"Strangers in the night exchanging glances", Frank Sinatra crooned from Sanjeev's car stereo as he waited for Sharmila to come down. He felt a slight tinge of romanticism in the air. He saw Sharmila coming down the stairs of her apartment. She wore a long black skirt with a dark purple top, she had her hair scrunched up and was wearing silver loop earrings.
His heart started thumping really fast and it was as if he had glugged down a six pack of redbull.
"Hi! Sharmila", he said breaking the silence and his quivering . "Yea , why in the fucking hell do you have the music so loud?", she shouted at him.
"I am sorry", Sanjeev replied sounding quite dejected. He knew it was one of those days, she fought with her mom again. Sharmila had a love-hate relation with her mother, they both loved to hate eachother, her mother wanted a "normal homely girl" , but Sharmila was anything but normal and homely, in fact, she had mellowed down ever since Sanjeev came into her life or by now she would have run away from home forever to some hill station.
Sanjeev turned the volume down and sped the car to the hilly road of Sector 46 and stopped on the cresenct. "Why the fuck are we stopping?", Sharmila again shouted at Sanjeev. "I thought you would like to drive to the Kund", he replied.
"Listen I am in no mood for your antics, I have enough with you people, stop acting like you know me or understand me, its not like we have known eachother for ten years, you're just an acquaintance to me Sanjeev", Sharmila balsted out at Sanjeev.
Sanjeev had nothing to say and he slipped the small red box he was holding back into his jeans pocket and he drove. "Sanjeev! I am going to go to college on my own, its not like I can't drive. You cause too much negativity."Sharmila said to Sanjeev in a serious tone.
"But what have I done? calm down Sharmz, what did aunty say?", he relpied.
"Why would you care? stop pretending like you Sanjeev, I hate you", she kept on spitting poison through her words and Sanjeev for the first time in four years wept and his eyes got all watery.
The yellow dumper was standing in the middle of the road and the forensic reports confirmed that when the car smashed into its rear , it was at a speed of 80km/hr. The driver died on the spot and the passenger survived with some injuries to her spine.
"They found this in his pocket, mam", the nurse hand over her a small red jewellry box. It had a small diamond ring and a yellow post-it sticker which said "Marry Me". She put on the ring and crouched on her bed and cried and cried till she passed away into deep sleep.
THREE MONTHS LATER:
She got what she wanted and she drove to the college on her own. She as usual went early to college and now not for the morning air but , to just get away from home. This was her first day at college ever since the accident. She went in and sat down in the class on the same bench where she and Sanjeev sat everyday. She rubbed her hands on the place where he had carved their names.
Laila and Majnu came to the window and entered the class and sat on the window shelf. They both stared at her as if they knew it was she who was responsible for Sanjeev's death. She started to weep , her heart sank, she did not want to live anymore. She had planned this for the past three months. She tightened her fist and took out the injection and filled air into it.
They found her body with two lizards lying on her stomach and her face smiling as if she had seen all the happiness this world had to offer.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Sharmila's Song
They always sat in the corner next to the window which overlooked a bush which had two pretty geckos which Sanjeev had named Laila and Majnu , a humming bird which he called Humie and several unnamed ants and dragonflies. Sharmila at first thought it was quite weird but she slowly grew to like his eccentricities which were more peculiar than hers but certainly more refined and subtle.
"Move your bag", said Sharmila .
"Because of you I have to keep Bob Marley on the floor..."replied Sanjeev picking up his black bag which had a photograph of Bob Marley printed on both sides. "What?" asked Sharmila confusingly.
"You're slow aren't you?" was Sanjeev's reply and this was his reply every time she did not get his humor as a matter of fact anything which made him laugh.
"Yea , whatever" was her reply. Sometimes she felt as if he overdid it and did feel offended but never voiced it as she knew he loved her, which was something which she was also afraid off.
Sanjeev gave her a glance and then stared out of the window for a while to look at the bushes and feel the faint morning breeze. He never said it but whenever he met Sharmila he could get a whiff of this breeze from her or maybe it was just the way he felt when he was with her.
"Sanjeev werent you supposed to take me somewhere today?"said Sharmila at to which Sanjeev looked into her eyes and said "I didnt think you were ready for it..." and he looked away.
Sanjeev was quite mystical at times and long ago he had told her about some of his occult connections which he had in him since childhood. "Where did you want to take me?Could you at least gimme a hint , dude!", she said to him almost cryingly. "Erm.. well to the movies but they are showing Ice Age and you are too young for it!!" he replied quite mockingly.
Sharimla pulled his nose and laughed her head off at his lame joke.
Laughter was something she had completely forgotten for long, for the world she lived in a loving family with caring parents and a charming elder brother. But, for her it was a house where a mother kept on nagging her and trying to make her feel less emancipated than she wanted and a father who was never at home . Her brother was a person who had maybe one day in his mind decided to ruin everything good in his sister's life. He would taunt her, throw away her things or just be down right nasty with her.
