Kareena Saif Marriage

Another love-less story- an impatient man and a confused woman struck in Showbiz 

Errrr…..Kareena Kapoor got married to Saif, finally. Read on Facebook and Yahoo news. And much before I could get the news, I got jokes about it.  

 I am neither Kejriwal to comment or Salman Khursheed to defend. Neither I am a Bollywood masala maker nor am I a part of Celebrity’s PR fraternity. But I am the one who, these days misses no chance to condemn Bollywood each time, whenever given any opportunity. Personal lives of Bollywood stars are still, our subject matters of discussions. Isnt it?

 “A 32 year old woman shouldn’t have married a 42 years old guy. This is so bad.” said Sahana, adjusting her dupatta on her shoulders. “Saif’s kids attended the marriage, I read. If your earlier wife is dead, it is okay for your kids to attend your second marriage, but not when your mother is alive and you attending your father’s wedding” commented Mrs. Gupta while playing with her spoon in the biryani. “It should be a simple marriage only, if it is a second marriage” as they went on.

“That was an auspicious day, first Navratri” said I, pretending to be part of the long- tongued- Indian women conversation.  

My un-stoppable lawyer tongue continued, “So Kareena changed her religion. She couldn’t marry Saif directly. The marriage had to be under ‘Special Marriage Act’.”

Well, we have no right to comment, opine or decide about the personal lives of our movie stars. Why should we do so… Do we tolerate when our colleague sneak-peeks our mobile phone. Leave aside our colleague- do we allow our family to interfere in our personal lives? Don’t we regard ‘invasion to my privacy’ as the most heinous crime these days.

However, as Indians, it is our birth right to gossip and discuss characters. So here I go.

Keeping Saif and Kareena as items of study, I found they represent the psychology of young Indian mind today.

Let’s start with Saif.

Yes, in the beginning, what was he. I don’t remember in which movie I noticed him first, but all I can remember of him as a lukkha, twiddling around a extra curly haired, non-whitened Shilpa Shetty wagging his neck in the woods with an ugly handkerchief on the ‘haathon me aa gaya jo kal rumal aapka….’. His stardom came much later. And while he was no star, like other boys of his age, he too got attracted towards the broad shouldered- hot-in the town Amrita Singh, a Sikh Muslim high profile Khandaani girl. The same Indian tongues did discuss a 21 years old curious and impatient guy marrying a 33 years old, mature and recently successful woman.

This is again a theory. Young men getting attracted towards mature women. Haven’t we all experienced our crushes on our good- looking teachers at school? For men, marrying a successful mature woman is a kind of achievement. Lalit Modi (IPL wala) married a much old Divorcee Minal who even had a daughter from her earlier marriage.

And when all the fun is staled out of the marriage, children are born and busy growing up, after a decade, realizing their optimum energy has been under-utilised, and that is where the hunt for the new partner begins- so much for glamour and as much as for ego.

So, the rosy landscapes with beach side house end soon. And he divorces. Only to remarry a much younger woman this time….only to give way to the other landscape of a hillside farm house…Same man with different background and women.

In the misogynic society of India, the story of ‘same woman with different men’ is not widely spread but with women empowerment, MNC culture, women coming to Board rooms it is gaining popularity gradually.  

 Now, Kareena.

Silver spoon fed girl with celebrity parents. Fed only on showbiz. Getting famous too soon and falling in love with a young energetic dashing Punjabi boy. Ishq aur mushq exhibiting everywhere. Kissing in public, and getting shot in restaurants. Then spilling the beans and feeding media with stories of them getting engaged and elders doing the talking..

The puppy love ends owing to shitty reasons of “quit non veg, or I’ll quit you”, or ‘stop smoking’, or ‘how dare you lied about your college crush”. Getting separated and the villain media stirring the cup with red mirchi stories.

As the duo cool down, they realize how struck they are in the cob-web pressure of media tht they knit around themselves. Media creating jealosy inflicting stories of Kareena getting close to Saif, becoming size zero, consequently Shahid  making himself seen with other women..

Why will Kareena take 5 years to decide that she wanted to marry the same man, showing the confused state of mind of the woman, waiting(/missing) her Ex, and later bowing down to the calculations of ‘what is best for my future’ and compromising and taking over the last option available- getting married.

