughter to the ground. Husband and wife stood in utter silence as they watched the shack melt into nothingness. Gudiya’s mother could see her son brave in and out of the flames rescuing others, directing them to where they had been standing. Her eyes streamed with tears. The commotion outside was familiar, women wailing, people scrounging for their belongings, tears of anger, sadness, hurt and helplessness as the flames impartially ate up everything that came its way. Gudiya realised her mother had only taken the dupatta, her costume was still inside. She thought that if she ran fast enough, she could salvage it. She wanted it badly. She broke away from her dazed mother and leapt into the flames, her desperate parents calling after her. She ran, jumped into what had been their kitchen, the avaricious flames hungrily engulfing everything. She could feel the heat of the yellow tongues licking at her. Where was her costume? She had kept it near her pillow all these days. She searched frantically... To her mother outside who had seen her daughter leap was reminded of Goddess Sita being tested by the flames. She closed her eyes in prayer. ‘Oh Rama’...
An Open Letter Jovina Waswani
An open letter to the person who has always appreciated me:
who knew what to do when my spirits sagged, who would never shy away from being my plus one, however messy life got.
The Special Person: One year ago, I didn’t even know you and today, it hurts, even to imagine life without you. I have thrown tantrums and cried out my frustrations in front of you, and you accepted those tantrums and subdued them silently with your tight and protective hugs. You wiped off those tears and changed them into smiles with your magical words. You saw the immature idiot in me, but chose to believe in the maturity I possess somewhere inside. You told me that you believe in me, you told me so many times and with so much of faith that one day I started to believe you. I started to believe in myself. There have been times when I find myself of no utility, when all I want to do is to scold myself and cry snuggling in my pillow. You came into my life and became the pillow who talked back,
I am sorry for holding your hand and not leaving it even when we cross paths with acquaintances. I am sorry for not feeling uneasy when people assume us to be a couple. I am sorry for not caring about the stories which keep floating about us. I don’t, because they won’t stay as long as you would. Assumptions and rumours pass by me, leaving me unaffected but you, I won’t ever let you pass by. I would hold you and ask you to stay for a little longer. Your determination determines me to work harder. Your victories feel like mine and they push me further to work for more. Thanks for consolidating my faith in innocence, togetherness and magic. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have found you, but now that I have, I know losing you would hurt more than any broken friendship so far.
8th September, 1908, Chandauli, Dehradun......
deal?”
It was the era of British Raj in India. Education was a rare commodity for most Indians. It was available to a select few belonging to the upper and middle class, especially the progeny of loyal servants of the British officers.
Mandar the village priest said, “Son, our village has an old farmhouse on the outskirts. There is a garden in the backyard. The deceased owner Mohanlal was a wealthy man who has hidden a precious stone slab there near the peepal tree. Mr. Clark our vilayati guest wants that stone.” “Wow, so technically the stone belongs to the village. Charge the Englishman a hefty sum in exchange for it”, Ballu was ever ready with his business proposal. The villagers began looking at each other perplexed. “What! Don’t tell me you are scared of speaking to Mr. Clark.” Ballu exclaimed.
Ballu’s father was one such indigo trader working for the British. Ballu, therefore, had the privilege to attend the esteemed Elphinstone College at Bombay. He was very proud of his education and strong business acumen. During one of his winter holidays, he visited his village. He would show off his knowledge about the Western culture and European philosophy to all and sundry. Everyone in the humble little village was in awe of this well-read son of theirs. Though sometimes Ballu would go overboard and leave the poor villagers bewildered by his outrageous ideologies! One morning, as he walked near the village temple he saw a few people huddled together speaking in hushed whispers. He went near them and asked what the matter was. Hari, the village cleaner spoke, “Oh Sir, do you know an Englishman has arrived in our village last night. Nobody has seen him yet. But his secretary met us today. He claims that his master has studied a lot about precious rocks and pebbles!” “Gemstones you mean?” Ballu enquired. The villagers looked on confused. “Oh, never mind, so what’s the big
“Actually, there is no point in meeting Mr. Clark. Why him none of us can get the stone”, said Hari. “And why is that?” Ballu was curious. “The place is haunted Sir. The owner was killed by his elder brother in a skirmish over the stone. It is said that his soul still lurks around the peepal tree,” Hari spoke grimly. Hearing this story, Ballu who was till now listening burst out laughing. He jokingly asked, “How does the ghost look? Does he come to say hello to you folks on every full moon night?” “Don’t mock us Ballu! This is a story that has been passed on to us since generations by our forefathers. Poor Mohanlal’s face was mutilated in the fight. It is said that the
spirit’s face has no nose, no lips, no ears. Just a single eye on the forehead,” the priest chided him. Ballu raised his hands in mock defeat and walked off from there. ‘Imbeciles! Anyway, let these fools live with their stories. I’ll go get the stone myself. Will make tonnes of money’, he thought. Next morning, Ballu borrowed a cricket bat from the village kids and set out to visit the farmhouse. The place was eerily silent. Wild shrubs and creepers grew all around giving it a very deserted and creepy look. Ballu walked into the garden and saw the old peepal tree. He started digging the soil with the bat. Finally, after some time he found the stone buried underneath. He joyously threw the bat down, picked up the stone and was all set to leave. He walked two steps and turned around. “Ah! no ghost behind me”, he shook his head cheerfully. As he was about to turn back, his eyes fell upon something. The bat was missing! And not a single soul nearby who could have picked it up. No sound of footsteps either. Ballu ran with the stone as fast as his legs could carry him. Went straight to Mr. Clark’s office. Pantingly told the secretary that he wanted to see the Englishman. He was shown the way towards his office. Mr. Clark was busy examining some rubies near the window with his back turned towards the door. Ballu stormed in through the door. “Myself Ballu, Sir. I got the stone for you. Though hell scary it was I must confess! Please have a look at it,” he gushed. “Well done Ballu”, said the Englishman turning towards him. The stone fell from his hands. Ballu dropped dead.
