Of Candles & Light

Wiki says: “A ”’candle”’ is a solid block of wax with an embedded candle wick, which is ignited to provide light, and sometimes heat, and historically was used as a method of keeping time.”

 When we were small, our days were marked by long hours of unannounced load shedding. Needless to say inverters or generators were things yet to be discovered or put to common domestic use. Those dark hours (if it were night) were spent sitting around melting candles throwing weak flickers of lights in rooms  domineered by shadows. Families were large and playmates were easily found in siblings and hordes of cousins. Time would pass by in a jiffy playing Antakshari/Word Building/Guessing Games and other brain twisters.

In the meanwhile, the patriarchs would find it appropriate to blast the Government or play Bridge rowdily blaming each other and their partners for the wrong moves causing defeat or spoilers while the ladies of the house amused themselves with family or neighborhood gossips – who is going around with whom and who is expecting her second or third issue and such other entertaining exchanges!

The more enterprising ones, like my elder sis, would lit the wick and try a sly hand at planchette invoking the spirits, evil or noble, hovering in the troposphere, on the lookout for gullible humans, desperate to know what lay in store for them in the immediate future. That evergreen heart thudding question: does he love me or loves me not….or that breath stopping one: when will that TDH (Tall Dark and Handsome) Gregory Peckian styled heart-robber, jump straight out of the mushy pages of Mills & Boon, gatecrash into my life and sweep me off my feet …or a more puritan query: will I pass the Half Yearlies with flying colours? …or a calculated one: which way should I present that craftily stolen red rose (from the school garden) to my favourite teacher to bring a patronizing smile on her pursed lips and a doting glaze to her stern eyes freezing the same to permanency?  Innocent, innocuous, insouciant time pass!

We always had a pack of candles stacked in the store room – it was an essential item for light-less exigency. Not only for the mosquito-bite ridden nights but also for certain soporific hours of the day when Father would light one in front of the house deity and pray or meditate. My roguish cousin made it a point to frighten me with eerie noises when we gathered to play The Dark Room. The lights would be turned off and special pains taken to ward off even a flicker of ray from outside. The unfortunate one amongst us, mostly me, would be designated to find the rest of the gang in that pitch, blinding darkness. If you were lucky you would soon stumble on one of the crouching lurkers; if you were not you’d end up flailing your hands around in vain and hoping after hopes for a streak of illumination. Suddenly, a match would be struck in air, a candle contrived out of nowhere and lit to catch red-handed your bamboozled expression amidst roars of laughter!

It was a common joke, or more respectfully speaking, practice, in our family to sing along “Aayega aane wala”, unforgettably Madhubala-esque style, followed by Waheeda’s goose bumpy “kahin deep jale kahin dil” with a spooky ooooooooooooooooooo Lata-lilt trailing the number, whosoever lit the candle first during the nightly load shedding ritual.

Well, candles came in handy in other times for other purposes as well. When a pin point had to be burnt to sterilize before needling into the skin to scoop out foreign flakes irritating the fingers, toes or heels!  Today, for the littlest discomfort we prefer to rush to the nearest state-of-the-art nursing home or hospital.

As a child, I would love to watch a burning candle – how the molten wax, colourless and liquefied, collected in the hollow around the wick before percolating down drip by drip, sliding along the sides of the slender, tubular block of wax, cooling and solidifying as instantly into thin strips of stalactite-stalagmite like structures while stoically clinging to the length of the candle. Later, fingers would find great fun in breaking these outgrowths off the candle stick like crunches of crisply fried chips. The wax stuck to the fingers for long softening the tips into creamy mounds.

Candles were crucial in those cursed hours of lengthy black-outs too when the sovereignty of the State was under severe jeopardy. Yes! The 1970s!! We have seen those days of hushed worried tones, brazen black marketeering and an economy tottering on cracked heels.

Those were days of plethora of inconveniences and lack of information. Yet, we enjoyed a kind of loving protection within the folds of close-knit as well as extended family and kinship. Since then times have changed with a fierce rapidity. With the easy accessibility and proliferation of modern amenities, candles have been declared outmoded and bowed out of city life except to be used peripherally for lighting a diya in the temple or a cracker during Diwali. Paying heed to the call of time, the candle-makers beat a hasty retreat. However, in remote backwaters, where the agencies of governance have not firmed their political will towards electrification, candles, I suppose, are still very much a way of life.

Candles have lit peaceful processions of protest. Candles have been lit in tribute to the Forces who secure our borders from enemy insurgents. Candles have been lit in memories of martyrs who have laid down their lives for monumental causes and safeguard of rich legacies for posterity. Yes! Candles have maintained time and historicity. Much as Civilization is on a roll-back always. The cyclic order of birth-growth-flourish-decay-death unfailingly perpetuate. There are enough chances that sooner than later, we may regress back in time to the primitive state of nature – the jungle culture – as an aftermath to a rotten end! More so, as the country is endangered by its own men – the hoodlums anchored on political backing, patricians engrossed in selfish pursuits within the enclosed insulation of their ivory towers and pedophiles on a rampage raping five year olds with candles and plastic bottles; the chandler, once thrown out of business, may again be reinstated back with unexpected preoccupation but this time with a difference. Candles, the harmless time-keeper of the past, having now replaced deadlier instruments of oppression and torture with equal ferocity and savagery!

Disturbed I fold back the newspaper. Rinky, till now lying comfortably next to my feet, look up with questioning eyes. On an impulse, I draw her in a tight hug. Eventide, the streets would soon be deserted, mothers pulling back  their daughters behind filigreed curtains as in ancient ages, girl-children disallowed outside the threshold of their hearths, unsure whether the man next door pecked their daughters’ cheeks with genuine fondness or fondled bestial motives on the secret. The beast on the prowl may have layers to him – an external visage of care and concern masking the murkier mala fide intents hidden thereunder.  Who knows? Thus brews and breeds an air of distrust and doubt pervading the populace – a potent destroyer of the species – more lethal than a nuclear explosive.

While innocence lies lacerated in a hospital bed battling with death what does she have to look forward to but a traumatized future? After more than six decades of independence, the light has really gone out. We have snuffed out the candles with the crook of our palms, once a pet childhood game giving way to a regrettable certitude of hopelessness and faithlessness. The clipped wick has doused the city in shame leaving behind licking flames of horrified protest   And however hard the law enforcers try to slap blankets over the leaping tongs of fire, the blistering blaze may soon devour the sleepy citadels of power and bring the roof down in no time.

Hope is an undying motivator. Cynics may implore us to see reason and understand the pluralist legacy of vote bank based politics. Notwithstanding, the intense love for our motherland would like to see the candle turn into a blazing torch igniting a horizon with expandable boundaries and not get stranded in a time warp.

Till then a bud nipped at its nascence wilts on a pristine sheet of clinical umbrage.

And we mourn a loss greater than that of life!!!!

