Reflectionz!

The Brooke...

2012-02-02T11:37:00.005+05:30

It was a long lost dream.

The Brooke as I call it.

And its rumbling by for real now. I could taste the greens finally, feel the cool soil, watch the worms squirm, feel complete in an otherwise lonely forest.

The quality of the air is vibrant, with thoughts, feelings, experiences of the self. Yet all you would hear is a silence. Just as thought.

I could sleep, mesmerized. Like many times I have, in that idea. But when it happens for real, you live it. Something, someone reminds you. The moment is mine.

You could see a lot of colours around me. People from the past and future. Those that are a part of you. Each going through their own thought process. Their own feelings. Their own part in the process. Growing and changing and shaping, each moment.

A jungle is a jungle, there will be animals. But by the Brooke, it all feels human. As less human as possible when submitting to the natural forces. As more human as you could be, when you touch the nothingness. The truth.

And beautifully so, you just live it. You do not feel the need to run, escape, leave. You feel entrenched, as entrenched as possible...for it is you who gave birth to that moment, whatever that is happening on the outside. For you know...that it came from the within.

If it were possible to call it love, I would. But I would call it, life. Life as it is. Should be.

If it were possible to call it an adventure, I would. But I would call it life, as it is.

If it were possible to call it a the truth, I would. But I would call it life, as it is.

Those few moments, I won't forget.

Those very, by the Brooke, I would never forget.

..

The story of Desire

2011-11-21T12:27:00.004+05:30

At least you know, don’t you?

I am all silence these days. I don’t know how long this shall last. But I am more comfortable this way. Takes too much energy to speak to someone. Anyone. Any person. I am my own person these days.

By my own person, I mean I am with you. In my thoughts. In my soul. In that I find comfort. You know that.

People tell me I am no good. They mean I am not being good to them. I know that. When I look at me with their eyes, I agree. But their eyes are all that I can share and do for them. For my heart is set on a different thing. On you.

Call you my dream, my past, my future. Or a dream that was the past and is also the future. Anyone and everyone here, I allow, to choose the nomenclature. But for me, you are the only truth.

I can’t do anything now, but wait. And it is better done in silence. I, then, know that I am on the right path. For when I speak only with myself, I am reminded of you, clearly. With every breath. With each strength. In every weakness. In each desire. I know then, clearly, that it is you who fills me.

I find it funny that the same people have taught me about god, do not like me to traverse these unknown waters. Unknown (it can be) only to the inexperienced. But I suspect, to a point of belief, that each one around me has taken up this journey in their own lil’ way. I refuse to believe no one has. Impossible I feel it is. How much can a soul stay away from the core? How much can one live away from one’s truth?

I am sure they have traversed these paths that I am on now. But they do not seem to want to understand me. To see it as it is. And to see that I am a living person. That there is a heart that is beating inside me. That it is set on a something. And call it a strength or it's biggest weakness, but it beats. And I am only listening to it. Carefully. And then I must follow the sound of those footsteps. I feel I must be late already but follow now I must. That is my only truth. That is my only god. And all that, at times, is best done in silence.

And I do so in the sunshine I wake up to. In the fog that envelopes me. That lil’ flower white and serene, I see and I remember, from the eras past.

I am just like them too. Silent. But living. With you. My desire of me.
...

मैं कोई और नहीं..

2011-11-01T01:21:00.001+05:30

तुम्हारा इंतज़ार हूँ..

अपने इस सच का क्या करूँ

जीने नहीं देती

न चैन से मरने देती है

आधी रात को जगाती है

और जब तक के मैं मान नहीं जाती
के बस यही सच है
ये मुझे सताती है

जब तक मुझसे यह दो बात सुन न ले..
सताती रहती है

किसी और बहाने से
कुछ और तरीके से
कुछ छुपा कर
कभी गुनगुना कर

नहीं
कोई तरकीब नहीं मानती

अब मैं क्या करूँ
कैसे कहूँ
और फिर कितनी बार कहूँ
अब तो कहने का जी भी नहीं करता

कोई रास्ता हो तो दिखाओ
कोई उम्मीद हो तो बताओ
हार गयी हूँ
अब तो मान जाओ

गुमनाम होकर
यूँ चुपचाप रहकर...

