It Made My January

January, it ends today. The first month of the new year has come to a pass-by. Did it bring joys to you? Was it different by any means? Was it wonderful or exhilarating? Was it achieving and accomplishing? Was it rejoicing?

Think for a moment of your month's end, before I tell you how it passed for me.

Close your eyes and think for a moment.

Welcome back, let's begin.

Like any new year, 2016 also started the same way for me- thinking and pondering on matters of development, and resolving to inculcate it in our lives. However, I did not take any resolutions, simply for the fact that it seemed pointless to take a resolution and not get up to work on it. But somewhere deep within there was this voice that said, "2016, I won't let you pass by so easily." And it still says, with the same shout.

The first forth-night passed in irregular jogging and exercises, eating less rice and walking more miles. I took to writing once in a while, and thought of many a things to do. But somehow, things turned the course of happenings. I started to blog on a regular note, it was just a once in a while write-up that followed with another one next day and yet another the following day. Needless to say it became a routine to blog daily, and readers awaited my blog. I just happened to look up the details of the people following the blogs, and stretching across India, it went to Nepal, US, UK, Netherlands, Germany and a few other countries as well. I felt delighted. In the meanwhile my blog page also crossed it's 5,000 page-views milestone, yet another thing to cherish and live out loud, with happiness.

Happiness, it me to the next thing- The setting Sun. I just realised this January, that this month hosts a beautiful sunset- big, round and red, everyday. When I walked back to my hostel room at 4:50 p.m the big ball like sun glowed on the window panes facing west. Like an artist's canvas, each day with a different setting, yet beautiful and mesmerizing. The beauty of it didn't let me miss any sunset. I witnessed each sunset, and smiled at the reflecting window panes. It takes away the day's tiredness, trust me.

Talking of sunset, I however also missed one thing- The Winter Line. The winter line is one mesmerizing scene to witness, when the horizon turns into a streak of orange, red and blue. It is witnessed at sundown only from Mussoorie and Switzerland between October to January. I was just 30KMS away, but yet infinitely far. I still have hopes to witness it someday and capture it in my lens. However, talking of Mussoorie, the city hasn't disappointed by any means. One evening it gave me the opportunity to witness it in a mountain-full of glittering lights- while, yellow and fluorescent- like stars twinkling just at an arm's reach.

Next, my most dear friend got his debut novel published and amidst disputes cancelled his contract from his publisher. In between, a few friends ordered and received the book. While he plans to get the book published again in a new jacket, I feel lucky to have a copy of the original draft.

Last, January ends today, with the first marriage feast and a Sunday. If I talk about a memory that I would take with the passing day, it would be buying a Bhagwad Gita, from a foreign lady, whom I saw waving copies of the book in the Paltan Bazaar. She was in saffrons, and had a tilak on her forehead. I though had a copy of the book but her selling a religious book on the streets with a satchel around her shoulder, where others preferred selling pajamas, artificial jewellery, and other stuff- appealed me to buy a copy.

"You're not selling this for profit, then why?" I asked her.
"This book brings liberations from all doubts and disbeliefs. Those who are confused find a way through this, I am selling to awaken the sleeping souls, to direct people towards their goal." She answered with simplicity, smiling warmly.

It made my January!

वोह पैंतीस मिनट

हर बढ़ते कदम के साथ मन मैं बस एक ही बात थी। शायद एक डर था वोह, या शायद संकोच, या फिर उस अनजाने मुकाम से कुक झिझक। एक किरण ख़ुशी की भी थी, और एक खौफ उस सूनेपन का भी था जो पल भर के लिए मुझे अपनी ज़ंज़ीरो मैं जकड़ने के लिए रुका होगा। गुदगुदी के बीच, बेचैनी थी और ख़ुशी के बीच घबराहट।

गुजरते मील के पत्थर के साथ पता लगा की आखिरी दो किलोमीटर रह गए हैं, और अंदर के गणितज्ञ ने वक़्त का हिसाब देते हुए बताया की कुछ दो या तीन मिनट और बाकि थे। दिल की धड़कने तेज होने लगी और माथे पर ओस की बूंदों सा पसीना फैल गया, हाथ सुने से पड़ गए और पैर कापने लगे- मानो किसी खतरनाक जानलेवा बीमारी ने अपनी गिरफ्त मे ले लिया हो।

रुमाल से मेरा गिला माथा पोछते हुए मेरी पत्नी मुझे बोली, "इसमें डरने वाली क्या बात है, वहां सब लोग आपको सुन्ने आए होंगे।"

मैं मन ही मन बोला, पगली इसी बात का तोह डर है। वह सब मुझे सुन्ने आए होंगे, और नजाने मैं कैसे बोलुँगा।

देखा जाए तोह वास्तव में व्याकुलता इस बात से नहीं थी की मैं क्या बोलुँगा, बल्कि इस बात से थी कि लगातार दस मिनट तक कैसे बोलुँगा। पिछले एक सप्ताह से मैंने जितना भी अभ्यास किया था, वोह रटे हुए लफ्ज़ तोह कुछ तीन मिनट भी साथ नहीं दे पा रहे थे। उसके आगे कुछ जोड़ने को था भी या नहीं, येहि सोच सोच नाक और माथे पर पसीना पालती मार के बैठा हुआ था।

आखरी बाएँ मोड़ के साथ जैसे ही मैंने नजरें उठाई तोह सामने लगे बडे से बोर्ड पर मोटे लाल अक्षरों मैं लिखा हुआ था विद्यार्थी भवन। मैंन पसीने से गीली कापती हुई उंग्लियो से आमंत्रण पत्र को अलट-पलट कर उस पर भी वही नाम तलाशा। घबराहट ऐसी सर पर चढ़ी हुई थी की मैं यह तक भूल गया की यह वही विद्यालय का परिसर है जहाँ मैंने हस्ते खेलते अपने बचपन का वक़्त भी गुजारा था। पिताजी के ट्रान्सफर के वर्ष मैंने अपने दसवीं की बोर्ड परीक्षा इसी विद्यालय मैं दी थी, और अभी मैं आमंत्रण पत्र पर इसका नाम तलाश रहा हूँ।

मेरी गाड़ी के रुकते ही बच्चों का एक समूह गेंदा फूल की माला ले कर दौड़ता आया, कुछ छः सात बच्चे थे, चेहरे पर से मुस्कान छलकती हुई और आँखों से मासूमियत टिमटिमाती हुई, वोह आए और मेरे नाम के साथ ज़िंदाबाद के नारे लगाने लगे। पल भर मे मेरा डर कहीं गायब हो गया और माथा वापस सूख गया, उन बच्चों की मासूमियत मे मैं खो सा गया, उनके उस आपार प्यार से मन गदगद हो उठा।

अभी तोह मैंने गाड़ी से कदम निचे भी नहीं रखे थे, और बच्चों का यह प्यार देख मैं पहले ही निशब्द हो चुका था। आँखों से आँसु छलक ही पड़े थे की पत्नी जी ने हाथ पर हाथ रख कर धीमे से कहा, "देखो यह सब बच्चे आपसे कुछ सिखने की इच्छा ले कर आज रविवार को यहाँ आए हैं।"