Forbidden Clicks!!I

The Metro Platform

As the caption goes, in this post are embedded all clicks forbidden. We are not supposed to take pictures inside the Metro. However, I shall reiterate what I have said earlier. Metro is the microcosm of the urbanscape. A thought that always overbears the mind as I step inside the mammoth structure of brick and mortar, whichever part of the city, be it standing tall and proud. A few decades back, the quintessential Delhites could never have imagined an overhead (or for that matter underground) network of reptilian tubes crisscrossing the cityscape in a deceptively languorous gait, (seen from afar), carrying an overload of daily commuters from one end of the city to the other. The imposing corridors of metallic tracks efficiently weaving through ever busy roads choked with traffic. With the advent of Metro, life has taken a surprise turn for the better. A technological leverage which at first intimidated, then stunned by its continued and meticulous adherence to systemic routine and gradually made the daily runners over dependent on its comfort carriage. I have often written about my daily journeys to and fro office by the Metro. The well maintained concourses, the frugality of space inside the overburdened coaches, the hustle and bustle, the push and pull, the jolts and jostles and a shift in commuting culture, though painfully slow, yet indicative of a welcome transformation in the behavioural pattern of an irreverent crowd habituated to rowdiness and unruliness. Above all, a growing pride for a much needed breakthrough in the transportation system which not only saved time but also provided a cleaner, cooler and more hygienic travel in the midst of heat and dust and a pollution coughing city. Similarly, during the freezing cold of extreme winter, the jungle of human bodies stashed inside the bogies provided a warmth which might not have overflowed from the four chambers of beguiled hearts, yet was good enough to make one feel cozy (even if for a very short span of time), while the mercury outside alarmingly tipped towards zero.In short, the metro fascinates me. So do the motley of crowd, I lose myself in, the known and the unknown faces, I bump into, though just for a while, yet long enough to leave a lingering impact and imprint on an impressionable mind always on the lookout for stories to tell. In anonymity lies strength, in ambivalence a quest for definitiveness. Lost I find my way.

The Screaming Pointer

The shocking pink arrow drawn ostentatiously on the grey-green platform with “ Women Only” super scribed on it, earmarks the point where the Ladies Coach (the first one adjacent to the driver’s cabin) comes to an unerring halt. Most of the pics have been taken from this vantage point. No brownie points for guessing why.The glass doors slide open to usher in a rush of not so dainty or demure steps. During peak hours the exodus borders on stampede. There have been occasions when the de-boarders were unceremoniously pushed to the ground and ruthlessly trampled over eliciting violent outbursts like “abhi haath lag jaayega toh chillaaogi” from irate members of the opposite sex. If you ask me that shade of magenta is a bit too garish in a bid to be eye-catching. Still some boarders are daft enough to overlook the ‘screaming’ pointer incurring the wrath of the femme fatale. The resultant whiplashes of the verbose kind, admirably eloquent and laden with chosen expletives, sprinkle an extra dash of spicy garnish to an otherwise insipid rut of the day.To that extent, the colour pink with all its indulgent shades, inarguably synonymous with the feminine gender of yore, today exemplify a mistaken identity. Frankly, I have forgotten when I did blush last! For all you know, the pink arrow is a dubious indicator to an obsolete quintessence. For the romantically inclined it may be a rueful remembrance of a bygone era of coquettish charm, fluttering lashes, tremulous lips and faint hearts. But now, as the black belt is tightened around a waist size zero, the colour pink retrieves its steps hurriedly back to the palette…!!!

The Human Spill-Over

Coming back to my co-commuters – men and women lost in the respective worlds of their making – do look at times like stranded animals in a closed bio-park waiting patiently for a sudden release. A pack of laggards who should have vacated the premise much earlier but had somehow stayed on forgetful of the notional time of departure. Sounds terrible and I don’t know why I said that but as I stare harder at this pic the feeling of some kind of a human spill-over takes stronger and deeper hold on my imagination. A spill-over which we can do well without….In saying so, I might have as well included myself in that humongous throng!!!!

The Cro Magnon Man Courtesy Wikipedia

 Notwithstanding, the flicker of discomfort which an unexpected revelation induces, at times it is good to retreat to the roots and recollect, with a certain sense of embarrassment, the fact that we are the evolved (?) successors of the Cro Magnon Man (early homo sapiens), valiantly trying to claim superiority over the endless expanse of cosmic creation, mistaking the tireless effort to be divinely pre-calculated or a blunder unparalleled, whichever.

An act of disobedience, needless to say, is surreptitious. The clicks could have been spectacular had I had the liberty to shoot openly with more exotic and goes-without-saying-more-expensive lenses. With a palm-held insignificant looking device and the enormity of pretenses that went with the underhand job, was, without doubt, shameful. A slight press of the thumb on the centre button did it while I indulged in award winning acts of reading smses or vacantly admiring a way out-dated model (Please don’t ask me the no.) from various angles. Had a talent scout been on, I could have seriously bagged a few lucrative offers for showcasing my prowess – more in the line of befooling the Authorities than any other serious competence worthy of a mention. In so far as the pictures are concerned, given the masterly sleight of, I should say, fingers, nothing better could be expected than the ones put up here. And that, mind it, is not a boast of a braggart but just a factual statement.

Whatever alternates, there could have been to exploit or ignore, the fact remains, I did take potshots, in the literal sense of the term, as and when opportunity or the lack of it prevailed. My favourite amongst these is this one.

The Silver Caterpillar

My uncle, an ace photographer himself, always criticized the lack of light or the total absence of object in my shots. More on that some other time!! Still, incorrigible that I am, whenever I glimpse the silver caterpillar-like-tube crawling into the platform my fingers itch to capture its mechanical beauty and grace. Its sedate glide through the archway, the perfect halt and the patient wait till the bipeds flooding her gleaming interiors have settled themselves in even if that means crashing into each other’s perspiring carcasses, oops, sorry, bodies. A few of the shining glass windows lining the compartments are hideously cracked from one corner to the other – ugly scars like lightening cutting across a smooth contour . Handiwork of mobs gone berserk the day she was inaugurated and in their frenzied excitement did what they should never have done – vandalized history leaving a defaced page behind!

My wayward ramblings easily careen close to those aggressive builders of civilizations who have on one hand created spell binding constructs of almost godly perfection and the next moment shattered them into smithereens putting an untimely end to a saga of toil and sweat in a mood of utter intolerance and those mute watchers who have witnessed the spectacle in awe, apathy or a premonitory sense of impending doom ruminating over the chronology of destruction with hard-earned detachment – the former the scribe of doers and devastators; the latter the survival seekers and chroniclers of passage of time immemorial. Yes, the human species, for and on whom the city thrives, gives me enough fodder to chew on, several would say, meaninglessly, but as I say, it is the meaninglessness that gathers momentum in the cerebral creeks of a diehard gazer whose everyday meanderings may have lost its sheen. Still rows on the canoe on heavily sedimented beds of stilled time. Who knows what brews underneath the sedentary surface? Perhaps a contrast of currents deeper and restive… a sleeping volcano!!! Time shall tell…

To be continued…

Socks With A Hole

These are random clicks. Contrary to the supposition that randomness may also, in certain cases, imply a disguised singularity of precinct, there is no method to this present madness, so to speak. Yet, as I now go through these whimsical and at times not-in-accurate-focus captures, an interplay of greater significance and meaning comes to light illustrative in the odd musings preceding or following the pics!!

 Like this one…

 

At last, I have put my paw (read foot) down implicating a favorable tilt to the balance of life. Or have I? Doubt lingers as the shackle around my neck tells a different story altogether…

 

 

Am I shy of making a bold contact with the vicissitudes of destiny? No, taking the bull by the horn is just not me. I shall rather steal a shot at life from behind the curtain…

 

 

Time rolls on and there comes moments when a pair of socks with a hole loses its allure and Nature’s endless kaleidoscope seems so much more captivating. If only the doors would unlock…

A Walk With Kishmish….A Walk To Remember

Kishmish – Four months old!