तुम में ही मैं हूँकोई और नहीं

बस यही सच है

मैं
तुम्हारा इंतज़ार हूँ
बस इतना सा सच है

जो मैं नहीं कह पा रही
तुम एक बार कह दो...
और कुछ नहीं
इस इंतज़ार को एक नाम देदो
इस सिलसिले को फिर एक पहचान देदो
मेरी चलती हुई साँसों को
एक वजह दे देदो
मुझे मेरी.. पहचान दे देदो..

मैं और कोई नहीं...
बस..

Of Spanish Love!

2011-10-28T15:57:00.001+05:30

I have always been asked a lot of questions on who all celebs I have met at my work. Shahrukh? Big B?...dadada...and I have always had to patiently explain to the first timers that health journalists have more to do with doctors and scientists, etc etc.

Obviously, meeting an F1 world champion was never even a dream...

But this Thursday morning, there he was...the dream Spaniard! All of F1 red and with clear brown eyes...

Chacha Nehru hospital in Delhi is known for treating kids - especially for polio. I had never been there though. While I was waiting for Alonso to arrive, I understood why it was so famous. Very well maintained and friendly, caring physicians.

I was just fretting over missing my morning chai...and just like that the man arrived. It was a black Audi. Now I am very partial to cars of that make and that colour but once he stepped down, love for the machine was taken over by an obvious something else. Completely, I might add.

Apart from some Spanish channels, we were on for an exclusive coverage. Saree-clad girls did tilak and garlanded him. Of course you found me rolling my eyes! But whatever! Fernando seemed to enjoy it. We tailed him as he went in and lit a candle in front of the Nehru Chacha memorial and then to visit polio affected kids' ward. Some completely unaware but lucky infants got the polio drops administered by him. Obviously the babies couldn't care less but you should have seen the beaming mothers.

Now I know why celebs are brought in for these kinds of things.

I managed to convince his media manager for a quick interview. 'Strictly about polio', he mouthed. I nodded.

The journo in me wasn't expecting much though. Just a couple of bytes, saying: "Yeh, it's so amazing these kids..." and just smiles. No offence meant here but just a cute poster boy.

I was pleasantly surprised. He knew his stuff. He knew India was doing well on the polio front. And it is somewhat endearing to hear a Spaniard talking in broken English.

What do you think of India's progress?

"It has been unbelievable. Think about the situation four or five years ago and to think the last case this year was in January. It is important that parents immunise their children."

Not many people know that you are also the goodwill ambassador for UNICEF. How did you get involved with them in the first place?

"Well...I have been working with UNICEF for almost four years now which is always a good thing to help people who have ..less luck than us. And I am very proud to work with them because I know that all the job they do every day is important....not just for local countries but important for around the world like here...polio in India."

The media manager was already signalling me to stop. I ignored the first time.

How was it visiting these kids in the ward?

"It is always a very unique experience when you visit a hospital with children. ...when you see children it is more difficult to see them with their difficulties. But children...have something special about them."

I couldn't agree more, I thought. In that split second, something made me notice that although the Spanish media and the photographers and the doctors and the hospital staff and the UNICEF people and the parents and kids and god-knows-who-all were bustling around us...plus of course the media manager continuously electrifying us with the looks he was throwing at us...our F1 man wasn't fazed at all. He was speaking straight from his heart. Touche.

And for the F1 fans,

"Of course! I am excited, it is a first time in India...so we are all excited about the racing and India is very welcoming." He gave me a smile before the media manager finally got his way. I smiled back and dealt with the media manager's glare for speaking on stuff other than polio. Whatever!

