Without you, Mum.

“....I gave my first university exam!”

That night, in full, I could not sleep,
as I yearned for those days, which seemed like a ‘once upon a time...’
Where were you, to cuddle me and cosy me inside my blanket,
look into me lovingly and say,
‘See, you’ve studied all! Why should you be tensed?
There is no need to worry, child!’?
Those days I remembered when you snuggled me in velvet
and kissed me goodnight and good luck.
No more, I was a bug in a rug, cold and incomplete I was,
without you, mum.

Next morning, I hadn’t a choice when the alarm rang,
to rise up from the bed and freshen up.
Because, I knew, there was no you,
to come and kiss me on the forehead and say,
‘Wake up, child. You had said that you’d lessons to revise.’
And then I would crank up my face and beg,
‘Please let me sleep, mum, I’ve revised all.’
You could see, it was a lie, through and through, and
like a snooze button of my alarm, return five minutes later.
That morning, no more, I was woken up with love.
Tormented and tease with the alarm, I was,
without you mum.

Where were you, to run around me,
with mayonnaise sandwiches with grated onion and ketchup
on a platter, early in the morning?
You had made sure; you cooked what I liked to eat,
though you told me, too much mayonnaise wasn’t good.
Because, it was my exam
and you didn’t want to upset me with food
That was ‘good for health’ and I detested!
This morning, for breakfast, still, I went to the mess,
for I knew, I’d upset you, if I left it.
I remember, you always gave up on everything,
on the day of my exam, to make sure, I ate well.
The mess food didn’t taste well, vinegary and sour, it tasted
without you mum.

That morning, I remember, no one there was,
to give me a bottle of water and some candies.
I missed you, mum, then,
when I went to the water cooler to fill my bottle
and tore a pack of melody candies,
and stuffed a handful in my pocket.
I could hear you saying,
‘Eat a candy and drink water, if you think your head starts aching.
You’ve too much to write, don’t you!’
Then, hardly had I thought that was important
and only took it from you,
knowing that you’d insist too much if I denied.
Today, I did it myself, cause deep down there,
no matter how much nonsensical a teen I may be,
I know, you are right!
That morning, unaided and unassisted, I felt,
without you mum.

For prayer, I couldn’t light the incense stick that morning
in a single go, like you always did.
I missed you then.
Instead of praying for my exams I prayed god
to send you back to me.
Because, I knew, you’d be praying for my exam already.
I spent 5 matchsticks to light the incense stick,
without you mum.

For those days, I long,
when you kissed me goodnight and kissed me good morning.
When you made my favourite dish for breakfast
and ran after me, so that I’d eat it all.
You would pack my lunch and slip it in my bag
and remind me to carry a water bottle and candies.
When you would not let me leave the house without praying
and wish me luck a 10 times over.
When you would assure that’ll do my exam well
And I was a wise and intelligent girl.
But what I was, I am nothing today,
without you mum.

Realising that you’ve always been the master of every task,
you are my dependable source of comfort.
Yearning for the times when you supported me when I called
and you were a cushion for me to fall.

That morning, it hurt me a lot when,
without you mum,

I gave my first university exam!

A harmless Enigma.

"In the quest to discover the underlying truth in you."

The lion king’s jigsaw puzzle,
which your 5 year old daughter plays during the long and sunny Sunday afternoons,
that’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, where each piece rightly fits in.
Giving clues, but never giving in!

You are the single drop of rain,
which falls last on the purple petal of casuarinas.
when the grass is green and the sky is grey.
That’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, from where you have come.
Giving water, but never giving in!

You are a single ray of light,
which enters my room through the open windows.
and falls first on my eyes and kisses me.
That’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, when you left the sun.
Giving warmth and light, but never giving in!

You are a single stream of river,
rippling at some places, gushing at another.
That’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, when you will change course.
Giving water, but never giving in!

The golden fruit,
which is borne too high, inaccessible to the world,
which hangs freely in the air by the wooden brown branch,
that’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, when you’ll ripen and fall.
Giving sweetness and saccharine, but never giving in!

You are the bright red rose,
Planted in abundance both in the garden of love and hate,
for its fragrance and thorns.
That’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, the nectar inside you.
Giving honey, but never giving in!

You are the smoke,
Emerging out when I blow my cigar, each time I puff.
That’s what you are!
Only knowing yourself, how lofty you will rise.
Giving me the high, the kick, never giving in!

You are unique, that’s what you are!
I wish, I was too..

Stairway to Heaven.

"When you're out walking one day and you feel a certain presence beside you... that will be me, loving you, wherever I am."

Dear Jude,

I don’t know how to start this letter because I am not sure, how you will take it on when you read it. I am not even sure, if I’ll be able to live through this letter of mine to you and if you will be able to take it furthermore after a point in this script. Anyway...

It’s late at night now, 2:15pm as I can feebly figure out from the grey wall clock hanging on the opposite wall. I am lying awake watching you sleep so peacefully by my side here. It feels good to hear you breathe so calmly.

Jude, I’ve had the best time of my life with you and I’ve loved every moment of it. In the truest of words, you had illuminated my dusk and dawns and made brighter my days. For all those times you stood by me like a rock, for all the times you made me see the truth, for all the wrongs that you made right, for every dream that you made come true, for all the joy that you brought into my life, for all the love that I found in you, I’ll be forever thankful to you. I’ve no words to make you feel that you’ve been the tender wind that carried me. You have been a light in the dark, shining your love into my life.

But today, as I write this letter, I need to tell you something. I know, all you’ve heard from me is a lot of crap stuff and junk and I am sorry for that. And what I am going to say now will be hard to hear, and I am sorry for that too. Jude, I am grateful to you for each day that you had given to me. My world was made a better place to live because you were in it. But I’m afraid, I will live no more. I haven’t ever told you, I have been a patient of blood cancer. The doctors have called it ‘Multiple Myeloma’. You know I’ve been a good girl at school. I remember sitting in the front row in every dance function, every oboe recital and I cheered with my friends. I sat in the front row of my every graduation class. I have always been the first one on my feet and the loudest one in the crowd. And for the first time in my life, I am feeling defeated. OK, so you’ve had wine, red and white and beer and whiskey and cigarettes in life, which is awful and you know it. And I know, you only smoke rare, on occasions and only when you feel troubled, like now. But please don’t do that. It harms lungs and makes them black.

Initially when I started to be with you, I had a lot of reasons to walk away. Some of the reasons of not seeing your side were-
1. on going physical danger. You would have more of beer in your blood than water. 2. High likely hood of a broken heart. 3. Uh, career sabotage. 4. You seemed clinically insane. 5. You seemed to enjoy my pain. 6. I hadn’t even kissed you. 7. You were ruining your life. 8. I would ruin a perfect friendship by romancing. So, I thought, if I looked up your blood type and it was the wrong one- if it would’ve been an Rh –ve, that would be it. Then I could just stop thinking about you, without the slightest scope, physically, mentally and biologically too. But I had just one reason to stay- I was in love with you. That was really it. One reason but concrete enough. That’s how it is- when something begins, we hardly do have an idea about how it is going to end. The house you're going to sell becomes your home, the roommate you are forced to take in become your family and the guy you randomly spoke over the phone and the one you were determined to forget becomes the love of your life. You have seen how it has all happened.

As I live through my last few hours, I am avoiding a circumstance when there is no second chance. It's to tell you how much you move me, how you have changed me. You made me a lady, by loving me Jude. And for that, I am eternally grateful... literally. If you can promise me anything, promise me that whenever you're sad, or unsure, or you lose complete faith, that you'll try to see yourself through my eyes. Thank you for the honour of being my love. I'm a girl with no regrets. How lucky am I to have had you. You made my life. I want to tell you that you’ve been every possible thing that made me go on. I’m sad that unlike all the time when I was weak, you won’t be able to provide me the strength to live any longer. I am being uprooted off this world, Jude, but all I am saying is please, be at your very best.

I'm so deeply sorry for every time that I ever hurt you, or disappointed you, or let you down. No, it’s not the sorry said straight from my playground days. Like remember the times I told you that when I was little and I would accidentally bite a kid on the playground? My teacher would tell me "Say you're sorry." And I would say it, but I wouldn't mean it because the stupid kid I bit totally deserved it. But I know that making amends this time is not that simple. Saying that I am sorry perhaps won’t cut it. But I am not just saying it, I mean it. I may not deserve your forgiveness, but I hope, I so hope, that somewhere in our time together, I had taken the opportunity to earn it.

