My Platter Of Thoughts

Diddi

2014-02-19T15:38:00.006-08:00

It's been two months today. Two months since she left us to never come back. Dad says, she's here, watching us everyday..guarding us.. but it all fails when i really want to feel her warmth next to my feet in cold winter nights. When i actually want to cuddle up to a soft plump frame and induce sleep. When i want to talk and hear stories , because the haunting night won't let me sleep.When i want to breathe the odor that's been the sleep fragrance for every night since childhood. Truth hurts when the same pillows and quilts don't smell the same anymore.They lack that warmth. They don't smell of anything, they lie lifeless, colorless..losing her a little everyday.

The only place where i can find her lingering still is inside the closed shutters of her cupboard, where her sarees lie folded with her last touch on them. How crisply they hang there, like she'd just pick them for a wedding, matching them with her petticoats and new shawls . To every new piece of cloth we'd get her, she'd be a very good taker. You never had to worry about how she'd look in them, because she made sure she wore them in front of you. "Arey jab bhagwaan ne dia hai mujhe toh main maze kyon na loon", she'd say with a charming pride in her voice.

Diddi with Chachi (Dadi)
This is exactly the face she made when she was filled with glee

Diddi on her 83rd Birthday (June 23,2013)
We all feared this could be her last.
But she celebrated it like a Queen.

Dadi was always proud of us all. I never heard her complain. Every night in Bhimtal we'd spend hours whispering tales of her yore inside the warm quilts. She was proud of her father's home and the rich childhood she had spent under his grace. Every night there'd be a new chapter, new anecdotes...and a few things got repeated in every story. She loved addressing her father as "Mere father", like a hindi equivalent would demean his stature. Her memories still tugged on to the Railway bungalows and the homes of Stella, Mary and Silvia...with whom she wore 'pencil heels' and 'birchis' (breeches) and ran around the corridors, playing. "Angrez bhi mere father ki bahut respsct karte thei. Hum sab ek kaloni main rehte thei", she'd proudly tell me. A strange charm would light up her face when she talked about Rails and Railways. As if they belonged to her.I'm sure even the Railway Minister today can't be sure about his hold on the Railways as much as Dadi was. She was her father's loved daughter and till the end she regretted not being with him, by his bedside when he died.

In the process of narrating those tales, Dadi..or Diddi as we'd always call her...would often get lost in her stories and if suddenly the dog barked from the kennel in the middle of the night, she'd snap, "Mere father ke ghar main toh kutte paalne ka dhang he kuch aur tha...." And another tale of her 8 dogs and their keepers and chicken cauldrons and so much more would begin. Indeed, she had seen days of refined treatment and regalia. Getting married to a rather simple household in the hills may have been a setback for her at the age of 16.

Diddi & Pappa

To how she reacted to the pros and cons of coming into a new family, she always had a very easy answer, 'I never understood their language at first..so for the longest of time i could barely fathom whatever they said. It was easy that way, and i didnt really care to understand, coz i knew it was best to remain ignorant.' It was strange how she never had anything negative to say about anyone, she just pitied those who i guess may have done her some harm in the past. 'They were taught to be that way. You need to see the world to learn things...these guys were all toads, they stayed in the same well', she'd say slyly and chuckle!

Diddi,... I don't even know why we started calling her that...! Probably my eldest aunt imitated her uncles who addressed Dadi as Diddi...and then on she became Diddi for one and all -for her children, grand children, friends, servants..everyone! The most amusing part would be when she'd address herself as 'Diddi'... 'Diddi se kuch mat chupana tum bachche', she'd tell us smelling some mischief around. It was only after my brother began to speak that Diddi was first addressed as 'Dadi' by someone. And then in those bouts of excessive affection, Diddi turned Dadi for us elder kids too. I think that affection never saw a return, because lately we'd all begun calling her Dadi...it was more personal. Only kids could call her that..we liked that sort of possession on her and that name.

