One Line

Browsing through my #Twitter (Oh! Pardon the hashtag, which by the way was once better known as octothorpe) TL (Timeline) I found an interesting link by @PenguinIndia. It's the link to a guest-post on their blog where the guest-author speaks of how 'one line' can sometimes change one's world forever and by drastic proportions. It could be something one reads or something one is told...

On reaching the end of the blog post I found myself doing what Aakash (Amir Khan's character) does in 'Dil Chahta Hai' immediately after the opera; I closed my eyes and went on a flash'bike' ride, frantically searching for that 'one line' that may have altered my world at some point.Though I can't remember the 'one line' verbatim what I do recall is that it was a series of conversations with one of my college professors that may have influenced my decision to start  my blog: Cuppa, two years ago.

I had had a tryst with writing before Cuppa though, they were brief stints that I didn't take seriously enough. While in school, there were those one off poems that I'd write on loose pieces of paper or on the last pages of old note books; then there was that relatively systematicncontribution of two short pieces and a poem to the youth section of a local daily. In college there was the writing that I did for the numerous public speaking competitions I had participated in, coupled with a few diary entries. None of this though made me feel like an aspirant writer until that one day in October of 2010. Like most of my decisions, this too was spontaneous. What started as a one off post today stands at over 100 articles and a substantial number of unfinished ones which I haven't put on the record.

I wouldn't call myself a writer just as yet because I feel that I've got 'miles to go before I sleep'. That said, it's what I'd call a good start. This one off incident, so well-planned by Him helped me discover a side of me that I always knew existed but never nurtured. We all have certain things that make us, us and doing those things gives our lives meaning. Writing, for me is that 'thing'. It makes me become more of myself each day.

We all have a purpose to fulfill in our lives and discovering what defines us is instrumental to fulfilling this purpose. I believe that in His time every human being is confronted by that 'one line' which alters one's  life to an extent that one is rendered prepared to embark upon the 'journey of fulfillment'; not for onesself alone but also for others; to make this world a better place.. in my case, one word at a time.

Link:

http://penguinindia25.tumblr.com/post/28822164784/dont-you-think-its-time-by-our-guest-blogger-ashraf

21 Going On 21

All of us have, at various points of time in life asked ourselves the dreaded question 'Who am I?'. As evolving beings, we are always in the quest to find our identity. Just the other day I was rummaging through the junk on my desktop (we all have cluttered desktops, don't we?) and I struck gold! Well, for me it was nothing less than gold because reading that Word document rendered me enlightened on many a level. 

Remember Orkut; yes, that oh so interesting social networking site which gradually lost its charm, thanks to Facebook. I can't tell you the number of times I've edited my Orkut profile content, during those days. I don't really blame myself; I had just turned 21 then and my efforts to figure out my identity were at their peak; though eventually I grew out of it. Turns out that I had saved a copy of my profile and here I was, almost half a decade later, sitting and staring at my 21-year old self.

I must confess that I was embarrassed at the utter childishness of my thoughts and may have even turned a deep shade of beetroot-red by the time I reached the end of the page. Nevertheless, I can't deny how amused I was to sense that the basic substance of my personality hadn't changed despite the emotional growth spurt. It was reassuring to realise that we never change, we just find out more about ourselves as we grow up. I too had unraveled the mystery of myself, still am!

What a wonderful feeling it is; the feeling of maturing over time like the cliched old wine in a new bottle!

Orkut Profile

About Me

I  am a very lucky girl! My life rocks and only good things happen to me!

For instance, once I walked right through two TCs without a ticket because I forgot to buy one and didn't get caught...hahahaha..

Another time I got upset over something but it was already time to sleep and so I din't have to break my head over it..hahahaha..

Yet another time I was confused if I should straighten my hair and I saw myself in a trial room mirror. I looked like 'blackielocks' and so my conflict was resolved..hahahaha..

Like everyday..I don't drink eight glasses of water a day and neither do I work out but I have an amazing skin, no acne..no pimples..no zits..hahahah..

I am an extremely sensitive and emotional person. I take a lot of time to trust people but once I do there is no looking back unless you break my trust. Then I'm the kinds who would just stone wall...

I can laugh at the drop of a hat....

 I am obsessed with Punjabi weddings and brides...(blush--flush--gush)

I don't think a mother loves her child more than a father does...

I like a bunch of flowers; no bouquets or single flowers and they don't have to be roses or orchids, just colourful :)

I am not a goodie goodie. I believe that well behaved women never made history...

If you think it's only difficult to go shopping with a woman, wait till you come with me. I drive the sales guys up the wall...
 
I blush when I'm complimented!!!

I love going to the parlour. It makes me feel beautiful...

I believe that beauty is more important than brains because it's when I look good that I feel good and it's when I feel good that I can get the best out of me....

I love listening to loud music....

I am a movie buff...
 
I love amusement parks. I can sit on the scariest of joy rides if you promise to sit with me...

If you think I can hurt you, smile :) because I can only hurt the people that I love...

I am an orator. Holding the mic and speaking in front of millions..debates...elocutions..compereing...it's just pure ecstasy to me...
   
I feel proud to be an Indian when I read Bharatiya Rail or Indian Railways on the trains...

I fancy the idea of girls riding bikes, jeeps...(I will ride a bike someday!)

My favourite F.R.I.E.N.D.S. characters are Ross and Rachel...

I believe in miracles and the strange thing about miracles is that they happen only to those who believe in them...:)

I aspire to be a beautiful and powerful woman someday...

21-year old me.

Rakhi..

Having resolved the problem of the tri coloured wires Aslam, our electrician finally shut the fuse box close. As my neighbour rummaged through her purse for a fifty rupee note Aslam inquired, "Aap raakhi nahi baandh rahe ho madam?" Smiling, she looked up and said, "Hum Hindu nahi hain." Immediately Aslam shot back, "Raksha Bandhan toh sabka tyohaar hai!"

Today is my most favourite festival, Rakhi. My fascination for this festival amazes me because I'm a single child and having never grown up with a brother it's strange that I should harbour a soft corner for Rakhi. Nevertheless I do and probably not having someone to call bhaiya in all these years makes me teary-eyed each time I think of this beautiful age old gesture. I've always wondered about the kind of person I would be if I had a little brat around; if I'd have to share my parents with someone, if I'd have to forgo the bigger piece of fish for someone, if I'd have to pull someone's hair out to get hold of the television remote...someone who would look like me, may be look up to me. Life would be very different and yes I would be very different.

Six years ago God granted my wish. I have two first cousins in Mumbai and that meant two wrists, finally! I did everything that I'd always wanted to do; peruse the endless lines of colourful rakhis in every other lane, buy Cadburys, set up the thread and chocolate on a steel plate, get my shagun...everything. Last year though I moved out of Mumbai and so today I have no wrists. That said I have a strong realisation of what it means to have a brother. It rises above the symbolic gesture of Rakhi. Today to me, having a brother means having a responsibility; having someone to love and care for; having someone to wish well for. And so I wish, and I pray that God blesses my brothers for all that they are and more..and I pledge to keep that sacred thread tied tighter than ever.

Happy Rakhi Bhaiya!

