City of Silence

 I lie dead here

In this city of Silence..

The winds have blown away

All the words I had preserved..

I have crawled up to this street

To hear if someone knows me by my name..

The crying Woman

She stood on the wide balcony, her back perched on the wall. She was crying secretly, while hiding her face.  Lost, she was unaware of the onlookers. She was pretending to look busy looking out from the window, taking out her spectacles and wiping her tears in between. 

My heart really moved to see her. I was so touched to see tears rolling down her chubby cheeks, half covered with dupatta. 

I don't know if she was sad, repenting or worried and troubled. Her hair were flying in the air each time the breeze changed directions from the window.

Her face was moist, her eyes were red in grief and her eye lashes were laden with little droplets. I wished I could extend my hands, reach out to her hands and comfort her.

And, I...I stood there, like a Eunuch, not been able to do anything for this woman...in any way. I wish I could speak to her in her language and could reassure her that she could trust me.

I wish I could wipe her face and ask her to rest on my shoulders and tell her that all will be fine, even when I knew it would bear nothing.

Sometimes, I really wish I could come out of my own body and touch the woman I live in.

Why are souls confined to live inside the bodies forever...

An Emotion between the Corpses

An emotion is wrapped

Deep inside the flakes of the heart..

That erupts only through eyes

A mute expression devoid of words and phrases..

Like a baby, it stamps its feet and makes demands

Without considering my limitations..

I don't know how long it will manage to breathe on

Too many corpses have been stinking inside me..

Secret of Life

Beyond the cliches of Paap and Punya, there exists the secret of Life

At school, we were taught the opposites- black-white, up- down, far-near, success- failure. Another one, was paap -punya. Good deeds accumulated towards your punya and your evil thoughts formed a part of your paap (sin). Religiously, it restricted people to the 'do good, find good' theorem.

So the theory said that points accumulated in your punya account will be redeemed at the end of your life, and paap will result in further miseries.

Gautam Buddha, and several like him, I thought, did so much good for the mankind.. how much account balance of punya these personalities would have credited to their name, I wondered. I really wondered how God was going to reward them.

What could be the highest incentive a human being could demand or aspire and what was the epitome of success that God could grant a man with. This should work as a motivation for others to attain.

At that time I tried to put myself in the shoes of this great man and thought what would I demand in return of this selfless life I lived. I could not think of anything other than that tiny moment that had sweeped me over during my meditation which left me with....... nothing. Yes, nothing. I wish I could use a better word for it.

That 'pure' moment that I lived for a fraction of second, that impacted me like .... (again, am short of words)... and imagine, Buddha lived his life in it!!

Now, you say.. when you dwell in that moment of truth, you are devoid of the false pleasures that kept you illusioned and disoriented all your life... your heart is one with the Time and you accept yourself as a part of this huge world, which highest luxury, fame, wealth, man/woman can please you, then.

When your heart has melted away in the joy of realization of of life that it is blessed with, and not an inch of filth, ego or pain remains in it, what can the greatest of the great God reward it with.

A desire-less heart probably, that we achieve in the process is the highest reward that we get automatically in return from the Nature, signalling the supreme rule- journeys are important than destinations...Such a beautiful secret of life as if I discovered.

A man can best get a life to live beautifully. What is left after that is all just myths and philosophies. 

So, what kind of a Man do you want

About Soul-mates and Dream boys  

Bollywood has spoilt our minds so much that we feel that every love story will have blue curtains flying, a group of girls and boys dancing to the beats and violins playing in the background. We felt that it would happen to us too. I used to think so too as a teenager... with the common thought that my soul mate with come on a white horse in the middle of the night. 
As you grow up and life starts to screw you (pardon my language), you get to realize that in practical, there are only horse races and you would really not be interested in jockeys. And, no matter how much the bet is scored at, your probability to win is thinner than losing. 

Anyway,  I was talking about soul mates. And my eccentric thought process coupled with my single status evokes questions like- what kind of person are you looking for and why such a long wait. 