The story ends here. You think so?

That girl in Stilettos

A Mid-Autumn Morning after a dark night 

The alarm rang. “I have a flight to catch. You go now” said he, adjusting the pillow, turning his back and taking the blanket over his face.

Like an expressionless effigy, she got up, picked her bra from the floor and her dress from the tilted chair. It was still dark in the room but the sunlight was falling from the fringes of the curtains in the hotel room. She bent towards the mirror and scanned her face. Her eye makeup was spoilt. There were love bites around her neck line and a little thread was pulled up over her sleeves. She picked up her bag and without turning back, left the room.

While waiting for the lift, the house-keeping staff in the lobby smilingly wished ‘good morning, Madam’, rolling the broom in the floor, while she was trying to tie her shoe buckles, shrugging her frizzy hair falling on her face. Rubbing her eyes, and pulling her dress over her arse, she smiled back and entered the lift, puzzled with 50 buttons.

It was 6 in the morning. The mid-Autumn morning sent a little chill down her spine and she clasped her shoulders while she looked at the rising Sun peeping through the skyscrapers.  The fresh morning air flowed through her hair and her cloak mixing the ladies perfume on her dress and men’s perfume on her body. 

People in sports shoes, holding chained dogs running across the streets for morning walk stared at her stilettos, while the bread vendor on his bicycle whistled at her from behind to stay away from his way.

In the bus, the old woman with her school going girl sat next to her. She glanced at her face trying to fathom ‘her profession’, held her baby tightly in her lap, avoiding to get touched.

The bus stopped with a jerk. She stood up. The toothless Thai man sitting in front looked at her bare legs and rolled his tongue.

She stepped down from the bus and moved forward. The bus driver kept staring at her mushy arse till she got lost in the noise and din of the fish market. 

Ten days with family

Today I got up before my alarm. And I didn’t get up from my sleep, but the shock. As the smell of desi ghee parathas that Mom was cooking for me invigorated me, I realized this gala time of extreme pampering and protection is going to be over soon.

I’ll be calling the Dabba wala from Friday onwards for lunch (without asking for the menu), and opening the lunch will remind me how much difference it makes- a dabba packed for business and a dabba packed out of love and care.

Once again, I'll unlock the doors, and not knock when I come back home from work. The stained coffee mug that I left on the bed in the morning will be lying there- dry and untouched. I'll not get food before I cook. All the talking will be via phone, skype and google hangout. No utensils will make noise or windows opened in the morning. And, my weekends will be ruined by sitting and downloading movies and documentaries. No hurrying up to leave work at Six and none waiting for the door bell to ring. 

Well, on a positive side, these ten days have changed my outlook. Each time I’ll see an elderly woman stumbling in the moving bus, I’ll see her as ‘somebody’s mother’ and offer her my seats no matter how heavy my shoulder bag is....Each time I’ll see a confused man trying to figure out what the Cantonese speaking vendor is saying in the wet market, probably I’ll offer a helping hand to that ‘somebody’s father’ with my recently invented sign language......Each time I’ll see a young guy lost in the streets, locating directions, I won’t take a minute to realize that he is 'somebody’s loving brother'.

He proposed me!

And, he proposed me. 

Like a hard boned blow, it hit me on my head. As if someone asked for my permission this time to take away from myself, the salvaged me. 

Like a poor baby who had just a mutilated baby doll left in her arms after the killing floods that made her an orphan, i clasped my soul in my cracked palms. 

I had bargained to choose myself, over my happiness. The decision was never questioned. It was just a commitment originated out of the duty.

I had promises to keep. The promises that kept me loyal to myself for the rest of my life, and to never barter, no matter how lucrative the deal sounded.

But all I know is that my commitment towards myself is supreme. At no cost I can afford to give away myself to someone. 

Don't know if it is worth it to lose self to get someone who claims to love you. 

The Unknown

With every step I rise

I see this mysterious hand around my shoulders

Curling up my identity

Fondling my deepest secrets

Buried deep in my treasure of Subconscious.

This Stranger calls by my nameless name

In the middle of the darkness of the star-lit sea

Picking up the un-acquaintanceship of my ideal life

from the death-dead apprehensions

This unmeetable carries my soul

As we pass through the unenlightened ideas

In search of the beautiful unknown 'new’. 