The best thing that happened in the year 2012 was the arrival of Kishmish in our lives. Since then, as the saying goes life has never been the same again. Kishmish is now eight and a half months old and like all Labradors wants nothing more from life than eat, bathe, sleep and make merry. Satish, the trainer, finds her unmanageable though he does not say so in so many words. “Madamji, yeh bahut jaldi thak jaati hai” is all that which comes as a polite feed-back. No, she is not lazy or under-nourished. Plain naughty and disobedient, she is just not into discipline or training. Ugghhh! That’s too boring. Give me a free hand to make mischief and play pranks and I am game for it anytime.

We have always had pets except a certain phase of life when having one was considered a luxury. Kishmish’s predecessor Mr. Snow Boot was a pure Desi whom my nephew had picked up from  Nature’s kennel – the first Indian stray mongrel that we ever sheltered, inspired by Maneka Gandhi and my B-I-L’s firm belief that the homeless should be supported. Snow grew up into a temperamental, anxiety prone, eternally-suspicious-of-strangers, ill-tempered yet adorable hulk of a brat on whom we showered our love unconditionally. He too loved us in his own way. Peculiarly house bound he hated loitering outside. According to our vet, Snow’s strange ways and unfriendly nature rooted to his early infancy whence he might not have been treated well by his vagabond counterparts. Snow left us all of a sudden (at the age of ten) in May 2011 as I slithered into the throes of depression after nursing him night and day for a week or so in vain. A year later, my sister, in one of her whimsical moods, brought Kishmish home to get back the laughter in my eyes. One may ask why wait a whole year long! Well that was to pay respect to Snow’s memories. We still remember him fondly and I often rebuke Kishmish giving Snow’s examples of what a stickler for time and self-disciplined he was. Needless to say, all these priceless preaching fall on deaf ears.

Kishmish’s official name, that is the one on her Vet Card, is Rinky. It’s her raisin-like eyes which got her the name Kishmish. But each one in the family has a name for her of their respective choice. My youngest nephew calls her Phoebe. B-I-L wanted to name her Lara Croft but we have somehow managed to dissuade him from doing so. Maa sometimes lovingly calls her Julie (Junior) after the female Dachshund that she brought up a good five decades back. But the best one that describes her is Ms. Marley. Take a cue from that classic “Marley & Me” and you know why. Going by the books, Labradors are the gentlest of breeds and the best for small as well as large families especially with children. However, lack of exercise tends to bore them and boredom leads to plain destructiveness. So, regular walks are a must.

Snow had very unusual timings for walks – between four and five in the wee hours of morn. For Kishmish any time is outing time. Habits die hard. And five in the morning, therefore, seems the naturally right time to me for a stroll and am trying hard to rub that on Kishmish.

The winding alley!!

A service lane runs along side the block with premeditated twists and turns. At five it is free of human footfalls, but way back home, the rituals of the day initiated with all its mundane regularity, are glimpsed without fail.These desultory walks have become special because they have made me aware of little-little things which I would not have bothered to notice had I been left to myself. As Kishmish sniffs the life out of dusts and debris, fallen leaves and broken twigs take on a new meaning. The ordinary assumes the forms of extra ordinary and finding astonishing secrets in sights, hitherto overlooked, a great adventure beyond compare. I have got back into my childhood pass-time of standing and staring, the left-overs of life attractive to attention and dirty residuals a world of mystery which my friend loves to scrabble through while I gaze on endlessly. The other day we found a well-sized square-ish rock with jagged edges tightly wrapped in a torn, once-upon-a-time-white-now-a-dirty-grey gunjee. Now who would think of doing that? It made me wonder…The innumerable holes in the discarded baniyaan a peek into a past which could have had its own reasons and mysteries but now lost in time lies unnoticed by a curved pavement hidden from prying eyes.

Here we slow down!!

The lane takes a turn by a tree with thick foliage stooping low on the face of the Earth. A shady nook where we sit for a while as Kishmish robustly investigates the grounds. The road passing by is a busy one and never bereft of traffic whatever time of the day it be. I let the world whizz by counting moments of sudden peace and silence so rare in the crazy fare of scurrying feet and never ending chores. It’s our kind of ‘slowing down’ not bothered whether it’s too late or a waste to sit by aimlessly. Aimlessness, an invaluable preoccupation, if only be allowed or accommodated in the fast-scrolling sequences of other more important and pressing urgencies!!!Just a few feet ahead is the unremarkable shop of a chaiwallah who does “Ram-Ram” to me and I greet him in return. Our day is never complete without meeting and greeting each other. It’s a simple stall standing erect on two bamboos holding a shade of dried leaves, discarded  jute sheets,  tears off used yards of tarpauline callously thrown upon each other with two longish, rectangular wooden slabs on a few flat stones for seats on either side. The wall against which the chaiwallah reclines in-between making and serving tea belongs to an MCD school. It is in there that all the menial labourers of the Corporation fill in their attendance before moving on for their respective duties. In the early winters, I see them relishing a cup each of steaming tea with some suji biscuits or matthis before dispersing for work.

The chaiwallah and his pet!!

It is here that one day I found a strange visitor sitting a few feet away from the stall – a disheveled figure in tattered clothes - tangled hair, dark skinned, uncared visage,  worn and bare feet. She had made a small fire of twigs and leaves, probably way back into the night, now almost spent and thus inadequate, around which she squatted. The mercury had dipped to a record low. The woman curled up to the dying embers in a vain bid to keep herself warm. Nobody spoke to her neither she, in turn, would or could speak to anyone and only replied in nods or just remained silent when a group of female labourers passing by stopped and asked her something. One of them opened her batua (purse) and handed some change to the chaiwallah telling him to give her a cup of tea with some matthis. The chaiwallah nodded assent and got busy with the preparations. The group passed by chatting. They were all road sweepers with hearts of gold! They showed the sort of kindness which well-to-dos seldom showed. Why did I not think of what they promptly did – a gesture of empathy? I didn’t carry money was a lame excuse. It did not click me to do something for her was unpardonable. Marooned in the islands of our own making, perhaps, as we move ahead in life that is what we leave behind foremost – fellow feeling.

My regular walks have made me a known face to these menial workers. Some of them smile at me or pat Kishmish before walking on with their trundling trawlers. Some just take us for granted. Kishmish always shows great interest in these trawlies and who knows one day she may get a joy ride in one of them. In our silent march into dawn the chaiwallah and his punctual clients are oases of populace lending a down-to-earth comfort and value to life which my neon-lit cabin and white-collar job fail to do. The simplicity of existence suffuses me with a feeling of oneness, warmth and security and something to behold with a sense of endorsement! My sympathy to hard hands-on labour as an assertion of life is antipathetic to my present profession. Someday I must try out past life regression to find out the answer why?

B & B and Company

Bittoo and Brown, oh yes, they are real, follow us at a respectful pace and distance. Brown, herself a possessive mother of half a dozen puppies, has taken to caring and being protective towards Kishmish on her own, which is as much heart-warming as gratitude invoking, especially, when the wayward brutes make it a point to intimidate her. Brown has a knack of hunting for rodents scooping out tunnels in the soft soil beds lining the paved streets while we take rest after the walk. Earlier, we had made the park, adjacent to my flat, our jogging joint. But B & B and their growing pack of broods have messed the place all up and turned it into a dump yard. The reason why we have declined their hospitality and taken to the roads instead.

The unhappy one!!

On our way, we do meet a few peevish walkers like this one who are yet to make friends with Kishmish. But I am still hopeful . Lately, the chaiwallah has adopted a bitch who is not too happy to find Kishmish around. She is in the family way so we have graciously excused her snappish ways and mood swings.