I have changed many thoughts, theories and prayers until I realised how naive I had always been. 

Keeping aside the checkbox factors like- educated (preferably Lawyer), vegetarian (preferably non-eggetarian),  Indian (preferably my religion), I have come to the conclusion that a chosen partner is not a set of qualities. It is a package. And, you do get some rotten, raw, over ripen along with fresh mangoes in it.

And, I formed my own set of qualities for him...
Someone who is ready to watch TV with me while I am in my faded blue pyjamas. Someone from whom I dont have to hide the hole in my socks. 

Someone who knows that looking beautiful is not a function of my face, but his eyes.

Someone who can understand that I can have bad hair days. 
Someone who finds it fine if I wear an unwashed tshirt when I apply henna on my hair. 
Someone who wouldn't make an issue if I ate chocolate and sneaked in my bed without brushing my teeth.
Someone who can tolerate that I am confused as to what I really want and an support me without being judgmental about my personality.

If he can tolerate that I'd study hard and still fail. If he thinks that wrinkles are a part of my beauty. If he thinks that my sagging breasts and bloated tummy has nothing to do with the little childish twilight I possess in my eyes. If he thinks that leaving me alone would give me chance to miss him. 

If I can kiss him with unbrushed teeth. If I am not hesitant to wear my shorts with unwaxed legs with him. If my unbleached face doesn't scare him to death. If he can appreciate that white hair is an evidence of all the stories I have collected to share with him for the rest of the life. 

If he thinks he can play a referee between me and my brother's fight. If he can oil my hair and still hold a smelly me tightly throughout the night. 

If I dont have to bother what he sounds he might observe while I am inside the washroom.

If he finds it not offensive when I wear my behenji style spectacles over my mascara curled, blue eye-shadowed eyes with my short black dress. If he knows that I can burn the toast while I can make the best Biryani. 
Someone who promotes independence in my decisions in spite of knowing that I need him to open water bottles for me.

Someone who doesn't find it unusual if I talk for hours about my stupid stories and cry for nights for my blunders and abuse a man on the road with my filthiest Punjabi. 
Someone who can correct me with a stick and still be with me when I repeat mistakes.

Someone who knows that time will turn me in an old ugly grey woman with a stooped back and gas problem. 

Darling, it's Time

I was lost

Then I got You

Then I lost myself

In You

Don't shelter

this Nomad, anymore

But, give her wings

help her reach the skies she's made for 

And wait for her 

To return to the roots

If that's You

Darling, it's Time

To give her wings back..

Ye kya jagah hai Doston...

Probably the beauty of life lies in its imperfection.. 

There has never been a moment when I have listened to this song and not sobbed surreptitiously. 
So I thought, let me bring it all up today (I mean in the middle of this night).

It is not just about the story and the situation where this song arrives in this movie where a prostitute by destiny comes back to her own village after two decades where she, as a kid, was kidnapped by a family friend out of business animosity and sold to a pimp.. but her mother refuses to accept and take her back out of social bondages... but I think, all of us can relate so much with this song. Has life screwed up our plans any differently?

We have become so much used to seeing our own knit dreams crashing before our eyes. We accept the failed plans, we accept the lack of trust bonds, we respect the love-less relationships and allot a corner space for the guilt we carry deep inside ourselves.

We hide ourselves from our own self just because we are scared of being confronted. 

Haven't we faced this moment.. just like she does in the song, when she turns back with teary eyes and questions softly- 
"Tamaam umra ka hisaab maangti hai zindagi... ye mera dil kahe to kya, khud se sharmasaar hai...." (The life asks for the whole account of years... what if my heart says, am ashamed of myself)

Sometimes we sit back and see how much we have lost in order to chase what that we always thought we should.. 
"ye kiss muqaam pe hayaat mujhko le ke aa gayi.... na bas khushi pe hain jahan, na gham pe ikhteyaar hai.." (To which destination has life brought me... where I have neither control over my happiness nor command over sadness)

And this one dying hope that we know will only bear further pain of losing the hope.. 
"Bula raha hai kaun mujhko chilmano ke us taraf...mere liye bhi kya koi udaas beqaraar hai..." 
(Who is that calling me from the other side of the lamps... is anyone sad/ impatient waiting for me too)

Many a times, I haven't explored what I hoped, because I wanted to stay in the grey area of guilt of not exploring, than rather reaching out and finding out that there was some (or none).. 

