When those days are here...

It is of no one’s fault that those days come
All of sudden; out of the earth, underneath my feet.
They come as sullen clouds,
As thick blankets.
And cold I feel inside them;
They have long enveloping arms with questioning fingers.

When those days are here,
There is dawn and dusk and the dull noon.
All happening in successive precision,
But all seem the same to me.
‘Cause what I wait for is another strike;
Another blow that will bring chaos again.

When those days are here,
I see the little girls more often.
Giggling, and laughing, and touching each other,
They are in love I can see.
All of them, with heart full of happiness;
They live summer days and cozy winter nights.

Those days offer some doubts
Some despair, and some raw loneliness.
It is their specialty;
To be so abundant is their nature.
I can’t refuse, I don’t refuse;
‘Cause those days also offer what they don’t promise at first.

You can’t be that little girl, they will say
You can’t become someone, they will say
But what we can tell you
Is of truth that’s far above.
A sermon it might seem,
But behold we are here to make you believe.

Life is a game of misplaced love, they’ll begin,
Of insecurities and power profiles.
Make no mistake my child, they’ll harp,
Gallantry and bliss are illusions for the short-lived.
Happiness is of a pouch of gold coins
And power is of a plotting mind.
Love is of a platinum band,
And commitment is of a safe arrangement.
Honesty and altruism is entertainment,
And Santa is a carrot and a stick.
The skilled are to be exploited,
And the clever are to command.
Learn this well and learn this soon;
It is when you do,
We will cease to be painful days.
We are after all teaching days.

With this they leave;
But I in foolish hope never learn.
So those days, they’ll come again.

That Chit of a Man.

I lost her a long time ago;

Months before, when she came home smiling

And went to bed without dinner.

I whispered to her in my dreams, asking,

If something had gone right in her life?

She answered not then;

And not in whispers.

A goddess that she is,

With arched eyebrows and a chiseled body,

With succulent dark skin and a translucent smile,

With a friendly gait and amber eyes;

She quickly became a mirror doll

Dancing to his tunes;

That Chit of a Man.

“Ain’t I ugly? Am I right for him?”

Round and round she turned

In front of the mirror;

Refusing to believe me when I said,

You’re right for yourself child;

You’re perfect in my eyes.

She gave me an absent-minded smile.

Listening to her thoughts

Long before she stopped voicing them

Was my lullaby every night;

Her opinion on the booker

And her pity for the pathetic Brahman

A relish every time it happens;

Until,

That chit of a man came along.

He gave her some time

Some advice, and some insecurity too;

Made her resign to embroidery

And child rearing;

And between her cross-stitches for his buttons,

And mashed potatoes for his lunch

She forgot her mind.

Last month when she came home

I saw her tired amber eyes,

Searching for some purpose

Some meaning

Amidst PTA meetings and lost socks;

Her mother that I am,

I failed in telling her

That there is life beyond her man.

When I tell her now,

She gives me the absent-minded smile.

This post was written for more than just one friend. And several Mothers of Daughters.

The Stranger by the Window

Some weeks ago
A little girl came to me and said,
"Come with me; let me show you a spectacle!"
I blinked, but followed her
little knowing where she was leading me.

She brought me to a city market
full of noise and people and laughter
some cries and hugs and thugs.
There were babies crying,
lovers laughing at absurd looking shapeless mangoes,
and horns bellowing the arrival of an autumn sale.
Before I could wonder if this was the spectacle,
she lifted her arms to point at a window above us.

"There, can you see her?"
Where, I asked. There's none child!
"No, see there. I can see her.
She is standing by the window"
I could see none. I could see nothing.

The little girl grabbed my arm,
ran to a faraway stream;
heaving, we sat down.
With that, she began to tell me
the story of the window.
Of the stranger.

The stranger believed in love.
Unlike us, the little girl said.
She believed in life.
She believed in a world that gave freedom.
She believed in moderate complications.

Yet, when she lived,
Love was never enough.
Climbing hills and valleys,
sailing oceans and storms,
she found pockets of lust,
and some mirages of love.