Curator cruelty

“Don't limit a child to your own learning, for he was born in another time.” –

Rabindranath Tagore

All generations have one thing in common – their struggle to find common grounds with preceding and succeeding generations. We’ve come to identify this struggle as ‘generation gap’. In the wake of the recent Mangalore resort incident many are trying to analyse in vain as to who is guilty - the partying youngsters or the self proclaimed curators who man handled them? Well, it’s a conundrum easier debated than resolved.

The idea of recreation has evolved over the years and like everything else that undergoes change it too has its pros and cons. The New Indian Economic Policy of 1991 exposed Gen Y (usually those born somewhere from the late 1970s or early 1980s to the early 2000s) to a life style totally different from that followed by those who came before them. We not only started using global products and services but also consequently began imbibing global ideas and aping global culture. Overtime the threads of this ‘new way of life’ were inevitably sewn into the fabric of Indian culture; for better or for worse. Today, we follow a blend of various cultures; not just those since LPG (Liberalisation Privatisation Globalisation) but even long before that. A classic example of unity in diversity, India has tasted many a foreign rule and is the melting pot of a plethora of traditions, customs and cultures that these foreigners brought with them. How then can one individual or institution decide what ‘Indian culture’ is? One could only state inclusive definitions and not exhaustive ideas of the same.

The lifestyle change ushered in by global exposure trickled down to the minutest of aspects – food, clothes, language…Wearing baggy jeans or donning a tank top doesn’t spell indecency; it’s mere evidence of ‘the change’. In the past decade or so we have witnessed an alteration in the male-female rapport paradigm. This can be attributed to many factors like increasing number of co-ed schools, cumulative effects of gender equality initiatives and portrayal of the new male-female equation by media. It’s not surprising that the youth today enjoy a higher comfort level with members of the opposite gender as opposed to those in the past. Again, enjoying recreational activities with the opposite gender doesn’t spell indecency; it’s mere evidence of ‘the change’. So were these youngsters who were allegedly ‘partying’ at fault?

Well, sadly one only posseses control over one’s own actions and so it’s best if the youth today finds safer or alternative recreational zones. Small precautions like trying to get home early, avoiding hard drinks especially during late night parties and avoiding regular late night parties with a mixed gender group wouldn’t cost our generation much. After all, all we want to do is have fun! That doesn’t mean one stops living life by one’s own rules; it only means that ‘tis a bad bad world out there and a certain degree of compromise is demanded from each one of us unless we plan on migrating to mars. No, we cannot go about trying to change world and the sooner we realise this the better it will be for us and for those around us.

Now assuming that the group of boys and girls at the resort in Mangalore were ‘wrongly partying’, is the reaction of the self proclaimed curators justified? Was the violence exhibited by the ‘keepers of our culture’ the only solution – slapping and trashing the girls and man handling the boys? Who gave you right to discern right and wrong for these youngsters? And if you assumed the authority to safe guard your idea of Indian culture wasn’t it your responsibility not to resort to such preposterous behaviour?

The question here is not about who is guilty. Rather, we need to focus on how we ought to deal with what may be a social vice. One wrong thought, word or action doesn’t have the power to correct another wrong thought, word or action. No, we can not make two negatives a positive; this is not mathematics, this is life!

Kargil Vijay Divas

"..and if it pleases you my Lord, do not place my heart
In the hands of a man with a riffle and grenade."

I've always loved a man in uniform. There is, I believe, an unparalleled air around them that commands respect and admiration. If beholding such a man gives me a high I can only imagine the feeling of walking beside one; but I won't because I don't think that I am brave enough. I vividly remember sitting in the chapel when I was younger, praying that I should never fall in love with a soldier. Why? I am selfish and I can't give my country the people I love. That brings me to another breed of people that I admire. The woman beside the man in uniform; someone I could never be. What courage!

It's been twelve years since we won the Kargil war. Browsing through the gory details I shudder to think of what we lost that day! The figures are appalling; over 500 Indian soldiers took to martyrdom, more than a thousand were rendered wounded and allegedly one was a POW. Did we really win? The loss on the other side was as bad, may be worse; allegedly 4,000 died, 800 were wounded and 8 were POWs. They say a war has no winners and the sacrifice that these soldiers, both Indian and Pakistani, and their loved ones made in the 1999 war advocates the same. Marking the anniversary of Vijay Divas Harsha Bhogle aptly tweeted, "Anniversary of Kargil: An event that was wasteful, unnecessary and utterly sad. May it never need to happen again." Does this mean that there is a school of thought which undermines the sacrifices that our jawans made for us. Of course not! What they did for us is priceless. That said, will there ever be a way to avoid a similar loss in the future?

I recently read a book about the assassination of former Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhakh Rabin; a human being who put man before the sabbath. A man who walked the talk putting peace before piece (of land) Laws are put in place to protect man and not to render him vulnerable and helpless. As rational and thinking individuals we need to revisit our beliefs often enough to ensure that we haven't deviated from the core purpose. Many a time, even on a micro level we get so engrossed in an argument that we loose track of what we are arguing about. Arguments, debates, discussions all aim at progress and betterment. It's never about proving someone wrong but trying to see the bigger picture and accommodating the larger good.

There are arguments that could justify war - self defense and survival instinct. You could get back at me saying, "If you think Rabin's giving up that stretch of land was justified are you willing to give up Kashmir?" I really don't know. All I'd say is that we got to start somewhere; and that is possible if each one of us thinks anti-war, if each one of us thinks peace. Well, you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one. I hope some day you'll join us . And the world will be as one.

"...sarhadein insaano ke liye hain; socho tumne aur maine kya paya insaan hoke!" - Javed Akhtar

"..and the realisation is that we are all born the same." - Aswad

Short Story

---Ruth---

Part 1

The lamp post light, at the turning kept flickering. Ruth watched as two-wheelers zoomed past her in the busy Pune-street. The street light lit the bus stop she was sitting at, in between spurts of cold darkness. December in Pune was unbearable.

Ruth got into the red Maruti 800. “Hi mom,” she said dispassionately as she gently closed the door after her. She stifled a yawn as she pulled her safety belt across her and locked it with a click. An awkward silence ensued and no one uttered a word until they got home. Even at the dinner table conversation was kept to a minimum; just a question or two about the day at college followed by a yes and a no.

Ruth got into bed and stayed there until the lights went out. She avoided conversations with her mother. It had been six months since the fateful incident though Ruth had vivid memories of that afternoon. She had been reading The Holy Bible when she heard a loud noise in the driveway. Eyes widened she had run across the hall way only to open the door and freeze for what seemed like an eternity. Ruth had loved her father even though he had been a heavy drinker and beat her mother every other night. She loved her mother too but may be she just loved her father more. Sometimes she wondered if she really loved him or was it just her reaction to his lack of attention toward her. May be she just craved for his love and approval.

It was dark now and Ruth heard her mother’s bed room door shut close. She smiled as she pulled out her red bound Bible from her bag and turned the pages to the Book of Ruth, her favourite. She felt an inexplicable affinity towards this book in the Bible; as if she’d read it somewhere else before. This was Ruth’s favourite time of the day. She loved the silence that the tinkling chimes hanging at her bedroom window occasionally broke. The lacy white curtains danced to the tunes of the cool night breeze and crickets in the garden outside serenaded the beautiful black night.

Ruth 1:16&17

“Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go, your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die – there will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!”