Sometimes, the lifelessness of a probability pacifies us more than the possibility of the hope...

Letting You Go..

(Dedicated to my dear friend Navpreeth Komal)

I am on the cross road again

I look back

There is no You behind

Not a trace of You

Not even Your dying-fading shadow

But my illusion to which You still cling to..

Here I am and this is me

I have been wandering, but now, I am ready to lose 

I give my word

And I make this promise to myself

I let You go...

I let You go...

Foot Steps..

(Dedicated to my dear friend Navpreeth Komal)

I hear your foot steps

approaching

Why am I still waiting for you

I see you in dreams

recurring

Why do I still want you

I reckon your words

humming

Why do I still feel you

Have you still not left,

Or have I not let you go yet..

That One..

Some men will come

Some will leave

Some will stay for a while..

But there will be One..

That One..

Whom you know

Should depart..

Why does your heart, still

Crave for every moment with him to elongate

Does it believe that there may be some tracks to come back…

Some words..

Some words

are scattered under those shady trees

where you promised me togetherness and love forever

Some words

are dying a slow death on those pavements

Where you held my hands and took me to those dreamlands

Some words

are lost mid air on those cherry blossomed skies

where you asked me to close my eyes and imagine the dreams coming true

Free those words, now..

Let them fly back to the sands they belong to..

Your decisions

Your decisions in life
are a chronology 
of your emotional foolishness 

Oakwood

I dwelt

In the storm of voiceless darkness
Before you came

And after you have left..

That tender moment

I saved

Of our first meeting

Still twinkles
Swaying on the branches

Of the Oakwood of my reminiscences 

To Love Me

To love me

You don’t need me around you..

You need me

To know that am around

Even when you know that I am not..

The Flame

I am the Flame

Of the desires you lighted..

I am the Wanderer

You found, lost in the wilderness of your words..

I am the Thirst

That keeps you searching for mirages..

I am the Tear

Of your joy of surrender..

I am You

The myself of us.. 

Journeys of the Destinations

The street lights on either side of the road sprinkled golden light on the road. The bus was moving on the smooth roads,  taking steep turns on every curve it could see around the bushy trees.

At times, the bus would keep on moving straight. For so long that for a moment its motion would become doubtful.

Sometimes, the bus would pass through a black patch where the lights around were dimmer. It would feel as if the bus was moving towards nowhere and this sensation would cloud around me that now, when I had been engulfed into this land of nowhere, I was lost.

The bus would roll over the bridge over the sea and run over the wide lonely roads from where you could even see far off tunnels, fishing villages, sky scrapers on the neighboring islands. The views were not only breathtaking, but so promising. You knew, where you were heading. Certainties brought peace.

While I was busy observing, I noticed some co-passengers talking in the language I didn't understand. After a few stops, they would get down. The next ones would mostly be silent and would fix their gaze on the road. Some would talk loudly on phone in the language I understood. Some were inaudible. Some passengers would exchange smiles and some would frown at your sitting posture blocking the way. Some attractive faces would disappear and some sad expressions would prevail.

The young-couple passengers would look for last corner seats to kiss. The elderly ones would search seats suiting their knees. Passengers with shorter distances would be vigilant while last-stoppers would sit relaxed. Passengers with shortest distances would stand near the door, peeping out every moment impatiently.

The journey of life was no different than the journey of this bus...

The dark patches on mysterious roads were the uncertain times where we were impatient and craved to see what lied ahead. Wide long roads with no obstructions were the peaceful times when we could see all that we thought. Sometimes, living at same pace, life would look stand still and with every curve, it would uncover a new landscape with a jerk. All we probably need is trusting life.