Kiss

As he touched the hair falling on my forehead, I closed my eyes. Very slowly, he moved his fingers around my hair line and I felt every movement of his middle finger rolling on my face. He pulled my face towards his to kiss. I don’t know if he had opened his eyes, but I didn’t, probably not wanting to mix the questionable prudence in reality. I know, we see more with the closed eyes. As I felt his breath around my face, I smelt the beer he had last night. In every breath of his, lied an untold story of equal loneliness and greater impatience.

He squeezed my shoulders in his fists and kissed them, and shoved off all the burdensome questions that kept my mind busy.

He filled his fingers in the gap between my fingers, pulling me towards me and re-illumined my dying spark. He put his hand on my heart and the bleeding from the painful wounds stopped.  

He touched my back with his palm, and for a moment, I realized what leap my life could take only if a man was there to support it forever. He continued to move fingers on my back bone as if trying to wake up the sleeping desires I buried years ago.

He kissed my lips and with a thud I got back what I had lost…I touched my own life. I felt like a woman..

And without asking me to open my eyes, he showed me how much he wanted to open my eyes, get up from the dream and make him real. 

Haveli da kotha

Note:

The story is a human interest story showing ill treatment of Hindu minorities living in Pakistan. Some of the words in the story used are Hindi, which are translated in the brackets).

HAVELI DA KOTHA

(The roof of the house)

Khudda Lahora is a small village in the West Punjab, Pakistan. There is no school or hospital or bank, but is ruled by local money lenders, Shahi Vaid (local physicians), and madarsas (Muslim schools) run by the local Imam.

Lalaji Phoolchand owned a small grocery shop there, which was just a stone’s throw distance from his haveli (house), where his wife Prito, his son, Ballu and daughter Navnee stayed.  None of his children ever visited any school.

At home, Prito, taught them how to read and write and helped Lalaji in hisaab-kitaab (calculations) at his shop.

Lalaji inherited this grocery shop from his ancestors in 1947, as a ‘murder gift’ from the Government during Partition, when his joint family of 34 was brutally murdered, by their own neighbors.

Since then, Lalaji, had never been able to move with his head held high, as, with his name, the surname of ‘minority’ was attached.

Lalaji neither sat at the chaupal (public place for discussions) under the shady mango trees during summers nor did he bask winter Sun, sharing the folklore. Navnee or Ballu never played with the neighbor kids and Prito never exchanged sweets at festivals or the typical household gossip with the other women in the street.

Threats from Extremists were nothing new to the family but the way of reception was. For Lalaji and his family, the meanings of life had become different – it only included threat, fears and apprehensions.

The heart beats became faster with every thud on the haveli da kotha and shadows passing by the windows.

Some days back, on a Divali Festival night, when haveli da kotha was illuminated with candles, a headless cow was hung at the haveli gate by some miscreants.

Lalajiji spent two nights in Police Lock up and paid a fine of Rupees 500 after being arrested by the local thanedar (police) over a false complaint by a villager involving intimidation.

Prito didn’t come out of the haveli after she was denied the right to take water from village well, as she was a non-muslim, hence a kafir (non believer).

Once over an argument at shop, Lalaji was threatened directly to instruct his family to accept Islam or to leave the village.

More so, last year, two buffaloes of Lalaji were burnt alive on being suspected to be possessed by Shaitan (the evil).

One day, when Lalajiji’s was not well, Navnee went to give him lunch to his shop. But she never returned. She was abducted by the extremist group and Lalaji was given a final ultimatum to accept Islam.

Next day, Navnee’s headless body was hung at Lalajiji’s gate. Daughters had replaced the cows now for the Lalas.

Cremation of Navnee created another ruckus, as the mohallawalas (villagers) didn’t allow Navnee’s body to be removed for cremation, but wanted it to get buried.

Lalaji, Prito and Ballu stayed with the decaying headless Navnee for nearly a week under tremendous terror, when finally Lalaji decided to dispose it off in his own Haveli da kotha (the roof of the house).

The family was attacked again by the villagers and consequently, Ballu was arrested on the charges of disturbing the peace and tranquility of the village. Everyone talks that he was reported as killed in an encounter while attempting to run away while on his way to Karachi Court.