She cried herself to sleep almost every night to the point she stopped eating and grew quite thin. It was only when she joined college and met Sanjeev she got her life back.
Sanjeev too was riding in a similar boat his father was out of a job and his mother was a teacher. His brother too was an exact copy of Sharmila's brother. At times he used to jokingly say that if both of them turned gay they would be the perfect couple.
"Next weekend !" Sanjeev said breaking the air of silence which had settled soon enough. "What do you mean? would you be courteous enough to explain" she retorted. "well I am taking you out too Surajkund for the mela , you need new weird stuff to hang around your neck" he replied.
Sharmila loved wearing beaded necklaces, handcrafted rings and earrings. Sanjeev was more of a minimalist , he did even wear a watch and used Sharmila as his personal watchkeeper .
"Move your bag", said Sharmila .
"Because of you I have to keep Bob Marley on the floor..."replied Sanjeev picking up his black bag which had a photograph of Bob Marley printed on both sides. "What?" asked Sharmila confusingly.
"You're slow aren't you?" was Sanjeev's reply and this was his reply every time she did not get his humor as a matter of fact anything which made him laugh.
"Yea , whatever" was her reply. Sometimes she felt as if he overdid it and did feel offended but never voiced it as she knew he loved her, which was something which she was also afraid off.
Sanjeev gave her a glance and then stared out of the window for a while to look at the bushes and feel the faint morning breeze. He never said it but whenever he met Sharmila he could get a whiff of this breeze from her or maybe it was just the way he felt when he was with her.
"Sanjeev werent you supposed to take me somewhere today?"said Sharmila at to which Sanjeev looked into her eyes and said "I didnt think you were ready for it..." and he looked away.
Sanjeev was quite mystical at times and long ago he had told her about some of his occult connections which he had in him since childhood. "Where did you want to take me?Could you at least gimme a hint , dude!", she said to him almost cryingly. "Erm.. well to the movies but they are showing Ice Age and you are too young for it!!" he replied quite mockingly.
Sharimla pulled his nose and laughed her head off at his lame joke.
Laughter was something she had completely forgotten for long, for the world she lived in a loving family with caring parents and a charming elder brother. But, for her it was a house where a mother kept on nagging her and trying to make her feel less emancipated than she wanted and a father who was never at home . Her brother was a person who had maybe one day in his mind decided to ruin everything good in his sister's life. He would taunt her, throw away her things or just be down right nasty with her.
She cried herself to sleep almost every night to the point she stopped eating and grew quite thin. It was only when she joined college and met Sanjeev she got her life back.
Sanjeev too was riding in a similar boat his father was out of a job and his mother was a teacher. His brother too was an exact copy of Sharmila's brother. At times he used to jokingly say that if both of them turned gay they would be the perfect couple.
"Next weekend !" Sanjeev said breaking the air of silence which had settled soon enough. "What do you mean? would you be courteous enough to explain" she retorted. "well I am taking you out too Surajkund for the mela , you need new weird stuff to hang around your neck" he replied.
Sharmila loved wearing beaded necklaces, handcrafted rings and earrings. Sanjeev was more of a minimalist , he did even wear a watch and used Sharmila as his personal watchkeeper .
Things I hate. Part 1.
I don't remember half the things that happen around me, however Beeg or Important they might be. And the other half that I do remember just seems too boring and plain for me to write about. So I thought I'd just put down a list of things and maybe people I really, REALLY hate. Just for the records, Hate is a big word for me and heck, I don't hate unimportant and seemingly non-existant things like the new-age brigade of backbiters or hypocrites or the likes. What I mean to say is there is a backbiter or hypocrite inside every one of us. That side just re-surfaces at different frequencies in different cases. No? Okay...Lemme put it this way; have you never told your mom about your brother's new girlfriend? Or how he spent the Stationary money on fags? Have you never told X how Y doesn’t like him one bit? No? Wow. Kick yourself in the shins lujer and get a life. [Trying to be more politically correct] Okay, I won’t advocate anything…but I still (very strongly) feel that Backbiters are not people you HAVE to hate (certain cases exempted).
Moving on...
I am a person of extreme ideas. It’s either black or white, nothing in between. Similarly, it’s either wrong or right.., love or hate. Enough rambling already?
Not necessarily in the same order. Here goes…
1. YOU telecom!
Nothing, NOTHING, gets worse than this. Every time we are all romantic and touchy feely and 16-year-old-couple-ish….BANG! YOU telecom plays nasty and comes in the way of us getting “physical” – Whatever minimal amounts of sense that means. Like the other day…The censor board almost lowered its stringent standards and Boom! Gone! Over.
2. Chick flicks.
Whatever happened to good Cinema. Okay, I was never interested in it in the first place but God Damn, I care about 'Good Cinema' even if I dont watch it . A friend recently wanted to thank me for some school stuff I'd helped him with a few ages ago and so we went out for a movie. By the end of it my decision of not watching Indian cinema for sometime just got a lil more firm.