यह एक पंक्ति ने मनो ऐसा विश्वास भर दिया की, सारा संकोच चुटकी भर मे रफूचक्कर हो गया। छप्पन के सीने के साथ मैं जमीन में गढ़ते हुए कदमो के साथ उन बच्चों तक पंहुचा, उनका प्यार स्वीकारा और मंच की और बड़ा। होहल्ले और अपने नाम के जयकारो के बीच, तालियों की गड़गड़ाहट के साथ जाकर मैंने मंच संभाला। कुछ बीस सेकंड बाद जब समां शांत हुआ तोह मैंने अपनी पत्नी से नजर मिलाते हुए, भाषण शुरू करने की अनुमति ली, उन्होंने पलके झपका कर और मुस्कुराकर मेरा मनोबल बढ़ाया।

अपनी रटि हुई पंक्ति से मैंने शुरुआत की, "वर्ष 2000 में मैंने भी इसी विद्यालय से अपना हाइस्कूल किया था।" बच्चों ने तालियों की गड़गड़ाहट से भवन को भर दिया। मैं बाते बताता गया और वोह ख़ुशी मैं तालियां बजाते रहे। विद्यालय के प्रांगड़ से लेकर बाजार तक की बातें हुई, आत तक कार्यरत् संगीता मैडम का भी नाम आया और प्रिंसिपल की कहानियाँ भी उठी। मेरे बचपन के नादान किस्सों पर सब हँसे भी और वैसे ही सपने होने पर वोह राजी भी हुए। जब बच्चों को ऑटोग्राफ दे कर मैं बहार निकला तोह पत्नी जी बोली, "आपने तोह कमाल ही कर दिया, पैंतीस मिनट तक नॉन-स्टॉप राजधानी जैसे चलते ही रहे।"

मैं मन ही मन यह सोच कर मुस्कुराया, की कहाँ दस मिनट बोलने के बारे मैं सोच कर पसीने छुट रहे थे और लौटा पैंतीस मिनट बड़बड़ा के।

Hiding In Plain Sight

Old man: My daughter lives there.
Young boy: I am going on vacations.

Old man: In my youth I roamed around the country thrice.
Young boy: My parents also just returned back from a National tour.

Old man: India is a beautiful place to travel.
Young boy: But travelling is painful in India.

Old man: Different people have different tastes. I enjoy travelling in the crowd, it keeps me hidden.
Young boy: Hidden?

Old man: I mean it keeps me less bored.
Young boy: But there is freedom to stretch and fold in luxury class.

Old man: Freedom is often enjoyed on parent's money.
Young boy: I never took a penny from home since I passed my highschool.

Old man: Few amongst millions are blessed with such children.
Young boy: Those few are the ones chosen by God to sacrifice their joys.

Old man: But yet I see you flying by Business Class.
Young boy: Money is a bad thing, once you taste it, you can't resist going for more.

Old man: It took me decades to learn that.
Young boy: You're not to be blamed for that. Expenses were cheaper then.

Old man: People of your age roam with girls.
Young boy: Girls are distractions.

Old man: You seem ambitious.
Young boy: I would call it an addiction.

Old man: Do you smoke?
Young man: You've got one?

Old man: I meant it otherwise.
Young boy: Why would it bother you?

Old man: You're like my grandson.
Young boy: No one's like me, and I am like no one.

Old man: What do you mean?
Young boy: I am a murderer.

Old man: By your charms and luxuries you mean.
Young man: Whatever you consider. By the way what do you do?

Old man: I hide in plain sight.
Young man: You've committed misdeeds?

Old man: I would call it 'calling of the soul'.
Young man: You're philosophical. Be more direct.

Old man: I would like to begin by hearing about how you got your hands Red.
Young man: I murdered two people, including a policeman. They were obstacles.

Old man: What business are you into?
Young man: Human Trafficking.

Old man: So that explains why you call girls a distraction.
Young man: Partially.

Old man: What am I missing?
Young man: They're emotional and sticky.

Old man: You mean love?
Young man: That's 'Out-of-Bounds' for me.

Old man: Yes, it seems. So, how did you get into this business?
Young man: As a slave.

Old man: What do you mean?
Young boy: My uncle sold me when I was in my highschool.

Old man: That's unfortunate.
Young boy: No it isn't. It turned me into a man, the very first 'night'.

Old man: Your parents never intervened to get you out of it?
Young boy: They never knew, until I fired the bullets.

Old man: And then it became too late.
Young boy: Then I was the king.

Old man: Dou have any regrets?
Young boy: That night I missed the big duck. He is called 'The Magician.'

Old man: Impressive he seems.
Young boy: Someday I'll unload this in him.

Old man: Is that a gun?
Young boy: A revolver to be more precise.

Old man: You have boiling blood.
Young boy: Yes, for him.

Old man: I hope you catch him.
Young boy: He won't be able to hide for long. Anyways, tell me about yourself.

Old man: I am a poet.
Young man: Sing me some lines.

Old man: People say people are deceiving, but it's the self that cheats. Wrong judgements with a biased mind, and open eyes that aren't put to receiving.
Young boy: That's deep.

Old man: Indeed it is. It's realisation will be your salvation.
Young boy: Some other time. Right now let's go. Do you have any card?

Old man: Oh yes, here it is.
Young boy: It reads, 'THE MAGICIAN of words.' You don't have a name on that.

Old man: That's all you will need to think of me.
Young boy: It was nice meeting you.

Old man: We'll meet again, by then I hope you'll understand the meaning of those lines that I told you.
Young boy: I will.

Old man: Read that card, again.
Young boy: *Reads*

A few steps ahead / a minute later:

Young boy: "The Magician, it WAS him."

The Canister With Silver Stains: A Short Story

On the platform of a busy intersection, he sat unstably on a haunch with his eyes moving everywhere. His hands patting a canister and lips whistling, often he would scratch his bare chest and suck in a breath with his mucus filled nose. His feet were black with stains, unwashed for centuries and his hair as rough as hay, muddy and dirty. On his chocolate face sparkled his white eyes and yellow teeth in a perfect contrast.

There seemed no lines of worries on his face, a bare carefree forehead and cheeks stretched in perfect smiles, no worries of the coming tomorrow, and undoubtedly no issues with the passing today. His hands kept tapping the rusty canister, as the passing people threw their leftovers into it.

When he wouldn't tap the canister, he would lick his thumb and rub it on his ankle, removing the accumulated dirt in small black strings. He remained engrossed in shining his dirty feet, licking his thumb and rubbing his feet. A few times he spat on his palm and wetted his fingers, and then rubbed his feet. It lasted for some ten minutes until his feet shone in brown patches. Then he spat on his palm again and rubbed them together, cleaning them more hygienically than any hand wash.

Next he took his index finger and circled it in the insides of his nostrils, and pulled out threads of mucus. In a repeated fashion he dug it deeper and deeper, and extracted all that wasn't of much use. He rubbed the excreta on the sides of the canister and playfully continued his chores. The mid-day sun dried it soon and it glistened in a silver lining on the black body of the canister. There were more similar linings and patterns spread all over the canister, perhaps they were all his contributions, or his friends.