Next step ideally, should be - rush to uplink the bytes, call the office, tell them we have got the man...dadada... But I just hung on and did something I usually never do. I ducked past the media manager and asked Fernando if I could get a picture clicked with him.

He smiled again. Uff! These Spaniards!

एक रंजिश है तुमसे..

2011-09-29T12:31:00.004+05:30

..के अब कोई रंजिश भी नहीं

एक सन्नाटा है

जो छाके

शोर छोड़ गया

बस उस शोर में तुम नहीं

एक आवाज़ है

जो गुम हो गयी

भीनी सी गूँज है

बस उसमे तुम नहीं

शोर तो गुल कर गया

मेरे मन का

पर मनके पे जो नाम तुम्हारा

बस उस नाम में तुम नहीं

एक कहानी है अपनी

ढूंढ रही जो तुम्हे

तुम्हारा अफसाना

बस वो खो चली

यही रंजिश है मेरी.. के तुम हो ही नहीं

बस एक साँस चल रही है

जाने कब टूट जाये

पर जब तक चल रही है

कह रही है

के यह रंजिश है मेरी

के अब कोई रंजिश भी नहीं

Of Shrapnel & Splinter...

2011-09-14T18:22:00.000+05:30

Sneaking into a hospital ward after a bomb blast in your city, isn’t the most popular thing to do. But not, if you are a journalist.

5 days after the Delhi High Court blast, after my colleagues were done reporting live from the Ram Manohar Lohia hospital in the Capital, on the deaths and injuries and so on, I sneaked in. It is an advantage, at times, to step in so late into the scene. The hospital security doesn’t recognize you as one of the ‘Press-walahs’ and so…you don’t get thrown out, not immediately.

So I went in, and this is the story.

I didn’t have to work too hard finding my way to the blast victims’ ward 1. 10 of them, at least, in this ward. You are not really sure how to approach them. But you do. You tell them you are from the media, and that you are trying to help them, and just want to know if they are facing any problems at the hospital. You find them good to talk.

Standing in the same line or around, outside Gate no.5 of the Delhi High court on the 7^th of Sept, most of the victims suffered from painful shrapnel & splinter injuries in their legs & chest.

55 yr old Ashok Kumar has a nail embedded in his thigh. His son Rakesh says doctors at RML are saying they can't remove it, and have returned him from the operation table. “Doctors ne kaha log to goli ke saath ji jaate hain, tere baap ko to sirf chharre lage hain, uske vahin rehne de.”

Risk of Infection? “Keh nahi sakte, doctors keh rahe hain ke ho bhi sakta hai, nahi bhi” – chipped in Rakesh’s mother.

Admitted in the same ward, is 38 yr old Sanjeev. Acc to his brother, despite severe injury, doctors discharged him the same day.

“Hamse kaha ke jinki jaan khatre mein hain, unhe hi pehle dekhenge..aap ghar chele jao - ham ghar gaye aur bleeding band hi nahi hui ..agle din vaapis hosp aana pada.” His brother Rajeev told me, looking gravely concerned.

Shankar lal, 44, a peon working for a pvt. firm also alleges that he was asked to leave the hospital on the same day he was admitted. But he refused. As it turns out, he also needed further treatment for his wounds on the right leg. He has also lost his sense of hearing, from his right ear.

25 year old Raj Pandey works as an advocate clerk in the Delhi HC. While employees have a gate pass but on that fateful day, he had come to help a client get a pass made. He now has a deep wound on his right thigh and his face is bruised all over. But he doesn’t have any major complaints against the hospital staff.

Rajesh Kohli, 50, cant help smiling at the irony, when he tells me that his case was due for hearing some 2 months ago. For some logistical reasons, it had to be postponed and the date he was given was - 7of Sept. He looked at me as if to say, never did I think for a moment that..