Warmth inside his castle is an acorn waiting to be dug up. Buried eons ago by squirrels deep inside him. He chanced upon her among the earth-dust. As precious as every titillating drop of Belgian chocolate, orchestrating the sonatas of taste buds in sync. At least she did not wander off as much as his bottling thoughts did. As far as she was concerned, he would treat her like a palanquin-bound princess. Toiling for her. Making sure she soared above all the dust. He used to trade eye-contact with her emerald eyes. She would signal to him of meaty delights. He whispered shrill lullabies in return. Stories of honey-gold sunshine. She would broaden her facial contours in anticipation. She dozed off into visions that made you twitch. Chased butterflies and dreams. Adopted mortals as slaves. All was well. But her eyes opened to reveal knockturn alleys. The heat of his affection ebbing into loneliness. Abandonment. She had kneaded her gratitude into warmth that nurtured her. And now she was the face of forgotten dunes waiting to be blown away by time. Only because he felt she challenged his castle walls. She did chase butterflies and dreams. But adopted a mortal as a mere slave. Yet, he never forgot how he had met her. She was a princess, although no more palanquin-bound. He knew what he had to do. He kneaded his gratitude into honey-gold sunshine. Meaty delights served in a platter of hope. She devoured the eagerness in his facial contours with her emerald eyes. Whispered a singsong lullaby and walked away an heiress. Pride. She beckoned to him, took him to the squirrels. And that moment his winter was thawed. His castle was now an open altar. The acorn dug-out scintillated in the reflection of his new-found warmth. ~ Dedicated to anyone who impels you to bring happiness to yourself.
We sat by the window and watched the rain. The train was delayed by over two hours. The crowd was getting restless and the baby in the adjacent seat kept wailing. She was a small blob of life wrapped in pink. The blanket had multi-coloured polka dots and all you could see were her bright eyes and the endlessly streaming pearl drops. Oh no, I am not very fond of babies. But yes, I see my sister’s eyes light up at the sight of the child. She smiles a wan smile. She shifts in her seat occasionally; the discomfort of the journey making her weary. She nibbles on snacks, sings and talks to me. Playing with her curls, she twirls it behind her ear. She looks out of the window, watching the rain and the wailing child; looks at me. I give her a reproachful glance. No, she can’t play with the baby. The baby won’t come to her. And she should know that. Ought to know that, by now. She is ugly now. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the baby might be crying because of her. How can I tell her? I mean, I cringe when she removes the scarf. I look away. How the acid corroded her. Ate her flesh; chewed up every living tissue and left pieces hanging. Bits, like a broken doll or a jigsaw puzzle that had to be pieced together. Her eyes had drooped downwards because of the countless stitches. It had been an accident. Maybe. I don’t know. I know that mother had doused herself and claimed herself and she wanted to take us away too. But I wasn’t home and my sister had been. It could have been me. It could have been us all.