Sometimes I wish to forget this giant tumor so that I could talk to you again, laugh with you again, even if that means for a minute. You know how I had made plans to die in your arms like the way it happens in fairy tales. But I am scared! You know what of? I am scared of everything now. I am scared to move, I am scared to breathe, and I am scared to touch you. I can’t lose you. I won’t survive. You made me love you; you made me let you in and then I am in a situation where I don’t have the heart to die in your arms. But may be God has bigger plans for me than the ones I have for myself. Like this journey never ends, like you were sent to me because I'm sick, to help me through all this. You're my angel.

In this world, I won’t be able to speak no more, so be my voice. I won’t be able to see no more, so be my eyes and be my breath, I will not be able to live no more. I am reminded of all the times you gave me wings and made me fly. You touched my hand and I could touch the sky. Every time I had lost faith, you’d given it back to me. You stood by me, I stood tall. Thanks a lot for telling me, there was no star up there that wasn’t out of reach. You were my respiration, my only inspiration.

I was on to become a lawyer. I had a purpose. I wanted to spread justice. Now I don’t have the chance. Now I won’t get the chance to do anything anymore, but you do. You could go to a management school after you’ve over with navy. You could hang out with your friends and party. Go! Do something great with your life, because you have one. You will live but I wont! And I know that feels horrible and shocking and terrifying but that’s how it rolls.

I attended my last English class yesterday morning and I flipped over the dictionary meaning of ‘grief’. It defines grief as keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret. As lawyers, as managers, we're taught to learn from and rely on books, on definitions, on definitives. But in life, strict definitions rarely apply. In life, grief can look like a lot of things that bear little resemblance to sharp sorrow.

It isn’t just death we have to grieve. It’s life, its loss, its change. It’s a thing we all have in common, but it looks so freaking different on each of us and it comes in its own time for everyone, in its own way. But the worst part of grief is that you can’t control it. So the best you can do it try to feel when it comes, and let it go when we can. And that happens when the five stages of grief have past- denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.

I have had my part of denial. I’ve gone into denial because the loss was so unthinkable I could not imagine it's true. I have had my part of anger- I was angry with everyone, angry with survivors, angry with myself. Then I bargained, with life, with god. I begged, I pleaded. I offered everything I had, I offered my soul in exchange for just one more day. Then the bargaining failed and the anger was too hard to maintain, I was depressed, despaired, until finally I accepted that I've done everything I could. I let go. I let go and moved into acceptance- Acceptance of not the fact that I was not going to stay but of the fact that there would be no more of you.

Don’t think why loss of a loved one has to suck so much, has to hurt so bad. But that’s how you come to know that you are alive- when it hurts so much you can’t breathe and you try to figure out a day in future when it somehow, possibly, impossibly won’t feel this way. That you won’t feel this hurt again. But Jude, there is always a way when things look like there is no way. There is always a way to do the impossible. That’s what you and I have in common, isn’t it? We are inspired. In the face of the impossible, we have been inspired.

After I am gone, I want you live in a world of constant progress and forward motion. You know how the world is- stand still for a second and you are left behind. I want you to invest in life wisely. They say the bigger your investment, the bigger your return. But you have to be willing to take a chance. You have to understand, you might lose it all. But if you take that chance, if you invest wisely the pay off might just surprise you.

I want you to live for the moment and not worry much about the past or the future. In life every minute is a borrowed time. We spend our whole lives worrying about the future, planning for the future, trying to predict the future, as if figuring it out will cushion the blow. But the future is always changing. The future is the home of our deepest fears and wildest hopes. Realize, your life is happening now. Not after your naval school, not after residency but right now. This is it. It's here. Blink and you'll miss it. Live every moment of it.

I’ll be gone, so just let go off the past. Besides, for most part, we really don’t live in a physical world that we can touch or see. It’s essentially the world that we create in our minds. When there has been so much love and happiness for someone, it is natural to be reluctant to close such a wonderful chapter in our lives, for moving forward is rarely accomplished without considerable grief and sadness. And while your sorrow may be profound, the clouds will clear, and the sun will shine on you again. And in that warm, bright light you will find yourself facing a glorious future. A future of exciting challenges and infinite possibilities, in which the horizon will stretch out before you, trimmed in the heavenly glow of the sunrise of your tomorrow.

So as I write this almost last paragraph of my life to you, there is only one thing left to tell you. No, it would not be about how terrific I feel about leaving this world or that you have been my life. It’s to tell you that I'm just one chapter in yours. There'll be more. I promise. So here it comes, the big one. Don't be afraid to fall in love again. I’ll be watching over you from up there and when one day, when you will, I’ll be the happiest amongst the angels. I’ll feel that I’ve really, sincerely taught you how to love- to give love and accept love. Watch out for that signal, when life as you know it ends

I want you to go hard and go strong. I want you to LIVE. All of us have a story to ourselves. We have to stay alive, because we have to see how the story ends. I wish you a story with a happy ending... and the wisdom to look for it.

I am not here in this world with you while you read this but it’s not because I don’t love you, it’s because I do. Its not because I don’t miss you, it’s because I miss you already. It just means that the story of our true love isn’t over yet. Together or apart, you’ll be the only man of my life. I’ve been blessed because I was loved by you.

Much love-
Iris.

Of Pink Nailpolish and Life.

"More than just a pink nail color.."

Like the tiny little drop of pink nail paint,

hanging onto the tip of its bottle’s brush,

is the individualism of something called life-
sensitive, juvenile, tense and precarious!

Like a woman of appearance and vogue, handle it!
Govern life torrid but treat it temperate.
Look however she holds-
a bottle of her favourite pink nail colour between her fingers,
gentle of touch, but firm of grip!

Look how deep the woman with the vial of her nail paint
before application, submerges her brush inside it.
Up till the neck of the whisker it goes, till the deepest it can get.
And when the brush exits,
out, the bottle’s nozzle-
it’s nauseating with colour, dripping with chrome.
spitting out pigment if not handled with care!

Life is in itself a colour.
The more u immerse in it the happier it gets.
It isn’t just about breathing, prevailing, enduring.
Its more of indulgence, a lot of pamper.
Prosper in happiness, in joy, in glee.
Elate yourself in life’s hue and colour,
exhilarate yourself, in life’s chrome and odour.

Like the gentle strokes she gives,
with the brush on to her nail,
unto perfection
is what life too demands of us.
She fondles her nail and she soothes her nail.
and she strokes the whiskers onto her nail.
Not just once or twice,
thrice sometimes, or may be four.
But she’s cautious to not let her pink nail paint dry
Every stroke is a better try.
She goes on to do the edges just fine.
And polishes her nail, till every stroke rhymes.
She’s attaining completion; she’s looking for precision,
she won’t quit until she’s gained perfection.


Must we polish ourselves, with every moment that passes by.
Try over and try again,
until its excellence we reach!
There is always a next stroke left,
to make ourselves smoother, better.
But before the polish of our lives go dry,
must we catch on time, on space,
striving for betterment, for life’s enhancement.

And then, she sits back,
and lets dry her pink paint- patiently, collectedly.
Cautious enough, to not touch places,
for it is still vulnerable, prone to blotch.
Life teaches us to be patient, to be calm, composed.
Being clumsy and awkward can mean slanderous circumstances.

Just a vial of pink nail paint may it be,
but handling it with imprudence,
or polishing nails in indolence,
can mean a smudge on beauty!
Offensiveness for winsomeness!
Handling life an erratic way,
can mean asphyxiation for breath!
Death for life!

I have learnt.

"Emotions are celebrated and repressed, analyzed and medicated, adored and ignored -- but rarely, if ever, are they honored."

I have learnt how to protect feelings. I have learnt how to protect my opinions. I have learnt that feelings and opinions cannot be shared to an unworthy and untrustworthy audience. For me, feelings were like diamond- Something that could last forever- unchanged and perpetual-Untouched by corrosion, heat, snow or wind. Opinions were like silver, albeit versatile, though liked and respected by all. Even if opinion’s meant being derived from facts, it almost never meant that facts could be replaced. I understood that facts had their own place and opinion, their own. And that in no way could opinion overpower facts.

I have learnt the truth today. I have learnt that opinions are like girls who have been breached of their virginity. I have learnt that they are a raped version of facts and one is different from the other only in terms of distortion. Their worth is similar to a girl subject to gang rape- thrown from one man to another- becoming bloody with each penetration- and being worsened with every man it goes by.