Diddi & I on Diwali 2011

Diddi always had a healing aura around her. She was positive, and you felt it the moment she entered the room. All of us kids had never wanted our parents as much as we'd wanted Dadi in times of sickness. Sometimes rains would be a difficult season for her, because there were kids everywhere. Both in Bhimtal and Nainital and all would get sick at the same time often . Poor dadi would then shuttle from one town to another addressing each of our grievances and calls for warmth, stories, medicine, khichdi...and what not!
Dadi was fat and plump , like a soft squishy fur ball...that, when she was healthier. And along with all the cushion came loud thunderous snores which the elders in the family often cribbed about. But for all the kids who slept with her, the snoring barely existed! We were all immune to her thunderous night songs. Sleeping inches away from her every night, none of us really remembers waking up to her snores ever. It was actually like a lullaby which was bound to play post 10 minutes of bidding a goodnight to dadi. Her snoring would be our step 1 to sleeping.

To me, Diddi was a grand mother i was always proud of. As a kid, i was proud of the fact that she wasn't as 'pahadi' as the other 'amas' (grannys) of the town. It just felt a little 'modern' to have a hindi speaking grand mother to the then little mind. I took pride in the fact that she was born in Porbandar, more because i hadn't seen that part of the world ever. I loved to see her read ample magazines, newspapers and understand a lot of english that i'd think she won't catch. She taught me hindi...and not just me ..she was the hindi teacher to all the kids in the house...And quite a strict one at that! Dadi had caught up with a lot of Kumaoni by the time we were born, but it was amusing to find traces of her old vocabulary embedded in that tone. Like she always called a table as 'maich' and always said 'aisa kar diye' instead of 'aisa kar do' to us. That was her typical tone and this unusual mix made her quite a vibrant character to strike a conversation with.

Diddi & Pappa with their children

She was a great mother, no doubt. Her teachings have seeped down to us today, and whatever her experiences have taught both her children and grandchildren is beyond measure. She had a peculiar way of keeping secrets. Everybody in the family had a secret bond with her over something or the other each time. Most of these secret meetings would be around some cloth/article or present she'd want any of us to get on her behalf for the house. Ever since i had left for Delhi, these secret meetings had become a routine with me. And then over the phone she'd subtely remind me, "Meri cheez laa diye" ...

Dadi was a home maker and that she instilled in her daughter in laws too. I don't understand much of the 'Grihasthi' dynamics, but all i can say is.. I never found Maa or Chachi cribbing or sulking over dadi's behaviour ever. They were infact like friends, having fun ...poking each other all the time. No wonder we kids could never relate to the saas-bahu dynamics that'd be prevalent over the daily soaps. I infact remember maa and chachi being happier spending days with dadi than going to their parental homes. We as kids were always reluctant to step out of the Bhimtal house, and then Maa would softly tell me, "just one week and then even i want to come back to dadi. It's important we go, else nani would get angry no!" A day before going to Nani's house, i'd stick to Dadi holding her tightly lest i'd be taken away to nani... and she'd spend the night convincng me to go and see nani, telling me how bad she'd have felt had i not come to see her...if she was in nani's place. I'm sure she had to undergo the same convincing with every kid. We all have always been too happy in our little world...never wanting to see the world beyond Bhimtal.

Dodger
Died 7 days after Diddi's death

Dadi's love was extravagant and as big as that love, was her hatred. And this hatred was only directed towards one thing, the plants and the pots in the veranda! As much as my Grand Pa liked gardening, she detested the very idea of it. She'd often say, 'What he does is not gardening...this is called raring a jungle.' And very obviously she was scared of the snakes and other creatures coming into the house, because it was a house with babies. The only other thing that came close to the plants were dogs. She liked them, as long as they were outside or in the kennel. she never entertained dogs in the room or on the bed. The strange part was that even though she never really hit anyone of them, all the dogs in the house were the most scared of her. A sight of her would make them dart into their kennels. Lately, that hatred had subsided... she would let the dogs enter the room now. Infact one of them was her favorite. It died a week after her death. Indeed, a favorite.