******

The sun was beating down on them and they could barely inch forward. “We must stop to drink some water,” said Naomi to her daughter-in-law and so they halted at a near by well. A clay pot lay beside the well and Ruth used it to draw some water. After Naomi and Ruth had refreshed themselves they continued their journey. Bethlehem was still a few miles away and they had to reach there before sun-set.

“Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone in whose sight I may find favour,” said Ruth to Naomi the following morning. Ruth and her mother-in-law had reached Bethlehem in time for the barely harvest.

As Ruth was busy gathering the grain a tall man with skin as white as milk and rusty-brown eyes spoke to her. “Now listen, my daughter,” he said. Wide-eyed and startled Ruth turned back to face Boaz, a kinsman on Naomi’s husband’s side. Boaz was a prominent God-fearing rich man in the community. Ruth thought that Boaz had a mysterious face; the thick skin furrowed on his forehead and his unkempt beard suggested that he was aggressive, though the rugged look had undertones of kindness that were clearly reflected in his eyes. “Do not glean in another field or leave this one, but keep close to my young women. Keep your eyes on the field that is being reaped, and follow behind them. I have ordered the young men not to bother you. If you get thirsty, go to the vessels and drink from what the young men have drawn.”  

That evening Ruth returned home to her mother-in-law. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the palm tree in their front yard. Naomi sat on a jute cot puffing on a hookah as Ruth massaged her feet sitting on the cool mud-parapet next to her. The sound of air-bubbles in the hookah jar embellished the silence of the night. “The name of the man with whom I worked today is Boaz,” said Ruth. Naomi stopped puffing.

For Writing's Sake

As children we all have that one favourite place that we love going too; may be that's because it makes us feel secure. I believe it's every child's way of recreating the 'womb experience' where no one or nothing can harm it; a comfort zone of sorts.

 

I'm a single child with working parents and I didn't really have many friends to play with before I started going to school, just one to be precise. I vividly remember the long walks with dad, mom and my childhood bestie which more often than not ended with chocobar ice cream; bliss! The walk was preceded by a heart-pumping session at 'horsy' garden; the only garden in the vicinity - a big open space with lots of sand, a slide, two pairs of swings, a seesaw and yes a magnificent white horse that stood in the middle of the garden.

Though the sands of time have pretty much blurred the memories of the fun times my friend and I had in this garden there are a few things that I will never forget. Sometimes we'd spend hours among the creeky swings, the yellow slide with blue stairs that took us all the way up, the blue see saw.. and not even realise when it'd be time to leave! Childhood was defined very differently then. The 80's-kids were the last generation that grew up smelling the roses if I may, the last generation that managed to strike a balance between life and everything else; most 80-borns would agree with me. School was more than grades, football was larger than laying the foundation for future sports scholarships, dance classes went beyond competing with other aspirant dancers and there was a life beyond computer games and hi-tech gadgets.

We hear today about so many cases where young children succumbing to peer pressure and materialism resort to satisfy their wants immorally and antisocially. Of course we cannot blame them for they are born in a different time. That said we as the past need to keep the present grounded in their roots no matter how much they grow toward the future. for progress doesn't spell annihilation of origin and modernity doesn't lead to doom for tradition. Yes, change is inevitable and definitely good alright but somethings, somethings are best unchanged!

For Writing's Sake

There are sights waiting to render their beholders breathless
If only one were open enough to look out for them...

Just the other day I was whiling away my time on Facebook when I bumped into a  really thought provoking photo-share; it spoke of how there aren't just seven wonders in the world but that in the eyes of a child everything is no less than a wonder. I couldn't help but think of whether the innocence in us is still untouched enough to spot the extraordinary in the most ordinary.

A few years back I was on a holiday in Bahrain and my mom and I went for a stroll in morning. We were just wandering away from no where when we walked across one of the most beautiful things that I'd ever seen. I stopped in my tracks visually gorging on the beauty of this non-wonder of nature. Nature is a strange woman and has an uncanny knack of doing the unexpected. She creates beauty out of nothing and that's what best describes this haven of sorts that I beheld in front of me. Was mother nature trying to teach me something? May be we too as her children can bring out the best from the worst of situations; create something worthwhile out of naught. On second thoughts is naught just an illusion?

As I stood under the sun admiring the 'climber haven' my first thought was what a fabulous wedding tent it would make! I've always nurtured a fascination for beach weddings with flower-arches..the works. The climber veins so beautifully entwined the fragile structure beneath them and in doing so supported each other so well. How symbolic I thought! After all a man and woman come together in marriage pledging to be each others' support.

As I'm typing this post I'm reminded of a beautiful quote that I'd written for one of my closest friends, a soul sister I'd say. One evening we unexpectedly had this intense conversation and realised that we had more in common than we knew. Listening to each others' inner most feelings made us stronger as individuals.

In life we are faced with so many opportunities to be a shoulder to someone. How many of us are willing to take a cue from these feeble climber veins and be that support for another? After all service to others is a platform for self actualisation; we never do it for others, we do it for ourselves.

"Two climbers inching on a common wooden beam; some how they are destined to entwine. And now, though dependent climbers, they are stronger in each other, in each other they are rendered independent..."

Shadows In The Closet

Part 1

‘Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new…’ Mikhail read as he scrolled down his smart phone screen. Quotes transported Mikhail Eli into a completely different world; he loved reading those written by others and he loved writing his own. He smiled to himself as he remembered a quote by Oprah Winfrey, ‘Here’s what my love affair with quotations has taught me: the more you focus on words that uplift you, the more you embody the ideas contained in those words.’

Mikhail couldn’t wait to get home. The local train was barely crawling and after what had seemed like ages the familiar feminine voice blared out of the compartment speaker, ‘Malad’; music to his ears.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the air as it ruffled his hair and caressed his face. The serpentine Mumbai local slowed down at the station. Keeping one foot on board and tightly clenching the metal rod he looked ahead contemplating his next move. He squinted and contorted his face breathing deeply as he sensed the soles of his red Converse shoes grate against the granular finish of the station platform. Placing his left palm on his sling bag he let go of the metal rod jogging for a few seconds before coming to a halt which synchronised with that of the rusted gents’ compartment.

It was ten in the night and life had just begun; that is Mumbai; a city that never sleeps. Mikhail fell in love with the place within a month of staying in it and had never looked back since. He believed that love was a one way road with out any U-turns. Even with Maya it was the same. They weren’t dating but they both knew they weren’t ‘just friends’.

He turned the big silver key to the right as he pushed the veneered door ahead. The silence cushioned within the four walls of the living room was broken by a ring tone. He threw his bag on the couch and hit the green key on the key pad. “Hey you,” said Mikhail. She loved the baritone voice that greeted her each night. “How you sugar?” she inquired endearingly. “Stop calling me that,” he fought back. “Long long days yaar. I’m dead tired.” Plonking himself onto the grey couch he stretched to drive away his fatigue in vain. A short spell of silence ensued and Maya sensed what was coming. “Want to talk tomorrow,” she asked dreading the reply. “Hm-mm no it’s fine,” he said but she knew she’d lost him for yet another night.