I made my way to another ward in another building in the RML hospital…where more seriously injured blast victims were admitted on all 5 floors. Head & neck injuries. Multiple surgeries. Amputations. The most cruel blow, was for the families of those who had to undergo amputation of their limbs.

50-yr-old Ratan Lal is perhaps one of the most greviously injured blast victims. Doctors had to amputate both his legs in order to save his life. In fact he was undergoing another surgery as I finally managed to find out his whereabouts. His family was clearly stricken. It took me almost an hour to trace them and when I did find them, the lady just said.. “Please, he’s in the OT, we don’t want to talk.” I could see that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have.

I moved on from the scene.

While the whole media has been talking about Ratan Lal’s case, there’s another story, I found, by the same name. I had bumped into this burly man in a ward, while I was asking around for anyone by the name Ratan. They pointed me towards this safari suit clad middle aged man. I was confused, clearly he wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t the Ratan I was looking for. A doctor was trying to get some details from him and I heard him say, “for god’s sake, just how many times?... bata to do kis liye pooch rahe ho”. I looked beside him…a young, bruised but still handsome looking, man lying on the bed. Conscious & in pain. I couldn’t see his wounds because he was covered with a blanket. But I could see that he was by far, a far worse case. I looked at his case sheet placed at the foot of the bed. Nitin, M, 35, it said. Meanwhile, Ratan, the father, started reading a newspaper sitting on a stool beside him. That was odd. He didn’t want to talk to me. All other families were very responsive. I caught Nitin’s eye. Aap theek ho jayenge, I told him. After 3 seconds, he made an effort to understand. I told him again – himmat nahi haarna. Aap theek ho jayenge. Nitin nodded slightly and just like that, slipped into incoherence again. I slipped out of the ward.

Later, I learnt from another reporter on the field that Nitin had a 1000 chharre or pellets embedded in his body. Indeed and by far, the most painful injury. I understood why Ratan didn’t want to talk to me.

There were various other families, some inside the wards sitting near their loved ones, watching them suffer. Some outside the wards, standing or sitting on the stairs, waiting anxiously for a word from the doctor. Some were just holding each others hands, staring helplessly, at nowhere.

I finally approached the National Disaster Mgmt Authority desk, set up at the hospital. For the final figures. Out of 56 admissions, 23 blast victims were still admitted. 3 of them were still critical & 4 victims have died during treatment. On an unofficial note, they told me, there are at least 3 other victims who are facing amputation of their limbs.

I was ready to get back to work and file my story. But for families of the blast victims, I knew there was no turning back... from the shock, pain & the suppressed rage at the unfairness of it all. Their wounds went way deeper. I knew.

http://ibnlive.in.com/news/delhi-hc-blast-victims-grapple-with-injuries/183038-3.html

Apart From Anna..

2011-08-17T15:14:00.001+05:30

The big humdrum in the country caused by this can't ignore, dhoti-kurta-and-nehru-topi clad phenomenon of 73.. has clearly taken over the mind space (& therefore the news space) of an average Indian citizen and how..

Almost everything about Anna works for him.. a non-agenda person, the gandhi-giri tactic or strategy (whatever you wanna call it) .. his forthrightness, his jasba, his desh prem... and well.. his campaign that parallels the do or die.. you do it or i die that is!

Is that enough to be shit scared of, if I were the govt.? Yes, not of the certain Hazare but the mobs he has created and that are out on the streets, esply Dilli, uff! Darn it! But they have spent millions of INR on Rahul Gandhi till date to make a small scale phenomenon out of him.. but people still don't care a shit for him! Maybe they should have added the Nehru topi. Yet this old man's sort-of-satyagraha is costing them! And since they have never really enjoyed the perks of such-a-huge popularity themselves, they just don't know how to handle it..