And then there is Iaago, the handsome dude of the block, a healthy hunk of a golden Labrador, who shows definite curiosity to “know” Kishmish more, an inclination observable by the way he interestedly sniffs Kishmish long and hard while his master tugs at his body belt with an embarrassed “Ab bas! Bas kar yaar!” The silent Sardarjee with his indifferent Pomeranian who refuses to react to Kishmish’s “who are you” barks except once when he snubbed her off with an irritated ‘Wuff”! Bruzo, the macho Lab, walks with a swagger. As a matter of fact, the master and the beast both pound the earth with similar gait and exude an unmistakable air of chauvinistic impatience!! The two have crossed our path once or twice. Kishmish finds Bruzo the Beast a bit overbearing which provokes contemptuous grunts like,” Oh! Yeh to darti hai!” and other such similar lines of haughty scoff and shrug! Master, I muse, give some time and see who fears whom. The treatise will not be complete if I not tell you all about the stoic sage who graces our neighbourhood – the saintly Tyson, a grizzly bear of a black Lab, who endures Kishmish’s overwhelming onslaughts with unwavering equanimity and a forgivingness of a higher order which can put humans to shame. His handler quips, “Yeh to sant hai. Kisise kuchh nahin kahta.” But I am quite sure the veil sports a chink. The deep frown that mars his smooth forehead and the speck of gleam in those pious eyes which befalls Kishmish like the halo of a hermit and the innumerable turning arounds and looking backs while parting ways invariably reminds me of the “Palat…” scene from DDLJ!!!!:)

We are all marchers of dawn!!! And life goes on sometimes in and sometimes out of pace. But there are these few moments standing still in the whirlwind of motion and grinding haste giving us that cherished siesta which fills us with the zest and zeal to walk through the tornado with inner calm and serenity. Come walk with me for a while and see for yourself…

Postscript: A minor accident has put a stop to these walks. I am hopeful that I will be able to pick up the threads soon. Yet the post is in present tense to reinforce the treasure trove of gathered memories which remains with me like fragrance of fresh flowers, invigorating and tranquilizing at the same time, filling me up with a deep desire to recuperate fast and embrace a routine which makes life immensely more enjoyable and meaningful.

Till then…Patience !!!!! 

Being Single

We are constrained by our own existential realities - a statement that may incite a vociferous debate. However, it is more a matter of acceptance than discord. It is not easy or commonplace to think out of the box and therein lies its merit. Transcending the bounds of the known requires not will but wish – a choice of the heart. To understand, appreciate and empathize with what does not comprise our conceptual and immediate world necessitates a kind of transmogrification of the mind crossing over barriers of limited knowledge, baser apathy and reluctance of intent. Intolerance is founded upon our resistance and disinclination to approach a view point that may be in absolute variance with our own and a hurry to jump to the conclusion that not following the routine may be a disguised attempt to cover up an ulterior motive or a hidden handicap.

This little preface to a more elaborate citation that follows is with regard to the buzz word of contemporary social progression – the movement called EMPOWERMENT that has been initiated with great enthusiasm by the various agencies of governance and non-governmental bodies in the country; a subject which is as sensitive as burning and delicate – EMPOWERMENT – the tool of emancipation of not only the womankind but mankind itself. Else how do you visualize a civilization strengthening and surging forward if one half of the population remains chained behind? Logically, it is impossible.

Empowerment is a multi-dimensional and multi-layered project which evades a cognitive absolute. It has several facades and many divergent and variegated aspects associated with it. When women crossed the threshold to march alongside their male counterparts to earn a livelihood her financial independence was said to be a step towards empowerment. The first female engineer, astronaut, pilot or doctor was milestone achievers. As the light of education seeped into the curtained domain of the housebound girl children, another landmark vision of empowerment was attained. There was a time when very few women corporates made it to the Board Room. The first gatecrasher (not in the exact spirit of the action) of course opened the floodgate of many other worthy ones to follow suit. To our urban consciousness these broad examples are constituents of empowerment.

Again empowerment has a contextual relativity and tone. When Anita, my neighbor, decided to open a tiny beauty parlour in one of the front rooms of her flat, her father-in-law did not much like the idea of a working daughter-in-law. Anita’s plea was that she was contributing to the family coffer without stepping out of the house. Her husband who did not enjoy benefits of a secured job put in tacit support. Surprisingly, it was her mother-in-law’s wholehearted encouragement and backing that decided the matter. During one of our heart-to-heart chats, Anita had confided that she considered it a complete waste not to utilize the skills that she had acquired before marriage. The monetary gain supplemented the utilitarian value of her work skills which not only kept her engaged but also gave a purpose to spend time meaningfully.

For our maid, Chandra, a victim of domestic violence, absconding from her husband’s house, with the aid of another man, seemed the only life-saving course. When Charles Darwin propounded his famous Survival of the Fittest theory, did he not imply that it was the empowered who were the likely survivors in the process of evolution or vice versa, it was the survivors who recognized foremost the need to empower themselves in order to befit a continuously changing environment ?

Empowerment thus flouts status quo. It is the first mantra of adaptability and adoptability. It is like the escalator which takes the rider up on its own volition. Its motion is circular indicating a never ending process provided you were the one ready to put your foot on the first step first.

Remember Scarlet O’Hara of that incomparable classic ‘Gone WithThe Wind’? I was rather confused by her character – her total lack of virtue and her unabashed selfish opportunism. Yet she was the heroine of the epic novel.  I was too inexperienced then to fully comprehend the intricate nuances of the chronology of change at the same time I could intuitively sense a survivor in her who had the dynamism to confront every challenging situation of life with a head-on-collision-kind-of-attitude. In doing so, she, a pawn in the hands of history, epitomized the paradigm of historical divide and change, surviving as well as imbibing it – an empowered woman!

That brings to the next most important question. Is empowerment goaded by the streak of narcissism present in human genome or is it an instinctive pursuit reflecting the need of time? Perhaps it is the intrinsic human tendency to build and rebuild one’s own self? When Bachhendri Pal scaled the Everest, the adrenaline in her blood stream must have, at every trek, pumped her up with a high measurable to that of the feeling of invincibility. Up at the peak she must have looked down upon the world with the inflated spirit of a conqueror? Conquests dazzle us with an aura of empowerment. Victory elevates one from   mundane drudgeries and petty hardships. However, exceptionally, winning can also make us realize the defeat of soul like it did to Asoka The Great  (witnessing the mass killings of the Kalinga War which he had himself waged to confiscate the feudal republic of Kalinga) – a transformation from  physical to  spiritual empowerment.

For my married colleagues, a more understanding and receptive husband and caring mother-in-law meant little steps further towards empowerment. For harassed and stressed out working women and householders alike a few hours of me-time is a means towards empowerment. Two and a half decades ago when I decided to go single my family had to be consoled as well as counseled to accept my decision. And then there were those neighborhood busybodies who took upon themselves to snoop out the skeleton in my cupboard, which had, according to them, prompted me to take such a decision. One of my female colleagues had once asked me how I had mentally reconciled to spinsterhood. What she actually meant was how have I brainwashed myself into believing that I am still happy being single? I was upset over it for a long time and asked myself a number of times whether I was deluding myself in thinking that I couldn’t care less if I were single. These were so-called modern, educated women who put these questions. Two and a half decades later, I have mustered the gumption to ask myself do I need an excuse to believe that I am happy ? Again, it was these colleagues who maintained stony silence when I once broached the subject of parenting homeless children. It was these colleagues who considered not dressing in a certain way or following fashion positively down market. It was these colleagues, who nurtured secret desires to smoke, taste the booze and watch a raunchy blue film without their husband’s knowledge. They were the adventurous lot, no doubt, and felt a kind of thrill in doing what they were for centuries not allowed to do in public.  One amongst these, who hailed from the backwaters of our country, once purportedly told her subordinate that she should not be taken lightly as she belonged to the mod crop of  ‘jean’ clad women. To the deprived and rustic (with due respect) a cross over to the urban milieu and embracing its ways and means and lifestyle is coming of age. While we marvel at an eunuch heading a Panchaayat, how many of us address them as human beings when accosted by their coarse mannerisms?