Pappa & Diddi on her Birthday
(This is their last picture together)

To say what Dadi's and Pappa's (Grand Pa) relation was in the midst of these contrasts of likes and dislikes... well, as kids we felt they were two individuals who stayed aloof probably because they didn't know each other. (Of course as kids you don't care to understand that they're a couple). Dadi had her own room. Pappa had his own... It sure had a lot of pictures of the two together. Dadi spent time with kids and mothers. Pappa spoke with the fathers and spent time with the the gardeners (the sanjus, the gauris and the param das). As we grew up, we realized that they did talk and their way of talking was rather rowdy. So they fought and talked! A little later, as we grew into teenage, we realized that the love between them was in every action. In those red and yellow tablets that Grand Pa offered Dadi after every meal. In the fruits that Dadi cut for Pappa for his breakfast, when she was healthier. In Pappa's action of silently pointing the torch towards dadi's bed to check if she was ok, while going to the toilet in the night. In every moment that Dadi paused her night story and eavesdropped from her room to listen to what Pappa said in the living room. And yes, we realised their love when Dadi was breathing her last. And eventually when she was going... And now, when she's gone.

This was on Christmas last year and we were celebrating.
This Christmas, we were all mourning.

Dadi loved crowd in the house. She enjoyed having people over and cooked lavish meals for all the guests. When we'd gather for summer holidays. Dadi would sponser a meal for us..where she'd install an open kitchen and cook everything all by herself. That used to be a party! And everyone's favorite food was sure to be a part of that menu. Even after i had left for Delhi, Dadi made sure i was supplied with everything that was made in the house on any occasion. I still have some of her hand-made food stocked in the boxes... I think i'll just let it be.

She deteriorated drastically after this time

Sometimes i feel she withered away too early..too quickly. There was so much i had to discuss with her about life, about growing up, about how she'd want me to be... I loved to push her into a paranoia. Like many other elders in the family, she feared that i'd find a man from a different religion -fall in love with him- and eventually marry him. All this paranoia took birth the day i got admitted into Jamia. She had her personal reservations and no matter how much ever you tried to dissuade her from her thought, she shuddered imagining anyone but a Hindu addition into her family. And we kids took advantage of her reactions and played along, often to spark a fierce outburst.

She spoke to me last in the first week of December. As i was leaving for Delhi that morning, she instructed Bua to get money from her closet. Keeping two hundred rupees in my hand she said, "Rakh le ... patanahi kab tak de paaon." I never wanted to believe her words. Lately, she'd begun talking too much about our life without her. She made farewells very conspicuous, and i hated it. I hated it because it indicated something that was inevitable, her death. One time, she gave me the saree of hers that i loved. The second time, she presented us neck chains. The third time, she left us memories.

About her death- She looked satisfied. Happy. Like her purpose was fulfilled. She was returning victorious.
She died a peaceful death with all of her family around her. Only i had remained. I didn't see her as she left us. I only saw her frame leaving the house. I'd been feeling helpless and mentally unsettled about my absence that evening. We were all coping with the loss but somehow i couldn't stop regretting not being there.And that's when, a few days post her death i dreamt of her. Sometimes all logic fails and you're left wondering if spiritual connections could surpass all the reason in life. She lay at the courtyard..lifeless..just as how i had seen her before they took her away. I saw her body lying in my baby bathtub..her frame barely fitting in that space. The people around me were the same, everyone preparing to see her off for one last time. That's when somebody just asked me to put a pillow under her head just to let her frame be comfortable...and just as i raised her body to put the pillow..she flipped and came back to life. No one noticed her return..no one. And Dadi and I talked for so long. She said, "I know you were sad that i couldn't talk to you before leaving..couldn't have that last conversation". And i just sat there..looking at her feeble face. She could barely get up, just the way she couldn't in her last days. We both knew that those were just a few moments and that she'd be gone again. I told her i couldn't sleep without her..my feet wouldn't get warm. She looked at me , shed a few tears and said, 'I couldn't help it, i had to go'. I had a long long conversation with her. I knew they would take her away in sometime..and then as soon as she saw people approaching to take her away ..she gave one of her old looks ..just as how she'd look at me when she'd convince me to go to Nani's home..the look that said..'It's supposed to be this way... go for now, and meet me soon'..just that look..and then she got back to lifelessness. She'd come back to talk.

I've almost spent a night writing this. If she was alive, she'd be snoring at her loudest right now. I too would be sleeping tugging on to one of her arms. This piece would have never been written. Life would have been the same- old , happy, fulfilled. Her room scares me now. I am not yet ready to feel its emptiness. She has left us with her stories. Now the walls, the quilts and I, we all stay awake and recall all the stories that she had shared with us. We don't want them to fade like her fragrance from the bed linen.