The very next morning, Lalajiji caught ‘Samjhauta Express’ and took Prito along with him to Amritsar, India, thinking that it was the last samjhauta (compromise) of his life.

Three monsoons have shoved off Lalaji’s haveli.

Haveli da kotha still smells of ash- ash of Navnee’s headless body, ash of Ballu’s anguish, ash of Prito’s silent sufferings and Lalaji’s helplessness.....

Disclaimer: The story is a work of fiction. The characters do not exist, except in the mind of the author. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Men after drinking :)

(This article is dedicated to my HK Brother Subro, who suggested me to write about this and my HK friends who became my inspiration- in- ignorance :P )

“What soberness conceals, drunkenness reveals.”

Don't know how far it is true, but they say a man generally won't lie after he is drunk (noteworthy, am being diplomatic when I say, they speak truth).  “A man's true character comes out when he's drunk”, experienced Charlie Chaplin.

Don't know the science behind or if at all there is any. But the probable logic behind is your mind loses its control and your tongue gets directly connected to your heart.

Probably, that’s the time when you don't have to bother with the question running at the background of your mind-why this man is speaking this. All you have to do is to lend your ear to him and just copy all the data without doubting for any virus in it. Just like you have got the access to the shared folder kept at the back of the mind of the person’s subconscious.

Probably alcohol helps us get rid of our apprehensions by making us forget them! Psychologically speaking, men drink to experience the unknown state of their mind. I remember, in my CBSE syllabus, we had a chapter on Dr. Simpson who explained how, in the absence of anaesthesia, the wounded patients were given alcohol before they were operated. Is that why we say we drink during pain or when hurt.

I too have got drunk heavily, but my mind was almost in my control. I never pulled that feeling over my mind- thanks to my inhibitions or the Indian woman mentality.

My earlier memories of ‘too much drinking’ pertain to the time when I was a kid. There was a group of drunkards. A group of men belonging to Himachal Pradesh, Haryana and interior Punjab. They were in the foremen category. They were given khaki uniforms from dad’s office, and used to work in night shifts. Every morning, I used to hear watchman hitting the ground with his lathi, and abusing in the patented Punjabi mother-sister screwing gaalis (the meaning of which I didn’t know then) and then the communication leading to an affray. Those khaki jump suits clad men will be swaying, their eyes closed, talking to themselves and complaining about everyone while trying to fathom which way to go. This is how I used to think all foremen were, until I got to know that it was alcohol speaking out of them.

I narrated this story to emphasise that men behave differently when they are drunk.

At Holi, my favourite Indian festival, it used to be a big fun. But when I was a teenager, we were instructed not to play Holi outside the colony as there will be all drunken men. So, my question is, if a man is a ‘true he’ when drunk, so why will he bother other women/ girls at that time.

I must also mention about our Indian weddings, where (especially in Punjab) offering booze is a status symbol. There, a line could not be drawn between not-so-sober and sober ones. You could see men sitting next to you and talking. A man known for his dumb personality becomes a babble mouthed creature and the other one lends his ear to him. Such agony aunts (I mean uncles) will be sitting on every corner and sharing how agonised they are. The stories of sacrifices, lost love, guilt crippling one’s heart and yes, cheating- aah!!

“An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools”, says Ernest Hemingway.

Men sharing greatness of their mothers, men complaining about their fathers, to parentless men, all kind of unite in the ‘I want to express my heart out’ exercise.

The quantity of alcohol getting mixed with the blood is directly proportional to the beauty of the girl sitting opposite to the man J. As in the words of Winston Churchill, “I may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly.”

So, does alcohol uncover the true man inside us or does it make us a different person altogether.

Also, more importantly, men forgetting what they said, shared, unveiled what secrets to whom- in their memory database, no such files exist. It somehow goes for an auto delete.

And, before I end this articles, I must remind- a drunken man will never confess that he is drunk (probably to stress that his words should be trusted).

In any way, let us say-  Cheers!!

P.S. The words described as men are not gender specific. They include women too.

Equilibrium

She declared that she was pregnant, in office.

I was happy for her, and sad for myself.