Likewise, the people. Co-passengers. They are all those people who meet us in life. Some for a short while and others for even shorter. They come and go with or without promises.. with some meaningful, some untimely and weird reasons. Some leave with good byes and some leave abruptly.. some leave beautiful fragrances in memories..some express their blankness.. some sit on front, some sit behind and some with you.. Some talk and some smile. But the fact remains.. everyone will move on. None comes to meet you, but we just meet.

Even though we want some to sit with us for a little longer.. pray for traffic jams, flat tyres, and wish to delay the journey.. but ultimately, they would get down at their stop... look back at us from the window, and wave.. And we would see their images getting fainter every moment.

Journeys unite us but destinations separate us... 

I am here again.. For you..

I am here again

At the door step of your Destiny..

Where we met last

And separated last..

I'll come again

And wait for you at the same place, where..

Journeys united us, and

Destinations separated us... 

The Game called Life

Life is

a tug of war..

between our desires

and realities...

a game

that The Winner

is never tired of losing..

Baggages of memories

The escalators were not working. As I shifted my third luggage on the 30^th step by myself, I almost said to myself, “Am sorry, I can't carry it anymore”.  It was half past midnight after my flight landed back..and inspite of being in my own area, my own country, I was somewhere else. The cool-dry breeze was swirling around me.  It started to drizzle a bit and I sat in the middle of the road overlooking my heavy bags.

How much we accumulate emotions and memories, and then carry them with us. We leave out with 15kgs of luggage, and come back with 40 kgs in our luggage and several tonnes in our mind.

We share so much, we trust so much, and yet our silence deepens. Still we grab our collars to seek answers from self. Still we don’t hold our self responsible for the filth we collect. Still we want justifications for irrationalities. We demand logic in every illogical action.

In the middle of that moment, where Time was moving ahead and my mind travelling back, I realised I was stand still. With none by my side, it was my cold world.

Once again, I took refuge under my self-answering-question which always saves me from such embarrassments and ask myself- "My dear, if not you, then who else?”

Between good byes and thank yous

Between good byes and thank yous, lie swathes of emotions, attachments, last minute confessions and wordless whispers.

Which one of us hasn’t faced this… Last moment with someone whom we feel we may not meet again. Leaving the house where you spent your childhood, selling your old car which had a million memories attached, last day at high school or office… seeing the person you loved leaving forever…

How vulnerable are those moments of silent words. How heavy the throat becomes- even if you are the super-est of the superman or have a rock solid man heart. Tears land without permission.

Last kiss…last handshake…last supper…last night….last word…last glimpse….last memory…

And how swiftly life moves on in the next moment. How illusioned were we about our short lived moments.

We have faced these lasties and many more are yet to come.. so far we have been scared to face them yet prepared to face them and still pray to delay them.

In every figment of our imagination towards our sense of belonging, lies a deep fear of losing. We fear more than we love.

Never say good-bye… 

An Indian Expat arrives in a Non-Indian Kitchen

The word "international" is as domestic as it used to be international for me two years ago. I own the unfamiliar now. 

Staying in an internationally local country, where you will always remain 'new' even after decades, where you'd always be asked 'which country are you from'...where you'd always request for instruction manual in English, where you'd always hesitate bargaining too much.. not letting people presume that all Indians are misers, and silently preserving the honor of the tricolor that you carry on your head all the time. 

Spending long weekends in your 450 sq ft shared international apartment with the people of different culture, skin and eye colors and time zones!

Of all, the kitchen becomes truly international. At 6pm, the mates from Far East boil meat for their early dinner. At 7pm, inmates from Europe stuff cheese in every dish they have cooked... and hit the bed by 10pm for their skype calls. Later, the lazy Indian can't sustain the hunger pangs drumming inside the belly and heads towards the kitchen.

Well, I must share- the best thing about sharing kitchen with non-Indians is that your Indian snacks are safe. So are your home-grind spices that you treasure the most. None will touch them!