When a group of commuters passed in front of him, he would startle them by suddenly singing a song in a high pitch. As they crossed by staring him in anger and disgust, and he would laugh out loud with his hands in the air and head falling backwards. Then he would resume digging his gold mines and painting the rusty canister.

But he would pause to stare unblinkingly at children of his age, as they passed by him in clean clothes and combed hair. He would stare with a dropped jaw, and dreamy eyes. He would smile at them all, again and again, one after another, even though none of them cared to smile back at him. Mothers would ask their kids to not look at him, but he wouldn't mind that insult. He kept himself busy with his index finger and singing to startle anyone whenever needed.

When he was done cleaning his nose, he sat back, with his palms resting on the ground behind him and stretched his legs open. He sat wondering and dreaming with his hazy eyes, in between he would suck out saliva from his throat and spit it in a projectile motion. He kept doing it towards his left and right, again and again until his glands ran out of saliva. Then he lay back on the floor, with a bare torso and stared at the pigeons sitting on the trusses of the roof. With nothing much to do than blankly stare, he kept whistling and humming.

In another moment he turned upside down and rested his chin on his palms with his elbows resting on the ground. There were leftover paper cups by his side and he crushed them into pebble shapes and one by one he aimed them at the giant mice running across the railway tracks. He missed almost all aims, and the ones that landed on them perfectly didn't bother the rodents anyhow, they were big and fat to be affected by little paper-cups.

He stretched his arm to pick another cup lying crushed and worn beside him. As he picked it up, a little girl, half his age, came running and shouting his name. He ignored her and kept busy in crushing the already squashed cup into more smaller folds. She angrily shouted his name again, and he paused by to look at her.

She was holding a plate full of rice in her tiny hands and off he jumped up like a just released spring. He took the plate off her hands and sat down on the platform near the dustbin, the same canister which he had playfully painted.

In no less than a minute they finished off the contents of the plate, eating in hand-fulls and mouth-fulls. Then one by one he offered his fingers to her and she licked them clean in desperate hunger. As he finally wiped his hands on his half-pants he pointed at the silver stains on the canister and showed his hands to her. She looked back at him in disgust and spat a load of yellow saliva on the platform.

Next, as far as my eyes could see, he was running like a deer escaping a tiger's chase, steering into people and luggage. In a heavy breath she halted beside another dustbin and panted, then with her index finger she rubbed her nose and pulled out a thread of mucus. She wiped it on the canister and turned around.

Then she spat on her palms and wiped them clean on her frock and walked back as if nothing ever happened.

Happy Republic Day

As children, we have had the privilege to enjoy sweets on three occasions every year, 26th of January, 15th of August, and the 2nd of October. Though we enjoyed sweetmeats in different flavors but seldom did we try to differentiate amongst the three.

It was an innocent time, when all we cared for was a plate full of servings, and finishing it late than anyone else. The celebrations of the eve only meant to come school empty handed, sing Jan Gan Man in a chorus and run back home after a half day. It meant to wave tricolor paper flags, make badges and wear caps in saffron and green.

Years passed one after another but in no way did the meaning of the eve changed. With each passing year the craving for sweets increased, and the lines of the national anthem found a deeper corner to settle in us in learnt verses. Standing at attention, with not even the eyes moving, and bowing at the end of the anthem, a republic eve perhaps only meant to wave flags and listen to patriotic songs all across the town.

Ask a child what happened on the 2nd of October, and he will tell you in a learned-by-heart line, "On the 2nd of October 1869 Mahatma Gandhi was born in Porbandar, Gujrat."
Ask him what happened on the 15th of August, and he will say, "On the 15th of August India attained Independence from the British Rule."
Further test him by asking, why do we celebrate the 26th of January, and he would say, "It is our Republic Day."
Ask him what is it to celebrate the Republic day, and he would tell, "On this day our Constitution was enforced."

So good, so well, until now.

But ask them, or ask yourself, what's the Constitution, who was its chief architect? When was it made? How many days did it take to make it?

It's hard that one will find answers to all these questions in every common man. It's not our fault, "completely".

But YES it is somehow our IGNORANCE.

We humans, find an easy way to relate things, the most easiest way to relate to the three Indian gazetted holidays, is somehow Independence. So, mostly in our speeches and monologues we refer to the many martyrs and their martyrdom. We praise our soldiers and talk about nation building. We talk about the Nation's development and the paths to undergo to achieve those heights, but we seldom talk about what the Constitution grants us.

Our Republic Day, stands for our Rights. An easy way to remember it in future is by its initials. As kindergarten kids we were taught to relate words with alphabets. Similarly, an easy way to not forget what a Republic Day is for is by remembering that the same "R" that spells Republic is also the same "R" that spells Rights.

This day, 1930, Purna Swaraj was declared against the British Government, and the 15th of August marked its culmination. Thereafter under the guidance of Dr. B.R. Ambedkar a committee sat to build our constitution, that was completed in a hand written format (also the world's longest constitution) on November 26th, 1949. In praise to the Purna Swaraj acclaim of Jan 26th, 1930 the Constitution was enforced on the 26th of January 1950 at 10:18 a.m. The constitution marked the freedom and rights of every citizen in the Nation.

It was that dream of Dr. Ambedkar that made life less complicated and more convenient ever since. It is what brought the government to our service and its employees to our facilities. It is what gave us the freedom of speech and to live fearlessly with our hands stretched wide and heads held high.

Let not confuse, our Republic Day with our Independence Day, let not the efforts of all those great men go in vain.

Let not!

Let not!

Jai Hind! Jai Bharat!

The Setting Sun

With each setting sun, the horizon turns red, flaming saffron like the flames from a grate. Though it has no warmth to offer but it has infinite capabilities to calm down a disturbed self. It has peace to serve and tranquility to apply as a balm in your wounds.

Though every morning, as the sun lifts the curtains of the dark sky, and spreads its vibrance across the rooftops of the many buildings and the infinite fields of the old farmers, through the glass panes of the skyscrapers and into the cracks of the door, it raises hopes and spreads energy.

From the roosters hooting at dawn to the bats flying back to their caves, the crows leaving their nests and the sparrows chirping in hunger, there is a feeling of a new happening with each rising sun. Sages offer their devotion by holy baths on the Ghats and people offer handful of water at the rising sun, some perform yoga and many jog around tracks and stadiums.

No doubt there is much to see with the rising sun, but does it seem that the setting sun is somehow less happening? Does the end of the day seem less energetic or disdain? Perhaps it does, because it has its own reasons.

Where the rising sun brings in a vibrance of energy to be transmitted into each living being, the setting sun probably takes away all their griefs. It soothes the wounds of  the day and liberates the pains of all beings. It compensates for their losses of the day and tells them that a new dawn is about to rise, be cheerful.

A failed lover sees the dawning sun, red in flames and probably resonates his wrath with it. He calms himself with its intensity that serves as a reason to be hopeful and optimistic, that following the darkness a new dawn awaits it in another living form. There is hope, for after every sun-down comes a brighter sun-lift, fresh and cheerful, energetic and hopeful.

A prisoner sees it as a day less in custody, as a step towards liberty, as a foot closer towards his freedom and family. He equalises himself with its dissolving aura and believes that his sins are perishing along with the end of the day.