Can I add more later?
*Picks up the White rum in chillies and olives and walks away *
Moving on...
I am a person of extreme ideas. It’s either black or white, nothing in between. Similarly, it’s either wrong or right.., love or hate. Enough rambling already?
Not necessarily in the same order. Here goes…
1. YOU telecom!
Nothing, NOTHING, gets worse than this. Every time we are all romantic and touchy feely and 16-year-old-couple-ish….BANG! YOU telecom plays nasty and comes in the way of us getting “physical” – Whatever minimal amounts of sense that means. Like the other day…The censor board almost lowered its stringent standards and Boom! Gone! Over.
2. Chick flicks.
Whatever happened to good Cinema. Okay, I was never interested in it in the first place but God Damn, I care about 'Good Cinema' even if I dont watch it . A friend recently wanted to thank me for some school stuff I'd helped him with a few ages ago and so we went out for a movie. By the end of it my decision of not watching Indian cinema for sometime just got a lil more firm.
Can I add more later?
*Picks up the White rum in chillies and olives and walks away *
Friday, May 22, 2009
Sharmila's Song 2
Sharmila and Sanjeev walked into the college and it was still pretty early and they could see one or two students hanging around and some cleaners mopping the cemented floor of the college.
CVS was an adjacent to the bigger more famous and infamous SBSC. The college had brick red walls and was octagonal with only just two floors with classrooms and a backfield which had a small gated and chained entrance.
Sharmila knew Sanjeev would sooner or later get in the mood to talk a till then she could safely listen to songs on her MD player. Her brother whom she actually hated quite a bit had gifted her on her sixteenth birthday and since then she had it buy her side everywhere she went. It was like the doll she never had for she hated the fact she was a "girl". She was a born feminist and at times people felt she could’ve actually bitten them if they called her girly. But, somehow that never deterred Sanjeev from calling her a "girl" quite teasingly.
"Oye Madame! have you done the question Mr. Pundit had given?" asked Sanjeev, "Yes" she replied back. They never made any great conversation except for when they debated with each other on random topics. She was more of a "hippie" as Sanjeev termed her and he was more of a "cocktail of Socialism, fascism and communism" as she had once described him after reading her blog post on Pune Rave Bust. He wanted the party goers to be jailed and made to do community service and the drug suppliers shot and the parents to be fined for letting the children venture into rave parties.
They were poles apart if she looked like an angel from heaven he looked like a, nobody from nowhere. The chemistry between them was like that of salt and pepper, completely apart yet inseparable.
Sharmila's Song
"Its only words and words are all I have to take your heart away", Sanjeev played this song at full volume in his car when he saw Sharmila coming down the stairways. She could hear the faint notes of the song getting louder as she slowly moved towards the car. She could hear her heart sing that song as if it had struck a chord deep inside somewhere in her heart. "You will wake up the neighbors you idiot!" shouted Sharmila as she sat in the car and lowered the volume. Sanjeev gave her a devilish smile and sped the car away. He kept looking at her for a while till she said "The road offers better things than my clothes", he laughed and moved his eyes to the road.
"Why do you always want to leave so early Sharmz?". it was 7.30am in the morning and their first class in college was at 9.30am . "I like the early morning breeze and plus I like having tea with...", he knew what she meant and no it wasn't his company or any biscuit's either , it was her pet squirrel Chip. She loved animals and somehow all the animals who ever came near her became her friends. Sharmila once helped a parrot escape when she was 12 from her neighbors house. She hated animals being confined and even though her father an army Colonel always used to beat her for such naughtiness , did not scold her this time but gave her a hug .
"Good Morning Bhaiya , Do chai aur ek bread" , she said to the tea waala near the college. CVS was located in the busy bylanes of Triveni complex of Saket which was once a site for birdwatchers . The tea stall was build on an old mount of the Aravalis which was somehow spared by the DDA while alloting land to the college they termed it "green belt".
Sanjeev parked the car opposite the small cluster of shops which would very soon be infested by buzzing students looking for breakfast, smokes or at times stationery. Sharmila was sitting on a make shift bench made out of an old electric pole elevated by stones taken out from the nearby footpath.
"Didi Chai aur apki bread" chotu handed over her a cup of tea and a bread wrapped in yesterday's Punjab Kesari newspaper. Sanjeev and Sharmila had met on the first day of college and they both had landed early to college . They sat in the room where soon enough they would be taking there first lecture of the day .
He was reading ET which he had picked up from the nearby bus stop. She was bored of watching him engrossed in a pink paper and not taking note of her new pink tee shirt . "So you arein BBE as well" Sharmila asked the man who as she thought was "pretending" to read the paper. "Well yes and you? I guess you in BBE as well, did you know the BJP government just sold BALCO?" came the reply from under the newspaper.
Sharmila was a bit angry but she controlled her anger as he knew how to steer this conversation now, he was a man of words but they were clogged in somewhere , she needed to do some plumbing.