Maya still remembered the first time she had spoken to him. It had been a bizarre online type chat. She had added him on Facebook thinking he was the brother of one of her college friends. “What!” he had exclaimed. “I’m Mikhail, we were together in high school remember?” Maya’s stomach had churned; it had been scary to realise that she had been talking to someone she apparently knew but couldn’t remember knowing. “Bloody chipku despo,” she had thought to herself. “I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve any more and I’m not going to let some random jerk woo me, sway my heart and then turn around and say Maya it’s not going to work.” She believed all men were the same or at least she hadn’t met someone who was different. After a week of random type chats he had asked her for her number. Being relatively new to the city Maya had preferred to remain apprehensive of his intentions and so had thought it wise not to ask for his. That said she had given Mikhail hers; strange, but that was Maya, an emotional fool and advocate of benefit of doubt. Surprisingly the subsequent weekend call had been magical from the moment he had said hey. She had sensed a deep connection in their first serious type-chat but hadn’t paid much attention to it. Talking to Mikhail was like looking into a mirror. They were different on quite a few levels, like mirror images are different in terms of right and left; but then they are mirror images, they did have a common ground.

“Why so quiet?” Mikhail asked stifling a yawn. “Nothing, just,” she replied coldly. “Chalo, I’ll get back to my book. Bye.” Maya hung up as she picked the blue book near her pillow. An indulgent reader, Maya loved her books. She read anything that she could relate to given her life circumstances and this book had come to her at such a right time. ‘A Woman’s Worth’, a self help title of sorts having feminist undertones and Maya, a bra-burning feminist lapped up every letter in the book. She turned a leaf and stopped as she reached the end of the page. Taking a deep breath she thought of how her experiences in life had transformed her from the girl that she was to the woman that she had now become; at least was in the process of becoming. The emotional journey in the recent past had been instrumental in this metamorphosis of her character and her eyes gleamed as she stared at nothing thinking of all that this experience had been worth.

‘A princess is a girl who knows that she will get there, who is on her way perhaps but is not there yet. She has power but she does not yet wield it responsibly. She is indulgent and frivolous. She cries but not yet noble tears. She stomps her feet and does not know how to contain her pain or use it creatively.

A queen is wise. She has earned her serenity, not having it bestowed on her but having passed her tests. She has suffered and grown more beautiful because of it. She has proven she can hold her kingdom together. She has become its vision. She cares deeply about something bigger than herself. She rules with authentic power.’

Author Marianne Williamson was Maya’s newfound diva and she smiled as she found herself getting lost in her world of words for yet another night. After what had seemed like ages she jolted forward half asleep. Her foot hit the laptop next to her and she woke up with a start. It had been that dream again. Maya always dreamed that she was falling down; falling down a flight of stairs because she missed a step or falling down a mountain or just tripping and falling down. Nothing really explained those dreams despite her constant efforts to remember them, analyse them and try and link them to any memory in her conscious or subconscious mind.

‘She was walking with him, hand in hand, and he had slid his right foot in her path on purpose. Playful that he was he had intended for her to trip but not fall down; he had held her as she jolted forward.’

Maya’s eyes welled up as she remembered her dream which brought back memories so painfull and yet so beautiful. Life had moved on ever since the episode though it had been more of a ‘force quit’ situation. Maya believed that she had made her side of the effort, though passive to progress but there was always a swarm of thoughts that tortured her soul. It was as though she was swimming upstream. She was trying to move at her best pace but the strong currents were moving at the same pace rendering her stationary. She always found herself at the starting line and the very thought of it had begun to frustrate her; rather scare her. Would things ever change?

******

“Strange how we make our choices,” said Philamea sipping on her cuppa. Philamea was Maya’s soul mate. They weren’t sisters by birth though both of them believed that destiny had caused their paths to intercept making them sisters by heart. “On the one hand there is a man who is willing to give you the world. It may take a while, nevertheless you know for a fact that he cares. On the other hand there is a man who doesn’t really care. What are you doing Maya?” The rain was pouring outside and Maya’s gaze was fixed on a tiny water droplet that slid from top to bottom on the glass wall that they were sitting next to. Coffee shops were a haven for Maya especially the one below her home. Maya turned her head to face a couple, in the corner of the shop, fighting over cappuccino and croissants. A tall and lanky girl passed by their table holding her red umbrella close to her as she tried to rid her hair of the rain water with her right hand. Philamea picked up the silver spoon on the saucer and tinkled it against her broad mouthed coffee cup. Maya smiled as she looked at her. “What are you doing Maya?” she repeated her question. “If it’s right then it’s right Phil,” said Maya. “I need to be convinced about what I’m doing and nothing is going to happen until then. After all every purpose under heaven has a time doesn’t it?” A phone ring interrupted their conversation. Bold and blinking, the name flashed across the 4.3 inch screen of the smart phone on their table, ‘Mikhail’.

Let It Be...

"Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant, it's best not to stir them." - P. G. 
 Wodehouse

I've lost count of the number of times that I've used this quote by the synonymous to humour Wodehouse. Perhaps it's because of the priority that memories enjoy in my life. I once asked one of my close friends if there was anything that he loved collecting and he had replied saying books. I'd love to see his collection someday. That reminds me of another of my friends who owes me a session with his collection as well. Anyway, when the former asked me the same question I replied saying memories; I collect memories!

The Bible verse that I read this evening (Romans 12:21) led me to associate it with memories. St. Paul advises the early Christians not be overcome by evil, but to overcome evil with good. The undertones of the verse point towards building a tenacity of sorts. One needs to be able to endure in order to live in this world; after all 'tis a bad bad world. One cannot allow evil, a bad experience to overcome one. Rather, one needs to, through prayer create goodness enough to help one overcome the trauma.

It's been over a year now and like many of you I too am dealing with a broken heart. I wake up each day to put the pieces together in vain. The bitter memories have an uncanny knack of blending into our happy thoughts. I wonder if St. Paul is trying to tell us what he told the early believers in Christ. Are we exercising the choice that God has given us? The choice to put the bitter memories behind us rather than be over come by them and stop dreaming. I'm reminded of what Patrick Swayze said in his autobiography 'Time of my Life'. Swayze was a national icon and we've seen his red carpet moments. The book though takes us through his worst experiences and despite them all he is a believer that the most unfortunate of persons in the world is one with a broken dream who cannot dream again. Dreams break and Swayze advocates that one needs to find another dream to replace it in order to continue to live. How profound!

Overcoming is a process and nothing is going to change overnight. That said we need to make a start somewhere. The first step is realising that we're hurting and that there is something we need to overcome. The next step is realising that we cannot hold onto certain things or people in our life and that as the Beatles so beautifully put it we need to 'Let it be'. Lastly, being patient enough to endure the process no matter how long it takes and believing through it all that He will come and so we must wait for Him.

Lord, give me the grace to accept the things that I cannot change and the courage to change what I can..

Lessons learned..

Suddenly I have all the time in the world and I can't get more of movies, reading and blogging. Just last week I perusing a friend's blog when I bumped into one of her Valentine's Day special posts. The blog spoke of the evolution of love over time; how one feels the same emotion differently as one matures in life. The blog reminded me of a book that I'd half-read three years back - 'Rubbish Boyfriends' by Jessie Jones. I'm sitting here thinking of the few frogs that I've kissed..