Feelings are like stones- kicked and punched. So what if I thought they were diamonds? Can a person decipher from the looks of a stone if it can be refined to a diamond? Does everybody have the worth or the skill of a diamond cutter to unlock their beauty? Is everyone rich enough to adore the beauty of a diamond?

I have learnt where I went wrong. I have learnt that there is a severe level of compatibility between a person’s body and his soul. I tried putting different souls in different bodies! God hasn’t given anyone a license to do that when he himself doesn’t own it. Feelings were mine and opinions were mine. But the bodies I had instilled them into were different. Funny how it is, that in me flow the same blood that flows through the blue veins of all analogously programmed human beings, but still, I am made biologically incapable of donating my blood to everyone. How then can I believe that my feelings and opinions be welcomed by everyone I meet? Is it not natural for them to pollute it and throw it on to someone else? Is God too not a slave to nature?

I have learnt to have a world of my own. I have learnt that I need to be my own rock, my own island, my own hero. I have learnt that the only person worthy to harbour my feelings and opinion is my own soul. I have learnt that no two humans can see the same feeling or the same opinion in the same light. Why did this learning not dawn earlier? I know not! Can any two places on the earth share the same amount of sun’s light and heat? Can any two people in the world have the same thumbprints? Can a murderer of a little girl look at her in the same light as her mother? I have learnt that it’s not fanciful to have a world you can call your own. It’s a necessity of life. There is a reason why we are born alone, we die alone.

I have learnt that if I am brimming with feelings and opinions that I crave to share, I must fix them, bite on them, claw them but not share to an unworthy audience. I have learnt that when it is flushing in the heart, overflowing out of it, all I can do is hammer it back. That I keep hammering and hammering it on and on. Why? Because it would feel really good when I stop! I have also learnt that one’s opinion is another’s infection. When one gets sick, does it not start with a single infection? Is it not one lone nasty intruder? Pretty soon the intruder duplicates- becomes two- then those two become four-and those four become eight- then, before your body knows it, it's under attack. It's an invasion. And then the big question arises- once the invaders have landed, once they've taken over your body, how the hell do you get rid of them?

I have ALSO learnt that I don’t want to learn all that I am forced to. I don’t want to learn that a person is born only to become emotionally challenged. That in the making of a world you can ‘call your own’ there would be no one who can step in, hold you by the hand and tell you, ‘I understand’! That it’s legal for someone to cut you with a knife, but it’s criminal to bleed. If you come in this world with a body of flesh and bones and organs and feelings, then bones would break, organs would burst and flesh would be ripped. You have a biological licence to sew the flesh, repair the damage, and ease the pain. But what when feelings break down? What when opinions are not only discarded like a piece of dung but also raped, what does one do? Is there any science? Are there any hard and fast rules? You can just feel your way through it! And the irony sub stands still- that you’ve to feel you way through it alone. That if you share it, it’ll be spit at.

I have learnt that I will never be able to grow up. I have learnt that none of us do really grow up. We get taller, we get older and we get sensible but we never really grow up. I have learnt that ‘once upon a time…happily ever after”, the stories that we tell are the stuff of dreams. Fairy tales don’t come true. I have learnt the reality is much stormier, much murkier. I have learnt that even if we grow up, we still have the same problems when we were five- We are still forever stumbling. I have learnt that for most part, we like a bunch of kids running around in a playground, trying desperately to fit in, sharing emotions and feelings, throwing tantrums sometimes and exchanging smiles on some other.

In the end I have learnt- that the castle in the fairy tales, well it might just not be a castle but a hut of barn. That the frog, it may be just that and no prince! I have learnt that we have to be like the frog living the well who considers the well all his world because it’s all he has seen. Indeed, it’s just ‘my world’ that I need to see. That if I come out of my own world, I’ll die. Does a fish out of water not shudder? Isn’t a baby born within 5 months of pregnancy a still life?

I am striving each day to make ‘the world of my own’ a better place to live in. Are you?

नारी व्यथा

दर्द को तो आदमी ऐसे लेते है, मानो कोई बनावटी दंड हो,

मगर औरत उसे प्राकृतिक संपत्ति मान के सह लेती है |

यह व्यथा प्रारम्भ होती है उसके जन्म के साथ,

उसका रोना सुनते ही छा जाती है गम की रात |

फोड़ दिए जाते है हर्ष के गुब्बारे,

बुझा दिए जाते है प्रसन्नता के दिए सारे |

मनुष्य सोचता है- उसे झेलने वाला केवल दाता है,

अतः उसे मारने का प्रयास किया जाता है |

पूछोगे तुम, "किसलिए?"

लड़की है वह, सिर्फ इसलिए |

जैसे ही मनुष्य अपना विवेक खोता है,

कहानी का दूसरा शरण शुरू होता है |

"मुझे भी पढना है", जब उसने कहा,

थमा दी गयी गृहस्थी, खिलौने देने थे जहा |

आगे सुनो, उसे क्या क्या सहना पड़ा,

पहाड़ी बाधायों से उसे कैसे लड़ना पड़ा |

जल्द ही पिता को लगने लगी वह बोझ,

पढने की थी उम्र, परन्तु लिया उसके लिए लड़का खोज |

किन्तु वहां पर भी उसे सुकून कहाँ,

ओह! दहेज़ ने जला दिया वहाँ |

अरे! यह व्यथा तो चली आई है,

सदियों से इस तरह अन्धकार ही लायी है |

कभी उसे जलाया, कभी मरवा दिया,

मोल, उसके हे मानव! तुमने भुला दिया |

नारी ने तेरे जीवन में, कितने पात्र अदा किये,

माँ, बेटी, बहन, पत्नी के रूप में संग तेरे दुःख सहे |

हे मानव! नारी तो एक दीपक है,

जला कर खुद को, रौशनी औरों को देती है |

और तू है जो इसे बुझाने का प्रयास कर रहा है |

अरे मुर्ख! तू अपने जीवन में ही खुद दुःख ला रहा है |

पहचान,इस हीरे का मोल, नहीं तो तू पछतायेगा,

हाथ में आये खजाने को भी, तू पा न पायेगा |

The Other Side of Me.

"I hold the key- the key to both realities,

The girl that I want you to know. If only I could show.."

You say, I don’t do no bogus good to you,
that to you, every little of me has remained true.
To you, I am a feather, a soft-heart, a sweet heart,
who acts like summer and walks like rain,
who is a beautiful reminder of the fact that it’s time to change?
You see all honey and goodness in me.
That’s purely because you are crazily in love with me!

You look at me like there is an angel underneath,
innocent and sweet!
Fluttering her wings to fly in and about,
to tell you about the different side in me, when she’s out.
But you have to realise this already,
that I am a little bit of everything,
all rolled into one…

I tried to tell,
because I am your lover,
doesn’t mean I can’t be a bitch to another.
To you I am little child,
who seldom runs about the wild…
But to your daughter, I am mother.
For the god up there, am I not a sinner?
You had said, to you, I appeared a saint.

I am your health; I am your dream,
I am your chocolate beneath the cream.
That never means, I can’t be typhoid, a nightmare,
a poison, a toxicant!

Haven’t you always lifted me over ditches?
And helped me into gilded into carriages?
Oh! You felt, I was the girl ought to have the best place everywhere!
Ha, but before u happened to me, love,
nobody ever helped me into carriages, leave alone a gilded one!
And nobody anytime lifted me up from the ditches.
I love you for you’ve kept for me, the best place in the world.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t be dirty enough to fight for my own place!

To you, I am a soft lip-kisser,
that doesn’t mean, I can’t be a bloody lip biter!
I am a fairy to you,
but isn’t I a woman?
Look at me..

With your hands, you feed me,
and the same fingers yourself, you lick!
And every time those fingers touch my tongue, I smile.
Because you wish to continue this for ages, you say,
‘Like a pigeon, you eat, not even a girl!’
And then you hold me and kiss me,
and fill up all my hunger, to quench all my thirst..
But baby, I can work as much,
to eat like a man, when I could get it..
and bear the lashes as well!

Part of me is Angry Auburn,

outgoing and wild,

fearless and frustrated,

surrounded by people who don’t understand.

But the other half is much different,

soft sky blue,

calm and relaxed,
shy and soft-spoken.

Both so different

but make the same me!!

Tell me, if you are ready to take the difference in me?
Tell me, if you aint not shocked at the nakedness in me?