She also found triumph,
in the eyes of the other;
in the sacrifice of the mother;
in the jailer of life.
but love, she found only in Narcissus.

Gossips and violence and words;
Run, run, far far away.
Prisons and smothers and blood;
Walk, walk, faster and faster.
Climb up the terrace;
Rush to the window;
look down, breathe in.
Be happy that life doesn't believe in the thing you do.
If it did, it would have your likewise fate.

A fate that makes logic stare at your face;
A fate that analyzes priorities.
What could be done if one cries?
What must be done if one cries?
Crying is effectual only with an audience;
a gullible, foolish audience.

She cried. The little girl, she cried.

The stranger died some years ago.
Of agony and pain and sickness.
Of beaten blues and blackened nails.
Prizes that came along with love;
rewards that came when she placed the other's need before hers.

But I disagreed. She died of a broken heart.

Why A Wednesday is a Bad Day!

Agreed surprises happen now and then. And true, Bollywood may not be an exception to that. But A Wednesday, as I end up feeling, wasn’t of the lovely or the pleasant types. Original? Maybe, yes. To be taken seriously? Nay, probably not. Thanks to some remarkable directorial skills, the movie that was released last September has drawn quite a bit of critical acclaim. And with the release of Unnai Pol Oruvan, how could anyone miss out on Kamal Hassan’s ‘unique’ perspectives. Thus, purely because of peer pressure and perhaps from a stupid want to know how daring Bollywood can be, I sat to watch A Wednesday.

A movie of this genre is probably a sin. Maybe even criminal. See, it doesn’t make sense to heighten people’s expectations and then offer them something so mediocre that the crowd actually ends up believing they got what they expected. The ‘stupid’ common man probably gets convinced he is stupid. This is one thing about such ‘very’ ‘daring’ movies; they run the long difficult race, they fight the demons and the devils, they take you to the edge, and then, and then very simply drops you down. And then you are hanging on a rope, and maybe even in thin air, wondering what the hell was that all about. Think more, and you will understand that this is what these guys do; they play the safe game over and over again. They will go all the way till there, that crucial point, but before anyone can brew up a controversy they shall come running back; become pro-government, become anti-terror, become pro-police, pack those bags full of critical reviews and awards and box office money and nation-wide recognition, and then come rushing home.

On the other hand, the stupid common man, in addition to having lost his ticket money, is taught two very important things. One, that he is stupid and no amount of politicization can make him think for himself unless self-ordained teachers like Shah and Hassan take the dais, and two, that terrorism is the only answer to terrorism. Whether the common man agrees to what Shah and Hassan does in the movie is completely a different question. Nevertheless, he is told that he would most naturally do what they did, should he witness likewise blasts. In other words this is ALL that a common man can do; use ‘hi-tech technology’ to gang up with the police and the government to kill Gundas and terrorists. And no no, he can’t analyze why they became gundas, or how the government has acted and still can act as terrorists, or even why it is always the Muslim who is always scrutinized. The stupid common man has no choice but to ‘help’ the government or rather ‘teach’ the police how easy it is to simply ‘eliminate’ anti-social elements. Amen! Come all you stupid common people, lets all go bomb up ‘terrorists’; we can soon become a happy nation.

Hassan is perhaps a little way ahead than Shah; he mentions, I am told, that terrorism is the only way to combat terrorism. No, let me be more than just sarcastic. He is probably the best gift the Indian Government (State, central, current, former and future) has ever got. For the sake of those so many children who die everyday, for the sake of our dear Tamils who died in Srilanka, for the sake of millions who have given up on their dignity and lives, does this man even know what the heck he is talking about? Does he think the state governments, which clean ‘roach-infested’ houses do so in clean empty airports or uninhabited deserts? O probably the ones who died in their very houses when the bombs blew in Srilanka were nothing but dummies. To me, this strategy is nothing short of a convenient brahminical stand that does not deal with blood and shit and garbage and corpses in their daily lives. Isn’t it all so easy to say, ‘hey let me sit here, make a few phone calls, create some stop-gap sensationalism, bring in some media attention, and tell the world that bombing away is the only way out’? Besides why bring in the media when all that Shah and Hassan was just kill the guys? The whole thing could have still got accomplished without that twenty-something electric-baba reporter coming in. And come to think of it, why are such reporters always shown as pink-shirt wearing women who use their brains only as an occasional hobby? Not to mention that she also gets easily influenced, thanks to very her little politicization.