Empowerment entails overhauling of the age-old mindset.  While the arm of government that I serve recognized and extended facilities to single women bread-earners taking care of their dependents, it was my peers and colleagues who refused to acknowledge that a single woman can be the head of a family or meant to have a family for that matter. One of my male colleagues once blatantly told me, “Where is your family? You’re not married !”  A number of times, Invitation Cards from Office would read only my name while my ‘fortunate’ colleagues had a “with family” tag on theirs. Quite a lot has changed since then. Nowadays, women opt to remain single. Seconding their new found singlehood does not necessarily mean undermining the institution of marriage. It also does not mean approving the number of divorces which is on the rise in the country – the lack of patience and tolerance for each other, the lack of time and faith invested into a relationship so essential for it to grow and mature. My friend and her beau, both professionals, have well-charted out plans for furthering their careers which include getting enrolled for more advanced courses with a view to update and enrich themselves in their respective fields.  Marriage is also on the cards. Dividing their time between high-profile jobs and compulsory-attendance classes, I really wonder how they intend to make their marriage work. Have they really thought of investing as much into their new life which they are heading for? Or will career be their first priority always and marriage just a side-dish to be savoured during occasional meals together? Which takes me to my next musing – can we empower ourselves divesting our attention off our near and dear ones and relationships which we hold dear ‘on-paper’?

Singlehood or the choice to remain single, in contrast, provides another facet of life.  The option is not an easy one as it seems to many married friends of mine. It is as difficult as making success of a marriage. While burning bras is misrepresented as liberation, equally singlehood, contrary to prevalent mindset, especially amongst married women, does not signify escape from responsibilities, duties and obligations which being part of family and society entail. Even though it is grossly undermined, even in today’s progressive times, I would say singlehood is definitely as much a statement on feminism as motherhood is. To reiterate my earlier thought, I am glad that  more and more women are able to voice their preference in this respect (whether to get married or remain single) which implies that they have alternate options to select from, a freedom of choice, which was earlier completely unavailable to them.  To look beyond perceived notion is also a way forward towards being empowered.

Empowerment, in the final analysis, thus, is a crusade for identity. To know thyself – what we are good at and what our limitations are; what we want to do and what we loath; how to improve upon our own selves and internalize that improvement to our own benefit; to discard the obsolete and adopt and adapt to systemic and societal changes. One of my senior female colleagues, supposedly liberated and empowered, once refused a chair considerately drawn towards her by a male colleague, remarking, “Remember! We are at par now and can draw our own chairs.” Well, a small incident which still rankles with me. Can we call ourselves empowered by repulsing something nice and humane as chivalry on the part of our male counterpart?

While our urban consciousness restricts periphery excluding the millions in the village who do not have paper degrees to brandish and declare themselves empowered, we should not forget that the woman who rubs shoulder with the menfolk at the construction site is also a professional. So is the traditional midwife or bone-setter with knowledge born out of experience! So is the homemaker whose core-competency in smoothly managing the household, a twenty four hours job, need not be out rightly discarded, devalued or derided as ‘routine stuff’ just because it’s not paid service or require prestigious paper degrees. More so because it comes naturally to her!!! And which is natural cannot always be perfected through learning.  Prabha, my maid does not share her salary to keep the kitchen fire burning. Instead she has been saving the same to invest in a small-scale tertiary industry that she and her husband are running with the help of other family members.  Chinmun, my ‘life support’, has been tending three kids and a liability of a drunkard husband, who is given to squandering money painstakingly saved and rightly invested in necessities.

Like all other dynamics of social development, the concept of empowerment is not static. Time shall add many new dimensions to it. Many new ways shall be discovered and devised, in near future, to suit requirements hitherto unforeseeable. Having said all that, it may also be underscored that empowerment, at its rudimentary level, envisages a conducive societal framework free of regressive practices and aberrations like dowry, sati, child abuse, rape, sexual harrassment at workplace, murder, etc., a healthy economic infrastructure backed by sound and uniform education system and equality of opportunity with emphasis on self-reliance and economic independence wherein child labour would be a forgotten tale and a definite political will to develop this exemplary model of human habitation.

However, success of a movement lies in solidarity. As long as we misunderstand and misrepresent the essence and ethos & found our rapport with the opposite sex and our own on distrust and skepticism, empowerment shall tend to be just a misadventure. It needs to take on a holistic and inclusive approach to be more impactful and effective in the true sense of the term.

Being single therefore does not mean singlehanded. It means singlemindedly working towards a goal which awakens us to a greater consciousness and elevates us to a higher plane. When Tagore wrote the song, “ekla chalo re” he did not intend a lonely travel. On the contrary, what he meant was that a person of conviction should courageously follow a path less-trodden taking along the others with him. And that is exactly what the Mahatma did to whom the song is incidentally dedicated.

We, in pursuasion of Tagore’s Clarion Call, have to do exactly the same. Walk with head held high taking the world along with us on a road less-travelled.

This post is a second entry  written  for the contest Celebrating Girls Celebrating Women under the aegis of Women’s Web Magazine in view of International Women’s Day

Celebrating Myself!!

Am a day or two late
What difference does it make?

I belong to an undemonstrative family. I don’t remember my mother ever telling me in quivering tones and moist eyes how ecstatic she was to hear my lung-tearing howl announcing arrival on this planet Earth. But she did tell me that it was a smooth delivery (or deliverance?). My father had taken my elder sister to a Laurel & Hardy film. On taking a detour of the Hospital, (where my mother was admitted), later in the evening, they were taken by surprise to learn of my entry into this world before time. Well! Gynaes never swear by time when it comes to predicting deliveries or is it God’s prerogative!!! One would like to believe in the latter.

Back home, with me walked in to the nursery my quadruped sibling, a Golden Dachshund, Julie, a few days older than me. My mother had to raise both of us together, which was, I suppose, a bit trying for her at times.

Childhood memories come in fitful flashbacks. Mom and Dad appearing from behind the bedroom door curtain like genies to give me a sudden playful surprise. Julie sympathetically digging my cheeks with her wet nose when I lay spread-eagled on the cold red and black tiled floor trying to walk with both feet tied with an elastic rope. The delicious waft of bread crumb pudding and many such delicacies from the kitchen titillating my nose. My mother teaching me the first seven notes of music on the Harmonium, with the German reeds, mind you, proudly flaunted as a sort of family heirloom. Di sowing the maiden seeds of doubt into the wildly imaginative mind of a six year old that she was not her mother’s own child having  gotten replaced by the matron in the maternity ward (un)intentionally!!!

The unconditional cuddle of furry friends, musty smell of books, books and books, wax crayons, pastel colours and drawing sheets and the deep, mellifluous resonance of soul stirring music shall always dominate my  memoire. My mother singing bhajans to the tune of  the auspicious conch every evening! My father meditating before the family deity!  The smoky scent of  karpoor (Camphor), coconut fibres and guggul (Commiphora Wightii),  lit together in a blackened earthen penseive,  to ward off evil and mosquitoes as well.  The forced wakefulness late into wintry nights to get a glimpse of Santa and dozing off by dawn despite laborious efforts – the next morning, a harbinger of pleasant amazement, finding the favourite book under the pillow!!! The curiosities of adolescence – caught red-handed reading Di’s love letters and getting my ears boxed hard for being impertinent. Height of audacity – secretly reading Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s ‘Charitraheen’, a forbidden book, by the then standards of decorum, without my mother’s knowledge or permission, apparently an achievement par excellence, which while on one hand thrilled to no end, on the other invoked a kind of awe of my own self furnishing the first instance of quiet rebellion that I was capable of.