La Femme.

"She knows, she can, because she has had it.
Because she is a woman.."
She can:

· Whip up a great dinner with five items in the fridge.
· Hard boil an egg.
· Diplomatically tell a man to butt off.
· Ace a job interview.
· Ask a man out.
· Listen to a friend in need.
· Change a flat, or knows whom to call in.
· Effectively end an unhealthy relationship (romantic/platonic)
· Beautifully wrap a gift.
· Say ‘no’ gracefully.
· Forget pleasing him.
· Tell her man exactly how to please her.
· Sew a button.
· Make a kick ass cocktail.
· Apply lip gloss in the dark.
· Take off her bra without removing her shirt.
· Balance her checkbook.
· Create a budget.
· Find the best deal.
· Read a map.
· Hail a cab.
· Say something in French just for the heck of it.
· Dress for her body type.
· Spot a fake.
· Feign interest.
· Hold a baby.
· Brew coffee.
· Quit or leave something gracefully.
· Eat a meal at a restaurant herself.
· Self defend herself against predators.
· Learn a trade or a profession that enables her to earn without relying on a man.
· Do laundry.
· Wear stilettos and be taken seriously at work.
· Entertain unexpected guests.
· Find joy in little things- a thank you card, a circus show.

She knows:

· How to apologize when she is wrong.
· How to take a compliment gracefully.
· How to handle a scary, whirlwind obsessive relationship.
· How to act at a business party and a bachelorette party.
· How to fall in love without losing herself.
· How to quit a job, break up a man and confront a friend without risking a relationship.
· When to send a thoughtful thank you note.
· When and where to ask for help.
· What to tip for a $25 bill.
· Where to get a picture framed professionally.
· Where to ask for an advice.
· What to wear for a cocktail.
· That she can’t change the size of her claves, the width of her hips and nature of her parents.
· Hers is not a perfect childhood, but its over.

She has had:

· One old boyfriend reminding how far she has come.
· A youth she is content enough to move beyond.
· A past juicy enough that she is looking forward to retell it in her old age.
· An email address, a voice mail box and a bank account no one has access to.

…..and hence she is flawless!

Burned Out.

"A Cigarette: A fire at one end, a fool at the other, and a bit of tobacco in between."

Paper, a filter and some tobacco.That's it?

Neat.

You look at the stick, eventually turning that look into a gaze. Ok, so its 120mm in length and 10 mm in diameter. No, you don’t figure it out that precisely, but does that really matter? You know certainly, it is ignited at one end and allowed to smolder for the purpose of inhalation of its smoke from the other end, which is inserted in the mouth.

“Can I do it?” you think, hard!
Yeah, I can! What’s the big fuss??
“Must I do it? You think, harder!

You wish to possess a cool image and fun-loving personality by being a smoker. Non-smoking is for wimps and wusses. Besides, a noble job like smoking has no reservation criterion. It reduces the gap amongst the rich and the poor too.
Your mind plays the games of knots and crosses. All religions speak against alcohol; no one says a thing against tobacco. Stop the double standards folks. That’s certainly logic, you think. You close your eyes and go ahead.

Where must you place the butt? Between the index finger and the middle finger? The thumb and the index finger? Or grip it with all the four fingers at the stick and the thumb in the opposite? So, u are intelligent enough to realise, you are a starter and hell yeah, you really don’t want to make a fool of yourself, do you? You hold up that stick finally between your index finger and the middle finger. That’s how most of them out there do it, don’t they? The mental game of knots and crosses multiplies itself by 5! You have varied thoughts, emotions and ideas running through your body, mind and soul. The big question lingers, “to be or not to be?” a wimp or a hunk? Even before you know your decision consciously, you find the butt between your lips! A state of utmost stillness lingers on. You swear, you never must have been anymore concentrated, ever!

Your entire concentration is on how you must light up that tobacco rolled inside that piece of paper just not to make a fool of yourself. You pray, “Oh lord! Burn but just the cigar! You certainly don’t want to be an object of ridicule for the oncoming months!

Peer pressure?
Yes it is {yet again}

The tobacco inside the paper lits up! You pull hard! How hard? Do you even know? Two weeks ago, you had saved a person by giving him the hardest mouth to mouth resurrection. But the question remains, “was it really the hardest?” certainly not! Not harder than what you do with the mere paper roll! Your mouth is smoky and you feel the irritation. But hey, you are cautious enough to not show it. “Oh! I am the dude who is a born smoker!” you pretend. You don’t want to be ‘looked down upon’! The smoke travels through your wind pipe into your lungs. You cough, Cough again! Five seconds later, everything is all cool. You repeat the action four times over, dragging a little too much the second time, lesser much the third, managing a decent one the fourth time over. By the 5th, you are a master! Congratulations young one, you have just said hello to a supposedly ‘headache remover’! Oh really? And moreover, its diwali in a week’s time and you’ve harnessed a handy method of lightening the fuse.

Nirvana?
Yes, it is {finally so)

Anyway, you casually throw the butt away. Hey! At least have the decency to discard the butt in a flower pot or a garden bed if you don’t want to walk all the way to the trash can. It will at least fertilize the plants and keep the insects away. Being a smoker doesn’t give you the liberty to be non-civic! And dude, you are just a novice if you’ve forgotten that already.

Next on, you are walking on the street with a song in the heart, a thought in the head. You spot a tapri, you freeze! Or perhaps, the wills classic ultramilds you spot makes you freeze! It says, ‘discover a passion’. Haven’t you already? Ok, so you would not want to answer that but hey that doesn’t make you any more innocent. You go ahead. Classic and chloromint- the eternal pair! You look around, checking for dangers. Is your neighborhood aunt out with her dog for a walk? Is your dad returning for office? Your mum, is she out shopping for in the subzi mundi? Wow! No, you proceed. The shopkeeper has gauged, you are new in the game, just by your expressions. He advises you on all different kinds of cigars and whoa, you stand and listen too. Finally, it is lit, you walk off!

How cool is that?
Yes it is {I guess so}

One last time, you light it again. You start smoking - inhale, exhale, and smoke in, exhaust out. You make smoke patterns - perfect Os, wispy lines. You play with your lighter - open, close. The power, the authority that you feel holding the stick in between your fingers, the emotion that overcomes you, the intellect that challenges you, the disease that spreads over you, never lets you go. However you pull hard. This time before you blow out, life blows you away. Congratulations! You never got the chance to grow old.

Happy ending, finally?
Yes it is (definitely)

P.S - Cigarette smoking is injurious to health. (Who cares?)
After all, it is really a good career move if you want early retirement and would like to use up your sick leave.

How logical!
Yes it is {whatever}
One really has to quit smoking. Either you do it personally, or life does it for you.






.

The Last Dance.

“…..among the smoke and fog of a December night,
she goes dancing!”

Slip into that favourite cocktail gown of yours,
one with a satin lace frills and ruffles.
Wear with it a black wonder bra, deeper than the night,
with jewellery to match your emerald eyes.
Puff some rouse, colour those cheek with the splendour of a rose,
and wear heels so high turning you long legged and lassy!
Fair maiden, you look so lovely tonight.

Slip into that favourite cocktail gown of yours,
under the disco lights, go dance!
With charming men by your side,
tall dark and handsome and slim, fair and cute.
Let their eyeballs move in rhythm with your waist.
Twist and twirl round the night in your high heeled shoes,
spin like a top, a hurricane, a corkscrew!
Let every pair of eyes go unblinked, every jaw dropped!
Daze them all, amaze them all,
move your body at a pace that stuns them all.
Fair maiden, your dancing is so lovely tonight.

Slip into that favourite cocktail gown of yours.
Let your hair be unclipped from its gaited might.
Watch the eyes that follow them, the hearts that beat.
Sway them till they smell of wonder and love,
like wind through the leaves of a flimsy fern.
Let the strands come on to your forehead, your eyes and cheek.
Hold your mate tightly on his shoulder,
so he can move you daintily through the night!
Like ripples of a spring!
May he be the wind that blows,
you the cloud carried upon it..
Fair maiden, you are a lovely ball tonight.