But among all these, what is most saddening about this movie is probably its perspective on terrorists who happen to be Muslims. I hear Hassan has done some patchwork by including a terrorist who has a Hindu name. Bravo? No, I think the real issue is not about who has what religion. It is really about understanding why it is always the minorities and the oppressed who take up arms, and as to why their existence is being threatened every time by the upper classes/upper castes/majorities. It is the bloody trend that needs to be observed and addressed. And it is NEVER a solution to kill the so called ‘noise-makers’. In short, what Hassan and Shah suggest is no way different from the Gujarat riots. In fact anything and everything can be justified as an effort to combat terrorism. If this stupid common man today can bomb those four terrorists because he can no longer see that nameless friend of his in the train next day, why cant that stupid common woman, probably a wife or sister or a family member of that terrorist, kill him later on? I mean, just because this common hi-tech brilliant guy bombed off four roaches, he should be praised? O damn, let me kill Mr. Gujarat and Mr. Orissa who let so many of them die in the riots; will I be lauded?

Probably, the only credit I can give to this movie is the fact that it brings to surface the power a common woman or man could have in this country. But of course it dwindles into nothing but empty drama in the course of it. The common man or woman for sure can do more, and better; O heavens, we aren’t as stupid as the movie wants us to be.

Broken Home.

Hatred doesn't stay with the walls. It seeps down like the water from rainfall. Over the long haul of the wall surface, and down the floor, curling like a snake. It reaches the feet of the wall worshipers, finding ways through skin and pores, duly accomplishing what it came for.

It is not about broken windows and slammed doors. It is not about violent mornings and tearful nights. It is not even about pain and suffering. It is about that inevitable loneliness.

Are those words said to abuse? Is that violence caused with vengeance? Or is it all done in jolly good humor?

"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!"

Foreign words on alien ears. What might be nearer home are perhaps expletives; hurled in such abrasive fashion, duly signed with a smirk, and some laughter too.

A story follows another. Both equally powerful; equally opposite. One is about love and the other about hatred. One is about affection and care and bliss; the other is about revenge and strife and agony. But it must all be taken in jolly good humor. In one package, like your mind will convince you. Optimism is everywhere, isn't it? The Internet, the books, the friends. Take some of it, add some fake love, mix it with a spoonful of mall-celebrated-party-outgoing-happiness, beat it with some retail therapy and busy weekends, some career success too, and finally cover it with the nearest-available-music-healed-quick-fixed-mirage-normalcy; and there you have it - the life that God blessed you with. Take it, enjoy it. Live it!

All but that inevitable loneliness. Some hopelessness too. Some insecurities as well. Some doubts as add-ons.

But Sundays, don't forget to thank the divine for having given you a secure childhood; O and nothing like that child of your house-help who had no clothes and no books and no money. Poor poor. You are so blessed.

Perhaps its the sins. Lying and reading and knowing. Maybe its the thinking too. Perhaps.

Day after day; Night after night. The burden of familiarity; the commitment of birth.

The roads will keep winding. The rivers will keep flowing. And windows will keep breaking? And ears will keep hearing expletives? O hell, it will. 'Cause turn and look at the wall now, do you see hatred seeping?

You have to run! Far far away; and carry hope - the hatred must never reach you there.

Run. It's a broken home.

Sapience. And some madness.

When you volunteer to carry guilt, people can be more than generous to give it all away!

If there's life beyond that one person, there's life beyond anything.

Nothing is more pathetic than having deadlines with housework.

If life was indeed a roller coaster, then why are we all so bored? Duh!

Quite strange how when one was a kid, loyalty, honesty, and goodness mattered. And now all that really works is diplomacy, and yes some tactics.

It's actually a joke when someone tells you that they can't live without you! Sapience should help you laugh that off.

Isn't it unfair that morality and spirituality is being defined by institutions that has no idea what you're heart or mind is made of?