It could have been none of us, if mom had been different. But we kids don’t get to choose our parents, right? That is so disappointing. They want so much from us, but we can never say anything to them. Daddy went ahead and got married. And we sisters shunt between him and our maternal grandparents. They look at us with pity. I hate that. And my grandmother kind of holds me responsible for it. As if I had chosen that very moment not to be home. I think I had gone out to buy something. I don’t remember- I was in graduation final year. I think I had just spoken to my friend then and come back. I remember standing fixed, as if grounded to one spot. As if I had sprouted roots and my foot had been cemented to the ground. There had been a lot of screaming and I had heard and seen a mass of people bursting in. Someone had called daddy and the ambulance. I saw daddy crying that night. He had even smoked. I could smell nicotine. The next few days were insane. It all seems so far back; till I see her face and the creases trace every scream and bring them back alive in my memory. It’s not her fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Yet, it’s my fault. I like rain. It is kind of calming. She tugs at my dress. “Now what?” I shoot back at her. We are not very cordial anymore. But she doesn’t complain. She is alright with someone looking back at her. It hurts me. It is my embarrassment, not her being bad. I am ashamed of myself. How can do this to my own sister? She is my blood. It could have been me too. She plays with her doll and when she traces her hand over the doll’s smooth face, my eyes well up. It’s been over three years now, but it seems like
yesterday. And I was thrust into adulthood too soon. While she stretched out her hand sometimes, I would pretend I didn’t see it or pretend to be on call...so I don’t have to see her. Some part of me wishes she had died; wishes I had died too, along with mother. “Can we go to the vestibule?” she asks. “No,” I say. The crowd turns yet again to stare at her. Those are the first words she has uttered from the start of our journey. “Ok, akka,” she says and gets back to her seat, back to kissing the doll and putting it to sleep. I look out. I can see the rain dissolving into the mud and falling on empty tracks, striking the cold metal. The cabin gets darker. I draw my sister close. That is kind of involuntary. I like the dark. It is comforting. It helps us remain anonymous. After a while, the train chugs along. The downpour has increased and I feel like seeing the rain too. I get up and she immediately gets up. I hate that. Now she will ask and I will have to answer her and maybe even lie to her. But she does not ask. She smiles. “You see the rain first, and then come for me. By then, I will put baby to sleep.” There is a lump in my throat. “Baby”, for her every doll is “baby”. I walk to the vestibule, and watch the rain. I wash my face in the cold water from a tap near the washroom. Three years, I got no time to cry. But, neither did she. And I cry...cry till my eyes hurt. “I am coming back for you my little sister,” I say, as the downpour drenches me…
like any morning. People walked past him; barely noticing him. Some of them dropped coins. One of them was an elderly lady, whom he recognized. She always gave him a coin when she passed by. Shambhu usually relieved his boredom by observing what was going on around him. He noted the time when the trains arrived and departed by the huge station clock. He surveyed the autos that were passing by and the passengers in them. In front of him, Dominos Pizza was fully crowded. Shambhu had never tasted a pizza in his life, but wanted to. He was saving one rupee every day for that unrealized dream of his. Some boys walked out of Dominos and threw the bill near him. He reached out for the bill. Goodness, it was for three thousand rupees! It took him nearly two and a half months to earn that much! Most people who come to Chorangarh railway station go straight to the glittering and towering platform. The station, with its glistening glass roof, stood as a symbol of modernity, which was unique in the conservative town of Chorangarh. The commuters never notice any of the numerous beggars and homeless people surrounding them. One of those unheeded people was Shambhu. He was a sixty-three year old man who had lost his job as a labourer due to his age. He did not have any family or relations, or any income. In these circumstances, he had made the footpath around Chorangarh railway station his home, surrounded by his few worldly possessions-a blanket, one set of old torn clothes and one rusted tin bowl in which he collected his alms. For Shambhu, the morning of July 21st passed
Shambhu, like many of his fellow beggars, had never been educated. However, he possessed an inquisitive mind. Although he had never been taught English numerals, he had learnt all of them by the markings on the milestones when he had walked from his village to the town, in search of employment. The distance had been one hundred and fifty kilometres and he had covered it by foot in ten days. Dwelling on that one-way journey, Shambhu’s morning passed. In the afternoon, however, something unprecedented happened. Someone gave him two thousand rupees as alms. At about one o’clock in the afternoon, Shambhu was finishing eating a ten-rupee bhelpuri,
his afternoon meal. The afternoon was very hot and he felt drowsy. Just when he was about to fall off to sleep, the person walked past him. Although Shambhu eyes were half closed, he could make out that the person was dressed in a suit and wore spectacles. The person bent and placed a two thousand-rupee note in Shambhu’s tin bowl. Before he could sit up, the person had passed.
me fifteen hundred, as charges for the agency, of course.’ ‘How will you tail him?’ said Shambhu. ‘He has gone from here half-an-hour ago!’ ‘Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it. We’re detectives, aren’t we? We can perform miracles! You can come back here this evening.’
Even more remarkable was that the person was giving two thousand rupees to every beggar that came his way. Watching his retreating back, Shambhu was seized by an entirely human bug-curiosity. He was determined to find out more.
Shambhu decided to keep faith. He gave the two thousand rupees and the receptionist gave him three five hundred rupee notes back, along with a receipt. He spent an hour thinking of what he should do with the five hundred rupees. Finally he decided to fulfil his dream; that of eating a pizza, and walked into Domino’s.
Shambhu walked into Pragati Detective Agency after taking half-an-hour to make up his mind. All the people inside looked at him in disgust. Perhaps they had never had such a filthy customer before.