Puppy Love
Puppy Love is an amazing feeling. It's ecstatic the first time you feel those butterflies in your stomach. Sleepless nights and rose tinted panoramic views of a lifetime. We did have our share of fun. The best part was we were best friends (we're still friends!). Young and crazy that we were (still are?) we embarked upon a never-to-forget stomach-churning roller coaster ride. Our escapades ranged from visiting museums and botanical gardens, attending award-winning movie screenings and participating in anti-smoking 'walkathons' to sucking on golas (ice popsicles) at Chowpatty, going crazy in salsa dance workshops and cooking together. All said, the best five years of my life. Were there tears, hollering and fights; hell yeah! That said amidst all the heart break and heart ache they qualify to be a never-to-forget phase in my life.

A lesson that this experience taught me was that love is not the comforting feeling that one experiences when one is dependent on someone during an emotional security crises. Love is strong and stems from confidence..lesson learned.

Hero Worship
Let's face it, haven't  we all had those parent like or older sibling like figures whom we adored. The sad part, we mistook the adoration for love. Thankfully for a few of us the adults in the deal ensured that sanity prevailed and our feelings were kept on tab.

When we realise that we're still too young to make a vocational decision, that realisation my friends is called maturity. Until then we may keep telling ourselves that we're 'grown-ups' in vain. This experience took its toll on my emotional fabric as well. Never in my life have I written such creative diary entries. In fact I even owe my blogging to those few months of being inspired by someone I adored so much. Today all I have left for the person in question is respect; lesson learned.

The First Time
..and just as I was beginning to learn how to accept solitude and be truly independent, he came along. Tall, dark and handsome the man swept me off my feet and there was no looking back. I felt like a woman for the first time in 23 years and each day I nurtured the dream with raw emotion and before I knew it my life was tethered to his.

Women never learn that men do it tortoise style when it comes to commitment. May be if I'd have read 'Why Men Marry Bitches' by Sherry Argov back then things would have panned out differently. Well I'm guessing the pressure got to him and in a 'poof' he was gone. I mourned his loss for over a year; I waited for him to come back failing to understand that he was never there in the first place. He broke my heart and I hated what he did. I hated myself more because I couldn't get myself to hate him. I saw his actions as a violation of my trust again failing to understand that he was young just like I was. Well, today when I think in retrospect I'm happy that I have nothing against him. He did what any normal man would; lesson learned.

Something Like The First Time
Thanks to my past experience I swore never to wear my heart on my sleeve; but as I said women never learn!

When he pinged me for the first time I thought he was some kind of 'chipku-despo' and that all he wanted was to explore. I believe that men are like toddlers; they want to explore their world. They pursue the subject only to pacify their curiosity and not because they want the subject. This one too I thought would woo me, sway my heart and then turn around and say "Hun, it's not going to work" and guess what.. I was not going to let him do that. I was as rude and as cold as I could be initially. Over time we did getting chatty but it kind of ended before anything began. Why that happened is a blog for another day! Well, lesson learned.

This morning I learned that one of the frogs is on his way to priesthood; makes my stomach churn and it undoubtedly feels weird even though there is nothing left even if I were to go back there. Well, c'est la vie I guess. As they say, it's better to have 'loved' and lost than never to have 'loved' at all!

Reference links:

• http://sliceofmylyfe.wordpress.com/?s=love+in+30s&submit=Search (Thanks Anita Menon!)

Evolution...

Oh Evolution thou has kept the world revolving...

No, this is not yet another science versus religion blog and neither am I an atheist. That said I do believe that evolution is the carrier of existence and that which chooses not to evolve ceases to exist sooner or later.

Evolution to me also means progress; an inevitable change that brings about the realisation of a higher state of existence. I'm saying all these things because I believe that I've just stepped into phase two of my career. Fresh out of college I knew that I had to get into a boutique firm. Small time organisations have a holistically hone our skills thus rendering our core competency a sharp sword ready to slice the task at hand into two.

My stint with an agency, my first proper work stint, is coming to an end and its a cathartic experience to have gained so much in the past nine months. There has been tremendous learning thanks to my inclusive and never exhaustive job description. My learning from the work I've done and my observations of my superiors' and colleagues' work has helped me get trained across an extensive range of media activities - most typical public relation tasks, events management, integrated marketing communication and print journalism. Apart from technical knowledge I've been blessed to have learned a lesson or two about survival in the bad world. With all this under my belt I'm set to take the plunge after a short 'battery charge' period.

The evolution or progress comes in here because now when I look for the next break my priority would be pay-pack, benefits and allowances, promotions and learning in contrast to my priority before my first stint - only learning. At this stage I find myself seeking to settle in a big corporate where there is scope to climb the ladder in monetary terms and otherwise.

Well at some point I hope to get my dream phase two job opportunity. For the interim I have a bucket list ready. I jwas reading a book off the local library shelf few months back and I bumped into a sentence that paralysed my senses for a few seconds. I realised that soon I'm never going to be in my early twenties again. I've got three months more and I can't help but promise myself to live the last bit of my early twenties to the fullest - read, explore and write. How exactly am I going to execute this plan? Well that is a blog for another day!

'Coming home' is watching who are from the outside..it's becoming yourself all over again..I'm coming home!

Chaddi Buddy

Friend's are siblings God didn't give us...

That was what Del had said to me as we'd chatted one late evening months ago. As I further ponder over the idea I can't help thinking what would we ever do without friends.

I'm one of those people who has a lot of friends but few F.R.I.E.N.D.S. if you know what I mean! As a child too (I have no siblings) I had just one imaginary pal. As I grew a little older she sublimated in thin air and for the next few years, actually practically two-thirds of my childhood I spent time with Sameeha - the girl downstairs.

Sameeha a.k.a. Sana and I weren't really the best of friends; but we were all we had and so we derived cheap thrills from the craziest of adventures. We'd wrap curtains as sarees and wear her mom's pencil heels. We'd fight over who got to be Akshay Kumar's wife; being the more submissive and compromising one I was forced to settle down with Sunil Shetty ('yuck'). We'd prepare dance sequences for an imaginary audience or for Christmas get-togethers at my home. We'd record songs after learning the lyrics on the tape recorder (we were the cassette generation!). Kitchen toys, dolls, lipsticks, earrings...

*******

Sana's baby girl turned one last week. As I sat on the pale brown couch in the party hall I smiled to myself as I realised how we'd grown together; grown from being girls into beautiful women. What amused me even more was how the girl I'd fought with, laughed with, cried with...was now a complete woman - career, motherhood and all. It's beautiful how individuals who were once naive and carefree suddenly (or gradually) become mature and responsible. Though our basic personalities remain the same we are pushed through a phase that renders us more polished as we move out of it.

Those little things...

What is this life if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare...

Beautiful words penned down by W.H. Davies. Sadly the privilege of the time that the poet refers to isn't enjoyed by many in today's times. Those of us who do enjoy it, I'm sure have witnessed 'those little things' that render us changed personalities; remotely if not noticeably.

Abraham Maslow tells us that satisfaction of physiological needs - food, shelter and clothing - before any other need is an innate human behaviour. It's overwhelming to see a fellow being's inability to meet this need while we are busy dealing with our anxiety stemming from our struggle to meet higher needs.

Some packs of food remained in the trolley after the event got over and as we were about to return them to the shop owner she contorted her face in an attempt to questioningly signal to me if she could have a packet for herself and her partner. Paralysed with emotion I chose to duck the request. As I tried to look elsewhere her gaze caught mine again; her face almost pleading if she could have two packets of food. I picked up two of the snack packs and dumped them in her hands.

