From God, with Love

When your prayer is answered much before you could  imagine to pray....

I loved watching Liam Neeson's movie "The Grey" (and like typical Indian, I have the habit of giving the credit to the Actor, not to the Director). I learnt two things- first, you must fight. Second, the love of your life comes before your eyes in your last moments.

I questioned myself- what thing, which place, which person or what action will that be that I’d like to do as my final act. I slid the laptop back on the couch and closed my eyes, and instructed my mind to make a wish- what would you want in that last moment that will give you eternal peace. 

And without any second thought, this is what I saw-----

Snow white soft small palms stroking my face, innocent giggling in my ears, a supple smell of the skin and the warmth of love percolating my cheeks. Yes! it was my baby brother- the love of my life, my life actually.

I have never been a mother but am sure that the feeling won't be too different from what I have for him.

I was ten when he was born. I can't forget the day when my Aunt came home in the wee hours at home, and told me, "You have a baby brother". I couldn't imagine how suddenly I could have a brother, and that too when I hadn't ever met him. Grandma told me to distribute sweets in my school. I felt happy when everyone was congratulating me but it was somewhat difficult to be happy about something you knew you have, but you never saw.

The whole day I spent eating leftover sweets in school and waiting to go to hospital to see who he was. I had made plans. I'll share my pavilion bicycle seat with him and will let him ride only if I was sure he'd not let me fall. I'll also share my dolls but only if he promised that he wont lose her shoes (am wondering, was I, a lawyer since birth). And, I'd give him the 4 inch magnet that i found during school recess, as he was my brother.

I wore my new clothes and new shoes even though they were hurting my toes. Like a proud sister to be, I sat on Dad's Alfa scooter. I was holding Dad's hand and we went to maternity ward. Some villagers with shabby clothes were sitting on the floor, stuffing bread in crawling babies' mouths, while some others were running after the nurses in green sarees holding papers, asking details; the sweepers with the wet brooms, questioning and pushing off unwanted people out of the wards.

I peeped in all the wards on my left as we walked. There were inverted bottles with a transparent pipe attached, along almost all beds. Probably that was sugarcane juice, that the patient could have each time he/ she felt thirsty, I thought. We kept walking. I hadn't seen Dad so much happy as he was that day.

 Mom's ward was the last one in the array. As I entered, I saw six beds with six wooden cradles with all fat women on all beds. And, then I saw mom on bed no. 109. I ran towards her to show her my new dress. She smiled at me. I felt happy as she didnt ask me about my Maths homework, that means she was happy too. I looked at the black baby on her right. I couldn't believe- how could any baby be too small.

"Babu, here.  Not that one, this one is ours" called Dad, holding a small bundle of clothes. My jumped on mom's bed and sat there to see the much talked about 'brother' of mine. I couldn't feel anything when I saw his face. His face was too small to be recognised. His eyes were closed. Dad put his palm protecting his eyes from the light of the bulb. I saw tiny eyes without any eye lids opening up very slowly. Yes!! he looked at me with those micro starry twinkles, and I looked at him with a smile, and this was my brother! He was much smaller than I had imagined him to be.

I jumped from the bed out of joy. I offered him 2 sweets that I had saved. Mom laughed and said he only likes milk now. I gulped the sweets.   

I looked at him again. I saw his hands. Extremely tiny fingers and a white batch on his wrist-"Shukla-19 Nov". A similar batch, even mom was wearing.

While I looked back him. I had questions, from where he came and how come so suddenly he showed up. The only thing I knew that all babies come from hospitals.

The sardarni patient aunty next to mom smiled and said "kudi warga hi hai munda" (the boy looks like the daughter). I felt so proud. Like the elder and the responsible one. With his pink petal lips, he smiled at me, and in that moment of pleasure and thankfulness, God descended and said- this is my gift for you, my dear, for life. 

There I was, the motherly over protective sister. I looked at him again. Yes, he was my blood. My surname. My mate. My brother...

That window on 26th Floor

While she thought it could not begin, probably it never could end..

“Leave now. My room is 2602”. She deleted the SMS immediately after reading and looked at Sumit. Sumit was busy winning applause with his fan club at the table, chewing 2 meters pizza and sipping beer on which he had another bet.