Fresh cardamom is dipped in the hot oil with dried coriander powder and something mouth-watering invigorates the whole apartment with an edible tandoori smoke in the kitchen. "What the hell are you cooking in the middle of the night that we can't resist", sleepy inmates come out sneezing and complain.

Pure vegetarian Indians adjust their dal-chawal pateela with a headless chicken on the same shelf of the fridge, and then eat it later too, without puking. They are also used to throwing onion peels in the same dustbin where chicken bones lie discarded.

We use microwave more than pressure cookers and cook using induction than gas stoves. We google for English speaking locksmiths and hair-stylists, and feel at home while ordering Indian delicacies at Indian restaurants with Hindi speaking waiters. 

We have learnt to exchange business cards with both the hands with Chinese name printed on the flip side. We either have a wide touch screen Android  phone or I-Phone...qwerty key phones are unrecognized. 

Skype is our local phone and Facebook, our local photo frame. 

We munch chips of the same Indian brand but with a blonde model on its wrapper. We confidently buy and use the products of the brands that we never heard before. We roughly calculate money in Rupees before buying in Dollars... think a little, but still buy.

We buy those vegetables that we are unsure if are fruits. We prefer brown breads than white.

Our daily soaps are intercontinental comedy series and we have seen all the seasons. We work on Diwali and Holi and await Chinese new year holidays and learn to wish Gong Xi Fa Cai and exchange lai see. We checkout overseas travel packages on approaching long weekends.

And still feeling proud when someone says "Oh, you are an Indian... I love Indian eyes, Indian food and Bollywood".

Life... for once

My lips are pink and glossy. I am posing as my pointer finger touching my lower lip with my mouth open and my fake eyelashes curled up with black mascara.. I fake it for dreamy eyes.

I am seated near the window in my silver shoulderless- backless costume with my bare legs spread on the surface of the balcony to ignite all the fantasies. My matching silver shoes lie tilted.. A blonde wig is what rests on my head and the faux hair falling on my shoulders keep ticking me the whole day.

I keep gazing the men, women and teenagers passing by. Looking at me. Some look at my legs, some at my shoes. some hair and my hand-crafted nails. Some try to peep inside my falling neck dress. I wink at myself.

I am beautiful. From tip to toe, I am perfect. I have the flawless curvaceous body, fair complexion, tall slim legs, rounded soft shoulders and I am good at my work- attracting people.

Men and women, look at me, then they come inside our shop, I mean my owner's. They touch the dress I am wearing, ask the cost of the ear rings hanging in my ears, stare at the gems of my necklace. Some rich ones like it so much that they ask the Owner to pack it for them. Then she comes, takes it all off my body, swipes the customer's credit card with a smile. Then I am adorned with a new dress. I get to wear new dresses, jewelry every day.

During summers, at noons, none visits. My owner puts on the Air-con and keeps dozing off. But my still eyes gaze at the white building standing next. I think it is a church. I hear the bells ringing on Sundays. On my left corner, I hear a lot of music, I think there is a discotheque as at night, a lot of young men and women pass by. We lock the shop at 10 pm.

Rainy season brings a lot of hustle and bustle. A lot of vehicles honking, kids returning from school playing with the muddy water on the road. I wish I could go out and giggle with them.

During winters, it snows. I pose and display fur jackets. The trees visible from my balcony are all covered with white powdered snow. I wish I could make snow man and get myself clicked with it.

I see young and old people. I see people growing. I see people happy and sad. I see people window shopping and actually shopping. I watch people in love, people in problems and people celebrating and praying. 

But for me, nothing changes, except my clothes and wigs. No matter how beautiful I am, but these confused creatures make me crave for a life. I wish..for once, I could come out of this mannequin body and live like a human being.

A Stranger in my own World

As I travel far

My own city becomes a stranger

As I am silent

My own words fail me

As I stay missing

My own people forget me

And when I come back

Why am I surprised to see myself lost?

The End is the Beginning

As if I am breaking down

As if I am withered

As if I am done

As if it is all over…

And why does Life

Always begin from here..