Journey to You

The white soul flies around me, clouds help her to evade my sight. I am unable to breathe her in, she has dismantled her place from within me. Our song remains but in a few fragments now. 

My vision is obstructed, can only catch a few of her gleaming smiles. They show me the mirror. Each tear drop she shed had a story of each birth I took and every death I embraced. The breeze, the mist, the dew drop, the sweat, the fumes; they embrace me with a painful longing. She moves away, I chase her, yet my words create hurdles. 

Her innocence endears, beckons me, the passion within surges. She is the river I revisit each day when my mind meanders to my village. She is the tattered book on my shelf that buries clouds of tears which my unkind fingers dare not touch.

Why is the desire to abandon a welcome thought? It allures me like a lover, my heart overflows with dedicated passion for you. I do not know you, yet I respond to your call. I want to submit my being to you, bereft of all its ties and tendencies. You smile on me, I run to touch you, and like each time, you drop the curtain.

There you are and there she is. Are you one and can I be one with you? I do not fear losing, all I want is a place away from this place. Show me the way to create your space within myself. I  know you listen to no command or prayer, you would walk in to my life when you deem that necessary, till then, show me the way to dream of you.

She runs across the grass patch, her anklet leaving a trail of dazzling notes, strung together with consciousness of you. She is infinite like the words crafted in the depth of silence. Like the lyrics embedded in the core of a note, she manifests herself like a tale of a lost land.

There I sit on the edge of horizon, absorbing the fusion of colors from the sea and sky sacrifice their ego and intermingle in a mystic embrace of submission. The clouds clear away and there I see you. You held her for me. Though she is a part of you and I am a weakling who may not be the best, you gift her to me. Coz you know more than anyone how much this blinded being needs the eyes to see You.

A Piece of Us: Our Story

The Return of Miracle

He walked in with a leather bag. The sweat of weary life greeted him. A soft face torn apart by bitter pain stared at him. Never once perturbed by the lines of sorrow, he moved gently towards the face, held the person reeking of self doubt in his arms and hugged peace in the icy cold soul. Why?

Because he knew life can be returned and his destiny was inscribed in her destiny. 

She dreamt of a life that was full of love; she wished for that one person who would love her as one loves themselves. And in the past she had waited patiently for just that moment. She tried, she faltered and yet her heart never lost that singular hope. 

He knew what was he was about to lose. He knew he was victorious though he lost many battles. The magic that he found many years back sought him out to infuse a little miracle. 

He opened her clenched fist. From the mysterious bag he took out that something she never fore saw. 

It was her dream and it was held between two pair of hands. It was now theirs to keep and cherish and protect. 

They were empty but their lives were brimming with all that is new. The promise was kept, the miracle had returned and the two shadows walked towards the rising Sun that peeked out from behind the ranges of Trikuta Hills. 

What happened next to the two? 

Well, they live to learn and teach each other a new vision each day. And they remain grateful to all those who love and stand by them.

And they both in their own space think: 

"A lifetime ain't enough"

Stories We All Heard and Soon Forgot...

Mid way through one of my flights of fantasy a wandering thought broke my reverie. Do parents narrate those bed time tales to their toddlers anymore? Or are the little ones growing up so fast and responsive that now everything is a click away from them too? 

Are those stories soon to be long forgotten? The shrewd barber or the lying shepherd or the mountain troll who was fooled? Do the children still believe in magic or they know the obvious? 

What about those grand parents who would cajole a child to have his meal in exchange of a new tale? Would the sultry summer evenings never resound with astonished wows and ooohhhs from the munchkins who would marvel at how intelligent Gopal Bhar or Birbal is? 

The book stores display mouth watering goodies for children. There is a lot that technology has to offer them. 

Yet stories and narrating one is an art, a means to strengthen the parent-child bond. They listen when you speak, why not make that a journey they would love to embark upon, run their imagination wild and learn to love the fantasies for once before they join the reality bandwagon? Because believe me, when they will be the adults in times that shall be sharper than today, they would thank you for sharing the key to the Wonderland.

Once upon a time....it has it's own charm

Bhai giri or Behen Power?

Why do we celebrate "bhai phota" or "bhai dooj"? 

From the time I can remember, a day after Kali Pujo/Diwali was a day marked with tremendous excitement. We would celebrate "bhai phota". And that meant an amazing lunch and a house full of laughter and guests. Gifts were exchanged along with stories of our daily lives.

As a child my sister and I were hardly gender tutored or conditioned. I do not remember, barring a few of my pesky relatives, anyone remotely interested to show us the difference between the two sexes. And hence we sisters merrily kept growing with this belief that no such difference existed, be it woman and man or rich and poor. 

After a few 'bhai phota' celebrations, it occurred to is that something is not quite right. Each year we waited with hope that perhaps this year our brothers would celebrate "Bon phota". It never happened. 

Perplexed and agitated we sought our Mother's insight and knowledge. 

"Why do our brothers never celebrate a day for us?" 