Once, in a winter spent away from her in Lucknow... I spotted a book called 'Diddi' written by Ira Pant. I didn't know the writer back then, nor the fact that she is one of our kins. I picked up the book because it said 'Diddi' and more so because these daughters addressed their mother as 'Diddi'. The book was written in the memory of the legendary writer 'Shivani' by her daughter Ira. I purchased the book with my own pocket money... i didn't want anyone to contribute to this possession. In all the excitement i returned home and called up Diddi. "There is a book i found by your name. This writer also calls her mother Diddi... and you know diddi...when you die..i will also write a book in your memory. I will call it Diddi."

Ordinary Oceans

2014-02-13T23:54:00.000-08:00

And just like beaches separate the oceans from land..They made sure they segregated things in my life too. An ocean was an ocean and a land ..land from then on. And the two were different. They never really met.

2012-01-28T12:19:00.000-08:00

Ab jab bhi shaam hoti hai,
Tumhare hath ki chai toh nahi milti..
Par tumhari khushboo roz aa kar is kursi par baith jati hai.
Jab main us se baat karne ke liye, usei choone ke liye apna haath agey badhata hoon, toh badmash jhatt se ud jaati hai.

Ab Maine bhi ek shararat seekh li hai....
Jab tumhari khushboo aur main shaam ko baithtey hain naa, toh main usei dekhta he nahi.
Tab naaraz ho kar apney aap he meri saanso se khelne lagti hai..
Bilkul jaise tum khelti thi.. har subah..un bheegey baalon ke saath, jab main soya karta tha.

Tonight...

2012-01-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

Tonight lets be lovers again.

Hold hands and walk back to our world,

Where the dimness of the stars has a story to tell,

Where breeze gushes softly and thunders swell,

Where you and me are not just friends, but more.

Where you are my horizon, and yet my shore.

Tonight lets be those figures up on the hill,

Who’d come to sit on that faded rough bench,

Who looked like one whole being…until you looked too deep.

Who had tints of love and shades of warmth in them.

Tonight lets be two tender hearts full of apprehension,

And feel the dryness jetting down our throats as we hold hands.

Let the heart beats rush and breaths skip.

Let sweat beads join to form a band of purity,

The purity of mind, of love, of newness, of togetherness…

Tonight….only for this night.

Coz tomorrow maybe different for you and me.

You may leave for reasons I knew, but didn’t see

We would be nowhere my love,

Our tale would be dead

Broken would be the bench, and cold would lie the bed

I may not be a reason enough to call you back,

But for the warmth left on those beloved bends…

Lets be lovers again.

Memories...they say

2011-07-27T17:31:00.001-07:00

Tonight there will be no sleep. Old realizations, apprehensions, flickering hopes, happy memories…a flock of all. This night will go in remembering you...

‘Life is smiling at you’…I was told. Remembering it, I smile back at the glow stars twinkling on my ceiling. Artificiality serves to fulfill what life cannot give you in real. You just have to imagine…and life becomes what you want. It’s all in the mind. ‘All is perfect’...I muse. Perfect…even longing ness is.

‘Imagine..!’

The numerous stars on my ceiling join and break to give forms to my desires. A tree, a face, an animal….a rememberance..! They spread apart and stretch into the path we left untreaded that eveing. They close in again to form the untasted coffee sips that lay wasted when you left in a hurry that night. They tickle around to make words that you'd say and shatter again to show me how unsettled life is.But they are there..like before. And they remind me of you... your words...
"The night must be beautiful with them no..?" ...Only if it had you here [how i wish these words had voice back then]..!
Memories...yes, there are memories keeping me awake.

A turn. My bed creaks. Visions change like life itself. And all that your eyes had been seeing a second before, gets lost. The stars vanish, i see the peepul tree outside my balcony, impatient with the harsh blow of wind. As if it wriths in longing ness for something it is not sure of . Freedom...death...company...belongingness..?? What..? I see its unease every night as it silently howls with the wind. "It's a tree...don't heap your social complications on this senseless thing!!" Complications! We humans often think eveything is as complex and dissatisfied as our desires are.