"No not really , I had to drive from Faridabad to Saket , so I had to get up early and the paper comes late" Sharmila explained to the man , "Oh! which sector", said the man who by now was folding the paper neatly as if he was going to sell it to someone. "I am from 21- C and you?"Sharmila replied.
"I see! I am from 21-B, you now that big brown school", he replied back.
Since, then they had been on semi-talking terms till one day when Sharmila asked him for a lift back home as she her dad had taken the car to work. They grew quite fond of each other and used to chat online for hours. Sharmila loved the mad and lunatic online side of Sanjeev and also the calm and quite offline side . She could feel inside that both of them had something in common. Sanjeev loved making up small jokes which always left her in splits.
"Chip's here gal!", Sanjeev finally spoke after he had found his semi-crushed cigarette from the million things stuffed in his jeans pocket. He did not believe in carrying a wallet or as Sharmila said he was lazy enough not go in the market and buy one.
Sharmila herself did not have a purse and all she carried everywhere was a plain bright yellow Reebok messenger bag. She never cared about matching her clothes with the bag like all the other girls and she liked to wear shades of grey.
She fed Chip the bread and glanced at Sanjeev who was carefully looking at her actions. She knew he had a liking for her but she did not know what she felt for him.
Introduction
*Pink Panther theme in the background*
No I'm not Crusso I'm Rahat (yeah, I picked that name for you) m not rahat m THE MYSTIC , M 21 but i act like a 4 yr old and m Mayra long lost BF... she lost me Venice u see!! Bad Bad Mayra!!
So tc ppl
Rahat
(He posted the whole thing with a name that even kareena kappor could make out was his. So I reposted the whole thing with the name Rahat. Dont forget, sweetchums, NO REAL NAMES.)
PS: If you dont like the name Rahat change it to anything but you-know-what. Even chunky pandey will do but NO REAL NAMES.
PSS: Stuff in Italics is added by Mayra.
No I'm not Crusso I'm Rahat (yeah, I picked that name for you) m not rahat m THE MYSTIC , M 21 but i act like a 4 yr old and m Mayra long lost BF... she lost me Venice u see!! Bad Bad Mayra!!
So tc ppl
Rahat
(He posted the whole thing with a name that even kareena kappor could make out was his. So I reposted the whole thing with the name Rahat. Dont forget, sweetchums, NO REAL NAMES.)
PS: If you dont like the name Rahat change it to anything but you-know-what. Even chunky pandey will do but NO REAL NAMES.
PSS: Stuff in Italics is added by Mayra.
New Peoples. Yaay!
I am at my lazy best these days and the lack of inspiration with it has resulted in no posts. + I just dont get the kind of time...y'all c, sucha buzy skedual I'ave, dahlings.
Weelll,
A lot has been happenin' lately but somehow I just can't put stuff into words at this point of time. Probably I will post this long post,someday . Oh Btw, My result is due anytime now. *Shivers *
ALSO, There is this whole Mu13 meeting thingy. Confidential. ;) EVERYONE will be there!! xD
Everyone? :s
I got this pretty black tote yesterday. Oooooh and I Likeee it. I am gonna sleep with it tonight! There is this shop near the Palam base where I got it from and coz I shopped for some Rs. 1000 the guy gifted me a (complementary) set of VLCC things.
Ah, Shopping.
Yaaawnn! I ammmmmmm sleepppyyyyyyyyyyy...
And So, My people have been invited to blog here. xD
They'll introduce themselves...so over to you, honeybuns.
:*
Weelll,
A lot has been happenin' lately but somehow I just can't put stuff into words at this point of time. Probably I will post this long post,someday . Oh Btw, My result is due anytime now. *Shivers *
ALSO, There is this whole Mu13 meeting thingy. Confidential. ;) EVERYONE will be there!! xD
Everyone? :s
I got this pretty black tote yesterday. Oooooh and I Likeee it. I am gonna sleep with it tonight! There is this shop near the Palam base where I got it from and coz I shopped for some Rs. 1000 the guy gifted me a (complementary) set of VLCC things.
Ah, Shopping.
Yaaawnn! I ammmmmmm sleepppyyyyyyyyyyy...
And So, My people have been invited to blog here. xD
They'll introduce themselves...so over to you, honeybuns.
:*
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Just this story I wrote that other day .
Every now and then certain such event, incidents, accidents or instances take place in our life which change us inside out. They change us into people we never were and people we never thought we'd change into; they change our life, our outlook, our thoughts, our actions, our likes, our dislikes. They change the person we think we are; they change the person people know us as. These things change us. And these very things leave a long, lasting impression on us. They stick around in the face of that ugly memory we wish we could forget..., the memory which never lets us forget it. Often these memories leave something behind as a token which makes it all the more difficult for us to forget them. Be it emotional, physical or mental...this mark never leaves us, never!