She is a nice girl. She got married two years back to a nice South Indian guy whom she considers is better than her. Husband is qualified, earns well, loves her, takes care of her and saves for their future home and baby. Can a woman demand more from life.

Whenever there is any such position that demands setting up an example, or exhibits the feature of a perfect situation, I have this nagging habit of putting myself in that place and comparing. And the result, as always, is lambasting.

I have been doing this with myself more than often, resulting in emotional mayhem and lingering unanswered questions.

While on my way today, I asked myself if all that I have lost was futile. Have I not gained anything from the losses. Is that not enough sacrifice to be the person I am today. Haven’t I become what I could never have, if I was a married woman with kids and a middle class husband coming home every evening, and discussing home loans. I even wonder if that perfect market situation (as per Economy) ever prevails, and even if it does, it is uncertain as to for how long it does. Sustainability brings a question mark.

I don’t all have just sulking material too. Haven’t I found myself after losing all that I had.  Haven’t I realized that probably my biggest target in life is to become a better human being, and keep moving. Not having an aim is not an aim in itself, when you recognize that going with the flow is a struggle too. I know I have been making up my mind and re-making it too frequently. But hasn’t life taught to be happy in what we have got (or remained, in my case) and to create the best out of it. Yes, I do get mad, act childish and throw up soon but can I ignore the frequencies of these getting lower. Are the indications worth ignoring?

Every day I get unlayered and I see myself like never before, and get closer to myself. My insecurities have increased in a number of ways, I agree, but at the same time the trust too that these do comprise a life and in uncertainties lies the certainty of strife.    

At the same time, I admit, sustainability will question imperfect situation too. I don’t know how long this situation will prevail seeing the inordinate future.  

We all need equilibrium in life, and seek certainty among the little uncertainties in life to find solace.

Tum ho paas mere

Yes, it is magical.

The lyrics, beyond doubt and the voice is nothing more than just apt.

I must have listened to it at least a thousand times and I can listen it another million times.

It 'reminds' me of something I 'never experienced' or someone I never met.. Yes, I am mad to say this.

Yes, it places that someone next to me whom I have never met but feel as if I am known to him for years.

Someone, with whom I have been sitting beyond time, beyond seasons and far away from reasons and instincts.

Someone whom I see with my eyes closed and someone who is worth the wait.

Someone from whom the roots of trust begin. 

Where is my home

It has been really long since wrote something last. Mostly I write when I am sad. I have two options then- either to lighten my burden by crying or to express it in the forms of words- and write.

Lately, I have been crying too much these days. So much, that I have got sores around my eyes. And, shamefully, I cry like women. Non stop. For unimportant thing. And then sometimes even adding up new topics to cry. And later wondering where I started and what I ended up cribbing about.

I had read somewhere that you should keep targets for yourself and then should reward upon achieving, as an art of living. When I feel sad, I try to pamper myself by doing away with the requirement of achieving the target and reaching directly hitting upon rewarding.

I ask myself, “What can I do for you. What do you want”.

Off late, I had been convincing myself that I’ll be happy with rewards like- mango cake, gobi paratha, books, dresses, a travel plan or even sex.

But quite for some time, my convincing powers have failed me.

I have been looking to escape answers when last time I demanded, something that made me answerless. I said, I wanted to go back to  my home.

Did I ever have a home.  Did I feel at home when I was in Chandigarh. Didnt destiny keep knocking me to take me in its UFO to Mumbai in a flash of a second, with no plans of mine ever in my thought.  Was I at rest when I was there.

My love for Mumbai was profound. The liberty, that growth, that progression, those monsoons and those people- that comprised Mumbai. Did I feel at home when I used to walk back home alone at dusk, after work. Was the city mine when I couldn’t find what lost in my five years of pursuit.

And now, when I was in Hong Kong, staying so close to the sea, that if I close my eyes, and  try to imagine the sounds of the waves, I may hear them thumping the shore. Did I accept it as my home town.

This reminded me of Richard Bach-

“The simplest questions are the most profound.
Where were you born?
Where is your home?
Where are you going?
What are you doing?
Think about these once in a while, and watch your answers change.”

I think- Man, probably, is a homeless man, in search of a home; trying to build it when he has found, and trying to search for it when he has built.  

In dreams

Supriya dreamt of him again today.