Every change leaves a certain nothingness, a void.You realise it only when you begin to act again. This is just what happened tonight. I just acted, i just wrote..! I gave words to all that i had been feeling for several nights. I crushed no more sheets, scribbled away no phrases. I simply wrote, wrote all that came into my mind. I came in terms with the void that lay within. I now know what i feel.

It'll strike 5:30 soon. I like the feel of mornings. The chirp, the freshness. Peepul [my lonesome tree] stands composed and motionless, as if it felt nothing last night. Huh! Stoic it is..!

The stars on my ceiling camouflage with the wall. Just how these secret emotions become one with my public self. They do not exist for the day, I'll invite them over for another night of sleeplessness. For now,its day again. Tme for happiness, cheer, satisfaction and thanks giving. And why not it be... Life is smiling at me!!

GRIM ATTRACTIONS

2011-03-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

Its time to write again! Or is it rather the time to analyze, think, brood, spit out words and move ahead…
Often in life it happens that despite no reason to worry, some sadness persists. You think, give meanings to all the things that lie meaningless, you mould them, shape them, make them big…so that one day they develop to stand against you. Somewhere in the subconscious mind, the attempt knows its end, but somehow you just wish to be a masochist.

Why is sadness so attractive?

Void...in a state of hopelessness.

2010-12-19T09:06:00.000-08:00

Hopeless for a thing unknown. No goal. No want. No need. No desire.
Only one feeling...a strong emotion...of losing something big. Its not you ..its not me...its nobody around. Its just something very integral to me.
I wish not to tell you...for i don't really know
.Its unhappy...its gloomy...its sad...but yes, its not what it was. Its nothing that has ever happened. I have not known this feeling before.

I'm restless...you won't understand, coz you don't know...life has been happy for you, coz i have always been there. You have never felt this helplesness,coz i never made you feel it. I have remained a friend...a real one!! You too have...but a friend of this age..of today..of this hastily changing world...you can't be the way i have always been coz you know how to be selfish...something which i could never learn.You are a better person...god's favourite...destiny's child....i am not...i am only one of the many around.

God is not happy with me...for i am not a loyal one. I forget him when he makes me happy and curse him when i am sad. I don't worship him...so he will let me go. Go away from his clutches...to the dark land of mirth. I will be gone soon...gone to an unknown land. I will be here, right here..in front of your eyes...yet i will be gone and you won't even know.

You dont' know what i wish to say...but i know how strong it is...this desire to be free.. this desire to not be sad...this desire to break away.

All my actions look senseless to me today..i am wishing upon a flying plane...a flying bird. I dont recognise it...yet i am wishing upon it...knowing it well that i will never see it again. Birds have a tendency to move...keep moving...they are not static...they dont' have permanent homes.But they are god's creatures...He sees them..and he sees me too!! We may be one someday...someday...in His eyes.

I may sound senseless...i have no sense...this void, they say , makes everybody numb...but yes, it soothes me.
These figures in black ink...calm my thudding heart. Every figure...sends a vibe...a vibe of calmess. I wish words were always this soothing.

I am sad. I can sense it. But i don't need you...don't need anybody. It is a good state. It makes me turn inwards to explore, to analyze...and then something from within creeps to see the world outside. To see and compare. To compare and be sad again.

I know not what i write...but this senselessness makes sense. These words that don't intend to console...alleviate me form some heaviness. I don't know the reason of my sorrow and these words don't know their intention either.

The Final Question

2010-07-28T09:38:00.000-07:00

Ahh!! Its the eve breeze of 7:30 blowing at my garden gate...7:30 my favourite time of the day...my favourite time of the lost life .Its been two years that I left the incomplete stories of my life buried in the silent dust of this land. They were within me all his while...and when I was heading for a new beginning..i preferred to leave them where they’d begun from.

Two years passed by, as quietly as thunder to a deaf man...I remained immune to emotions, to tears...to gashes...to wounds. I remained immune to creating memories. And here I am... back to these woods...this lonesome cottage, which made me understand togetherness...this cliff that made me witness the entire world..., the stars, the sky; and yet concealed me from their clutches.