One such event looked Rhea in the eyes when she was barely 12 years of age. And the event came her way in such an ugly disguise that she closed her eyes to avoid looking at it; She closed her eyes to never have to see anything so horrible; She closed her eyes forever...to never open them again. Even today, after over 30 years every time she thinks of her disability, that one day comes to her mind. The images still skim in her head. The memory of that day still haunts her dreams and it will forever continue to do so.
02 April, 2009
One look at the old woman sitting in the corner could tell you that the water runs deeper for her. And that her only misery was not her disability. She was traumatized and it was written all over her face; in the creases on her forehead, in her lips that had long forgotten the art of curving into a smile and in her eyes that constantly, unceasingly moved in all directions, as if wanting to see the colors, to see millions of faces around, the sun, the sky, the pink, yellow, red flowers and all the things she had not seen for long long time.
The minute I touched her hand, or tried to do so she jerked me off and I could see sweat forming on her upper eyebrows. Not wanting to scare the poor creature I whispered into her ears that I wanted to help.
Sometime in the past.
Dr. Ashutosh Upadhyay lived with his wife Shalini and kids Rhea and Rahul in the suburban town of Meerut. Dr. Ashutosh or Doctor Saab, the name his ever so grateful patients gave him, was a kind and selfless man. He worked hard and toiled all day to provide his family with all comforts they could ever dream of. Mrs. Shalini, his wife, was a firm believer, a good wife and an excellent mother. The Kid Rhea, 11, and Rahul, 6, were a bundle of joy, happiness and energy. Both did well at school and respected their parents not out of fear but out of love. Everyday Mrs. Shalini picked Rhea up from school and Doctor Saab got Rahul home on his way for lunch. They would eat together and then sit with big baskets of fruits which they would lazily hog on until late noon. Doctor Saab would then go back to work and Mom would make the kids finish their homework and get ready for the park, she’d take them to. They had a nice life. More to thank for than to ask. Everything was good at face value…Everyone was happy…And everyday the same things happened, well, Until Rhea’s 12th birthday at least.
19 Jan, 1960
Rhea was munching on the Pakoras filled with her moms love and her special cottage cheese stuffing. Suddenly a thought hit her head...like a bullet enters big chunk of wood.
The Pakoras were forgotten. The sulk-queen in her had re-surfaced.
“Mom! My Birthday is day after and you have not taken me Shopping.” an annoyed Rhea said. She had been planning her Perfect birthday party for over a month now.
Mrs. Shalini, exhausted from the day’s work replied, “We’ll take your shopping first thing tomorrow, Princess”
“No, I want to go today” Pat came Rhea’s reply.
“Cant you see Papa is keeping busy Honey?”
“But mom you said you’d take me today”
“You are a big Girl now, Rhea…You should understand.”
“You always break promises mom” Rhea was almost in tears.
And Mom did her magic again, she hugged Rhea and in no time everything was back to its picturesque self.
20 Jan, 1960
Dressed in a yellow saree, a 12 yard long drape, a typical Hindu wear in those days, Mrs. Shalini eagerly waited outside Main gate-1, Sophia girls’ School. The minute the clock would strike 2:30 her little one would come running to her. The streets were unusually deserted. There was an eerie silence all around. The absent noise of rickshaws and vegetable vendors did catch her attention but the thought was soon buried under the weight of Rhea’s Shopping list.
As planned, Rhea and her mom met Rahul and Dr. Upadhyay near the Bansal’s store where they’d shop for Rhea’s Birthday and finally drop themselves into the comfortable armchairs of “The Wadia’s Café” to have a scrumptious meal of Idli, Sambhar and Dosas.
Unlike its usual self the Main market, Abu Lane, was bereft of its huge crowd of early shoppers and road side vendors. It was as if the evil witch had send the vibes of her hatred early and the mice had retreated into their respective burrows…wanting to be spared. A number of shops were closed. After hours of looking for the perfect dress and indulging in a hundred thousand debates with mom, dad and Rahul over the perfect color, fit and style…Rhea settled on a pair of flare bottom pants and a tank top.
No one got to know when it started or where it would end. In a matter of minutes it engulfed the entire lane, the entire market, the entire vicinity and in no time…the entire city. Rhea was near the counter, making the payments when the shopkeeper suddenly closed the doors followed by the shutters, thus, leaving her parents and brother outside.
She saw it all from a small window near the guard post. She saw her brother’s hand being detached from his body, she saw her mother’s saree being ripped off, and she saw her dad’s breathing stop as a bullet came and hit him. People came out of their homes, panicked, not knowing what to do…where to go for help. Like swarms of flies people and a lot more people poured into the streets from all directions. The market which was deserted minutes back had turned into a sea of people running around in all directions. It looked like the mice had all come out of their burrows to bite from a big chuck of cheese. And In what seems like a fraction of a second everything was gone. Rhea was left looking into some enormous graveyard…Dead bodies all around. Everything was over. Everything was gone. What followed was darkness. Unending darkness. Forever.