She doesn’t know if she’ll keep dreaming about him in future too.
It had been years when they had separated.

She saw herself with him, laughing, chirping, flirting and feeling proud of having him by her side too.

Having exhausted all the reasons to talk to him, and burnt the left over ones, there was little excitement to see him, even accidently.

She doesn’t know if she has anything to say to him if at all she meets him, besides telling him that she keeps dreaming about him.

She sees herself carefree yet in the shackles of his spell, she sees herself running yet turning back to him, she sees herself hiding yet expressing her inner self to him, in her dreams.

Though she sees herself as an independent person as she is, now, yet when she wakes up, she yearns to be seen herself dependant of his cozy arms.

Why is separation stronger (longer?) than togetherness...

Renewals of life

Her Facebook status was  "Starting a new life". 

She was getting re-married. 

I kept thinking if life could really be renewed.. 

That...if we had learnt from our past mistakes and we were somehow, not sure, but determined not to repeat them. Not just ours, but that there were lessons from others' mistakes too that we use in our conversations often.

If we were ready to think that we deserved another chance on the basis of natural justice and this was the time to use it.

If we were sure that we had made right choices this time and that circumstances and situations were not going to fail us. 

And, even after we had learnt that there is no such thing as 'non temporary love', we were ready to rely on someone for something so really that we knew was fake. 

And,  we when we claimed to 'start afresh', we had forgiven the people around us and most importantly, ourself. 

No matter how much I wash off my life with the lather of my lessons, how much I replenish it and how much I look forward to the future, there is one old, spoilt, badly dented thing that I have to carry and drag with me wherever I go- the EXPERIENCED ME. 

Don

'Don' is how she had saved the number.
As a curious onlooker in the ladies second class Local Train
compartment, I glanced at her qwerty keyboard mobile, while this
ordinarily married woman of India in the local train in Mumbai,
deleted the call log and sms history received from this number at the end 
of the day, while going back home.
This woman too was, probably in a relation out of a situation that failed (the relations that we criminally term as extra marital affairs).

Ah those confused relations of the complex lives that cracked under
loveless responsibilities, dried due to lack of time and just kept as
they were to be. And, for no clear reasons had lost all the fragrance
and moisture that Bollywood is expert in exaggerating.

Pale face, tired body and a hopeless next day is how a woman's face in
Mumbai is recognised. To correct myself, I dont say, just woman's face. 
But, women inspite of being expression-expert have become 
supression-expert. 

All this years of my life, I have realised, infidelity is
circumstantial, and loyalty, just a matter of chance.

The Traveler

O’ Traveler of the Bridge ,

what you left this side of the limitless seas,

last day,

has blossomed into a new flower of hope,

And this hope inspires me to cross the bridge with you- and to be with u again and forever and hereafter….

Each time I look at the door

O’ Mate

I see you coming to me

Smiling...

Loving...

Inspiring...

Even when I know

that you are not here,

that you will not come,

that even if you come, you will go back,

that even if you don’t  go back, you won’t be mine...

When you come next time ,

I would return this hope of seeing you,

back to you,

as it inspires me to live,

but I contemplate the least possibility of spending a life without you….

And in case you don’t come

I would spend the rest of my life

Waiting for you……

My first rendezvous with the rains

Mark it.

17th June, 2012.

My first rendezvous with the rains on this land.

When I left Mumbai, the thoughts of missing Mumbai monsoons haunted me like a soldier heading for war, leaving his newly wed wife on bed.. fulfilling his duty, yet tempted by what he was missing.  I thought I'll never enjoy rains.

As I walked towards the sea, a drop from the sky trickled on my head,  and before I could feel, another one dropped on my wrist.  And, at that moment, I knew, I had to stay.

I saw people rushing towards sheds and carrying their babies, looking for shelter.

And at that very moment I realised my independence. I felt my independence in my decision, in my body, in my surroundings, in my caring a hoot attitude.

I moved ahead where the rains were approaching, and from where everyone had left...just like making the way for the princess.

The little droplets hitting my face and eyes and playing on my body.. I closed my eyes and spread my arms towards the sky.

A little dim light from nowhere was falling on the fringes of the leaves of the tall palm trees that swayed in the air, and a little light fell on my body. I felt the coolness on my neck and the peace percolated in my chest.