An army man's wife marks it as the hope of her husband's return from the war with the following dawn. She equates the drowning sun to his victory of the battle, she imagines him hosting the conquering flag on the hilltop and packing his bags to return back to his family tomorrow.

A servant takes it as his leave from his monotonous work schedule, wondering if he shall be granted an off tomorrow. Wondering if it could mean a Sunday for him on a regular weekday. He has hopes to go shopping and roam around the city tomorrow.

A refugee takes it as a step closer to a pond and shelter. He hopes to find a home away from home,  to find a peaceful and comfortable place to spend the night at after weeks of loitering and battering in hopelessness.

A sunflower takes it as yet another parting with beliefs that the sun will be there for it tomorrow again, to keep the eternal and everlasting relation of  their bond alive. It signifies hope and happiness, for the sun been there since times immemorial to evaporate the cold dewdrops of the night's mist from its petals.

The sunset, lovely it is, for it sparks hopes in innumerable souls and beings. Tranquil it is, for it is soothing unlike the morning sun that is filled with heat and zeal. It marks an ending for a happy and more hopeful beginning, with a promise that it shall return with more faith and energy to transmit in all living forms.

So beautiful is the sunset, when it dusks behind leafless trees and shrubs that all want it to stay, yet it chooses to go away, for without its departure no source of another energy would dare to come again.

The sunset, witness it today, as it falls, for there is perhaps no better medicine, no better syrup that can wipe all your worries and doubts in a moment, that only lasts lesser than any desire.

The Musician

A room littered with packets of snacks and chunks of bread, tables stained with jam fingerprints and books and clothes spread all around. On the edge of a worn and feeble folding-bed sits a long haired young boy, swaying his head with his eyes closed and fingers dancing on the strings of a guitar. His feet tap a steel plate, that has remains of the last served meal. It though seems offensive but the pats match the echos of the strings and he creates an aura of melody in his den.

I close the door behind me, he remains undisturbed by the slap of the closing door and picks up a higher note. His fingers start moving furiously and his hair fly in sticky tufts as he sways his head all around. The pating becomes aggressive and food chunks fly out of the plate, landing and sticking on his shoes.

After around a minute he slowly opens his eyes, like dark rain clouds revealing the hiding sun and his gaze halts at me. He stares at me in a blank gaze and closes his eyes again. Now he picks up a different note and starts humming a sweet tone. His beak on the throat shifts as he pauses in between for a breath and his nostrils puff and contract as he takes the many pauses. He claps his tongue on his palate and whistles in tune with the guitar. He opens his eyes again, sees me standing before him, transfixed to his musical charms, and smiles faintly with an almost unnoticeable curve of the lips, and then he closes them again and continue to whistle and hum.

I wonder what kind of an unpleasant host is he, unbothered and unmannered, but the calmness on his forhead speaks of the peace of his mind. His tranquil state reflects on the many curves and frowns on his face that happen and dissolve a dozen times in a minute. Each line that he begins, seems to be pulled out from the depths of his stomach. There emerges a visible net of nerves on his throat, alike when you summon up all your strength to lift up a heavy box with your teeth crushed in heavy compressive strength.

He suddenly stands and begins to roar another song, anyone would lable that as a fit or mental disorder. He beats his feet on the floor and kicks an empty jar, his hands filled with energy, his head bouncing as if in great pain or discomfort, and his hair spread all over his face like a weeping widow. He climbs his bed with his shoes on and jumps down, landing on the ceramic plate that breaks into many pieces, the food spreads all around and triangular ceramic pieces scatter amidst the littered compound.

I watch him with more attention, his eyes shut even tighter now, and with each passing secound his energy rises to a newer height. He speaks and sings and shouts, he taps, and thumps and kicks. He jumps and kneels and dances in madness. He runs around the room and climbs the bed, leaps to the desk and beats the almirah.

Then in another second he dashes out of the door, and the room turns into mourning silence, that seems to bite. I wait for him to return as the sound fades in the distance.

I keep waiting, but he is gone.

Gone with the wind, gone with his flying music. Like the notes of his lyrics that faint after each utterance, he also faints away in the distance.

Somewhere In This World

There is fun in wondering about things. In thinking about what would happen if I did 'this', and what would happen if I convince him to do 'that'. In wondering that somewhere on this earth, someone right now would be writing his resignation letter, someone would be thrashing his boss out of frustration and anger, someone would be taking his new born child in his arms, and someone would be weeping over the loss of his loved one.

Is it strange to think it all? Is it impossible for these things to happen all together? Is it foolish to be lost in these thoughts or is it wise to go on this parrel journey along with our existence? Whatever it is, there is fun. Let me take you to this dreamland, come take my hand.

Right now as you read this blog,  you're either seated on your couch (or bed), or perhaps you're lying down with your droid up your nose, (that even falls down flat on your face once or twice every night), or perhaps you're walking back home reading this. Imagine, somewhere in this world someone would be writing his PhD thesis, someone would be rehersing his acting script, and someone would be making love to his beloved wife.

So many people across this globe, would be doing so many different things, and considering all doable activities in proportion to the total population, that gives us an ample amount of overlap of activites. So, how feasible it seems for so many people to be doing the same set of activity at the same time.

When I wrote this blog, there would have been so many other people too writing something, perhaps some might be writing blogs too, and in an adverse case someone would be writing something with the same title as well, and some two people might have named their sons with the same names, who might someday later catch each other in the same class and be referred to as 1 and 2.

Does it seem impossible?

Not to me.

Here, I explain how- remember when you sit down to create a new email ID or buy a web-domain and how every name that you choose is already taken by someone else. You see, how different people have the same thoughts running in their skulls. So my opinion is why can't that same thought run in different minds at the same time? Of course it can.

There are happy things that I often think of, and there are bad things that I think more often. Like, when the sun dawns I think that if God were to look below on earth, he would only see people as moving dots, all running and jogging careless of the biting cold. At night if he would look down again, he would only see two sets of people, one drinking in the company of friends, the other glued together in naked pairs.

Then there are joys and fears, dreams and accomplishments.  Imagine someone would be jumping happily on receving his offer letter, someone would be receiving final retirement handshakes at the end of his last day at office. Someone might be scared and shrinked in a corner of his room, feared of the cops to come and book him, someone would be  regretfully gulping down saliva with a loaded gun in his hands. Someone would be desparately calling their loved one for help, and someone would be waving and beating his hands badly as the water would be pulling him down.

Someone would be seated back on his chair and dreaming of buying his first car tomorrow, someone might be just excited to reap a million rupees out of his demat account today, someone might be taking a resolution to quit smoking as he crushed the butt of his cigar and exhaled the last puff. And someone might be just limping back home with a few left-over coins after the grocerry shopping with a mind to give them to his son.

There would be Grandpas taking there little masters on a walk with his index finger in their fists, and there would be Grandmas singing lullabies to put the children to sleep. There would be parents discussing their children's bad habits amongst each other, and there would be mothers asking their son what would he like to have for dinner. There would be people stoned in thoughts and breathing heavily, and there would be people walking unstably in a lingering hangover. There would be some refusing to eat meat offered by friends and some refusing to give friends another piece. There would be perverts trying to talk softly and gentlemens winning all hearts they come across.