Slip into that favourite cocktail gown of yours.
The wine looks fine and nice for a lady’s taste.
Let it pour unto your endless goblet,
the royal redness, like the rouse on your cheek,
like your seductive nail enamel, your enticing lip wear.
From goblets on to goblets..
live it up, to drink it down, then laugh it off to only take chances!
Let the drink go in, the wit come out..
Sit by the bar, electrify the men with your charm and humor.
Hold the goblet firmly by it’s stem,
like a lover clutching his treacherous temptress!
Raise it high and cheer to love and life.
Though love sickens and life dampens by the day,
fair maiden, they are hidden from your sight tonight.

Slip into that favourite cocktail gown of yours.
As the clock ticks so fast and the moon continues to rise,
Soon its time for the last dance for the night.
As your high heeled shoes twirl in twirls through the night,
alas! Your hair are no more in a gaited might.
The rouse on your cheek fades, your lip wear smudges!
The big blue eyes droop, the kohl melts away!
Look around and see,
all the vile men, boasting of their vain love,
lie wasted and drunk, like dogs on the midnight street
calling on to other women.
Fair maiden, you are too lovely for tonight.

Don’t slip into your favourite cocktail gown.
You look exquisite as you did all the other nights.
As clocked ticked the seconds down,
a certain something in the darkness caught my eye,
eyes that ramped from one man to another,
lips that moved from one song to another,
tongue that tasted of one wine to another
and hips that moved from one beat to another!
In you, lost and mesmerized, I didn’t even feel the morning arrive,
as pieces fell off your Cinderella disguise,
fair maiden, you still looked lovely that night!

Give Me Red.

“….Because I am not the cheap drinker!”

Standing by the subtly semicircular and utterly glassy bar table,
this time nauseated with lychee martinis.
She hooked her eyes on him.
The narrow-waisted Delilah had found her lethal target tonight!

Standing by the utterly semicircular, subtly glassy bar table,
this time nauseated with tequila slammer.
He disoriented himself in her bloodshot gaze,
The broad-chested blade had fallen in toxic love tonight!

She was the bloody red allurement,
wearing onto herself, the shimmering red disco wear,
the passionate red nail enamel, the sinful red lipwear!
No! Her eyes were black, monique jet black.
Her hair, copper and curled, till below her shoulders
Ohh! he felt bloody prostrated tonight!

She looked into his eyes,
searching for traces of a victim,
she saw it much!
He looked into her eyes,
searching for traces of concern,
he never found much!

Smiled she, a demented one at him,
almost calling him on to her bar!
The goddess of dark love was calling him for a drink tonight!
Alas! He did not choose to see…

“Can I get you a drink?” asked he
“Give me red” said she
“Excuse me?”
“A red coloured drink, like the red wine! I am not the cheap drinker, you see”

Bewildered he was at her, straight were her eyes, stuck at him!
He looked up to her, to the stark red eyes!
Down his spine, travelled an electric charge.
As for the ‘red colour drink’, he was paying the bill!
Never had he come across such a headstrong lady..
Her power to hypnotize was driving him crazy!

His vision, travelling through the dead night
illuminated in the inside by disco lights!
His secrets shook.
Oblivious to everything but her beauty,
he lost his way, and so,
he again found her, minutes later..
The lady of strange appeal,
sipping through her wine!
Wine of black lust and lonely shadows!
She raised her goblet and thought,
“What if this was blood?”
As he came to sit next to his love tonight!

“I don’t see you often here.” said he..
“I come here on Fridays, the 13th” said she
.“There is something about you, no girl has”
“Yes, not every girl is on the top of the food chain.”
“I’d like to see you more often here”
“Ha! Perhaps this is the last you’ll see of me for real.”

Alas! Sooner on her table,
lay the dead red chest,
of the man who got her red wine!
As her hair crucified the skull
of another forgotten lover.
He lay there frozen,
as a murdered rose bled on the table.

Soon enough, her lips were smudged with auburn blood,
As she raised her goblet and said,
‘Cheers!!’
She kissed the dead wooer and exclaimed,
“Thanks for the red, honey!”

My Paper Plane.

"Take flight with the passing sun
soar into anothers hand.
Perhaps someone will jump for it
and hold my paper airplane...."

I’ll conceal a note on your magnolia body today,
just so someone may utter it tomorrow.
I’ll fold you 4 times today,
just so someone may unfold you tomorrow.
I’ll deliver u across the golden horizon today,
just so someone will watch u land tomorrow…

How hard shall I launch you?
How high will you fly?
Will u fly back with the same pace tomorrow,
As u will do in this windy today?
Will you crash into the little insects in the air?
Or will you rocket neatly through the vapours?

Till yesterday, I contemplated,
obstinate she was,
selfish, liar, cheater, deceiver.
But yesterdays have evanescenced,
and yesterdays have dissolved.
The new dawn has bloomed,
etiolating the yesterdays in me.

So today, for a better one,
I’ll tear a page and scribble…
Scribble a note for her to know,
everything she is not-
Selfish, liar, cheater, deceiver
I shall write the message on your wings
and I shall let you fly,
for everyone to see,
to tell her..

Land just so the love message is seen first
and my name, later
Don’t fall on her shoulder when she’s asleep
or right in front on the ground when she’s strolling!
Fall on the right edge of her steel colour table when she’s reading..
the note she once scribbled on the wings of a plane with much hesitation,
but never had the ability to project it to me..

Fly high and fly quick..
Land before she tears off her plane and walks out the door.
Don’t fall, don’t crash,
Soar, glide, escalate…

Soar! Soar!
For I will not be there tomorrow,
to watch you land.
To see someone else read you.
I will be leaving tonight, to faraway land,
to eradicate further yesterdays in me.
To sit by the sea shore
and make many more paper planes on the sand..
All blank, empty, meaningless..
and throw them across the horizon,
and see them fall on the silent waters…
But wherever I may go,
however high I may fly,
my memories, will always be engraved in you..

One day shall I return,
with many a stories to tell,
of days to describe.
I will pray that you return,
before me.
With a new note for me.
That she would not unfold you,
only to crush you and bin you..

Hear me, as I shall hear you..
about how u landed in her,
literally, metaphorically,
and she unfolded you with a bewildered frown,
and ended in my name with a mysterious smile..
That she turned you around,
to the blank side in you,
and scribbled a note, a secret one, an enigmatic one.
And how she folded you back with a cryptic grin,
and discharge you back,
to me….

Go now and fly high.
Spread my note to her,
engraved within your magnolia wings.
Forget not, to return back,
soaring high…

Anesthesia.

“Why do you look at me, like that?”
“Because you are so beautiful”

The way you looked at me through the windscreen of my car,
while I was waiting for you with a song in my heart!
Your vision an X ray machine, the windscreen, the film…
And why did you give the lopsided smile of yours?
your demented, asymmetrical smile..
It turned me frenzy, unsound, wacky!
Could you just not look at me and turn?
Turn to a direction where you would not see me,
but only feel my presence?
And when you opened the door and sat next to me,
my heart skipped beats. Beats after beats…
I weren’t living, only breathing!
You were such an anaesthesia..

Why did you not tell me where to go?
Did you too lose yourself in me?
In the entire psychotic town, was I the only one u saw?
Like the aromas, lights, metals were little boats,
that sails towards the isles that wait for me
“Don’t look at me that way.
I am in love with you, don’t you see?”
I was shivering, quivering, you noticed, didn’t you?
You would not just shift your persistent gaze.
And you would not just let me drive!
You were the sun, which would not seize to look upon the earth,
setting it ablaze, melting glaciers!
You would continue to hypnotize, mesmerize
like you were a crystal moon, I was a mere red autumn branch.
You were such an entrapment.
Such a heated anaesthesia…

You asked me so many a questions,
which I certainly could not interpret.
‘Cause your breath had taken me out of my mind,
and your gaze pushed me to coma!
But my imprudent answers perhaps never made you wise,
else, your eyes would never gaze in my eyes.
The way you held my palm,
eventually then, my fingers,
it was like nothing I had felt in ages!
It were like ice on fire!
Like stones melting!
Did you feel my pulse rate soar when u held me by the wrist?
And you rubbed you thumb on my little finger,
It felt like you were smoothening it.
I know, you were turning me torpid,
Like you were administering in me, anaesthesia!

But why did you leave?
I saw you go with innocent hope filled eyes,
but you looked back at me like I was a screaming stranger.
Did you look deep into them? Did you see they never lied?
I nearly died, when you opened the car’s door and walked away.
My cheeks had grown pale, colder my kiss!
Because I knew, it would be long enough by the time you return,
if ever you do…
I believe, I can bring you back in this car again,
one day.
For I can’t get over your heated anaesthesia!