Maa is an amazing woman. She  smiled, hugged, stuffed our mouth with coconut laddoos and in her soft voice said, "I knew my daughters would raise this Question one day. I am glad the day came so early. You see, our society does not particularly like us women. And this is a global phenomenon. We are either heralded as a deity or vilified as witch. May be that stems from an ingrained  insecurity pertaining to the fact that women are very smart and capable and the society does not want us to grant us that. Well, my lovely daughters you need not worry too much about this. Let me share a magic spell with you that will soon give you the recognition you deserve. Stay focused, free your mind of bondage of bias and celebrate your life. Soon, the world will accept you for what you are and perhaps one fine autumn morning the brothers will celebrate "Bon phota/behen dooj" to rejoice the fact they have such fantastic human beings as their sisters. I have showed you the way of love and you are free to express that  in any way to your brothers. The choice is yours."

With a new found grit and resolve and a heart full of love, the two sisters continued praying for their brothers each year, with a fervent hope that may be the next time, the festival calendar mentions a "day for sisters" as well. 

P.S - To all my brothers, we love you and we know you do the same. Never liked the idea of quantifying love and affection to certain days. But bro, think about it, another day of festivity would mean lots of fabulous food and some awesome gifts. So, what say? 😜😜😜

The Day I Flew Past Me...

Once upon a time there was a little birdie. She lived in a jungle tree and was content with her sweet little nest. One day as she flew by the village nearby, she was amazed by the houses men built. "Neat and near perfect", she marvelled. 

Next day the birdie set out on building a comfortable, roofed house for her self. "I will have one of my own very soon", she assured herself. 

Days, weeks, months flew by and yet her house was nowhere near completion. 

As she perched herself on a rock near the jungle rivulet one autumn morn, the reflection shocked her. Her amber feather was now a dull grey, their lustre all lost. 

As her tears created ripples in the water, she looked up at the sky above. 

The blue was her space, the winds her companion. She missed them terribly and longed to be back in that space.

"Why did I want four walls, when the wilderness is my solace?"

That day the birdie sailed past the layers of cool and nearly touched the Sun. 

The feather was amber once again, her straw strewn nest sang her a sweet lullaby as she embraced peace.

Winter Words

The silence of chaos brings peace to the rustling thoughts. The paints and colours float around searching for their pimp. There are no takers of the garish shades of my riotous speech this white evening. The brush counts its strokes and misses the math of hues mingling in the filthy tray of boredom. The sleeves are a tad longer and bear remnants of an euphoric evening dedicated to a box of pastels. 

The chilly winter moon looks out for a warm cover. Alas, she carelessly tied her mane to bundle her secrets. 

Nah, I won't paint tonight. Let the ends remain untied. Not all songs need a crescendo; a few fallen notes suffice one foggy midnight.

Once Upon a time at Night

Sleepless and dreaming. I dream of those who are burning the midnight oil, those who are attending calls to appease frantic queries from across the seas and shores, the souls who have to stay awake lest they miss the breaking news, the guardians of our safety and sovereignty who patrol relentlessly, the dwellers under the open sky who manage to grab sleep despite heavy vehicles zooming past their narrow pavements. That one mind which awakens to the quest of creative pursuits and pens down the last few lines of her book, the song writer who shall not rest before he fixes his broken song, those eyes behind the glasses aligning his designs to enhance his aesthetic masterpiece.

The peace of sleep caresses the ones who are her favourite; they hum tender snores, their bodies at peace and preparing for the autumn morning to follow.

I wander into the jungle, perhaps the wilderness has a different story to tell. Do the wild beasts sleep like us? I shall not know just now. But the mind spins its own fantastic tales, some of which I may use as bedtime stories for my young ones in the future (only if they would be fortunate enough to repose their faith in flights of fantasy and wonderland).

The dark velvet texture of the night sky has left me spellbound each time my dreary, sleep-deprived eyes have braved to look upwards. The night has been the reason of zillion myths, beliefs, disbeliefs, secrets, conspiracies et al. Night is laden with infamy, it is equated with all that is ominous, it is painted in forbidden hues. Night sulks.

I take an unsure step to greet my night. It looks up, it smiles and it illuminates. Unlike the golden rays of the magnanimous Sun that blanket us in white light, here are the moody shades of the dark hours. It is subtle like the coy bride, translucent like the emotion of new lovers. Night is the poem of the unsung beings.

She moves stealthily through our life each day and prefers to stay on the opposite shore. She covers our follies and gives us yet another chance to rejoin life. Night, well what more can I speak about you? When day decided to quit on me and nobody else thought it relevant to stand by my dreams, you walked up to me and gently soothed my agitated dilemma. You let me enjoy your emptiness, your silence and never judged me as I sat clueless and vague.

Life at night and that of night shall continue to intrigue me even and most often than not win the war against sleep. Today, is not her day though. Yet lovely lady, worry not. In many like me you have your steadfast lovers, your dogged companions.

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