There would be someone making his debut and someone offering his retirement. There would be tides hitting the shore and the fog spreating wide on national highways, and there would be a dozen dogs following one little bitch and seven sisters fyling and landing together.

There would be sunflowers waiting for the sun to come back and little yellow chicks brooding in dozens one after the other. And last of all, there would be someone waiting for a new post on this blog page.

Guess, was that you?

Oh Womaniya!

You're never wrong! Wink! Wink!

 

Do not get me wrong. I insist you're 'never wrong'. Wink again!

 

How could you be? Oh! woman of this world, the mother of existence, the principle of sympathy and the sword of righteousness; how could you be wrong when wise men have already accepted that when God himself realised that he couldn't be everywhere, he decided to make you.

Ever since your creation it was all good and smooth, you were sympathetic and obeying, loving and non-argumentative, supporting and non-cynical, insisting but not persisting, asking but non-demanding, until you came across the fact.

 

And that was the end of all rituals, boundations and customs. The next morning when the cracks of the dawn vanquished the darkness of the night, the world saw a new avatar in you. An untamable, bold and fearless embodiment. And that day, you remember, in so many living forms of yours across this world, you accused your innocent lovers, husbands and brothers by saying,

 

"You've changed!"

 

"You've changed," do you know how bad an accusation that is, when the men-folks know that they haven't changed, but it's you who had one night undergone a sudden realization about your own strengths. I don't intend to blame you here, on behalf of the breathing men of this planet, in fact I just care to bring back your lost memories of that night. For you to understand that piteous state in a better way, I would like to quote instances from your own daily happenings, perhaps you'll agree to them.

 

When a man returns back from work guess how tired he is. (Now the first thought that you're having is- even you're tired of working all day long, right?) Please eliminate this thought, for a better understanding of the point. It is not to say by any means that women don't get tired, but my emphasis is about that very moment when your husband is returning back from WORK.

 

And 'work' means a lot of frustrations and tensions for him- that crooked boss to be dealt with and a team to be lead. Presentations to be made and schedules to be finalized, team-juniors to be satisfied like kindergarten kids and the department to be run like Superman, a hundred files to be accounted and tax to be saved, new sales to be made and old to be closed, a little bit of this and a lot more of that. You see how much that is? To much, isn't it? So tell me frankly, what does he need- an argument for having forgotten to make the departmental purchase on his way back or a hot cup of masala-tea?

 

Perhaps to be served with Good Day Mom's Magic biscuits. But what do you give, a big dose of satire, saying, "Ab toh tum cheeje bhi bhoolne lage ho." 

Imagine how bad, your dear husband would be feeling at that time. The same man who you married in neck-deep love, with a promise to be beside him in all his odds and evens. And today when his odd-plated car is parked in the garage and he somehow managed to pool his way to and fro from the office, and forgot to shop your groceries by no mean intentions, you accuse him. You shouldn't have, ma'am.

 

Say Sorry! He really loves you a lot.

 

Then the next morning when you're feeding the kids on the dining table, and he joins in asking, "Aaj school nai gaey?"

 

And the kids reply, "Aaj off hai papa," you remember how instantly at that moment you bring your point back, "Dekha maine kaha tha na tum cheeje bhoolne lage ho."

And the kids look at his face and feel sorry for his loss of memory. That's a bad impression on the kids ma'am. You should avoid it too.

 

Say Sorry! He forgot because of a hectic yesterday.

 

Let me take you back to the days when you had met him. You had found him so loving, caring and pampering then that you fell in love with his habits and him without delay. Your love prospered with him and you remained lost in his thoughts, day and night. Back then you found him 'developing' each day, 'rising' every moment and so right and perfectly matched for you. But now, it's just the opposite. The same old love of yours has indeed turned old and forgetting. Amidst your many complaints, you find him lost and wandering, thoughtful yet not caring, kind but not supporting.

 

Okay, here I'll add something in your part as well. Tell me, doesn't he often disagree to your interests now? Doesn't he pursue much of his own interests now, without considering you? Doesn't he promises to go by your choices and never keeps them. Doesn't he just keep you around the bush more often? True that? Isn't it?

 

*He's a BASTARD.*

 

*He has really CHANGED.*

 

Please, don't think that. He hasn't.

 

He really hasn't. Do you remember when sometimes he used to take you to a restaurant and order the food of his choice to surprise you and you genuinely didn't had the appetite to gulp it down, or it wouldn't be of your liking. He insisted but you would refuse to even taste it, (because it wouldn't be of your choice) and then he wouldn't force you and begin to eat it all by himself.

 

Then suddenly, somewhere in the middle of his meal as he would fork a little slice of onion you would interrupt, "Don't eat that onion. They don't even wash it," but he wouldn't stop and keep eating. As he would pick the next slice you would again warn him to not eat, but he would say that he liked onions, and you would retort, "They seem to be dirty and unwashed."

 

Wouldn't you call it disagreeing to your interests, right? Isn't that him pursuing his own interests without considering yours, right?

 

But why does that seem wrong to you? If you didn't choose to have a portion of the meal because it wasn't of your liking (and he didn't push it further) then do forgive him for not dropping that onion off his fork, because he stated that he liked onions. And by the way, where in the world do they wash onions? They're just peeled off their jackets and eaten.

 

So do you realize that he isn't a bastard?

 

And he hasn't really changed.

 

Say Sorry!

 

So tonight, when he would be watching his bedtime News hour debate at the cost of your saas-bahu episode and you ask him to change the channel from NDTV to Colors; if he doesn't then don't complaint to him that, "You've changed."

 

Just slide a bit down into the quilt and keep your head on his arm and stare at the ceiling fan. Just when you would be about to say that the fan's wings haven't been cleaned and he should do it this Sunday, you'd probably hear the voice of your virtual Saas on Colors.

 

That's the fruit of tolerance. He is still the same.

 

The Game of Names

 

India is a land of customs, of beliefs and indeed of acknowledging things (and people too). No matter where on this diverse and vast-cultured land you put up, there are a set of beliefs and practices that linger there from times immemorial. Though some beliefs and practices change with the boundaries of the state, but some remain dutifully same across the lengths and breadths of this nation.

To begin with, when I was a little child, I remember my parents used to listen to Aakashwani, a then popular radio station. The lady (whom I had often doubted that somewhere inside that little box she had a nest of hers) would begin her broadcast with the monotonous line, "Namaskaar! Yeh Aakashwani ka Nazibabad station hai, aur aap sun rahe hain aaj k mukhya samachar." Then after the completion of her headlines she hosted an on-request music broadcast titled- Aap ki Farmaish, where people from across the nation called her and requested her to play a song of their choice. Before the song began she would read out the names of all the people to whom the desired listener had dedicated the song to. The names would follow in an unending manner, from the youngest son Tinku, then Rinku, Pinku, Tina, Meena, Neena. Then respectively it would go for all their aunts and uncles, a few best friends of the listener, his panwala, and I doubted that if someone would have been spared it would have only been his most hated enemy (by the number of names it seemed a few enemies too had been forgiven and credited).

Well, this doesn't just end up here. Acknowledgement is a hungry offering that one is always ready to give without a reason and the other always ready to take without an appetite. The same goes for novels and books, where a hundred friends say to the author, "Kahin pe hamara bhi naam daaldena."