She slid her phone in her bag and looked at the reveling people. Sumit was already half knocked out. In that moment of commotion around, with a simple question of “to leave or not”, her heart was skipping beats. Small droplets of water were developing on her forehead and neck in the ten degrees set room. Her heart was paralyzed with the thought of ‘leaving’.

She tied her hair in her clutch and adjusted her scarf around her neck. Not a single word of what Tarun’s wife was yelling from the other side of the table was entering her mind. “Ketchup, madam” said the small eyed waitress. “What, oh, yes, ammmm thanks” she said. She played with the Lettuce leaves in her plate while her mind was dicing with the only yes and no on all sides. Her breathing was getting heavy. She gulped the whisky down her throat and felt the burning sensation in her oesophagus.

Picking her bag swifty, she tip toed towards her way to the exit door. She looked back. Sumit was sharing his college story of how he had bullied the Principal in the first year.

With every floor that the lift passed, her heart started to beat faster. And the door automatically opened at the 26^th floor. She stood at the door staring trying to ignore the turmoil in her mind, took a pause and then, knocked.

The room was warm. Cream curtains and yellow bulbs lit up around them. Before she could see more, he caught her from the back and kissed her neck. In the fraction of a second, she forgot who she was and where she came from. One look deep into his eyes, and in no time she surrendered and  melted in his arms, in the expressions of amorous dalliance, as if the tiny little branches of the shrubs shed the snow on their face, upon seeing the Sun after a long cold winter. The time lost count. 

She got up with the noise of the wind howling from the open window, and realized that she probably over slept. She thought of Sumit. She got dressed quickly, opened her vanity box to dab some powder over her steamy face and neck, pinched her eyes to smudge the spoilt kohl, wore her coat and left, and while she waited for the lift in the lobby, she knew she had to burn the bridge she just crossed.

She ran back, opened the door and dropping all shackles knit in the forms of various calculations, kissed him once again. Passionately…so passionately as if that was the last kiss of her life and that she could carry the warmth of his presence in her cold arms. She dropped a tear on his bare shoulders. He pressed her back and clasped her tighter in his arms. The moment of silence seemed to last for long. The kiss answered her all questions and freed her from the guilt gripping her soul for years. 

The Cabbie parked at the edge of the entrance. Sumit was leaning over a table, drooling. The Hotel staff assisted her to take him to the cab.

The cab crossed the Western Street, and waited at the signal. She looked back at the building of ‘The Grand Regent’. The window on 26th floor seemed closed.

Butterflies inside

Something certainly is in the cards.

I have been behaving oddly. Like women.

I have been a prudent person since I last know of me (except the times I have been mad or lost or wandering or defeated or too happy). I don’t remember when was the last time I bought weapons of feminine exhibits (essentials, being the exception).- womanish hair assesseries, jasmine perfumes, pink watches, golden boots or even downloaded a romantic movie.

But I am surprising myself these days. Almost every day. Like men :)

I have been buying laced lingerie, rose petal massage oil, satin night gowns and yesterday I changed my body wash too. I had always been buying the antiseptic one for since years, and yesterday in super market, the moment I saw this ‘Enchanting Rose’ perfumed body splash, costing four times the normal and weighing half of it. I questioned myself for this unintelligent act, but couldn’t stop. And, today morning, when it splashed my body, I was really picked up to the heaven. I smelt like a Rose bouquet and the bathroom became a garden. Believe me! 

My body still carries its smell. 

And what happened last evening has surprised me to the maximum level. There is me, waiting for a friend for a coffee, and none guides me towards a high end lingerie shop. There was a sale. Pick any at $200. I mocked at stupid women overspending at something that they couldn't wear and show off at work. 

And there, someone was knocking at my heart. As I followed the signs, I was guided to this merciless navy blue devil adorned with sky colored roses over its edges, with satin finish at its curves. Like a bee, I got attracted to this honey filled lingerie. Ammm.. actually hypnotized. I came out shelling 1000$ on this one. And, I am not neither repenting over it or thinking, I should have spent this on books.

I concluded, we all have the capacity to laugh at our own cracked jokes, tickle ourselves and yes, surprise ourselves too. 

Come on, is the dead woman inside me rising from her grave?