Here again he was subjected to avid stares, especially by the people at the counter. However, he enjoyed his pizza very much. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted. And he had two hundred rupees left with him.
Undaunted, he went straight to the receptionist, who was reading a paper. He asked straightaway, ‘I want to know all about a man.’
He decided to keep the two hundred with him as savings. In the evening, he went to Pragati Detective Agency. The receptionist was waiting for him.
The receptionist took a little time to take in the scene in front of him. Recovering himself, he asked presently, ‘What man?’ ‘A man who gave me two thousand rupees, as alms.’ said Shambhu. ‘You mean the person walked past here?’ ‘Yes,’ said Shambhu, ‘but half-an-hour ago. He wore a suit and was spectacled.’ ‘Well, we...’ said the receptionist and broke off. Something in the newspaper seemed to catch his eye and he paused for a moment. He then said, ‘If you wish, I will send someone to tail him and find out everything about him, if you pay
‘Please sit,’ he said, waving Shambhu into a chair. ‘We have found out all about your man.’ ‘His name is Shrinath Gupta. He is a multi-millionaire who inherited a huge fortune from his father. He studied abroad and came to India only when he was twenty. One day, he witnessed a beggar dying on the streets. He was greatly moved by the poverty raging in India. Due to this experience, he decided to give his life to the service of the needy. He sold his father’s construction business and is
now giving two thousand to any beggar he comes across. Today, he gave money to all beggars from Krishna Ashram to the Life Mall. Tomorrow, he’ll start again from the Life mall.’ Shambhu nodded. The receptionist handed him a typed report. As there didn’t seem to be anything more to say, he walked out. It was evening. The harsh sun had given way to a clear night and a cool breeze. It was quiet. The glow of the streetlamps seemed a bit hazy to Shambhu. He rubbed his eyes vigorously. On opening his eyes again, he noticed a mother and child on the footpath. The child was crying and the mother was trying to console him. Shambhu thought, ‘Poor people. Perhaps they missed Shrinath Gupta.’ People walked past him. Busy in their daily routines, they were deaf and immune to the suffering of the child. Finally, Shambhu could take it no more. He walked up to the child and stuffed a hundred
rupee note in his little hand, taking care to walk away quickly before the mother could thank him. ‘Well’, thought Shambhu, ‘I received two thousand and all I have left is a hundred! But at least I know where to beg tomorrow.’ Without further ado, he picked up his few possessions and started walking towards the Life Mall. The receptionist at Pragati Detective Agency saw his retreating back and thought about the two thousand-rupee note, given by the beggar, nesting in his pocket. He thought, ‘Well, a bit of luck spotting the paragraph in the newspaper.’ The reason for this thought was simple. In the newspaper, there was a paragraph written heavily in the praise of a certain Shrinath Gupta. Mr. Gupta’s history, his goal and where he would be giving alms was specified in the paragraph... The Pragati Detective Agency had indeed performed miracles.
“The way she glanced into his eyes” On that day with the sky clean, She was sitting straight, Her deep black eyes in sheen, Deep in the thought of fate, Long stood a stranger, under the green, A Criminal, for he was stealing glances, Of the most exquisite girl he had ever seen. At last, she noticed, was it right? Alarmingly he faced aside, He felt her stare, felt so fright, Pretended to ignore her outside, Failed, even with all his might. Finally, he turned to her with sighs, Here came the moment when, SHE GLANCED IN HIS EYES, His heart pounded deep and slow, Thrusting hot blood with every blow, For she was peering at his soul, his fears. Mercilessly her eyes were striking spears, So, he gazed into her eyes, As if his end was near. With all these flashes of her in mine, Repeated, rewinded and paused a millionth time, With the passion of seeing her again, Came the feeling of unrequited-ness, And left in vain. “She didn’t notice”, “She doesn’t care”, “She doesn’t even know you exist”. - Anonymous
some illustration in red
Before It Dies Why every moment selfishness in us resides Why pure and selfless fears and hides Why arrogance we feed, we build Why innocence in us have we killed Why can’t I find smile on any face Where have we lost it in worldly race Why the urge for more never stops Giving no joy to the living corpse Let’s today hold hands of the weak Pure, unfed, un-nurtured an’ meek That can be found in everyone’s eyes Before its breathing halts, it dies.