Coming to cars, have you noticed the similarity in them? The way the owner mentions Dheeraj, Neeraj on the rear pane. I wonder what is it for? Perhaps it's not in the interest of the man-of-the-house, but the woman-of-the-house. It might be an indication of him being married, like she herself bears a red bindi and mangalsutra every time. Poor man, how would he not put the names of his kids behind his own vehicle. Emotionally Atyachar-ged!

Coming to trucks, they have always been the center of everyone's attention. With slogans like "Tanu-Manu di gaddi," "Hum Do Hamare Do," "Buri Najar wale 13 Muh Kala," "Oh Meri Rani, kam-kam pi Iraq ka Paani," "Baja Horan (Horn), Nikal Foran." "Aa ab laut chaley," and remind me if I forgot something.

The last but never the least, from the backside of bus seats to the walls of mosques and temples, from school benches and desks to the wall beside the water taps in a garden and on the rusty street lamp-posts, to public toilets and tree trunks, you'll find names and only names. Names scratched and carved, sprayed and painted, charcoaled and mud-stained, written in circles and boxes, in half made breasts and perfect shaped hearts, in cursive and bold, in smooth flows and undulations- there are names everywhere.

There are names and names everywhere and yet the only thought that haunts a just married couple is, what name would they give their kid?

 

Accidently Reminded

Sometimes in the urinal when the person beside you taps the water flush on, or on an early morning ride when a passer by indicates you to turn off your headlamp, you're accidently reminded that it too had to be done.

 

Indians are good people I would say, though they never get tired of envying you and bitching about you, but they would surely tell you that your side-stand is out spread and your headlamps are daydreaming. Sometimes they also tell that on the next bend the cops have stationed a check-post. And guess what, we're accidently reminded to wear our helmets.

Wave a hand to someone for a little hitchhike and they would pass by you looking at the barren trees on the other side of the road, but sign them that they dropped something and they'll notice it without a drop. Guess why? Because they anticipate accidental reminders.

Try this the next time your boss passes by- wish him a pleasant day and he would hardly care to nod back, (leave aside a reply). But remind him that his laces are open and he'll instantly look down. If it isn't a bluff, he'll even smile back at you, revealing his stained teeth. That's the power of accidental reminders.

Mothers- tell them you have had more than your fill but they won't stop insisting to have more, but remind them that you just paid half-a-thousand rupees at the gym to burn some fat and she'll wipe your mouth clean.

Girlfriends, they're unpredictable. Tell her you look beautiful and she would pass it off like a glass of pain water. And in case you need to see the effects of serving her lemonade, remind her that she has lost some weight. The gratitude that shall follow next from her side will take away all your sorrows, but be cautious as it is bound to last only until she is not accidently reminded of something else next.

No doubt that from the time we start snoozing our alarms to the time when we set one before sleeping, we expect to be accidently reminded of a lot of things.

Say, for instance, do you remember what did I tell you about leaving a comment? Or did I just accidently remind you?

 

A Defective Piece

It was marked 60% off when I saw it on the stands all alone, lying tilted and unnoticed. I picked it up and calculated the discount, and the cost came  ₹10.

I thought what could be better than ten rupees? It wasn't defected, as we now say, it has a modified and more respectful term- being differently-abled. If not for coffee, then I'll put it to some other purpose I thought.

I brought it home and kept my usually scattered pens in it. With two highlighters, a pair of scissors, a few blue pens, perhaps a black pen too, one pencil, two Parkers (of which one remains), and a pendrive it was assigned to tame them all from scattering around the room.

It is true that a good employee gets more responsibilities, and so did it. With time more pens found themselves falling into it and getting tamed.

Perhaps it had even lost hopes of getting sold at a whooping 60% discount, and today it holds in it pens of all inks. Pens that evaluate marksheets in the University, pens that sometimes compose poems, pens that write thoughts on the wall beside me, pens that cost more than half-a-thousand bucks.

So happy would it be, that it accidently met those scratches and was labelled as defective, else it would have been lying in some dirty kitchen sink twice a day amongst all sorts of stained utensils. Had it not been defective, it would have been burning itself everytime its owner poured it with tea or coffee.

Because it was deffective, it saves itself from those hot pours and the company of stained utensils and dirty kitchen sink. Today it tames two highlighters- which make things bold and clear. Seven red pens- that evaluate answer-sheets. Four black pens- that fill up the university award sheets. Two sketch pens- that outline bold and distinct. Three pencils- which are humble and facilitate corrections. Seven blue pens- that often scratch the pages of my diary. One Parker with a cartridge- that boasts of itself amongst all these red and blue ball pens. An eraser- that eliminates mistakes. A One Rupee coin- of the same value with which Rocket Singh bought a company. And a pair of scissors- that goes all good and bad places.

In total it homes twenty-nine things and guess what, they called it DEFECTIVE, once. I am suddenly reminded that with it I had also bought a cofee mug at half the price, which was chipped at its rim. It just went to IIT-Roorkee for the rest of its life, with my ex-room mate who qualified for his PhD there.

As it stands on the left corner of my study table, in sparkling greens it must have thanked them for labelling it defective and me for picking it up.

It is undoubtedly true that the best of us come to use only when we're put aside and are labelled as different.

The Cobbler

On the pavement of a busy street, he sits on his hips with his heels joint and thumbs spread wide open. Between them he claws a shoe and with his skilled hands stitches it in an old practiced move.

A needle with a hook pierces through the leather of the shoe and comes back out with the thread, he directs it again into the flesh of the shoe and pulls it out.

His hands are dark like chocolate, his feet black like tar, nails long and hard like worn out plastic, and his unmoisturized skin has patches of silver linings. He has wide spread moustache and small strands of white beard cover his dark face in a perfect contrast.

I write this as he is mending my shoes, with his eyes and hands and feet fixed at my service. Skillfully he masterstokes the stitches and moves to the next after each.

A small shop, with perhaps a bagfull of belongings, steated outside someone else's shop in dusty clothes, yet he carries an attitude of a king. People come and bargain, and he blunty replies, "Itne se kam mai nahi hoga sahab, kahin aur karwalo. Humpe kaam ki kami nahi hai."

"Yeh note dusra do, hum nahi lenge. Aise fate note sarkari bank'o' m chalte hain," he doesn't stop back at insulting either.

Amidst his short temperd talks I provoke him for a reply by a question- "Aapse pichli baar ek bag mai silai karwai thi voh agle hi din tut gai."

And comes his prompt reply in his blunt Bihari accent, "Ab samaan bhariyega dunia bhar ka toh tutegi nahi kya?"

He cuts off the thread when the circumference is complete. He adjusts the tongues back into the shoes and laces them back as they were.

"Lijiye ab paheniye, muh band kar dia dono ka," he says.

I take them back, and they are now sure to look handsome amongst the girlie boots in my workplace.

"Here," I hand him two twenty rupee notes.

And he replies, "Sarkari bank m diniyega yeh note, hume dusra deo."

I change it for him, and he glides it into his chest pocket.

Jai Ram, Jai Siya Ram

A week ago I was listening to a Hanuman-Bhajan, it so beautifully dissolved in me that ever since I have been listening to it every morning. There is a small incident narrated in it that I have shared with my comates and friends, and I have passed that bhajan to people ahead for their enlightenment as well.