My mother was (still is) a martinet whom I defied and disappointed a number of times. My father was a liberal who entrusted a lot of faith in his youngest daughter, which sometimes make me wonder, whether the investment was not as inutile and vain as mistaking an optical illusion for reality. I was an intimidated child who gave in to her older sibling’s stupidest of commands. I grew up to be defiant in an unobtrusive kind of way.

And then the drastic swerve in the boulevard.  My neighbours murmured sympathetic praises as I smeared the sandalwood paste on my father’s frozen forehead  before bidding him the final goodbye. “You still belong to the same Gotra“, decreed the ‘saffron bandits’. I complied. One last reward of being single. Did my hands shake lighting the pyre? No, that ‘luxury’ was unaffordable. It  was an electric crematorium – my father’s expressed last wish!! Someone held me by my waist as I folded my hands skyward. RIP – floated the exordium in air to a fateful beginning!!!

Childish revolts were no more lavish statements of self-assertion. It was  now the serious question of  sustenance of life and legacy – what was left behind had to be preserved from peril and perish – a stricture by none other than an unexplained Divine ordain.

Ensued those dark days of privation - a reluctant wriggle out of the  comfort cocoon and fending  miles away from a hitherto sheltered existence – my warm hearth of normalcy. I was a shy child, awkward and clumsy in many ways. The tortuous alleys of an unknown city - hovels of demons and abode of angels alike.  Those who came to hold hands wanted much more in return. My convictions  -  lone soulmate in the dead of  dreamless nights and bowels of nightmare infested days – were my only capital.  I bartered peace for a foothold  – a little space which I could call my own.  Subsistence was an everyday battle in the truest sense of the term – an incessant fight tooth and nail as alternates were none. A wellwisher advised ,” Relax! Find a caring pair of shoulders and dump all your problems thereon” and then stopped short. The stubborn turn of my chin wrote me off. I strode alone.

Without having anything to particularly boast of, I rewrote my life, carried away by a poet’s entreaty, “ik dafaa to apna jeevan mujhko khud hi bone do…” Let me sow the sapling of my own life for once. I am sure the deep brown etches on the inside of my palm spoke a different story. A story that would have followed an oft trodden trail of myriad mundane had I not diverted the route to a yet more lackluster and severely cramped course – life was never the same again. Did I play God? No! I just did the most difficult task of being myself.

It wasn’t all child’s play. It wasn’t the rebel born with the golden spoon tapping her feet gently to soft soothing symphonies reclining in a plush armchair while the AC maintained just the right degree of temperature to evoke bemused contemplations on World reforms. It was a personal warfare – a war waged against my own self – my timidity, my inhibitions, my insecurities, my indelible scars of the primitive past, my unsteady feet of the precarious present and my invincible fears of the unseen future. I have not chronicled history differently. It is the history of all those kindred souls that I represent – those who labour on the road, jostle in the crowd, push past you every second or trudge behind. I am one of them – one of the ordinary millions.

Why do I celebrate one particular day of the calendar? I celebrate each day as I progress on an uneven gait. As autumn’s ominous knock thuds the heart my reminiscent gaze finds solace in my blunders, my indecisions, my failed and victorious attempts to be brave, my sleepless nights and my drudging days. I have survived. I have surpassed my own self. I have striven even if I have not conquered. My zeal has not yet been snuffed out. My zest for the unknown is yet alive. As I wipe off the grey mist, the mirror reminds me that winter is not far behind – the thin crow’s feet under the eyes or the grey streaks lining the forehead. I collect the untold tales on my lashes with a wispy smile. I shall not grudge the twilight sky. The breeze still chants the fragrance of the spring. A blooming summer yet another I shall witness. It’s a promise to my own self.

The dreams that are yet to be born
And those which have died before time
I shall sing of what I am
And also of what I have never been
I may not have had an illustrious soar
Neither strident been my lore; yet moved on
Faltered, dropped down vigourless
Mustered still my puny strength
My moments weak, plenty of them
My courageous flights, rare defense
My cowardliness, my trepidation
I am not defined by them
I am not derived from them
Let me err as lie therein
Life’s greatest, precious lessons
Let me celebrate my ordinariness
Diffident choices, truths unveiled
Greater than the mingling dust
I stand tall as part of all
Enormity, Eternity, Omnipresent
As shackles melt and bondage frees
Joyful chords rise up unto Thee
Let me create, let me rejoice
Let me untangle, let me unite
Imprison me not ye mortal men
My horizon expands with brazen wings
Can’t you see, I am me
And shall remain so for ages to come
Let me dance, let me twirl,
Let me swirl, let me whirl,
Let me fly, let me unfurl
Let me take the final plunge
Before the light is expunged
Today, tomorrow, every day
Myself do let me celebrate!!!

This post is written in view of  International Women’s Day for Celebrating Girls Celibraing Women Contest under the aegis of Women’s Web

The Connoisseur Of Failures

God thus made three kinds
The Moon, the Stars & the laggers behind

Everyone warms up to a success story, because of the very simple reason that nothing is more rejoicing, more uplifting and more inspiring than success. But having tasted not very many measures of that nectar in life I reserve my vote for just the opposite – the dreaded failure. Remember Prof. Veeru Sahasrabuddhi’s famous assertion in that classic ‘Three Idiots’ – “There is no point racking your brains over who stepped second on the moon because it’s not worth recollecting.” Well, that was with reference to the ‘moonwalker’ who succeeded Neil Armstrong. But what about those sleepless owls who have merely stared at the moon night after night and never found the ladder to climb up to it. For me even the gawking got harder, with increasing myopia, an-out-of focus moon getting dimmer by the night and the distance between my terrace and her canopied porch more and more fuzzy and unchartable.

None the less, failures have their own brand value. Here, I am talking about those diligent, single-minded, unfalteringly focused beings who somehow manage to rise up from the ashes of burnt down calories over self-set targets and dust the debris off their persons to charge afresh to put in that extra dash of effort into their already failed mission with the hope that they would be able to make it this time…and the exercise continues forever… till the ‘n‘ of the mathematical myth ‘to the power n’ assumes a whole new paradigm. Crux of the missive, failures are those, who by some unfathomable means, withstand rejections, fiascoes, despairs and miraculously bounce back to persevere uphill one more time like the resolute Zodiac goat of the Capricorn. But after all a goat is a goat is a goat.

“Darr ke aagey jeet hai” is the ad-age driving the go-getters, the milestone achievers. Failures, the ardent disciples of Robert Bruce, tripping over hurdles and obtusely haggling with obstructions, have nothing more to fear than their own misguided hopes, because you see veteran failures never fail to fail. It is of utmost relevance at this point to make an urgent distinction between the revered failures and those lousy lazy heads who never try their level best even if they fail to achieve or those who choose to succumb to a morbid end too soon. Remember the golden axiom of life, “nahin suptasya sinhasya pravishanti mukheh mrigaah…” The deer never trots into the mouth of the sleeping lion on its own which implies that those who do not try hard enough cannot hope to fail or achieve. So the thumb rule is to keep at it even if the deer disappears in the wilderness or chooses to hop into the competitor’s cavernous hole of a mouth.