The doctors said she could never see again; an after effect of the shock perhaps. She couldn’t see, yes. But the memories of that one day playing, rewinding and replaying in her mind like some hit cinema movie never left her sight. That day…the day India saw the worst communal riots ever
"Dropping pebbles of pure sound"
One such event looked Rhea in the eyes when she was barely 12 years of age. And the event came her way in such an ugly disguise that she closed her eyes to avoid looking at it; She closed her eyes to never have to see anything so horrible; She closed her eyes forever...to never open them again. Even today, after over 30 years every time she thinks of her disability, that one day comes to her mind. The images still skim in her head. The memory of that day still haunts her dreams and it will forever continue to do so.
02 April, 2009
One look at the old woman sitting in the corner could tell you that the water runs deeper for her. And that her only misery was not her disability. She was traumatized and it was written all over her face; in the creases on her forehead, in her lips that had long forgotten the art of curving into a smile and in her eyes that constantly, unceasingly moved in all directions, as if wanting to see the colors, to see millions of faces around, the sun, the sky, the pink, yellow, red flowers and all the things she had not seen for long long time.
The minute I touched her hand, or tried to do so she jerked me off and I could see sweat forming on her upper eyebrows. Not wanting to scare the poor creature I whispered into her ears that I wanted to help.
Sometime in the past.
Dr. Ashutosh Upadhyay lived with his wife Shalini and kids Rhea and Rahul in the suburban town of Meerut. Dr. Ashutosh or Doctor Saab, the name his ever so grateful patients gave him, was a kind and selfless man. He worked hard and toiled all day to provide his family with all comforts they could ever dream of. Mrs. Shalini, his wife, was a firm believer, a good wife and an excellent mother. The Kid Rhea, 11, and Rahul, 6, were a bundle of joy, happiness and energy. Both did well at school and respected their parents not out of fear but out of love. Everyday Mrs. Shalini picked Rhea up from school and Doctor Saab got Rahul home on his way for lunch. They would eat together and then sit with big baskets of fruits which they would lazily hog on until late noon. Doctor Saab would then go back to work and Mom would make the kids finish their homework and get ready for the park, she’d take them to. They had a nice life. More to thank for than to ask. Everything was good at face value…Everyone was happy…And everyday the same things happened, well, Until Rhea’s 12th birthday at least.
19 Jan, 1960
Rhea was munching on the Pakoras filled with her moms love and her special cottage cheese stuffing. Suddenly a thought hit her head...like a bullet enters big chunk of wood.
The Pakoras were forgotten. The sulk-queen in her had re-surfaced.
“Mom! My Birthday is day after and you have not taken me Shopping.” an annoyed Rhea said. She had been planning her Perfect birthday party for over a month now.
Mrs. Shalini, exhausted from the day’s work replied, “We’ll take your shopping first thing tomorrow, Princess”
“No, I want to go today” Pat came Rhea’s reply.
“Cant you see Papa is keeping busy Honey?”
“But mom you said you’d take me today”
“You are a big Girl now, Rhea…You should understand.”
“You always break promises mom” Rhea was almost in tears.
And Mom did her magic again, she hugged Rhea and in no time everything was back to its picturesque self.
20 Jan, 1960
Dressed in a yellow saree, a 12 yard long drape, a typical Hindu wear in those days, Mrs. Shalini eagerly waited outside Main gate-1, Sophia girls’ School. The minute the clock would strike 2:30 her little one would come running to her. The streets were unusually deserted. There was an eerie silence all around. The absent noise of rickshaws and vegetable vendors did catch her attention but the thought was soon buried under the weight of Rhea’s Shopping list.
As planned, Rhea and her mom met Rahul and Dr. Upadhyay near the Bansal’s store where they’d shop for Rhea’s Birthday and finally drop themselves into the comfortable armchairs of “The Wadia’s Café” to have a scrumptious meal of Idli, Sambhar and Dosas.
Unlike its usual self the Main market, Abu Lane, was bereft of its huge crowd of early shoppers and road side vendors. It was as if the evil witch had send the vibes of her hatred early and the mice had retreated into their respective burrows…wanting to be spared. A number of shops were closed. After hours of looking for the perfect dress and indulging in a hundred thousand debates with mom, dad and Rahul over the perfect color, fit and style…Rhea settled on a pair of flare bottom pants and a tank top.
No one got to know when it started or where it would end. In a matter of minutes it engulfed the entire lane, the entire market, the entire vicinity and in no time…the entire city. Rhea was near the counter, making the payments when the shopkeeper suddenly closed the doors followed by the shutters, thus, leaving her parents and brother outside.
She saw it all from a small window near the guard post. She saw her brother’s hand being detached from his body, she saw her mother’s saree being ripped off, and she saw her dad’s breathing stop as a bullet came and hit him. People came out of their homes, panicked, not knowing what to do…where to go for help. Like swarms of flies people and a lot more people poured into the streets from all directions. The market which was deserted minutes back had turned into a sea of people running around in all directions. It looked like the mice had all come out of their burrows to bite from a big chuck of cheese. And In what seems like a fraction of a second everything was gone. Rhea was left looking into some enormous graveyard…Dead bodies all around. Everything was over. Everything was gone. What followed was darkness. Unending darkness. Forever.