Isn't it funny to exercise your democratic right in a country that is so adamantly hierarchical?

All that really matters today is a person's sexuality. If we even remotely accept that he/she is 'normal', all of space will crumble and shatter; angels will pour fire down and hold us guilty for letting such a proliferation of sin.

What is more infuriating than prayer requests for a girl's marriage? And asking God to better hurry up before she hits 26?

Somehow sins never mean castetistic marriages, accumulation of excess wealth, indifference to social issues, and domestic violence. Weird how it's always about that one thing we all are blessed with.

I am so damn sure the animals are having more fun than us.

Nothing is more sickening than seeing photographs of 20-something women on websites that claim to give them everlasting joy. Through marriage of course, in case you're wondering how!

Evolutionary studies must be made compulsory in schools. Madness talking!

Does one really know when exactly love happens? And does one really know what Love is?

The day you realize your stories, something beautiful begins. Perhaps that's what people call life :)

The weather is a nice boyfriend!

!!! Sapience. And some madness is good for life!

Reminding stories...

Nothing is a story until the play is cast and the stage is set. The rolling begins. The dialogue ensue. And when the drama reveals, applause may or may not happen. But the stories remain. They are told, they are retold. Sometimes, they are forgotten. But most often, they are reminded. They are learnt from. They are understood to the detail. They are uncovered, dusted, and opened again. They then evoke you until you are left alone with them. The discourse begins; between you and the stories!

The freedom story. Not a new one. Hardly unconventional. Thanks to religion and family, freedom gets a certain definition. It’s better to accept than rebel. It’s better to introspect than defend. It’s better to cry than shout. ‘Cause victory really depends upon strength. And if you don’t have that strength, God help you. And God does, in the form of religion. The pulpit says, obey. The candle sticks demand submission. Abide. Hear. Give in. The rush to adorn goodness, the urgency to receive affirmation. If shouting doesn’t do it, crying will. If steeling doesn’t happen, breaking will follow. To realize one’s vulnerability and to accept what is taught as freedom. To reject the inner voice to that of evil. To start believing on one’s strength as folly. The freedom story is sad. It marks a long way ahead. It takes years and years to shirk off guilt; it takes decades to define freedom. It almost takes an era to finally arrive at your free-self.

The dependence story. This one needs miracles. Maybe some divine passion. No, definitely not a joke. Or a smirk. Perhaps this story is hardly understandable. But for the one who lived it through, it is worth a long life. It is worth a million chances to become self-reliant. To embrace independence; that inner strength. Reminds you of someone barging in. Reminds you of someone opening your shelves, pushing away your layered stuff, gathering your secrets, and having an opinion on everything. Reminds you of times when table bottoms offered solace. Of cringing legs and curling toes. Of tearful eyes and wet pillows. Of inner efforts none will understand. Of pain none will feel. Of strength none will know you had. ‘Cause the ones who read your story believe that you are weak. And that you’re only weak. This battle fights definitions; unfair accusations. With a desperate effort to go beyond. A desperate cry to fly.

The love story. Every bit magical. “Through the darkness and good times, I knew I'd make it through. And the world thought I had it all, but I was waiting for you”. Hush, its love! Like the pearls in a corn, like that of rain drops. Neatly set, bravely felt. Unfairly understood. Not even felt. Sensed to the best. Packaged by the world. Ripped apart by the same. Hung up phone calls. Unturned letters. Deeper dreams. Eyes that speak volumes. A million smiles; a thousand tears.
But, this story ends. It usually ends. Nevertheless, while it lasts, it feels like a lifetime.

The passion story. The heart is to blame. Maybe, even the mind. ‘Cause it’s almost a conspiracy between the two. Extremely un-understandable if there’s passion for several things. Highly unpardonable if you choose all those several things. But with gifting, there’s some direction. You can say the gifts lead you. You might even say that a certain force guides you. But this is a good story. A hopeful one. Might even be one’s life story.

The bedtime story. Reality. Nothing more, nothing less. Grandpa can go to sleep, ‘cause I have a real life to think about. I have a life to live. To run, to win. To fly!

And with that, the applause can begin!