Owner of My Expressions.

"He is my music,
my words, his ballerina…"

In the deep dark September,as the half moon sky,
traversed its course from east to west,
I sat in a cluster of some school time mates, some playmates,
separated by ordinance, united after a long time.
Joy knew no bounds, like waves of a cyclonic sea.
Happiness lingered in the air,
like drops of water vapor after a light rain shower..
Most were high on youth, tequila and life.
Some bitten by destiny, some pierced by the forgotten.
Some gnawed by life, some nibbled by prospects…

Abruptly, a man raised his goblet of intoxicant in the air,
as high as he could, as tipsy as he was,
and exclaimed to me,
‘You write beautiful, keep writing!’
I gave out a sigh, I gasped my breath
and next I blurted,
‘O my beloved! Keep happening to me!

A near side I took, just as to pun a quiet laughter.
This young son thinks himself to be a ‘know-it-all’
believes himself to be intellects own call.
What an illusion he is in, he understands my writings,
When he can’t understand my love!
can he?
He will never be able to fathom what I scribble.
Who can?

To me he gave a quizzical look!
Like a wasp on a flower, deprived of nectar,
like a garden without seasons!
Then I thought, to him I will explain,
prove some wrong, his abundant disdain.
To him,Said I…

“Like a whale, my lover devours my expressions,
setting-upsetting their coherence
and makes them dance to his cadence,
He is my music,
my words, his ballerina…

Like words out his Bacardi dripping lips,
like letters out of my quills nib…
When he tells me of the places
where haters die in love.
That there is a world of peace and doves.
Where every warrior triumphs.
Where the sun shines for its beloved, not burn,
and every forlorn has his deserving turn.
Tells me he, that abandons are provided a lap,
and in deepest sorrows a woman claps.
Because he feels, I write…
Because if I write, his pain subsides.

In his deep-set black eyes,
I dip for ink!
Deep into them I go, for the ink shall last long
long enough to scribble a love song!
A song that shall never cease to end..
He paints my dreams,ideas
with the blue of his eyes
or the venom
running through the soft blue veins
beneath his glassy white skin.
Lovers may last a lifetime,
our love will last forever!

And ah! Then suddenly, on paper I drop the words
like broken eyelashes on his cheek.
And as he leans on me to look me in the eye,
and makes a careless wish on the lash on my insist
A gentle blow I give on his cheeks,
to let the eyelash flow off..
to the wild blue yonder.
Like I am blow drying ink on my parchment,
The wild blue chelpark..

Sometimes, I so drop words so carelessly
like shiny green marbles out of his daughters hand,
while he plays the game of brain vita with her!


Even today, on the hook of the opposite door,
his white striped shirt hangs!
I don’t know where, he has gone somewhere.
I am still finding every place for the eyes that care.
I look at the shirt, striking a conversation with it!
I gape at it and write..
Write about how you walked out the door, shirtless,
on that no moon night, when
the earth was angry, trampled to dust.

I remember, I retorted so a many times!
O lover! Why now does your shirt not respond?
Why is it as quiet as a pair of your shoe?
But you chattered a lot!!
The smell of his cigarette still persists in it.
Perhaps it is the same with which,
he burnt his index finger
The fragrance of his love persists.
Perhaps it’s the same that makes me burn for him now..

I gaze,gaze, I write…
The words ooze out of this nib in continuance..
Like these tears flowing down till my lips,
On the parchment..
Words blot! Like I am wet-kissing his burnt finger
Can the shirt not for once, reply?
I wipe my teary eyes, the kohl smudges,
like words smearing on the parchment,
as I swab the tears that wetted it!

He hovers like a constant refrain
at the back of my mind,
like some catchy tune
that would not let me alone
and go on playing inside my head,
Ha! I wonder where in me solely is the irk to express?
It’s all because he identifies me as his only empress!
I write of love and pain.
And often more than not,
he interrupts the light of the table lamp,
with his lanky frame…

For some reason now, I can’t look him in the eye.
I try writing impersonal poems on love,
where he does not grin like that,
his mad-lopsided smile.
And I ain’t the girl full of quirks
Yes, I promise,
I will give us a happy ending.
Because, after twenty crescent moons have gone,
he will come back from the faraway land,
to push his face, close to mine,
when nothing else distances it,
and suffocate me in his perfume,
which he once called ‘masculine’ and me ‘obnoxious’.
He will find me writing,
Of the halo around his head
and the eloquence in his gestures.
But my quill will fall off my hand,
And the parchment will flow…
As into him I’ll merge seamlessly
He in me, formlessly...”

And then,
After I ranted about love and him,
and everything that falls between the two.
The man who admired my writings,
He said,
“If love be the reason you write,
Never cease,
Never stop....”

And if love be a kingdom, he the emperor..

Of a Yellow Old Photograph.

“Photographed in black and white, capturing the color of the soul!”

Of the color of the dusky sky it was,
torrid, tempestuous, threatening to pour,
the old black and white photograph.
Look! What the trials of time have done to it,
turning it eventually a yellowish-maize,
bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid.
she wondered..
It were like a secret of a secret.
The more it told, the lesser she knew…


Some thirty years ago,
she remembers the ritual she underwent
to save her physical artistry, to salvage her winsomeness,
to be shot by the box camera,
so that today, her youthful beauty be written about!
Perhaps she was in the know,
there were a certain somethings in her that would never be noticed,
had it not been for a photograph.
Because it captured nothing else will.
A precious documentation of her youthful moment,
Standing still…

Fished out of an old-school type album,
the one’s with black pages, cosmic white butter papers.
Through one side of the photo paper, she smiles..
Not the vampire smile they show on tee vee,
not the jubilant smile her daughter gives!
Angelic, divine and harmless it is..

What an ethereal beauty she was once,
delicate, elegant, pastel and flimsy..
So slim, she could hide behind her brother’s cigar,
narrow at the waist, like an hourglass!
Like a bottle of coca-cola, well framed she was!
Picture-perfect…


Out of her closet of saris, she had chosen printed chiffon!
It spoke of flowers, gardens and realms.
As beautiful as her, only adding to her aura,
a touch of culture, an element of jade…
Wrapped in totality in the nine yard clothe,
her head just emerged out of the drape,
like goddess of spring she looked, of nature’s newest darling!
She let her hair flow, down up till her shoulders
straight, thin black locks, giving a feel of savannas in a winter evening!
No dash of kajal black,
or streaks of mascara in the lash!
As clear as the glacier white,
the eyes that talk of a regal might.

To a nearby studio she had gone,
and in front of a celebrated backdrop she postured!
She straightened her spine, shoulders upright,
sat cross-legged with her chin held high!
Curved her lips in a gentle smile,
cautious enough to not let them depart,
she had looked like piece of art!
And waited,
In breathlessness,
In choke,
In anxiety,
to not let her composure be disfigured,
to let her best be captured
waited for the box-camera to go, ‘click’…

After thirty years or more,
the beauty of the snap has not gone sore.
the same pose, the same smile,
the stiffness in her spine she erected for a while.
The expression of the impression has remained,
because the very beautiful was in her..

In the gilded silver frame she has preserved,
like silver lining to a grey-black cloud.
Holding the frame by her right hand,
she lifts it up and stares!
Like a man clutching his beloved by the waist,
irresistible to break free…
stares at an instant of her life staring back at her,
ceaselessly, incessantly, perpectually,
reciting to her the stories of the moment..

She remembers the ritual she underwent,
to take that single shot!
Like today, ‘click’ ‘view’ and ‘delete’ would really be so boring.
There was no Kodak, she could not look silly,
show herself to the camera,just for merriment,
laugh all day until she runs out of film.
The only photograph of its kind,
no duplicates, no negatives, no shots taken blind.
In her what she constructed all the years,
It did disclose all…

She wonders how far she has come of age,
voyaging through the journey of life..
when all she feels is choke and nostalgia at this stage.
of memories, saris and shots..
From a pink mistress to a wrinkled empress!
The smile in the snap happened in a flash,
but, its memory has lasted a lifetime.

She smiled through the tears,
hypnotized by her physical prowess.
As words had lost their power
and memorial images were inadequate,
she focused on the photograph…
and stood in silence,
asking to herself, ‘can you see anything?’
There was but just one answer:
‘Yes! Wonderful things!’

Because its retro, original and insane,
its worth all the tears.
That it can never be shot again,
is what makes it so sweet…

My Daughter in Love.