The doctors said she could never see again; an after effect of the shock perhaps. She couldn’t see, yes. But the memories of that one day playing, rewinding and replaying in her mind like some hit cinema movie never left her sight. That day…the day India saw the worst communal riots ever
"Dropping pebbles of pure sound"
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
My gold pot at the foot of the Rainbow
Well, the packed airbags, the stacked cartons, the piles of books waiting to feel the new, fresh air of the surroundings we’ll call “Home” for another two years are still, well, waiting. They are dragging it. Unnecessarily is the underlined word. I mean c’mon dude! The paintings are off the walls; my book racks, cupboards, CD shelves are all but empty; My voice echo’s back every time I shout like I do all the time and sometimes even when I cry ; My fung-shui stuff does not haunt the walls, the bed rest and the study anymore; The hundreds of thousands of photos (in photo frames and otherwise) are all gone; There isn’t a truck load of perfumes on the dresser (I am surviving on a No.19 by Chanel with shameful amounts of fragrant substance left in it) ; I can’t see the neon stars glow on the ceiling when I stare at it for long periods of times; There is not a hoard of pens lying around here and there and everywhere else; No books strewn around, No bangles thrown in like oxygen in the air (Okay, BAD metaphor )
BUT
THIS PLACE JUST DOESN’T FEEL LIKE HOME ANYMORE (even the shabby wall plaster falls in agreement).
Almost a week back we neatly lined cardboard boxes with brown paper and then white paper. We systematically piled book after book in them. We preferred going slow with it. Stopping, to smell the smell of the old hard covers or to reminisce over the coffee stains on the new, crisp paperbacks. There were some books I never could muster up the courage to finish reading, there were others which were in tatters coz of the frequent read through(s). And then there were books that Nanaji left to me. I often teased Bhai about how ALL of Nanaji’s property that he would inherit would be outrageously outnumbered by the number of books I will get (Inside I just prayed for that day to never come or to be delayed for as long as possible). Now, being the oh-so-special person that he was Nanaji deserves a special, long, detailed Introduction but maybe some other time. For now, He was my alter-ego...Err…oops! I am his alter-ego.
So, yeah, Nanaji (which is Maternal Grandfather for non-Hindi speakers) gifted me books which can probably last me an age. From old, old dreamy romances set in those pretty British towns to gory war novels…, from chick flicks (yeah!) to Paulo Coelho’s…, from them li’l pocket books full of mind boggling facts to huge series novels of veteran Indian writers that never made it. AND there were these two tea-time-snack- recipe books also :P. I can comfortably declare Nanaji read ALL the books that were written in his time and where available in the Indian Market.
Some four odd years back He almost lost his vision to a cataract operation gone bad. Reading books almost seemed like a dream. This is where “we” came into the picture. Since ever I had been a li’l slow in hitting it with Elderly people. I just did not have the patience or the sense to deal with them (not to say I dint like them). It was that summer break back then (still very vivid in my memories)…the complete house was FULL of cousins from all over. And yeah, there were the noisy aunts who had taken over Nanaji’s TV to watch saas-bahu sagas. Without News his life was incomplete, literally. So I offered to read out the News paper headlines to him. He was amazed, delighted, emotional and grateful all at once…I could see in his eyes and tell. Headlines became articles, articles became short stories, short stories became Readers’ Digests and in no time at all I was reading out complete Novels out to him. Unlike what’s normally expected I did not get bored of reading out the books I had already read to him. I did not get bored or irritated or impatient because of him…because of how he’d react to everything, every line, every pause, every movement. He cherished every word. His face animated in tandem with whatever the protagonist was going through as if they were both joined at the hip. He was someone who really valued literature, however bad it might have turned out to be.
Early this summer I lost him to a Cardiac Arrest. For a lot of time I did not cry…, I couldn’t. I was just not ready to accept the fact that he had left, so suddenly…and forever. For some 3 weeks I referred to him as in the present (Like, “Nanaji is such a gentleman” or “Oh, Nanaji looks like some hero in his old photographs.”) I am over it now…as I speak about this some tear drops have left my eyelids and have fallen on the old book in my lap, very near the yellow stains of Nanaji’s tears…he must have cried on this page. I just thank these books for bringing me so close to my alter-ego…had it not been for them I would have never made friends with him.
Narayan Murthy, The founder of Infosys, was perhaps right in saying
“Books are a measure,
Of a man’s true treasure”
BUT
THIS PLACE JUST DOESN’T FEEL LIKE HOME ANYMORE (even the shabby wall plaster falls in agreement).