Healing over heels

Australian Prime Minister, Julia Gillard falls down heads over heels in public during her visit to India

“The crowd is clapping and hooting. Men are whistling and waving their handkerchiefs. I, dressed black thigh-hugging skirt and off white jacket displaying the red high neck t-shirt worn inside, am happily waving over my fans, walking in my pointed heels over the stage. The President standing with a fixed smile- face with a golden trophy in his hand, waiting for me, while am busy locating my family and close friends in the crowd. My trophy is just a half milli-second away from me and in that split of the second, my stilettos betray me and I fell down, with my face hitting the ground straight, silencing the crowd. The time between the vertical me and horizontal me was unfathomable. I lift up my face questioning what to do now as I see the world mocking…”

This has been my nightmare since the time I started wearing high-heeled shoes. And, I still get such dreams often and I get up panting in my pants.

Indeed, the biggest nightmare a woman can have in her life time is ‘falling down in public”.

I was amused to read about the Australian Prime Minister, Julia Gillard who had a public fall at the Gandhi Memorial. And interestingly, this was not her first, but third fall in the same year. With no offence, she is indeed a “giri hui aurat”. It reminded me of so many events that make me still laugh.

Dont miss the fun: 

http://landing.newsinc.com/shared/video.html?freewheel=90051&sitesection=nydailynews&VID=23850422

One of the latest ones was during my date in Taj Hotel on a rainy evening in Mumbai. While I managed to cross the street in a puddle of water across the Gateway of India, I stumbled in my high heels only to realize that I’ll have to limp for the rest of the evening. Yes, my heel broke. And, before I could fathom what I could do, my beau had arrived with a cheerful smile and handful of roses that deserved no bad-news.

 I did enjoy the dinner with a lame leg and a fake smile, without letting have a clue of my agony filled embarrassment. And, while sending me off, he noticed, “Christ! your one heel is broken?” And, I, without claiming the best actress award, pretending to be unaware of it exclaimed, “Oh, is it?”

Since then, I haven’t been able to heal the scars of my heels.

Another one was when my Aunt was a dressed like a princess on her wedding day wearing a net saree with heavy pearls on its borders, a golden necklace and shoulder touching shiny earrings while her hands were full of red bangles. As she, walked on the stage, with a garland for her groom, and all cameras focused her, while people throwing rose petals on her, suddenly she disappeared from the camera screen. Yes, she fell down, when her heels got struck in the carpet.

 “It is not the pain of falling, but the pain of being seen while falling that hurts”, said she sobbing.

Another scariest moment is women falling asleep in the public transport, drooling and then finally falling. Someone even commented- “I am yet to meet an awake Asian on public transport”.

  

Well, wearing high heels requires more than just balance. Wearing high heels is a contract. You forego your comfort, stability, speed, health and safety to gain height, beauty, elegance, and style. Yes, they make you look good and confident.

Medical Research says that wearing high heels is highly injurious to your knee, hip, feet, and spinal chord. In other words, beauty is pain.

Lady Gaga's massive 10-inch tapered heels were a hit and it did arouse fantasies, but while walking, the ‘ground realities’ are indeed different.

Like luxury cars and solitaire, stilettos are considered "jewelry for the feet".

Imagining men wearing high heels today sounds like a comic scene but peeping the history, we learn that men also wore high heels including cowboy boots and Cuban heels. Egyptian butchers also wore heels, to help them walk above the blood of dead beasts.

In ancient Greece and Rome, platform sandals were popular particularly among actors who would wear shoes of different heights to indicate varying social status or importance of characters. Also, the sex trade was legal, and female prostitutes were readily identified by their high heels.

Much as high heels signal beauty, overuse of it became an insignia of prostitution, yet it remains a symbol of power. Women not being able to manage in high heels suffer from low self-esteem.

Shoe designer Terry DeHavilland says, "People say they're bad for the feet, but they're good for the mind. What's more important?"

What have you done to me..

What have you done to me,

All I see around is thee…

 In the extreme darks at the corners of the Sun,

I see my feminism rising from the veil of Nun…

 In every hour and every minute of the time,

I see your arms around mine…

 In my oblivion, I feel you,

And question myself if that is really true…

 I don’t ask you for me,

But want myself to remain in this dreamer’s sea…

 This intoxication that makes me closer to my own,

For no reason, awaits your arrival as a messenger in my wishing zone..

What have you done to me,

All I see around is thee…

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.