He Never Learns His sly smirks objectified her Filled every thought of hers with terror Proudly declares he “I am a man”, insane Leaving her groaning and moaning in pain Truly thankful to society, no lies Either she or her soul dies Respect not, for she’s wife or sister Simply for she is human mister A true man as is he From onus can never be free Better be tyrant than nonentity Had failed her, failed humanity Day’s end, death he earns But he never learns... - Neeharika Swmi
One Lost Childhood There he was, in the first chapter of his life, Innocent and delicate, calm and quiet. A delightful kid with an infectious smile, He was a joy, an angel, an enchanting light. One fine day, when his parents were away, He was shrouded in fear and dismay. Hands of a trusted adult so close, Took advantage of him being left alone. Hands of a trusted adult so close, Treated him as if he’s a thing he owns. He was hurt with a heart utterly broken, Wanted to fight but he lay there frozen. The inflicted hurt struck deep deep scars, They still reside after coming so far. “A man never gets weak”, they all say. “Men can’t be victims, Men just slay.” It seems that being a man is a Bane; He still gets flashbacks, still feels that pain. Today he comes out, he has a point to make, Please listen to him, for our little kids’ sake. Tell your kids that they always have you, To complain about anything however blue. Tell them it is their body and their right; And they are not alone, we all will fight. - Jovina Vaswani
some illustration in red
I opened the door to find her standing there, crying. Tears wrung through swollen eyes, purple bruises Blossoming across her neck and bare shoulders. Droplets of red and rust dotting the front of her dress, That Dress! I remembered giving it to her, Her wedding gift it had been. What a day! What a day! Her resplendent in red and gold: graceful and proud! So very unlike the pitiful creature now at my doorstep, Beaten, broken, scared and ashamed. Even as my fists clenched at the injustice of it, I opened my palm, releasing a long-held breath: Hers or mine? I didn’t know. For despite this, She would still defend him, shield him, him! The man who ruined her! Brought her to this state! She would stop me as I would try to leave, Grab my wrist, my waist, my sleeves; All the while pleading, to leave him be: “He was being playful Dada, it’s all on me!” Even now, standing on my welcome mat, She was hesitant to enter, her eyes seeking mine For a shred of anger, of fury unchecked, if found, And I should lose her for good, another enemy On a long list of people, men, that already bowed her spine. I take her into my home, where it’s warm and safe. A wash, a cry, a shush and a wail turning into a scream – the only sounds, interrupting a film song playing somewhere.
A change of clothes and some green tea later, I wrap her in a heap of blankets, she shivers in the warmth. I wait as tonight’s story pours out between sips of tea; The same old story: the hard day at work, the lost cricket match, One drink before bed that changes into two empty bottles, A chance remark- innocent, but misconstrued, the shouting And finally, the fists. I listen to her, as well as I can. I have heard variants of the same story for a week now. Every time, my mind rakes the same things over, Every time, I reach the same conclusions. If only I hadn’t introduced them, encouraged them, If only I never had called HIM brother, If only I had warned her, prepared her, The fault as much mine as his. More mine, in my mind. She finally falls asleep, exhausted and unburdened. I quietly walk out, closing the door behind me, I am sleeping on the couch tonight. I don’t bother with an alarm, I know she will be gone – Long before first light, I know better than to stop her. I hope INDIA wins tomorrow’s match, Otherwise I am leaving the porch light on again. Just in case.
Oye Shiuli, Flower of the Earth Born of the soil, You tried to lure the Sun, But He rejected you So you bloom to your splendour at night At dawn, your magnificence, Compels you to fall; Fall back into her bosom Like a child longing for its mother, Its arms stretched Face down Into her softness, Your bright orange stalks, Bright like a flame; The sun shines bright, Your persistence, O Shiuli, You, nimble flower Bloom to the envy of every lover’s love, You are offered to the Gods, Ambrosia; Bitter, yet soft
Oh Shiuli, why did you Pull the plough? Why did you try to lure the Sun? What compelled you to transcend into this? Why did you bring the bottle to your sweet lips? You are divine, the way you are The stars, the night and the moon Are your friends But Shiuli, need I tell you That it is the Sun that lights the moon? The world may have shamed you; But you are the finest, Of the soil, From the soil. Shiuli, What compelled you? My darling, you are beautiful And I love you.
Dawn Back To School A long time ago But I remember clear More than just bricks and stone Stood a building, to me very dear Old and smelly classrooms Benches scribbled all over Blackboard, only black by name Etched into my brain forever Ringing the school bell Every student’s goal Before I could get a chance The big bell a thief stole On that huge ground We played games and matches Records made and broken By students of all batches How can I forget All the friends I had Don’t know why we got along Probably cuz we were all mad Pranks and stunts we pulled off Shared tiffins and textbooks Toilet visits and punishments together Copied projects and notebooks I beg of you, the high and almighty` Try the best you’ll Take me back to the days gone Take me back to school - Kshitij Patkar
The morning gently weeps Its tears trickling down dripping boughs, Impaling themselves on blades of grass Furtively it weeps, Tightly wrapped under a blanket of haze Grieving alone, Before everyone wakes up - Ambar Haidry
Forlorn in our past I know I slipped, I keep falling down, It keeps getting darker, I’m really anxious, as I know there’s no bottom and I don’t want to stay lost in nowhere. The way back to the world is bright but far, lend down your hand and be the bridge. - Raghav Rajeev
Dilemma The evening sky turn black by night, When stars fight to show up bright. I am still in search of a bright light, I am still in a dilemma for what is right!!