Life resembles a jigsaw puzzle on so many occasions. We try hard to put the pieces together but fail to spot and understand the bigger schemes hidden to us at that point but to be revealed in due time. Unanswered questions keep swarming our minds; why is there suffering, why is there injustice, why is there inequality, why do the rich get richer and the poor get poorer...none of these questions have definite answers. We may never be able to find answers to them.  Nevertheless we can try to understand our role in tackling these questions if not from society at least from our minds. The only way of doing this is to make a difference. Bringing about  a difference even in the smallest way possible is a big thing.

I've always been perturbed by the fact that many of us feel sorry and sympathetic towards the less fortunate and underprivileged but few of us get down to doing something about that 'sorry feeling'. It's not easy finding where we fit into the action plan; I too have lost myself trying to find myself. But that's not reason enough to give up is it?

Per aspera ad astra

I just finished watching the popular 2010 Hollywood release 'Eat, Pray, Love'. A touch long I would say, but I'm not here to critique the film. I'm here to talk about what I learned from it.

Of the many lessons that the movie teaches those viewers who are willing to learn one of the most striking in my opinion would be that 'Destruction is imperative to construction'. The protagonist narrates an analogy about the Mausoleum of Augustus which had to experience ruin before it was restored once again just like we must face the destruction of our spirits before we rise from the ashes once more. It is not so much the physical destruction of our bodies but the destruction of our egos. The Hindu custom of lighting the lamp also symbolises likewise. The wick in the lamp is our metaphoric ego which is burned in order for light to shine. A popular teaching of Christ Jesus also points towards destruction; this time that of our worldly peeves in order to find ourselves; unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground it still remains a grain of wheat, but if it falls and dies then it bears much fruit so it is with those who loose themselves in me (God).

I want to use an analogy that I've used in another article before this; the lessons that God tries to teach us through the happenings in our lives occur as infinite loops; they will keep occurring unless we add input, they will keep occurring unless we learn. Learning the hard lessons in life demands a breaking of our pride and that is exactly the input, the effort that we use to break the fetters and liberate ourselves.

Time is another important dimension. Every purpose under heaven has a time. We try to be in control of so many things in our lives only because we fear so many things. Surrender is the first step to facing our fears; and not just surrender but surrender to Him. Sometimes we need to let bigger forces act in our lives. Hence the prayer, God give me the grace to accept what I cannot change and the courage to change what I can. We cannot change the world but we can change ourselves. We cannot change what happens to us but we can change how we react to it.

Freedom never came free to anyone. It takes a broken heart and a shattered spirit to taste the sweetness of freedom. Life in limbo; a never ending fall; the interim; we need to live these phases to reach the moment of truth and cross over. Only the one who endures will be rewarded and the valuable lessons learned throughout the draconian process of the suffering of our souls is our reward. We need to wait for the Lord; and yes He will come!

Voice On The Other End Of The Line

Finally it's the most awaited time of the most awaited day of the week; Thursday evening. I've always loved the feeling that creeps into me when I step out of office on a Thursday evening. I know that I have a holiday the next day which means I don't have to wake up to an alarm.Moreover I can stay up late into the night doing whatever I enjoy - reading my books, watching a movie, writing...

Off late there has been another something that makes me look forward to the weekends; I get to use dad's room. Though I do enjoy being around a few people my growing years as a single child and my six year stint staying alone has taught me to value my own company. I stay with my parents and so I cherish the quality time that I get alone. In addition, I've made a new friend, a phone pal. We've never really met up; infact when we started talking online I thought I was talking to someone I knew from college. Almost a week of type chatting and I realised that it was not the person I thought it had been all this while. That was one weird moment because I figured I had been talking to someone I apparently know but don't remember knowing!

Did we start off on a good note? Hm-mm, not really. I'm pessimistic in my approach to most things and so I don't trust people that easily; or at least I choose to believe that I don't. My first reaction to the 'call of friendship' was a skeptical one. You never know these days; no one be friends no one without an ulterior motive. That said I won't deny that we did have an interesting first conversation and a second one and another one after that....

We've had many dialogues over the phone since then. Clearly we both find each other intellectually stimulating enough to make us want to get in touch the next time. All said and done, I can't help but wonder if I'd enjoy the company of my phone pal in person as much as I enjoy the company of that voice on the other end of the line. It reminds me of the Bollywood film 'Jhoota Hi Sahi' that I watched sometime back. The female lead in the movie is depressed with her life and on the verge of ending it when she makes a final call to a counseling helpline. A freak cross connection puts her online with the male lead who eventually talks her out of her suicide intention. A series of conversations ensue which make the former trust the voice on the other end of the line and she names him 'fidato' which means 'trustworthy'.

There is no depression, suicide or anything negative here; just all the fun of talking to a voice; a voice that amidst all the doubts seems to beckon to trust; a 'fidato' voice on the other end of the line!

Momma Diaries

Most women would agree with me if I told them that the fairer sex generally have stints during their growing years where they imagine the kind of mothers they will be. And I don't claim to be different!

Professor Shilpa Peshwani once told me how all her friends who had no siblings were bent on having more than one child when they grew up and today are proud parents to two or  more little angels. I relate to her friends' thought processes. I too am the only child my parents have and ever since I've thought about being a mother some day I've always maintained that the official number would be 'two'; preferably one boy and one girl though for reasons inexplicable I've always had a soft corner for daughters. My affinity to baby girls and my desire to have one of those pink bundles of joy some day is very clear in one of my previous blogs on Cuppa (please refer to My Girl Maya in the blog archive). My thoughts about raising my children have hovered around the more important (subjective) matters like the values I'd instill in them, the independent individuals I'd train them to be, the sensitivity I'd teach them never to loose...and of course around quite a bit of trivia such as our cooking escapades together, the birthday parties we'd organise, the 'same out fit day' my daughter and I would enjoy...

Well it looks all glamorous and fun alright. Also, I'm pretty sure I'd manage decently well. That said there are quite a few issues that worry me. My mother is this wonderful homemaker and neatness freak. Since time immemorial she has been at my back to be more organised with my work, to neatly stack my clothes in the cupboard, to keep my shoes in their box which goes onto the shoe-rack, to not throw my earrings onto the dressing table once I'm back from a party, to brush my teeth each night (well, is that dad or mom!), to drink more water, to put my clothes on the hanger...you get the drift; and I wonder if I'll ever be able to imbibe in my little ones the same discipline when I haven't reached 'there' as yet. In simpler words, am I ready to have children when I'm a child myself!

I don't really discuss these things with mum and dad; embarrassing topics these are. Nevertheless the doubts  remain and will haunt me till I find answers to my questions. Again having said that the ray of hope streaking across my window of prospective motherhood is that mothers are never born but made!

For Writing's Sake

I recently joined a local writers' group named the Bahrain Writers' Circle (BWC). I've never been part of any association before this and it's a wonderful feeling! I vividly recall feeling left out in Quant and Logic classes throughout school and college; I would start writing poems and quotes as a defense mechanism technique. During BWC meetings though I feel like I'm home. It's endearing to be around like minded people; people who feel excited on bumping into a new word just like I do, people who in the middle of reading a book just close their eyes and smile thinking about what they've just read like I do...