“Love is beautiful, until it happens to your only daughter.”

Rachel: How big is the universe?
Jude: Infinite.
Rachel: How do you know?
Jude: I know because all the data indicates it's infinite.
Rachel : But it hasn't been proven yet.
Jude: No.
Rachel: You haven't seen it.
Jude: No.
Rachel: How do you know for sure?
Jude: I don't, I just believe it.
Rachel: It's the same with love I guess

{Beautiful mind}

I changed her into a woman and now that she has become one, I wish, she becomes the little baby doll again.
I had heard about girls and boys fall in love with each other. The boy buys flowers, the girl buys chocolates, he looks her in the eye, she looks down towards the floor, he takes a step forward, she takes a step back, he dreams of being her warrior, she dreams of being his princess and on… But it’s only now I realize what it is like when my own daughter is in love with a suitable young man and will very soon be marrying him. I present to you the ‘suitable young man’ {of course} Jude Adams…

When Rachael was young, her hand used to fit so neatly in mine. She used to recite poetry to me and if ever there was a man she went out for an ice cream with, it was me. From lifting her up in the air to waltzing around in the house I was the only man in her life she was in love with.

And then she grew up and she ever since she spent more than 20 minutes on the telephone, I was in jitters. Then one day came when she wanted to get her ears pierced. The next thing I knew, she was in mascara and high heels wanting me to leave her two blocks before the movie theater. From that moment on, I had been in a state of consistent panic. I was scared of her bumping into the wrong guys. The kind of guys who are absolutely sweet on the face but they want only one thing. I had known what that ‘one thing’ is because when we were their age, we had wanted the same things.

And then, one day came the thrust when Jude came to pick her for the coronation ball. It never felt this way before cause the only man I remember who had ever driven Rachel in his car was ‘me’ and Christ me not! There were no coronation balls yet!
I could only advise her to wear a sweater over her spaghetti, it was cold outside.

Me: Rachael , it's a little nippy out, you might want to put on a sweater.
Rachel: Dad, it's okay, I'm kind a warm.
Me: Still, there's a chill in the air.
Rachel: Dad, I'm fine.
Jude: Rachael, it is kind a cold out.
Rachel: It is?
Jude: Yeah.
Rachel: All right, thanks, I'll get my jacket.

I realized, it was time I took a backseat. I was a shoe whose size did not fit her anymore. I watched Jude clutch Rachael by the waist and opened the car’s door for her as she slipped in daintily in her high heels. I missed dropping her this time. I was reminded of the last time when we two were going for a movie and she had leaned against me to buckle her ballerina flats. Today she wore a six inch and walked gracefully. I stared back, wondering about the day when Jude will drive her out from me, forever.

You fathers out there will understand. You have a little girl, an adorable little girl. She loves you in ways you could never have imagined and who looks up to you for everything. You are her oracle, you are her hero. You are her reason why, you are her only man from who she will cry. And then one day comes when she gets her first permanent wave and goes to her first real party. From that day on, you know you are sidelined, but you do not know how to handle it.

Eventually you quit about her meeting the ‘wrong guy’ and you fear her meeting the ‘right guy’ you know, the moment she does that, you will lose her. And even before you will ever know it, you will be sitting in a big empty house wondering whatever happened in your life.

I thought marrying was a simple affair. The boy and the girl meet. They look in the eye and say, “yeah! I do” the man buys a ring, the girl buys a dress and there is a nice huge ceremony and they finally kiss! But I realized, it’s a wedding. Marriage is an entirely different proposition.

It just happened to me. Not with me but my daughter- Rachael Morgan Adams. That is her married name- 'Adams' which she has proudly taken from Jude Adams, her groom. In her ceremony, it will be asked, ‘who presents this woman?’ This woman? For me, she is just a kid leaving me. People do say she has converted herself into a woman but I've never seen her do that!! Till yet, she defied me on issues, broke the rules she made for herself, threw tantrums when things did not go her way and whispered secrets on the phone.

At this moment, I realize, I will never come home again to see her at the top of the stairs, smiling and saying, ‘hi! Pops’ I will never see her again at the dinner table in her night suit and socks. There will be no seeking permissions to go for a movie or an eat out. Her constant buzzing on the cell phone will stop all of a sudden. There will be no danny/joe/bryan calling up to say, ‘can I please talk to Rachael?’ there will be no Rachel to serve me cold water from the fridge or share a candy floss with me. No chocolate puddings will be made, no chocolate feelings be felt…

From now on my daughter is Jude’s! She will be recognized as his wife first and then my daughter, second! I will be discarded like an old shoe rag! I will only stand back and watch my daughter spin in someone else’s little finger, happily, madly in love.

At the end of the day, relationships I realized are a funny thing. They drift away from you when you don’t really expect it. Its like, one day you realize, well, that keeping up of the relationship is slightly different than you had expected. That ‘ever after’ never really happens. I know it doesn’t feel perfect but its life! And life is really messy sometimes. It is full of unexpected twists and turns. Just when you think you have gotten the lay of the land, the land underneath you shifts.

I wish there was a rulebook for intimacy. A kind of guide which could tell you that you have crossed the line and it would be really nice if one could see it coming. If one could see that beyond a point holding on would be a damage case. There is something said about a glass half full. About knowing when to say ‘when’. I think it’s more of a floating line, a barometer of need, of desire. It’s entirely up to the individual and it depends what’s being poured. And there are times when there is no such thing as enough. All we want is more, the glass is ‘bottomless’...

But for my daughter, it’s her wedding, a church wedding. Well, it’s all what every girl dreams of. The wedding dress, the orange blossoms, the music. It’s something to remember for the rest of her life. And something for me to remember too...

So as they, ‘if you can’t break the ice, drown in it.’ I have already. It’s painful, but I can just ride it out and hope that it goes away on its own. Most of the time, I could manage pain but this one has hit me where I least expected it. It hit me way deeper than the skin and doesn’t let up. I will only have to live through because I can never outrun it and my distance from her will only make more.

But again, the dinning table front chair where I always sat may be empty in her house too. May be she stops to eat candy floss anymore. May be she will not talk on the cell all that much. May be she wont drive out as often as she did. May be, she will take out the bottle from the fridge only to hold it for a second and put it back again. And may be, whenever she has to dial Jude’s number, she will mistakenly dial mine first…..

May be,
Just may be…

Lost! Not Forgotten.

“Cry not when the sun goes down for you will not be able to see the stars past those tears..”

By the breathless and placid lake I sat,
with a book in my hand, thoughts in my head.
The sky was blue and the surrounding fields were green.
And as the wind blew from the waters to the land,
rippling the quiet fluid, fluttering the pages of my book, blowing my hair across my face,
It broke the eerie silence of the thin air into juvenile fragments
and just as it stopped,
from somewhere between the yellow pages of mills and boons,
flew a note…


It dodged me a few meters, the folded 4x4 inch memo...
And before it could sail across the lake, carried away by the mighty zephyrs,
I grabbed it, I crushed it,
I clutched it before I could lose it...
And as I fell on my knees to open the crushed message,
my heart stopped dead, my veins felt lifeless!
For beneath the wrinkles, in neat blue ink,
was the page header, ‘goodbye my lover’

My heart sank the same way,
as it did the very first day, when I read this note...
I still can’t believe, this was your antidote
to all the times we had, sad good and bad...
Tell me, you never meant it when you wrote,
‘I never really loved you!’ At the end of that note.
beause even today,
there is a tremble in your voice, throbs in your vein,
do you not count your moments in my name?
I can feel you miss the way I breathe,
that you hate that you were the bond, which one day was going to burst.
Every time you called me, just only to ask me, ‘baby! Won’t you come back to me?’
Was it for this you wrote that note to me?
Where there is love, there is happiness! Says who??
Cause even if you love me, its not happiness you will see,
but this is how we were meant to be…

Perhaps you never saw,
that all the times that we were through,
I never wanted to disappoint you; I could never let you down.
Every moment, I breathed you, every night I dreamt.
I had taken all the risks; I had taken all the shots,
I literally gave up everything I had got.
For you, I had never ceased to try
A 100 seas I had cried.

But ever since you walked away, I see,
you have been turning back to me from that day!
I know you can’t do without me, I know how much you burn!
But after all that you did to me, baby it’s your turn.
Did you not see, I was never the one to stay?
I will never make the mistake to ever come in your way.
A million words will never bring me back,
You know its enough you have tried!
Neither would a million tears, its enough I have cried.
I will not keep this broken heart from ever mending
and miss out on infinite love that’s never ending
Don’t try to make it all good,
I know I am not misunderstood.
Holding on me wont you strong,
Letting me go definitely would..