Readers must have by now figured out that I am one of the worthy representatives of the respectable clan of universal non-achievers. There are ample instances to prove my worthiness as under:

I was always an average student, (though not in conviction), cocksure that someday I would leave behind an outstanding academic legacy for posterity. Well, that someday is yet to dawn.

Children in their various phases of growing up cherish varied dreams. My cousin, in his pre-teens, nurtured this unshakable belief that he was born to become a tram driver. My best buddy in school was passionate about classical dance and followed her chosen goal. I was always clueless as to what I wanted to be. Yet I was habituated to day dreaming and whiled away hours in, as my father would say ‘unproductive thinking’, wasting precious study time, which could have stood me in good stead, had I employed my mind with equal amount of assiduity in the latter. But an incorrigible dreamer knows no reasoning. And as the water-blue sky hunched down to my window and the young leaves of the Neem tree tickled the panes I had this intense longing to wander away into those unfound lands where human idiocy had not found a way to tamper with Nature’s tranquility. This wanderlust persisted till harsh realities and responsibilities of life drove the aimlessness of a vagabond out of the window.

Coming back to those crucial formative years – every Bong girl has to learn how to sing a “gaan” which is as essential as appearing for the CBSE Board Exam. So, following the quintessential Bangaali tradition (with an extra emphasis on the ‘a’) I was put under the tutelage of a recalcitrant guru whose insistence upon regular riyaaz spun me into an overdrive albeit with a secret hope that one desultory afternoon R.D. Burman strolling past my ‘baari’ would soon discover one of India’s prodigious talents (boisterously belting out benign bandishes) in me. (Please note that I am talking about an era when avenues like Indian Idol or Sa-Re-Ga-Ma-Pa was unheard of.) Alas! (wo)man proposes and God disposes. In this whole ambitious project what actually transpired was my pet Mr. Snow Boot developed a fascination to match his grunts and growls with my pitch and octave whenever I sat down to exercise my vocals so much so that it became a standing family joke that Snow loved to play the duet with me.

And then came spring…with all its blushing blooms. A time when the cheeks go rosy and the eyes are tinted with a gleam. A time when an overzealous Cupid stresses himself out piercing the hearts of the fledglings with his love tinged arrows. The inevitable could have happened with me too had I not descended on this Earth as the Chosen-One for God’s PFPM (Premeditated Failed Plan Mission – abbreviated). The handsome boy with the shy grin who stalked us to the bus stop and sauntered around the college gate turned out to be vying for my best mate and I ended up boundary managing their budding romance, providing them moral support as well as my shoulder blades at times of tearful roothna-manaana sessions and copying down copious volumes of class notes for both me and my love-swoon afflicted friend.

Forging ahead, paapi pet ka sawaal overtook all other priorities in life. Youth with its wide-eyed innocence, bursting with idealism and a sincere wish to do something worthwhile knocked the glass-doors of the corporate behemoths for roti-rozgaar. Here, I might say, I fared better. The first few years saw ‘a bright eyed & bushy tailed’ me ploughing on non-stop a rocky terrain which was far less arable than my imagination would let me believe. Two and a half decades later I am pained to conclude that merit and hard work are not the only ingredients of a flourishing career.

Doomed in career, creativity and matters of the heart wizens one up, of course, the hard way. Extending that summation to my creed, all failures are like uncut diamonds – rich in untapped wisdom painstakingly hauled out of life’s harrowing experiences. One just has to wipe off the layers of grime without to be dazzled by the shine within but be careful chances are that you may graze your fingers by cinders smoldering underneath.

In brief, failures dream big. They are the indisputable survivors of personal disasters. And last but not the least, endowed with a razor-sharp instinct, the one thing that a failure never fails to do, is recognize a compatriot in the crowd – a fellow failure. When I see that dewy-eyed, worshipful approach towards work, the unquestioning loyalty towards the loved ones and the decisive desistance to trample past a co-runner towards the finishing line in the marathon of winning and gaining, I sit back with a relaxed smile and say to myself, “There goes an indefatigable failure in the making.”

Befriending hurdles, a seasoned failure marches ahead unperturbed. However, a bumbling fresher, unconscious of his/her latent potentials, occasionally needs prescribed dozes of pep talk. I deemed to be the former, have elevated myself into a self-styled motivator. My advices to the weaklings are like those daadi maa ke gharelu nuskheys, simple and very, very effective – the only difference being my verbose medication is not for turned toes, sprained ankles, runny noses or squeezy tummies. Lo! I embalm dizzy heads, sew infracted hearts and blow-dry soggy souls:

• Never give up on HOPE
• Don’t blame yourself for the disaster that has devastated you and your life
• Talk and let the toxic angst and anguish out of your system
• Immerse yourself in WORK or some other physical activities, preferably, which you have never  undertaken before
• Don’t give yourself time to brood over what did not happen
• Give yourself TIME – the greatest healer of all medicines
• Don’t think that a broken dream is the end of the world though it may seem so for the time being. There is MORE to life.
• Pull yourself up and focus all your reserves to SURVIVE the carnage
• BELIEVE in the Dalai Lama when he says, “ Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck”, and
• Just MOVE ON

Having said all that, I may as well confess that there are those mornings and evenings when I am not myself. When granny’s home-made antidotes just don’t seem to work. When despondency has the better of me and destiny like a speck in the horizon recedes further and further away , intractable and ungraspable. When I feel like a stranger hunting for an unknown address and time shifts like grains of sands from under my feet.

Catch me if you can says the westward drooping sun and the faraway stars fail to lit the path rendered a shade darker by a melancholic moon. It is then that the wilting heart pops up questions difficult to answer: “Isn’t there one tiny ray of light left anywhere in the slimmest corner of this teeming Universe of zillion constellations which can be my guiding vision? Isn’t there that single prayer amidst long hours of soulful submission which can awaken faith and courage in the face of deception and dejection? Isn’t there that one single sweet angel who shall nod a yes when I stretch my arms towards eternity and implore for mercy and redemption?”

And the wind that hurries past my window, holds its breath in foreboding silence for just a wee second, and then bursts out in return: “There is…there is….there is…”

Foot Note: A first person narrative does not necessarily indicate an autobiographical post!

The Woods

The woods were dark and deep. And she had lost her way once again. The thorny thickets, the cluster of bushes, the wild shrubs and the untamed weeds conspired together to make way for an ominous atmosphere. The twined under-growths, the inextricable creepers and climbers parasitically hugging the herd of undisciplined trees made it impossible to find the slim serpentine pathway running through the dense vegetation. The tower-clock had announced midnight long back. Suddenly the clouds cooked up a frenzy and the Bohemian breeze joined hands in the fracas. An outpour was imminent. The star-less sky hunted the moon but in vain. Films of opaque fog conjured up from the ground beneath swallowing her up in tantalizingly slow but steady motion.

She had to find her way out of this mazy miles of copses before the deluge washed her off to a destination unknown. But her legs did not listen to her brain. Fear paralyzed her. She could feel the demonic presence lurking behind those sky scraping Pines and Deodars – creepy crawlers, man-eaters, half humans, head hunters, ghastly creatures and harmful spirits.  She prayed fervently but her quivering lips could not form the words of the prayers. Her hands clasped together shook involuntarily. She wanted to cry out for her mother but her voice froze.

Suddenly a streak of blaze halved the sky in two with a thunderous uproar. In that split second, she saw the castle half hidden behind the smog of menacing clouds and unruly clump of greens. It’s grey turrets shooting up to the sky in a great rush as though wanting to tear it apart.