Well while it is fun being a part of BWC it is not a cake walk. We have certain criteria to follow in order to remain members, one of the most pressing ones being that we need to write; we need to write something each day even if it is just a 500 word paragraph ranting about nothing in particular. As long as it is original it qualifies as a write up. So here I am tonight fulfilling that criterion. Luckily for me I don't even need to rack my brains much for the topic because I have this really out of the world experience that I'd like to share with you.

I'm not a shopaholic and my style sense is so basic that I don't  even think it qualifies to be called a style sense. Nevertheless I did today what most ace shoppers may find it difficult to do; I bought a pair of peep-toes and a piece of jewellery in net 25 minutes. While that may sound very normal to many readers it is not and I can explain why. For starters I got good deals on both these artifacts. Secondly, I made sure they were things that I both needed and wanted so it was guilt free shopping all the way.

I spotted my black Da Vinci peep-toes while I was perusing through the plethora of interesting footwear in the shop. These gorgeous babies were sitting in a low rack behind a pair of obnoxious red stilettos. The moment I laid my eyes on them I felt a spark. I've always been a strong advocate of 'aa-haa effect' shopping; if there is the 'aa-haa effect' just buy it! The 'aa-haa effect' in this case can be attributed to the wedge heels which allow me the privilege of heels without having to let go of comfort. Another reason I love my new acquisition is because they are jet black and would go with almost everything in my wardrobe. Notwithstanding they are not just any black shoes but trendy peep-toes thus giving my feet the much needed oomph; and all this in just BD 13.9. What a catch mama!Slipping them on was bliss. Every step that I took towards the full-length mirror at the front end of the outlet invigorated my belief in that I was destined to own these black beauties. Side-profile...front-profile.. and I was out of them. I picked them up, looked at them one last time and the rest as they say is history.

The other thing in my shopping cart this morning was something I've been intending to own from a very long time now. I've always loved the way full-length neck pieces with big pendants have managed to give ones out-fit a subtle but conspicuous spike.Though I must admit that I've outgrown Claires thanks to 'teenage' written all over its product range I really liked the Aurum junk that I picked today.  Gold plated and with a huge butterfly dangling on it the chain promises to add class to whatever I wear without being too loud. Given the credibility in terms of quality I can safely say that BD 5.2 was quite a bargain for this one.

And that my most beloved readers are the confessions of a self proclaimed non shopaholic!

The Upper Room

It's amazing how memories manage to attach themselves to so much around us; people, odours, tastes, mental images...

Alright PG Wodehouse, memories are definitely like Mulligatawny soup and it's best not to stir them; but what if they force themselves down your throat? It felt like a dam had burst and the power of the sea had been unleashed. Every single detail flashed across my mind; the candidates' faces, the words that flew across that room in the summer of 2005, the expectations, the nervousness et al.

******

It was that time of the year when the Student Council had to be elected for the senior section of our school. Being a newbie at the institution and consequently not being very well known had nipped my chances of ever getting short listed for even House Prefect, or so I thought. The surprise moment had happened when the list for Head Boy and Head Girl had been passed around all classes and there it had been in black and white, 'Melissa Nazareth'.

"We all voted for you Meli," one of my best friends had said. I had just smiled trying to look modest but it had made me happy that those who did know me thought I was worth it. An entire day of student voting and at the end of it we were called to the room...

******

That's when I had walked into the Executive Committee (EC) room on the first floor of the main office for the first time. An intimidating place it had been back then but today it just made me feel as comfortable as a womb would have a foetus. In 2005 I would've never really thought that life would bring me back to the EC room seven years down the line, but it did; and am I glad that it did!

Strange life is and stranger are memories...

Julie

I raised my foot a little higher and admired the neatly done toe nails. Had the white-tip chipped off a little? I felt her rain-wet furry coat brush against my arm. Annoyed, I turned to my right only to have my angry stare give way to a smile. She was beautiful.

Sitting on the narrow beam of the back door was making my 'seat' hurt a bit and so I dragged my 'seat' a step lower. Holding her face in both my hands I touched my forehead to hers.

"I love you Julie," I whispered to her, smiling. I hugged her. She would hug me back if she could, I know that. She did her best to wag her tail so that I'd sense her reciprocation.

"I miss him Julie," I said. "It's been so long and it's not that I'm actively hoping; but I miss him a lot." A tear-drop slid down my cheek and tingled her nose. She freed herself from my grasp and sneezed.

"Don't you feel bad Julie," I asked her. "You gave birth to four beautiful puppies who were sent to new homes." She would reply if she could, I know that. She did her best to look into my eyes and fidget restlessly so that I'd sense her agitation.I pulled out a toast from the packet next to me and clenched it in between my teeth. Crumbs dropped onto the red-tiled floor as I nudged her mouth with mine, the toast still in between my teeth. She carefully ate the toast from my mouth, wetting my nose with her long pink tongue as she did so. I furrowed my forehead as I wiped my nose.

"Don't you feel insecure Julie?" I inquired. "You don't have a soul . You have a relatively shorter life span than mine. One day you will be gone and you will never exist again ever!" She would express her insecurity if she could, I know that. She bowed her head. I dare say it was to lick the crumbs that had fallen onto the floor. May be she just wanted to express how vulnerable she felt.

Suddenly a jeep zoomed past the kuccha road in front of our bungalow. Her furry coat brushed against me and in the blink of an eye I was the only company I had. I moved back to sit on the narrow beam. Raising my foot a little higher I smiled as I carved her name on the paint-chipped wall with my toe. May be she wasn't the only one who had been listening to me.

Reverie

• Sometimes, pain is so intense, giving us an illusion, of there being none at all. The mind, it plays tricks on us, convincing us, of the absence of pain; the heart though, still believes otherwise.
• If it were the 'me' today I would've never reacted to the situation like I did back then; but then if it were the 'me' today I would've never been in 'the situation' in the first place.
•  More often that not we think that we've forgotten to do nothing to get what we want, conveniently forgetting that we've forgotten to 'do nothing'.

SHORT STORY

LADY IN RED

Part II

It had happened so fast. Even before he could put the pieces together, in his mind, the car had zoomed past him leaving behind a cloud of smoke. He shouted and ran behind the vehicle, as fast as his feet would carry him, in vain. He hadn’t even noted down the digits on the number plate. He broke out in a cold sweat. The road was deserted; only a young lad cycled down the lane, adjacent to the road, with a huge block of ice fastened to his rusty ride. Should he cry for help; should he call the police; should he just fall down on his knees and holler?

******

“We’ve searched everywhere,” his friend comforted him. “The cops are looking out for her too; be strong.” He stared into space and thought of nothing as his friend patted him on the back in a vain attempt to console him.

Every moment, in the past two years, now, felt like a boulder on his chest. So it was true, that one realised the value of something only when one lost it. He hoped he hadn’t lost her forever. He wringed his fingers in anger and anxiety, as he thought of the time that could have been theirs, had he not awaited hypothetical surety. Surety was not a state of mind, it was a journey that one lived each day, he realised. Nevertheless, as he sat on the dilapidated bench in the local police station, surety was his only state of mind. He knew he wanted her back.