Lost in the emptiness of thoughts When the sun kisses the waves in the western horizon, When the turquoise sky glitters with colors of ruby and gold, When you become unaware of the chaos and concentrate on the rumbling waves, When you smell the salty water as it touches your feet.. ... .. so many things happen to you simultaneously and you get lost ... Lost in the emptiness of your thoughts..
The uncanny resemblance The clear sky announces a brighter dawn A new sapling is being planted in the lawn Almost at the same instant – a cry Not of terror or of fear but from a throat dry The cry of a new born, the promise of a new dawn. The sapling is watered daily and dearly Steadily and healthily it grows, shedding a leaf rarely. The new born in a tin shack lay half-fed – The face of hunger, but her cheeks glow red and red. Half-starved but loved immensely – our Pratyasha lovely. The plant is about to flower Winters have made its growth slower. Pratyasha has also grown older Fifteen years of unprotected cold have made her bolder. The older the flower – the faster it is plucked. The red flowers have attracted ‘them’. The proposal of transferring the plant soon came One fine day ‘she’ leaves, mother by her side. Crimson red sindur on her forehead ... sailed by the tide. The unknown by her side – will they successfully ride? When she had no food, the plant was well-fed. When she had no shelter, the plant had a cozy bed. When she had no new clothes, the plant was wrapped in red. Poverty-striken but the dignity in her blood did not fade. The red flowers now looked pale as her sindur grew more red.
Rain - Ananya Filbert
Their steps were synchronised As they stepped into puddles, Their socks wet And the soles of their shoes Caked with fresh earth; Their bare calves were Speckled with splashes of mud, Streaks across their mufti, Their crisp uniforms Were stained with the Weariness of the weather. The downpour had Brought them under The cover of his parasol. It was black and withered That had belonged to his grandfather Its frayed edges bore a fading medallion With the initials of his grandfather’s name.
His shirt was fully drenched As he shielded her and his books Tilting the umbrella more towards her, An adjustment unknown to her. She walked uncomplainingly, Matching her steps to his rhythm Occasionally she turned towards him, Clinging her bundle Close to her chest. They walked with the rain beating down, Deafening drops falling On the dermis of his umbrella.
“Sorry” she mustered And let out a sigh, Her breath straining the air around, Filling it with the fragrance, Of a day’s labour “For?” he asked back “I forgot my umbrella in the rain, And now I have caused you much inconvenience.” “Hmmm” he sighed, Her coffee brown eyes Hooded, waiting for a reply. “But it’s been raining all day How could you forget?” Her eyes fell to the ground He chirped in, “I mean, how did you make it in the morning?” “I go to work with my mother and she had to rush back because my little brother wasn’t well. She took it with her. We kind of share ..” Her eyes fell to the ground Her tone shaking with embarrassment He looked at her, Her neat plaits, tied with Faded red ribbons. Against the white sheet of rain. Her face seemed so beautiful.
He chose to tell her stories instead, He saw her eyes radiate an excitement As his voice quivered With varying intonations, His words forming a cathedral Of places far beyond.
His hair shone with silver droplets Some fell on his nose bridge as he spoke, He smiled A smile that reduced his eyes to winged arches. The dark clouds above them Thundering as they trudged along, Pregnant with more impending rain, Showers that harboured dreams, A wetness- that promised renewal, She looked at him, Momentarily harbouring dreams of togetherness With the rain as witness And the clouds baptising them
The Fading of Blossoms
His words, his stories Full of emotion Unbeknownst of their love For each other A glistening droplet hung on the edge of his nose As they reached her shanty; “There is no shame in poverty, You see, but, only in the lack of it,” He said. And she unknowingly let her fingertips Flick the droplet away.
The grumbling sounds of clouds at 2 am Seep into my pain-ridden sleep, reminding me Of ice-cubes clinking in a glass of whisky Before the alcohol numbs your consciousness. Rain leaves the clouds and becomes a soundtrack, Alternately gentle and turbulent, to my midnight desires; I stare through barred windows as the vertical streams Break reality into neatly spaced squares. And I imagine the fate of the gulmohar blossoms – Proud, red, fiery and morally upright – They make a canopy under my normally blue sky, But did they have a chance tonight
- Aditi Kothiyal
Against the bullets of water that shoot into Their velvety red bodies? i imagine them Crumpled and lifeless on shimmering, deserted streets Lying with their comrades, all of them collateral damage, To the parched dreams of you and me.