No! No! She didn’t want to go back to those cold, desolate, winding corridors talking to her in scary whispers. Those marbled floors, gilded mirrors, draped rooms and vaulted ceilings – dark and dismal. She could hear her father’s grim voice admonishing her to behave and Naani-Ma looking at her piercingly through her pince-nez. Her curt commands echoing in the high ceilinged, half-lit ‘Darbar Hall’, “Have a hold on yourself girl! Soon you’ll have to stay all alone in the hostel without me, your father and Dai Ma. You should learn how to take care of yourself.”

She didn’t want to go to the hostel either. Manna, the kitchen maid, had told her that they tortured the little girls there who refused to drink milk during breakfast or before retiring to bed at night. Oh! She wanted to go back to her mother and hide in her pallu inhaling deeply the sweet fragrances of Jasmine and Rose which emanated from her body and listen to the tinkle of her bangles when she held her tight to her bosom and cooed into her ears in musical notes, “No Kusum, don’t be scared. Maa is here for you, darling. She’ll keep you safe.”

“Maa! Maa!”, she suddenly found her voice back – hoarse and breaking intermittently in loud, raspy hiccups – she sobbed uncontrollably. Somebody rushed in and engulfed her in a warm embrace. Broad arms shoved her head into a large, heavy chest which heaved an enormous sigh of hopelessness mixed with pity. The folds of her saree smelled of boiling milk and freshly baked bread. She clucked sympathetically and patted and soothed her saying that she understood what a little girl went through whose mother left her at the mercy of ‘others’ and eloped with a stranger. Dai Ma in her own simple, rustic ways tried to fill in the gap in the life of a mother-less child. But she was not her mother. She couldn’t be.

Now eighteen years later, in an elegantly decorated studio apartment, a scared and screaming Kusum sat on her bed sweating profusely. Why again? She asked herself as her heart palpitated with the fright of the unforeseen and the formidable. She had an important meeting tomorrow and did not want to spoil the show with a hangover from a nightmare. She would have to find out the reason why before every important turn of event in her life her childhood fears stalked her so.  Next time when she visited her shrink she would make it a point to discuss it out with her threadbare. Had she not wisely forgotten her past and forgiven her mother for opting out of a dungeon-like existence even if that meant disowning her only child? Though the ugly divorce was quite unnecessary. But for her father it was a prestige issue. And Naani-Ma had taken it as a slight upon the family name.

Kusum could now evaluate her past unemotionally and reason out the mental abrasions which had over a period of time graduated to being shadows of gaping wounds with the initial stab of unbearable pain receding measure by measure in some distant horizon. Yet, somewhere the little girl in her was still haunted by an overbearing emptiness which could never be compensated even by her loving, caring Dai Ma, who had followed her like a faithful dog wherever life’s meandering ways took her till one day a massive coronary attack sucked the last breath out of her.

Kusum felt lonely and forlorn, estranged from her roots, however, sorrowful and fearsome they were. Though Ashish, her fiancé, was quite understanding and stood by her like the Rock of Gibraltar. But Kusum invariably teetered on  the brink of a life-long commitment. After her enforced engagement, she had asked for six months from Ashish to make up her mind before tying the knot. She had to be absolutely convinced before taking the final plunge. Ashish had quietly given his consent to her unusual request. Her father was obviously furious at her indecision. It was not just a marriage. It was a fusion of two illustrious, noble families. With such calculated industry he had brought about the alliance!And now his daughter was spoiling it all with her meaningless dwadling.

Kusum braced her shivering body. The agreed six months was going to end soon. She had to finally confirm to Ashish whether it was a yes or a no. But how could she take a decision on such a life-making (or breaking) issue when her sub conscious wreaked havoc on her conscious mind? She touched the cold sheets with shaking hands –  the cool softness of the textile a balm to her jarred nerves. She felt slightly better. Extending her arms towards the head board she caught hold of the toy lying next to her pillow. It always lay there – the untethered umbilical chord to a long lost bond that she clung to even against the advice of her shrink. The last toy, a soft pink teddy bear, that her mother had parceled from some place down South and Dai Ma had managed to hand it over to her sneaking past Naani-Mas’s prying eyes and making excuses to her father that she had herself bought it for missy baby from her hard earned savings. Perhaps her father could guess the truth but she wasn’t quite sure of that.

Kusum clutched the toy to her heart and folded her legs up to her chest in a fetal pose and closed her eyes.  The fluffy, furry tactile connect made her feel safe, wanted, loved and relieved. Soon she was snoring softly.

When the sun peeped in from the window on day break Kusum was still asleep peacefully smiling to herself,  happy and secured  in the warm, wooly fold of belongingness and comfort, no more scared by agonizing yesterdays or  anxious by unsettling tomorrows. She basked in the presence of the now – the truth of the moment – like an adorable little girl in her innocent, playful world of precious toys and merry dreams.

–
This entry is posted under the Write Over The Weekend (WOW) Initiative for Indian Bloggers by Blog Adda

By The Way

किसी रंजिश को हवा दो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी
मुझको एहसास दिलादो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

 

 

किसी रंजिश को हवा दो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

मुझको एहसास दिलादो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

मेरे रुकने से मेरी साँसें भी रुक जायेंगी

फ़ासले और बडा दो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

ज़हर पीने की तो आदत थी ज़माने वालो

अब कोई और दवा दो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

चलती राहों में यूँही आँख लगी है फाकिर

भीड़ लोगों की हाथ दो की मैं जिंदा हूँ अभी

 

 

Sensitivity Of Creation

I am more than often branded as “super sensitive” by my foes and friends alike.  I realize that being touchy is somewhat of a deterrent in life and work. But as one of my wellwishers has advised me more recently that I should try and  shed off some of my “porkupinish” reaction to stimulii and be a little more thick skinned, I suppose, I find that difficult as well.

My sensitivities are very much a part of me, of who I am. They have grown and stayed with me for so long, it seems almost fatal to my personality, to shrug them off consciously and forget about them overnight. I also have this disturbing feeling that if I loose my sensitivity I shall loose my creativity as well ( my “cerebralness” as I call it) and be a “vegetable” of sorts which again is an exaggerated fear or may be an apathy to change, a recalcitrant,  reactionary element vey common and natural to human species. I know I may be clinging to a misnomer.

Some of these sensitivities have been genetically inherited; the rest acquired, socially transmitted, default “aftermath(?)”  or consequence of education and upbringing.

I also strongly believe that a person who claims to be involved in creative or cerebral pursuit should nurture a certain amount of sensitivity – be sensitized to environs and people around and influence them to be so.

Creativity confined to narrow domains of personal indulgence, looses its intrinsic value. Thus, being a creative person in all its completeness, also entails social responsibilities. We must reach out, touch people’s hearts, make them think, try to improve upon the status quo and bring in change if possible. Creativity should not just be  and exercise in word craftsmanship and a bundle of ill fated emotions. It has to be much more than that!

I am a thinking animal. I ponder and cud chew. I dissent and cherish strong opinions. Sometimes, foolishly voice them as strongly, to the chagrin of many. I choose to take stand and sometimes even banish people out of my arena of social exchange if they do not conform to my ways and means (which of course is a bit extreme!)

What I mean to say is that sensitivity has its own advantages and disadvantages, given its usage, application and utilitarian value.

We should wake up to the fact that we are sensitive that is why we are able to create and vice versa, we are creative therefore sensitive.

Pray comment.

Defying notes are most welcome.

Brainstorming desirable.

Endorsement shall lend  immense strength to my belief