******

He aimlessly turned the pages of the green book. Black print crawled across stained pages, like bugs across dirty walls. A tear drop slid down his cheek making the ‘Jame’ of ‘James Dryden’ appear darker than the rest of the name. He caught his face in his hands as he squeezed his eyes and contorted his face. He hadn’t cried in a very long time; but a long year of uncertainty could have made anyone weak with pain and anger.

 The November, of the calendar on the wall, danced, as the wind, sweeping in through the window, nudged it. The picture of the vintage villa on the calendar brought back memories of the old school home he’d always dreamed of. She’d look perfect on the porch, he thought, with a weak smile. The phone bell mercilessly broke his chain of thought. “Watch the news right now,” said the voice on the end of the line. He clicked the green button on the remote. “The gang of kidnappers was caught red handed as the police raided down the house in Colaba,” the voice coming from out of the idiot-box blared. He stared at the clippings on the television and at once knew what he was looking at. It was them. If they were caught, then where was she?

******

It was the eleventh of the month and he was walking past the bus stop. Though he couldn’t muster the courage, to walk on the other side of that fateful road, he went there often to ease his guilt. Suddenly he saw something move. He was sure as death, that he had seen the colour red. The moving figure had walked into the campus. He hastily crossed the street and walked into the campus. “Koi aaya andar?” he questioned the watchman. The old man lazily stroked his beard, and nodded in the negative, as he chewed on a betel nut leaf. He felt a draining sensation; hope draining out. As he turned to leave the campus he froze. There tied tight on the lock of the gate was a red stole; and he knew just one like it.

******

Diary Entry

May 4, 2009

So crawl, if you wish; or walk; or run

But when you reach the lag end, I’ll be waiting

And if you don’t see me, you’ll see a red flag

Symbolic of each moment that I lived, with your memories

And oh, it would have been easier to live without you

Than it was, living with your memories…

******

SHORT STORY

Authors Note: I believe that reinvention is indispensable to sustenance; then be it writing or any other form of art. 'Lady In Red' is my first complete attempt at a short story.

I had once read about how Charles Dickens alluded to periods, and people, in his life,  in the various books that he authored. It was interesting how I experienced the same, as I tried to weave this piece together. That said, there is sufficient amount of fictional element, as well, to the story.

The second part of 'Lady in Red' was written after a two day hiatus; hence I chose to put it up as a separate blog.

Happy reading!

LADY IN RED

Part I

The piercing sun rays pricked her closed eyes; her throat was sore from screaming; her lower abdomen hurt. The whole episode came rushing to her mind the moment she gained consciousness. Staggering as she stood up, she banged her fist on the wooden door in a vain attempt to call for attention. Hunger pangs made her stomach churn. She gulped the last sip of water, in an abandoned steel glass, in the corner of the small and unkempt room.  She could taste blood as she swallowed; the pain surfaced again, with twice the intensity, as she touched, with her finger-tips, the streaks of blood from her nose, which had dried against her skin.

******

“I’ll see you where I picked you up for the first time,” he said. The wait was finally over, and it had seemed like an eternity. It was worth it though; after two long years he had finally come around. She slipped into a pair of denims and slithered into a red kurta; he liked red. Tying her hair into a knot and winding a red stole around her neck she rushed down the stairs. “Cathedral Cross?” she asked as she hopped into a rickshaw. The journey seemed longer than had the past two years. As the rickshaw took a left she saw the old house. “I want a house like that,” he had said. “I am old school in thought; minimum furniture, a wife, children and a BMW.” She smiled as she remembered the texture of his voice; baritone but with the excitement like that of a child. Finally, she was going to hear that voice again.

She jolted out of her reverie as the rickshaw hit the speed breaker on the road. The last time she had passed by that speed breaker, she had almost fallen off the bike. “I didn’t do that on purpose!” he had exclaimed. She hadn’t minded it anyway. “It’s okay,” she had said as she had adjusted herself on the back seat, holding him tight.

She had known even then that he had looked into the rearview mirror, of his dream machine, when for a moment she had closed her eyes and tried to breathe in the air around him. The odour of the breath lingered, in her memory, to this day; she felt her eyes brim as she recollected that moment so sacred, at least to her.

As she rickshaw raced, across the serpentine roads and lanes, to her destination, she looked intently at every detail outside; each detail brought back memories of the times that they had spent. Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches…And here is a mill, and there is a river; each a glimpse and gone forever. She read to herself, from the green poetry book that he had gifted to her.

She finished her poetry in time to reach the gate. She felt her heart beat frantically against her chest as she stepped out of the black and yellow beetle. He looked just the same. Tall and dark; his boyish smile conjured a dimple on his left cheek. “Pachees rupaya madam,” said the man on the driver’s seat. She hunted for the change in her pockets and dumped them into his hands.

As she inched forward, she couldn’t help but wonder how strange it was, that one could travel the whole world for what one wanted, but those last few steps to embracing one’s dream, were even more difficult than the first steps that one took as a toddler.

It is true, when they say, that the most powerful way of expressing love is by touch. Only holding his hands would fill the gaps, not just those in between her fingers, but also in her life. No sooner than she had put forward her hand to hold his, she heard a car screeching past her. Distracting her, the white four-wheeler halted right next to her.

My Life After Me...

One moment there was a bright light;

Another moment; and there was piercing darkness...

I've always imagined of how my life would be long after I'm gone. My life; the people I love, the words I've spoken and the actions that I've committed. Even after we've crossed the river, we leave behind so much; so how would what I leave behind be, without me?

I've seen many cross over before my eyes; some older than I and some much younger. The common thread that ran through the life-without-them, of these people, was what those whom they left behind, craved for, once they were gone; signs of their presence. This was how he smelt, or this was how his laughter sounded, or this was how the coffee she made tasted...an attempt to recreate, what once was. These are the things that we would be remembered by when we're gone, epitaphs of sorts, that get engraved, not on stone but on the hearts of the people, who were a part of our universe, when we were.

I was recently perusing through the papers, over lunch, when I bumped into the page that spoke of Les Horton, a popular and much loved columnist in the Kingdom of Bahrain. The writer lost his battle to cancer last month. A decade ago, one of his columns, carried his thoughts on death and how he would want to be remembered, long after he would be gone.

“Best epitaphs are those embedded in the heart,” he had written. What a profound and thought provoking idea! Les Horton was of the view that being remembered for a contribution to someone’s life in a way that enlightened the person or simply brought the person lasting pleasure was such a good thing. Lyricist, Majrooh Sultanpuri’s song, ‘Ek din mitt jaayega maati ke mol, furthers this thought, with a gentle reminder, that man is but only dust and the only thing that he would leave behind are his kind words, literally; and metaphorically, the love that he shares with fellow creation.

Close your eyes and take a deep breath; now ponder; what do you believe in so strongly that you'd be willing to die for (Credit: Oprah Winfrey)? That my friend, is exactly your epitaph, your personality; that is who you truly are!

Note by author: If you notice, the spacing, between the lines, from the fourth paragraph onwards, is relatively more than that in the first three paragraphs. This is because, I've 'copy-pasted' the latter half of this blog from a previously written, unfinished article. Strangely, I'd titled the previous article 'My Life After Me', as well. I believe that this is not a co incidence; I believe that this article was meant to manifest. No, there is no such thing as a co incidence!