At the end of this mile So here goes a story A story of travelling men Set upon a journey A journey of a thousand miles An endless journey you may say An arduous task to accomplish. And every man to himself thinks “Let this mile end and I will find happiness!” Oh! And so he does Of an ephemeral kind A wisp of momentary pleasure “Ah ! I’ve reached here!” “Look at those still trudging away The miles I’ve already covered..” And the flicker faded away Quite as fast as it had come For as his gaze rests, On that someone, Trudging the winding dusty road ahead, Dotted with men, Travellers alike Men more accomplished Chugging away mile after mile For its a sea of men you see On a journey that never ends It’s a thirst that never quenches And question you may Its purpose That’s for you to decide... There isn’t any It’s getting ahead than most for many. Drag along they do with a thought ever occupying “At the end of this mile...” Yes you guessed it right There is actually no end in sight Now of you enjoy your mile instead There ‘ll be a sprint in your step A Journey for the road you love !
TO GOD I PRAY... WHENEVER THERE IS A THOUGHT OF DOING SOMETHING EXTRAORDINARY AND NEW, IT TAKES ME TO A WORLD THAT IS BLANK AND WITHOUT A CLUE; WHENEVER I TRY TO CONCENTRATE, TO GET MY WORK DONE, CONFUSION IS THE STATE OF MIND I AM IN OFTEN; I PUT IN MY BEST TO WIN EVERY SINGLE TEST, SADLY DON’T KNOW HOW IT GETS MESSED; BUT THERE IS SOME KIND OF FEELING, THAT THINGS WILL CHANGE FOR THE BETTER, AND FOR EVERY QUEST OF MINE, THERE WILL BE AN ANSWER; IT IS TIME TO KEEP SUCH THOUGHTS AT BAY OPPORTUNITIES ARE ON THEIR WAY, BRING OUT THE BEST IN ME TO GOD I PRAY. - RAJ SAVLA
Servant or son “It sir, is just for three, Scandals and schemes, fantasies and themes, Discoveries and inventions, for you and me.” “gimme one you teen, I like this picture’s sheen.” This is not a profession, rather an art, Newspaper sustains people from falling apart; Rolling out before sun, laden with fun; Swami sells newspapers for bread and bun. We crave for coins, he lives, We punish, he forgives; The world builds houses, he talks to stars, We fight, he heals the scars. Swami thinks highly of his master, And mistress too, got all chores to do; Luxuriant life, but age a disaster, Their son was abroad , he lived faster. One day ill-starred, showed he, his black card; Aimed a gun at his dad, Ended up shooting an innocent lad, Poor swami, his life was all he had. Bemoaning his death, the mistress lost her breath; A birthmark on Swami’s chest , laid every thought to rest; Left him disowned, for he was diseased; Swami was their son, this fact was known to none. Man keeps one son and abandons the other, How different they are, is what we wonder; Life has a lesson to teach, its high above any deceiver’s reach; He cheats and earns, but he never learns. - Roopal Singh
Morn to Moon Besides the lake I sit hidden from the sun’s glare When a gust of wind strikes with its moistened air. Traveling oceans, lakes and rivers that now are combined It kisses my skin and awakens my mind. An awakening to the prevailing beauty. Beauty in all its majesty! Sunlight diffuses, painting the sky Changing tones when the sun is not so high. The sun enters with a greeting at dawn. The Earth responds with a sleepy yawn. The birds start their chitter chatter And then off to find a breakfast platter, Followed by a little exercise and fun Though in the heat of the sun. Flowers blossom imparting a tint, To the greenish hue, a coloured imprint. A fragrance penetrates the atmosphere Attracting the butterflies and bees to their share of nectar. And as the sun returns for its evening siesta The kites come out to have a fiesta. Now a calm darkness gradually settles In the sky the moon and stars - they twinkle! What takes me away from all this beauty? I wonder? What secrets am I yet to discover? If only time were more often leisure. Admiring Mother Nature would be my pleasure. - KC
Illustration of the movie HER when theyre fighting with cones Illus of just the cones
Her. Drawn to her demeanour Quite peculiar was her manner Began my story as her admirer What was it about her That made me crave More than what she obviously put on offer Ridiculous it may sound But it wasn’t her body that I found To be attractive Nor to which I was spellbound Not that it lacked any of that Curves of integral geometry Put together Her’s were unsolved infinitely over Though she was almost every guy’s imaginary lover Mine was an attraction of a different kind Making every classic romantic prose and poetry recite and rewind Searching every language for just the right words that I could find To express her correctly, all the while wondering if she’d mind May one day I’d find that last ounce of courage To tell her that attraction can be expressed in several ways Some find words to praise Others do things of latest craze But I suppose while saying all this I’ll be transfixed looking at her Lost in her eyes, in her maze - Durgesh
WHO IS SHE - Rutvi