I wanted this to go on.. the touching game. I felt my own heart beat and saw my glistening body enjoying the moment of lust-less lustrous solitude.. 

Soul mate

He just flashed again in front of my eyes today 

As they show in movies, each time this virtual 'he' comes before me, the whole surrounding world comes to a stand still, people around you become statues and it is only the air around me is moving, flying my hair. 

I see him clasping his against his chest and standing with his left knee folded and his shoulder leaning against the wall at the corner of the street and looking straight deep into my eyes, while I walk slowly towards him, and he smiling at me and softly questioning through his eyes, making me blush.

I wish I could share it with someone that there does exist the concept of a "soul mate", and you may not realize that he/ she is your soul mate when you are with him, but you do only when you are not with him. 

His smile makes this foreign land so much beautiful and worth living- the same place that fills loneliness in my nerves every evening. 

His aura floods the surroundings with a positive energy that pulls the dying me by my collars and forces the stooping particles of life to be alive again. 

Fringes of the past

Sometimes while sitting on computer, with fingers moving on the keyboard, with no just no background, I get flashes of scenes running in my past, appearing very vivid before my eyes. I even feel the pleasure, attraction, excitement, grief, disappointment that I had felt at that very moment.

I just got the flash of that winter night of 9^th February, 2008, seeing myself dancing on Punjabi beats, and mom, and a lot of other females dressed in gaudy clothes and jewellery, clapping and smiling and singing, circling around me, laughing, cheering me up, girls whistling, Bhaiyya making faces at me in fun .  I could even hear the music played, kids giggling around and door bells ringing, vehicles honking, passersby staring and street lights twinkling from the widow.

I see myself in blue shirt and blue jeans, showing off my bangles and anklets, my hair bouncing with every step  of my dance steps, my heart thumping with joy and mind, so much at peace to feel that all near and dear ones around me were happy, well, and alright as I was happy.

And, in that deep corner of my heart, sat that thing, that I lost forever- Love for life.  

The Auditorium

After much excitement and curiosity, I went into the Auditorium. The average age of the audience was 60 years, as if even after spending 40 years of their lives with their respective soul mates, they were looking for a ‘one point’ peace in life. And, I, being less than half of the average age, had already realized that it doesn’t exist.

The stage is set. The eyes are waiting. And the music of peace begins.

Gradually, the fumes start evolving out of our burning hearts, whereas we had, so strongly assumed that the flames inside us had extinguished with time??

No, the music was just a valve, not water.

There is no water actually, to extinguish the fires of the heart.

Only fire. Only sting. Only pain. The enjoyable, glamorous pain. Some have legalized sophisticated ones, which are sharable. Some have bigger un-sharable chunks.

But, pain is pain. Only definitions and perceptions differ.

I was happy that I was feeling the correct thing.

I was alone, and I knew that I was alone. So, I felt alone.

People, there, were not alone, but they felt more lonesome that I.

As the music started, the eyes started to get watery.

The handkerchiefs silently, hesitantly, getting humid.

Women can cry openly. Men can’t and they don’t.

I suggest they should.

Sometimes, I think crying is like masturbation. It is just playing, talking to your own self, your own pains, and your own words, emotions and your world, and there, with every drop, leaving your eyes, you self relieve your discomforts out of your body, and feel relaxed.

Every ghazal sung, every verse shared, had a meaning- in everybody’s life.

Each one of us has encountered a moment of falling in love, a moment of losing our love, a last moment in life, with somebody, an irreparable damage, an irreversible time, an unending hope, a betrayal, infidelity,  loving inspite of infidelity, acute hatred, and loving back again.

It is love, that’s the measuring unit. Isnt it.

All the stories range from no love to acute love to dead love.

Love, a lot of love, a loveless love, betrayal in love, no love, absence of love, a painful love et al.

In the dark auditorium, and dimly lit stage, as if we all were seeing, our past reeling, in every single word sung, and every beat of sitar.

I doubt, only women cried.

People come to realize their pain and cry. On these occasions, they get a reason to cry legitimately.

I concluded, probably there is no peace, for which we keep yearning, all through our life.

There is only, a hope for peace.

 A hope that remains a hope forever, and dies with us, finally.

What do you say?