Anyways, let me begin by introducing you to Shree Hanuman. A die-heart devotee and also a servant by choice of the all mighty Lord Rama, and a reincarnation of Lord Shiv, Hanuman ji has the blessings to linger in a living form on this earth till the existence of humankind. He is all powerful and reasonable, intelligent and dutiful. He became a part of Shri Ram's army to fight against the devil king Ravana and free maa Sita back from his kingdom.

The bhajan narrates an incident when after defeating Ravana, Lord Ram had returned back home and called in a big conference of all kings from the nearby places. Numerous kings came to be a part of Shree Ram's conference, and seeing the heavy footfall Devrishi Naradmuni also came to that place.

A cunning observer by nature and a man of amusements, Naradmuni, he planned something for the day. He stopped a king and asked him where he was going. The king told him about the conference that Shee Ram had called in, to which Naradmuni said that he would like to give him some advice before he went inside. The king readily agreed and asked him to share his piece of wisdom.

"First give your obligations to Shree Ram, then to all sages, but do not bow ahead of Vishwamitra," he said.

"But why should I not offer my respect to Vishwamitra? I have no grudges with him," the king retorted.

Cleverly Naradmuni manipulated him by saying that, "Don't be foolish, don't you know that Sage Vishwamitra too was once a king. What respect would be left of you if being a king yourself you bowed before another king?"

The king ageed to his point, went inside and did exactly as told. Seeing this Vishwamitra got furious and asked Shree Ram, if he had been called to the conference to be insulted? His face raged with anger and he commanded Shree Ram to punish the arrogant king by killing him. Shree Ram gave Vishwamitra a promise to do as he was told, and took his permission to leave.

The king dashed to Naradmuni and asked him what sin had he made him do. Naradmuni smiled at him peacefully and told him to seek the house of Hanuman and meet his mother. The king reached Lord Hanuman's house and pleaded to the Lord's mother to help save his life. She asked him not to worry and said that very soon Hanuman would come and he will surely help you upon my request.

As Hanuman came, his mother asked him if he would do her a favor, to which he readily said a yes. Her mother than introduced lord Hanuman to the frightened king. Hanuman assured him that there was nothing to worry and that he would kill the person even before he could attempt to kill him.

While all of this was planned and thought of, Hanuman never knew that he had unknowingly chosen to face Lord Ram in the battlefield. As he came to the king's guard next day and saw Shree Ram coming with a bow and arrow, he was moved and shocked. It was impossible to decide for him as if what to do. Being a devotee of Shree Ram he could not dare to stand against him in a war like situation, neither could he back off from his promise and leave the king there. After a moment's thought he told the king to peacefuly hum "Jai Shree Ram-Jai Shree Ram."

The king did as he was told and when Shree Ram stood opposite him with his bow stretched, he was all confused as to how could he himself kill a man who was devotedly praying to him. He left back for his palace without killing the King.

Seeing this Vishwamitra got even more furious and asked Ram, what sort of a king was he if he could not keep his words. He reminded him of the practice of Raghukul, saying-

"रघुकुल रीत सदा चली आई, प्राण जाए पर वचन न जाए।"

With an even firm determination Shree Ram went off once again and took the Pralay-baan with him. Seeing him come again Hanuman told the king to hum, "Jai Siya-Ram" repeatedly. As Shree Ram heard him hum him and maa Sita so respectfully, he again got into a conflict of thoughts. Surrendered to his devotion he lowered his bow and went back in slow fearful steps.

Vishwamitra urged him to go one more time and kill him, but to Shree Ram's amazement, this time Hanuman himself stood infront of the king guarding him. This put an even bigger question on Shree Ram's mind. There was no chance that he could even possibly think to aim at Hanuman, so he returned back once again.

Seeing him return empty handed Vishwamitra again got furious and stood up saying that he would himself go and kill the king. As he walked in long strides, with red raging eyes, the king saw his end nearing and there was perhaps nothing possibly left of Hanuman to help or guard against Vishwamitra.

Seeing the complexity of situations Naradmuni decended down and approached Vishwamitra and explained to him the entire story. He added that by it he meant to teach the king about not getting into other's talks and show him how pure and divine was the relation of Lord Shree Ram and Hanuman.

Oh Mother, you're a liar!

"Maa," the first word that falls out of the mouth of a child is so simple and easy, just like the person herself. Undeniable is the fact across the breadths of this universe that there is no one more loving and caring in this world than a mother. Gods and great scholars have repeatedly referred to her as just another form of the divine self, and so truly and selflessly she has always devoted her commitment towards her duty too.

The world says, she is caring.
Yes she is!

The world says, she sacrifices her comforts.
Yes she does!

The world says, she can feel your suffering.
Yes she can!

The world says, even after you walk out of her womb you are still a part of her.
Yes, we are!

The world says she is always truthful in handling her children.
NO SHE ISN'T!

*SHE IS A LIAR.*

A "REPEATED" LIAR.

A "SINFUL" LIAR.

A "MEAN" LIAR.


The chimes of her bangles:

Whenever I visit home, she sits beside me and slowly sways my hair and pats my head. In a hasty voice she tells me every morning that it is 9 o'clock and I am still sleeping. She shakes me, and pats my back and tells me that father is about to come and I should wake up before he comes. I take her hand off me, her bangles cling in a chime and I shut my eyes even tighter. She walks away and comes back with a cup of tea.
"Chal ab uth ja, aur chai pee le. Bahut late hogya hai," she bribes me.
In a soft voice I ask he what time is it and she says it is 9:30 now. Her watch is faster that Usain Bolt, it shifts by thirty minutes a minimum between two talks. Slowly as I open my eyes, and take the cup in my hands, I see it is 6 o'clock.

Just imagine my disappointment in her. Isn't she a liar?


You've lost your appetite:

She serves me a mug filled with milk in breakfast, with two heavily stuffed parathas. An hour later I would myself chew down something else and just a couple of hours later by mid-day comes lunch (and ironically I am with a full stomach).
She served me a plate full of rice and ghee-chapatis. I eat to the best as I always eat, and then she says, "Oh god! You've lost all your apetite." I wonder if four chapatis, a plate-full of rice, with a bowl of dal and another of veg-mix, with two added green chillis, a ball of onion, probably two tomatoes, and two slices of pickle means a lost appetite, than what would having an appetite mean? I mean seriously!
It doesn't end here, it goes on- both her ironic remarks and my filled stomach. After a few snacks in the evening on her insistence, my stomach goes full and has no room for dinner. Then at dinner I barely eat a chapati or two and then she says to father, "See how little he eats, just one chapati." Guilty as charged, and there is nothing that I can do to prove her wrong.
Implies, she is a good strategist as well.

The aunt who wants to see me:

When I go out with friends and the night sky falls, she becomes worried and restless. She calls again and again after every few minutes and insists that I come back soon. If she is sure that I might be late, she would name some guest, or aunt who has come to meet me, and that my presence is immediately wanted back home. I would leave back for her, and when I reach home she tells me, "You're so late, she just left."