“Who is she?”, I stare into the dark lifeless eyes that stare back With such gravity that I am bound to break the eye-contact I gaze down, and at that split second, so does she There it was, a tiny bit of familiarity in all that oddity For a moment, or so I think I’m lost in my world of possibilities Of what would have happened; what could have happened Does she have a self-esteem issue? Is she not confident enough? Has she been bullied? Or has her life been rough? I recall the thousand examples : of dreams not being realised Maybe that is why her passion for life has died Or maybe it could be worse for there are things beyond my imagination Things that are read about, not the ones that are supposed to happen to us Or maybe I’m going too far!! Yes, I’m totally going too far And with that I am shaken back to reality There she is running her hand through her hair hastily Just what I do when I am too out of my mind That reminds me that my day hasn’t been too kind It had been one of those days when the hurdles had been massive
And to top it off, My self critic had been proactive Rebuking me for not having been brave enough For choosing the safer way forward For choosing to ignore the regret of not giving it a try For running away from my dreams instead of chasing them And that too when I was only a step away , Standing there at the threshold, Not long ago, I had chosen to withdraw Perhaps something that I will always anticipate Of what would have happened If I had dared to go the other way Surely, an answer for which I will have forever to wait And with that I step back and out of my thoughts, To get a full view of her, The girl with grave eyes with dark circles beneath them ; I am shocked ,for all I see is a familiar face In a wooden frame and silver polish A beautiful face with a painful depth That someone would never wish “That can’t be me” , anguish reflecting in my voice As if it is my choice “That’s not me” Or is it?
Sweet and young the lady Timid and graceful as she was; Age put the thrust, the foe – A fine morning was all it took.
The little one changed her all, In and out and all over – Did It know It’s situation? A warrior Mom in the household!
The bride, the wife that she was, In all a new world for her. A family raw and rusty, Belittled was she and chained were her dreams.
Years passed and yet another, It got a youngling, one to share; Had the mom now the planned one And forgotten lay it in memory.
Days passed and soon, The great announcement came; As glad she was, the unwelcome, Glowed in the fire of her eyes.
Somewhere as it grew up, It strived each time for all her smile: Little did It ever know – It was always the Unplanned...
The Unplanned
- Aparna Raj C
The night, dark as death Feeble hope glittering over their head Not a scene, not a breath Rowed a boat, three men dead Could this be a conspiracy Or a joke of Hades Thoughts flooded his fantasy As he stood on three atrocities He, who had this one occupation To carry them deads across the river And gift Hades the sea’s destruction But tonight he was reluctant to deliver These three peculiar fallen men History of these unfortunate souls Was more intriguing than gold pieces ten Stooping over the dead man with four holes Servus saw his grim expression This was a man of no honour, certainly Four bullets pierced his shell of aggression All over had something bit him inhumanly Bones peeped through open wound An eye pulled out violently, been missing since What, thought Servus, could bring on such a doom Turned in disgust he noticed someone so small He could be no man, but a child innocent Shot in the head, his face appall Laid dead there the boy adolescent
Shivering Servus casted a glance at the last man And somehow the unfortunate events flashed again In his mind, could he see the malicious plan Of survival, love and death the same A father, son and Stranger deserted on a boat With feeble chances, father shot the son For he could not let him witness the monster he was to uncoat Four shots and the violent stranger was done Father feasted on stranger in hopes of survival Floating lonely in the vast seas He ate flesh long as was acceptable Till his hunger turned disease Broken completely spared he a bullet to himself And thus ended the queer events of three dead men Servus thought as his boat floated to Hades Faced by death can a man fall so low To kill ones own son and eat a fellow What punishment can he possibly deserve An eternal overladen cage of sorrow Silently did he deliver them to Hades Who smiled patiently at the hopeless father Looking in Servus gloomy eyes Tossed did he ten gold coins Stuffing them in his pockets he pace Back to his eternal cage
When I Stopped Laughing I wonder when I stopped laughing Was it when they took away the books? Was it when they shut me in? Or was it when the guns started booming? And the bullets shattered my life Was it when they put a veil over my face? So no one could see, if I smiled, or when I cried Was it when they put a curtain over my life? Separating me from friends, from the world Was it after the first beating? For humming a song Or when I got five lashes, For smuggling a fairy tale Was it when fire rained from the sky? In the middle of the night When the explosion bled my ears And some never woke up again When home turned to dust, And memories to ashes Was it when they took away my brothers? To fight in the holy war And when they died, we weren’t allowed to cry Was it when the invaders came? When gunfire wouldn’t let us sleep When death became the norm, And life a surprise When the red of henna on my palms, Was replaced by smears of blood I see it everyday now The extinguished laughter of young ones Some by a sharp look, Some by lacerating words And some by a stinging slap As their world is snatched away from them As the fairy tales are banned, Knowledge is denied, The songs are silenced, Happiness is forbidden, And hope has to die.
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