Almost a week back we neatly lined cardboard boxes with brown paper and then white paper. We systematically piled book after book in them. We preferred going slow with it. Stopping, to smell the smell of the old hard covers or to reminisce over the coffee stains on the new, crisp paperbacks. There were some books I never could muster up the courage to finish reading, there were others which were in tatters coz of the frequent read through(s). And then there were books that Nanaji left to me. I often teased Bhai about how ALL of Nanaji’s property that he would inherit would be outrageously outnumbered by the number of books I will get (Inside I just prayed for that day to never come or to be delayed for as long as possible). Now, being the oh-so-special person that he was Nanaji deserves a special, long, detailed Introduction but maybe some other time. For now, He was my alter-ego...Err…oops! I am his alter-ego.
So, yeah, Nanaji (which is Maternal Grandfather for non-Hindi speakers) gifted me books which can probably last me an age. From old, old dreamy romances set in those pretty British towns to gory war novels…, from chick flicks (yeah!) to Paulo Coelho’s…, from them li’l pocket books full of mind boggling facts to huge series novels of veteran Indian writers that never made it. AND there were these two tea-time-snack- recipe books also :P. I can comfortably declare Nanaji read ALL the books that were written in his time and where available in the Indian Market.
Some four odd years back He almost lost his vision to a cataract operation gone bad. Reading books almost seemed like a dream. This is where “we” came into the picture. Since ever I had been a li’l slow in hitting it with Elderly people. I just did not have the patience or the sense to deal with them (not to say I dint like them). It was that summer break back then (still very vivid in my memories)…the complete house was FULL of cousins from all over. And yeah, there were the noisy aunts who had taken over Nanaji’s TV to watch saas-bahu sagas. Without News his life was incomplete, literally. So I offered to read out the News paper headlines to him. He was amazed, delighted, emotional and grateful all at once…I could see in his eyes and tell. Headlines became articles, articles became short stories, short stories became Readers’ Digests and in no time at all I was reading out complete Novels out to him. Unlike what’s normally expected I did not get bored of reading out the books I had already read to him. I did not get bored or irritated or impatient because of him…because of how he’d react to everything, every line, every pause, every movement. He cherished every word. His face animated in tandem with whatever the protagonist was going through as if they were both joined at the hip. He was someone who really valued literature, however bad it might have turned out to be.
Early this summer I lost him to a Cardiac Arrest. For a lot of time I did not cry…, I couldn’t. I was just not ready to accept the fact that he had left, so suddenly…and forever. For some 3 weeks I referred to him as in the present (Like, “Nanaji is such a gentleman” or “Oh, Nanaji looks like some hero in his old photographs.”) I am over it now…as I speak about this some tear drops have left my eyelids and have fallen on the old book in my lap, very near the yellow stains of Nanaji’s tears…he must have cried on this page. I just thank these books for bringing me so close to my alter-ego…had it not been for them I would have never made friends with him.
Narayan Murthy, The founder of Infosys, was perhaps right in saying
“Books are a measure,
Of a man’s true treasure”
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Numero Uno
*Drumroll *
Well, Not really. This happens to be my third blog on Blogspot and fourth otherwise. So, well, I am kinda old here, yeah. Just that this one wont be as Anti-social as the others. Let me cut a long story short.
1. Me - I am a 17 something(...sometimes 17 going on 71 does it better), student, not-so-single, not-at-all-ready-to-mingle, passionate writer, foodie, lover (generalizing-ly). This is, almost, everything life is all about. And I am going to write about exactly this...or Am I? Weelll, I have been bread, buttered and toasted in Pune, Delhi, Meerut and the likes. The Dream of my life is to find something I have been looking for, forever. What is it? Read on. I guess I will introduce you to it (Someday, somewhere)
Btw, My name...Mayra means Beautiful in the sense of it and The spring or The wind, literally. And the best part is its meaning is the same as the meaning of my own name ;)
2. Musings of a Teenager - Maybe I read this somewhere and I was "influenced" or maybe I just made it up in my head like all these other things. But yeah, Its just apt. Its just what the Blog title of My Blog should be like.
Well, Not really. This happens to be my third blog on Blogspot and fourth otherwise. So, well, I am kinda old here, yeah. Just that this one wont be as Anti-social as the others. Let me cut a long story short.
1. Me - I am a 17 something(...sometimes 17 going on 71 does it better), student, not-so-single, not-at-all-ready-to-mingle, passionate writer, foodie, lover (generalizing-ly). This is, almost, everything life is all about. And I am going to write about exactly this...or Am I? Weelll, I have been bread, buttered and toasted in Pune, Delhi, Meerut and the likes. The Dream of my life is to find something I have been looking for, forever. What is it? Read on. I guess I will introduce you to it (Someday, somewhere)
Btw, My name...Mayra means Beautiful in the sense of it and The spring or The wind, literally. And the best part is its meaning is the same as the meaning of my own name ;)
2. Musings of a Teenager - Maybe I read this somewhere and I was "influenced" or maybe I just made it up in my head like all these other things. But yeah, Its just apt. Its just what the Blog title of My Blog should be like.
"Words have meaning and names have power"
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