And yea...its 7:30...and here I am standing amidst these woods...near my cottage...at the cliff...looking at this stagnant view after two long years. All seems unchanged...unruffled...the stars...the town...the street lights that reflected a holy cross on the lake...the dark shadow of the Peepul tree that shifted from being an apparition to the elephant God... and the silhouette that made me feel watched as I stood in the wilderness in the dark of night. I have the same thoughts...the same old breeze brushes my cheek...my heart pounds sensing an unknown fear...all the same...as if the two years never existed...as if I was holding nothing but the strings I’d buried deep down. All seems forgotten...

The clock ticks...its hands making an inverted, lop sided V. Its 7:30 in the evening...and I am waiting. A lamppost in the opposite hill gets switched on...I see the golden twinkle on the opposite hill...the most undimmed... And I yet again tell myself...its yours. I know not where you live...I know not where you are today. I know not who you are. All I know is...that all of these years, 4whenever I was uncertain about the decisions of my life...I came to you for answers,...I waited for the clock to strike the 30th minute of the 19th hour... I oscillated between the two options that concerned me. My answer came from the opposite hill...the lamppost glowed at answers, which always proved right. I know not when was it that I began to depend on you...began to connect with you...began to fall in love with you...!!! YOU...??? ..but who were you...did you even exist?
I loved you, I did not know who you were....but how does it matter...i knew I loved you. Remember...I’d come to take your permission..i’d come to appeal for acceptance...but you responded in the opposite. It was shattering. You became a bitter memory, which I did not want to carry forward. I buried your thought in this wilderness...while they sent me to serve another man. This ‘another’ man...who I was told was my husband... I served him right. But my story...my truth that I loved you...??? My truth wantoned in this wilderness....

And look what has it done today...I am here...with this infant in my arms who the world says, is my baby. I am at the cliff...after two long years...the clock just cuckooed a 7:30. I am looking at the opposite hill...with a question about this wanton tale... “Did you ever know that I loved you...can we ever in this life be close..? The breeze gushes...a rage abounds. The lamppost does not rekindle... My baby shrieks to remind me of his existence. Astounded, I shift my glance towards the life in my arms... only to find the reflection of the lamppost glowing in his eyes. The opposite hill lies silent and dark...and here I have all my answers lying in my lap.

A Confession In Isolation

2010-02-14T00:16:00.000-08:00

...It still interests me, to flip through the pages of your diary in your absence. I slyly open it with sheer curiosity,just as i would do when we were togehter (metaphorically togehter)...but this time, to find myself absent from the pages of your life. I am fading out of your world and how strange and ironical it is that you don't even realise this,that your thoughts do not even acknowledge my last days in your life....that my going away makes no impact anywhere deep down in your heart. There is so much more...... I feel the void between us. Things have changed drastically.. Its all about your friends...new...more new....and some nascent ones again. I read quietly...absorbing it. Maybe thats how life is...the more you care about somebody,the closer you are to lose him.

They say that stagnation fills the air of a long lived relationship and staying together ruins it all the more. The face of the other gets on your nerves...you no more try to find goodness in him, all his vices roar the loudest to be hated.you love the other no more..... Maybe a cliched thought, an untrue word, a baseless fact...the world finds it true but i absolutely throw it away...its untrue...FOR ME ITS JUST NOT THAT WAYS!

I am made too se the dismantling of a dream that I cherished. I sit there...watch it breaking...vanishing...dying....i cry over it each day...i plead to the good God...i sit alone...cry out my heart...and then in this silent room console my own self...But the pyre of this relation just keeps burning and simmering ruins burn every bit of my existence.But for once i want that faith of yours which was my pride, i care...i care to the fullest, only if you for once try to deflect from that murky perspective of yours and see what the truth is. We have less time...we were here to strenthen our bond and not ruin it at the hands of this world unknown. The world will not suffer if we diverge... we'll die out...we'll pain ourselves...we'll lose. I wish you could understand.

And as i drown myself in the depth of our long forgotten past, a memento of the bygone days intervenes and i hear a faded euphony which as if tries to kindle hopes within my barren heart...."....tere jaisa yaar kahan...kahaan aisa yaarana...yaad karegi duniya....tera mera afsaanaa............"