So sitting amidst the windy strokes,
I stared at that note...
And with each passing moment,
my grip on the paper loosened.
And yet again, the wind came along,
in the quest to blow away the goodbye song.
But this time round, I chose not to follow.
I watched it hover into the quiet waters
being chased to nothingness...
Within a minute or two,
the note, deep into oblivion it flew
And as It got buried into the perpetual,
Along with it, whatever little we had became exhaustible…
I sat there and cried, cried,
Not because I miss you or I want you,
But I realized, I will be alright without you..

I will never be yours…

As I watch her grow.

“She’s not a girl; do not tell her what to believe,
She’s just trying to find the woman in her.”

She opened the door and flung out the six yard grey-black chiffon garment out on the bed.
“So? What do you think?”

Her eighteen year daughter was talking on the phone, standing by the window, not knowing what lay behind her.

“Rochelle?”

Rochelle, her daughter turned back and her eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Wow! It’s terribly gorgeous. From where did you get this crazy print?”

“I got this pattern colored from the dyer down the road. However, this is not the exact grey I had wanted!”

“Oh! C’mon mamma! The grey merges beautifully with the black below it you still think it could have gotten better? For me, it’s amazing!”

“Hmm?? Is that?”

“That is!”

>>

“I started to love the concept of a sari being the symbol of the Indian women’s attire. So of late, anything to do with the garment used to get me started. The moment I lay my eyes on my mother’s sari, I fell in love with it. It was one of the most beautiful pieces of six yard cloth that my mum got home. No doubt, it was a perfect wardrobe must have and it could accentuate a lady’s gracefulness till no limit. It was chiffon with a crazy layered pattern in grey and black. The boundary had black embellishments and the whole look was extremely contemporary. In short- I loved it.”

>>
“My daughters expressions changed from a frown to a huge smile shot straight from ear to ear as she saw the sari. She was eighteen, fresh out of high school, totally in love with anything offbeat and kinky. Like every teenage girl, looking beautiful yet far-out was one of her primary mottos in life.
I knew exactly what pleased her in the drape- the zigzag grey to black pattern print. It looked different from the stereotypical flowery prints or plain geometric designs of blocks and stripes. She at times used to daunt me on wearing a predictable or a usual print in a sari. My daughter-grown enough to understand the meaning of ‘personal style’ loved to keep her looks more than just the obvious and in every way, the psychedelic look of the sari was fulfilling it. She had known what exactly would make heads turn in public.”

>>

“I opened the sari to its full length, nine yards. It reminded me of the first time I did a stark blue one for my high school farewell. More than jeans and skirts now, I started to love saris, though I could not wear them, of course. I was just eighteen and with such beautiful attire that I was eligible to wear, yet could not, I felt criminal. Besides, I saw that an enigmatic Indian woman wrapped in a beautiful sari were every man’s dream! It was not just a garment, it was an ornament. The beauty in a sari mostly lay in its drape and perhaps it is in the blood of every Indian lady to carry off one with aplomb. From being a corporate or a business woman to a fashionista, it was a garment that complimented one and all. Its a piece of cloth that has been giving respect and protecting the honor of our women since 2800 BC and still continues to do the same. Even I had wanted to do it. I asked my mum.”

>>
“I saw, my daughter was totally excited at the whole idea of that sari happening to her. When she asked me if she could wear it, I saw, that was not even a question. It sounded like she was telling me that irrespective of what followed, that garment was hers and she could not lose a minute to drape it.

She wanted to be more than just a college going girl experimenting with flashy colors and unusual fabrics. She wanted to feel like a freaking headstrong lady. She wanted to see herself in the mirror as a girl who kept her indianess high, her mind in place, yet stay stylish enough and look in vogue. Ever since she enwrapped one for the first time to her high school farewell, {made herself look very topical, I must add} she had become confident in carrying off one. {Or at least, gave the illusion.}You know how these females are, who are changing from being a girl to a woman! If they are fascinated by something, they pretend, it comes naturally to them. Oh she was a treat to watch.”

>>

“I clothed myself in that six yard cloth, wore black stilettos, black wonder bra and silver earrings. Yeah, by now, I had found various ways to display a sari, ‘discovered’ to be precise. It came by experimenting, imagining! No magazines and no fashion shows helped me. Wearing that sari made me look tall, feminine, congenial and extremely pleasing. With no exceptions whatsoever, every time I did a sari, I always thought of myself as an Indian goddess come on earth. This time, I wore it in a usual Indian style and modeled myself in front of the mirror. I first let it cover myself-head to toe kept it pleated and pinned up. The next moment, I undid a couple of pins, shifted the pallu to expose my torso and lo! I was a diva. I twisted, turned and waltzed around holding the pleats and pallu. My mum stood behind the mirror, laughing…”

>>
“Her ecstasy knew no limits. She had beautifully tied the garment across her waist, low risen I must add and she looked charismatic. I stood back, watching her change different styles. From looking modest and coy to changing it into a form that could give a western outfit a complex, she switched styles. And as expected, she did it effortlessly, seamlessly. She was walking in front of the mirror like she was satya Paul’s favorite model. Exuding the sultry, sweltry and sharp expression on her face, she gave the bring-it-on look.

She had always wanted to outdo others. Perhaps that was the reason, she learnt to do a sari earlier than most girls and she knew styles more than a lot of older women, may be me too. I remember, she was twelve-ish when she wore my sari for the first time in front of the mirror. We all could not help trip with laughter and amusement. Today, I saw she felt like a woman, not a girl anymore. She was not a stranger to her own frame, She knew which parts of her body to enhance, how low the sari must be, the way a blouse to be worn, how a pallu should be wrapped and to be a girl who hides all yet reveals all.”

>>

“Ever since I understood what a sari was, I was twelve if I remember correctly; I used to try wearing it in front of the mirror, on top on my skirt and the pink Barbie top nonetheless! It suddenly dawned on me; I had grown big enough to be able to carry off a sari so easily. It came so naturally to me that I did not need my mum’s help to tie it across my waist. I looked at my wardrobe and gave a painful sigh for not owning one. Course I could not, but given a choice, I would have loved to go out in a sari the upcoming valentine than a black cocktail dress. Saris will remain incomparable, now and forever…

>>
“I finally realized, my daughter had grown big. She was big enough to wear a sari herself. From jeans and skirts and boys, in no time she would shift to saris and men. I felt a sense of nostalgia about all the years of her growing up. she no more wanted my little finger to walk in one or my helping hands to get her pleats right. There was a time when she was fourteen, for even a pair of jeans, she used to turn around and ask me if it was skinny enough, if the rise was low enough, if the fitting was right. For a blank top, she used to ask me the bra she should wear, if she looked slim enough, if the color she chose was right, if she could expose her naval, if she could wear a spaghetti. Till yesterday, I checked on her thrice with every garment of hers. Today, she was just about trying a sari and she did not need me to advice her on her drape, her pallu, her pleats. She knew her mind to decide what was right.

I was a little hesitant to the change though. But I sincerely chose to look back and watch her. Smile with every change that she brought about in the way she wore the sari and think, a black hand clutch with the sari will make it perfect for an evening wear. I understood her need for freedom. Her need for a friend who could tell her that she looked fabulous…”

“How do u like me in this sari?” she asked

“Oh you look so pretty, darling! We will buy a good one for your college fresher”

“Yay! Thanks a lot. I want to stand out that day.”

“Yes! We shall look into it later. Come, let’s eat lunch now. I have made your favorite paneer today!”

>>

“I undid my sari and quickly changed into my usual trousers and top. I suddenly felt like all the other girls who struggled with equations in school and mommy’s tantrums at home. From a lady, I changed back to a girl facing nothingness trying to look for purpose.”

>>
“My daughter was not a girl, not yet a woman. All she needed was time, a moment that was hers while she stayed in between. She’s not a girl but if you looked into her eyes, you will know, she will always find her way. Yet again, she is not a woman enough to wear a sari except in the mirror…”

So as the mother and the daughter left for lunch, the sari lay casually on the bed. It surely highlighted and enhanced the mother-daughter relationship and the realization of a various things unsaid. A nine yard of unstitched material it might be, but look! What it did the women?!

I can just say one thing- bingo!!