The pickle jar and the torn blue-jeans:

As I pack my bags for my way back, she keeps things after things and I keep reducing them. I tell, it's getting heavier and it'll break my shoulders, and she says in two short words, "Auto karlena." I still take out things, and try to make it less heavier.
"I don't need so much of pickle," I tell her.
"Arey it will last for one month, and I'll keep more when you come next."
In an angry tone I tell her, "I have Junglee friends, this will end up in less than a week, so there is no point in taking so much."
"Arey sabko khilana na, leja. Voh bhi to kuch laate honge tere liye."
"Kuch ni late voh, aap bhi mat rakho." I try my best to make as less luggage as possible.
Then she slowly agrees to reduce it and tells me to go out in the meantime and bow my head to the distant Devi Maa temple from the roof top. I go out and return, and in the meanwhile she has packed my bag.
"Here, see how light it is," she says trying to lift it with all difficulties. I smile at her.
"I have reduced the pickle, don't worry." She says once again.
I smile at her in half belief. She assures me once again and I pick up the bag in testing mode, it does feel a bit lighter. I take the dust of her feet and leave. She waves a bye.

Somehow I manage to carry that heavy bag to my room, and when I unzip it it seems as if I have mistakenly exchanged it with someone else in the bus. Out comes the full jar of pickle, not a piece less. Another similar jar filled upto its rim with desi-ghee, that I hadn't seen her keep. Some two kilograms of apples knotted in a polythene, that I wonder when she had kept. Another poly with some half a kilogram of Matthi, which I had seen my sister making it for herself. Then there is a box filled with sweets. Last I unzip all pockets to search for the blue jeans that had torn knees, which I had insisted her to keep. That's the only thing which she didn't keep!

And guess what would she say over the phone?

"Is it not there? Let me check, haan.... Oh! I forgot."

That Childhood, This Youth

The best memories that we carry are not of the loved ones, whom we met when our harmones erupted. Neither are they of the recent happy times we spent with our families. No matter how good these recent memories were but they aren't capable of being imprinted on the palate of the skull for a lifetime. What's imprinted there for this age are the happy days of our childhood.

When I was a child, some six years old, I was excited and jubilant. I ran across corridors, slided down handrails on staircases with my legs hanging both sides. I kicked stagnant water-pools and ran across the flow of running streams with my shoes on. I climbed benches and jumped off them, and hunted for bird's nests in small trees. I troubled puppies and patted calfs. I smelled my stinking socks and fought with pillows. Despite repeated warnings I wiped my hands on curtains and turned them black with fungi. I spun the front wheel of a parked scooter and saw the shift of digits in the odometer. Then I spun it reverse and applied brakes with both hands.

When I turned around ten, I was untamable. I jumped from high floors and dodged around the house. I spent my days in orchards eating mangoes and papayas. In monsoons I bathed naked in the open showers. When it rained heavily I stood under a draining shower from the roof top, It hit me on the skull and splattered everywhere. I made paperboats and sailed them in "kucchi-nahers" (irrigation-streams). If not a paperboat then a banana flower, with stones in it, it sailed across the little rapids. I played "fotta", that is what we called football then and we did that "suck-it", "suck-it" loud and bold whenever we scored a goal. We never knew what that meant, but there was fun in beating the hands across the genitals. It was abusive but who cared.

When I was twelve, I remember I used to skate on the mall road. I used to dash across the smooth bitumen infront of the Alka-Hotel in Nainital. I used to run up the steep climbs, and dash down in flying steps. I used to tease monkeys and langurs, and pelt stray dogs. I used to randomly handshake with pedestrians and ask for shelter under any umbrella. I shoplifted foodstuff in a gang of three, we ate upto our fills and threw the rest. We shoplifted from our acquaintances, and also offered them from the same. We saved our pocket money for video-games and Chacha-Chaudhary comics. We played Mario and Tekken-3, and returned home with a pocketfull of coins. If some money was saved, we went to Mamu Kabadi's second hand book store and bought story-books and comics.

Things changed in high school, we had to act grown-ups, but I was still a child. I was still a fidgeting insect, who couldn't stay stable on a leaf-top. Innumerable crushes happened and failed, yet neither the determination nor the stamina failed. Studies was a hell of a load, and boards were one big stone to overturn. All idiot friends started mugging books and schedules cut short our meetings. Boards came and passed, and along with them took away the free spirits of our youth.

Next was the year of science studies, considered even tougher. The group of many fragmanted and dispersed. Student got busy with their grade card improvement, and three tuitions a day. We often crossed each other while commuting. But, no matter how hard or fast life was, stupidity hadn't given off us. We were ballastic, humorous and idiots. We rang door bells at four in the morning and ran away, we punctured girls' bicycles outside tuitions and offered sympathy to walk with them. We spent nights planning how to study tomorrow and went off to roam around the next day. We burned volatile compounds in chemistry labs and hanged vernier callipers on our noses. We made paper tails and stuck "kick me" behind friends and gave them nice beatings. We celebrated birthdays with "ho-halla" and rode our bicycles on one tyre.

We rode across the streets with our horns buzzing. We rode with our heads trimmed in Ghazni styles, and often asked each other, if beer could really make us fat? If smoking did really kill? Or if "she" was indeed characterless? We raced on the busy "Kaladungi-road" and often dodged policemen. We studied to pass not score, and we promised heaven to girls just for a little walk.

If something was best, it was the free spirits we had. The untamable energy that we carried in us, and the radiating confidence within us. But ask me what happened to it. And I would say-

"THE WORLD TELLS ME THAT I HAVE NOW GROWN UP."

I am 24.
I am Graduated.
I am (or rather as everyone says, I SHOULD BE) in hunt of a career to settle down for lifetime.
I SHOULD LOOK for SECURITY.

But...

...there is a DREAM. A dream that I am carrying with me. A dream that says I am capable of an even better life (ONLY IF it works).

"ONLY IF it works," this is what I am repeatedly told.
*Of couse it will, I have that faith. I have that intuition. If it doesn't, I'll make it work.*

"What if it doesn't?"
*Why won't it?*

"Think about it."
*I think ABOUT it every moment of the day*

"Don't you see all your cousins have settled?"
*Unfortunately because they hadn't identified their calling of the self.*

"God knows what will happen to you."
*Exactly*

"You have an education loan to settle."
*God hasn't been so unkind till date, I hope he has some plans.*

There are innumerable questions now that haunt me, that pierce every thought of mine and reminds me of my non-happening existence. I wish I could alter the days and live my life carefree and wild once again. I wish I could bath under the draining sky on my rooftop, or ride a biclye from Mussoorie to Dehradun. I wish I could do this, and that. But the world tells me I have GROWN UP.

A little confession:

Within me there is this voice thay says, wrongs in life are not meant for me. I will sail through all hard times and waves, but there will come a time of true testing. I wish I survive that. I wish may god be with me to steer me across with his torch, for past that dark tunnel, I see, there is a WONDERLAND.

A little prayer:

"सद्बुद्धि देना सरस्वती के मैं भी कुछ कर दिखलाऊँ, उन हज़ारों उम्मीदों पे मैं भी खरा उतर पाऊँ। हिम्मत देना बजरंगी के मंजिल मैं भी छु आऊँ, बीच रस्ते साँसें छोड़ ना मैं चला जाऊँ।"