A COLLEGE OUTCASTE

2009-09-22T00:38:00.000-07:00

“No ... absolutely not what I had expected! Mom...I somehow hate college...!”. I wrote in the first mail to mom after 8 long months of coming to Delhi. No! I never posted her mails. My phone calls always said that the college was good. It was Miranda after all, something which was too big for a small Towner like me. I never considered myself able enough to afford the hype Miranda, the name itself had.
To all my acquaintances around I was a lucky intelligent girl, born out of an intelligent parentage. My parents back in the home town were the proud parents of an able girl, basking under the attention of the inquisitive neighbours, who were all praise for me. Petty things like how I helped them manage the community’s kids at their baby’s birthday party to how my yearly school notes were helpful for their daughter; all would be counted...as if such incidents formed the stepping stone to where I was today. For my kith and kin, the achievement was great and I was still a favourite despite turning my back to the clichéd professional options of medicine or engineering. All was great....so where did the problem lie????
The problem lay in me....and it still does. College still seems to be an illusion, a black dark veil which would soon be lifted and I’d be in a better world which has place for me. The ‘better world’ is unknown to me. It’s not my school, not my home, not a place I have ever visited. I don’t miss school. I don’t crave to contact my long lost friends. I don’t long to visit the school corridor and church. I don’t desire to have another forty minutes of lecturing on “modest girls” from my favourite teacher. But again....I want the old me back.
College...I struggle here to be noticed. The girls around are con artists who claim to be the closest friends ever on face and at the same time hide the notes under their t-shirts so that one may not catch a glimpse of that extra luck that has been bestowed by the seniors upon them. I talk about men and listen to the gibberish about their weekly crushes, even though that’s the thing I greatly loathe(those puky boyfreind experiences they tell me)..!! Going to the library each time would be stupid. I don’t want to be tagged ‘a nerd’ when I am not one. So I have to survive here in this loathly environment where nothing interests me. One and all around are the same....men, food and cell phones make their world. Maybe, I have something different that composes my being...something else that defines me......and I am still searching.
“.....I know mom, you’ll call up tomorrow and tell me that I must concentrate on my studies, pay no heed to the friends who affect me adversely, find ways to keep me busy.......and I will tell you that I am fine...my college is great. This mail was nothing but a mood swing. I have great friends, nice teachers, good studies........ And so much more...”
But Mom...only if you knew what that ‘so much more’ was..............

A GLASS FULL OF NOSTALGIA....

2009-08-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

It’s the most unbiased, I think when I stand five feet some inches tall in front of my mirror. A bushy black mane, a few inches of forehead, two chequered holes on either side of a flat-compressed nose, lips somewhat in shape and a protruded chin- I scan myself. It is this sheet of truth that introduces me to myself.
How would i know myself, identify what I looked like had I not met myself through this silver screen. Observing myself in the age old mirror in my room, I fall back to the days of yore. Those dust coated lipstick marks on the wooden frame of the mirror take me back to the age of three when I had inscribed my first ABC’s with mom’s lipstick on the mirror and its frame. It still wears the ripped stickers of my then cartoon friends, all yellowed with time. It still captures my anger in the form of scribble marks after i had the first quarrel with my parents as a teenager, it knows about those fits of self admiration when I would pose as a model...Mom’s high heels complimenting my feet...they would raise me up to a woman’s stature. It holds fast to the panic of the first pimple on my forehead and it also nets the moment of that juvenile maturity when I saw myself draped in a sari for the first time on the day of my farewell, the day I adored myself as a woman for the first time. I kept moving on with the wheel of time, but my mirror stood still all through the years, telling me the truth each time I approached it.
Personalities change, people come, perform their respective roles in the play of life and fade away...but the mirror remains unchanged, unbiased...telling them all the true tales of their lives. My mirror is that unidentified friend in front of whom I stand still, gazing at it for hours when in distress, and it understands my entire tale without me letting out a word to it. It captures every moment of mine when I had questions with my identity. Ask my mirror...it knows much about me than my memory holds. My tongue might slip a truth...but my mirror will always speak what I really am.
At times, I sit and wonder if humans ever tried to adapt the attributes of a mirror.....then either the world would have become Utopia or a gruesome murdering ground where the play of truth decided the fate of life.