And what if I were the Indian aam-aadmi? Well, I have suddenly found the perfect reason for coming out with my suppressed desh-bhakt gene in me! You see our struggle for independence was very recent.. and we have many a times, throughout our years of education, wondered about the historic crusade, yet have never had a chance to openly speak about it, nor a reason to. I watch every movie made on Bhagat Singh and shed tears each time Rajguru embraces death! And feel that if I were there in that time and era.. I would have... ... ... And suddenly, one fine morning, people are marching the streets again! I am damn curious to begin with, I switch on the news, every news anchor is crying his lungs out...confused, rubbing my eyes, I wonder why this man wants to die? another daharna??...why?...Oh the issue is closer home... he asks me if i have paid any bribe recently? OF COURSE I HAVE! That's that. I, the aam-aadmi, have found my reason, my icon! Annaji is yester-years' Gandhiji! Must have been friends with him! One died for the country, and the other is wanting to. A freedom fighter is born again! The cool desh-bhakt of today! With the Sarfaroshi ki tamanna.. tune humming inside my head.. I go out and gladly join that march! After all, he's fighting to make MY rusted-with-corruption life-in-the-country better! How can I stay out of it anyway?

But this is not why I am writing this blog for! I don't support the Govt's decision to detain Anna nor the make-believe act of - Oh! Rahul Gandhi's heart beats for the nation and sought Anna's release... the PR strategy! Forget it! I am not falling for it!

Nor I mean to be over-ridden by the Gandhi-giri phenomenon. But on that, I shall reserve my opinion for later.

I write for .. Apart From Anna..

I write for a certain woman, who till yesterday morning, was working on her laptop, just like I am doing at the moment.. concerned about her country...working hard to protect its working, in her own lil' way, within her own lil' strength.. and who was shot dead before afternoon!

Shehla Masood.

An RTI activist. While the whole country is bustling at the moment to walk in the footsteps of Anna.. she is the woman whom I might have wanted to follow. Kinda my icon. I knew nothing about her but nevertheless, would stood for what she stood for...to bring out the truth and untiringly so. Unfortunately, I noticed her only after the news of her death.

I was first puzzled, rather shocked. They have begun shooting Anna's campaigners? NO, like Anna, she never made it there in the first place. Oh! Apparently she was already under threat for life... Oh...

But still, it doesn't fit.

Puzzled still the next morning, I tried imagining her, rewind to what she would have been like, alive and throbbing.. and I imagine this kurti & denim clad young woman, working away furiously at a laptop, saving files of RTIs replies, writing to the police for protection... dipping a piece of roti in her chai alongside and hurrying it all up to make it to the Anna campaign on time..

And a few hours later, Shot dead.

It takes a few minutes before I can think or write anything else.

News articles say - five teams to investigate this murder (or death-made-sound-important bec its an RTI activist) but no more leads yet and the news channel don't have too much time to delve into it for Annaji is keeping them busy still. I don't blame them. Shehla's muder case hasn't developed any further yet. There IS nothing new to report about it.

I checked her out on google. It has some pics of this simple looking girl, campaigning for various issues. Linkedin tells me she was an event manager to begin with. Someone who did and made a living out of similar stuff that a lot of my friends do. I wonder when did this young thing grow in her heart, the need to benefit more than one life, that was her own.

I checked her out on facebook. Already there are tribute pages up...and miss u messages. But the real person, is really gone. And in some way, I feel a void.

A void of a young, active life. Someone who chose to make it her business to fight for the truth. To work for her country. To a point of fault, as it now seems. For someone was scared enough, to want to end it. Just like our govt. at the moment.

I wonder then, for one, what must be running on the minds of our powers that be. If only they could smash this Anna movement? Just like someone did smash the life out of Masood..?

For two, I wonder.. what did Shehla Masood get wrong in the whole deal anyway? What really did cost her, her life?

Is Anna untouchable in that sense today, just because he has become the public himself? And on the other hand, Shehla got killed because she sought for the same integrity, but as an individual? Because Shehla did not wait for an Anna movement to become a follower? Because she behaved like an empowered citizen of the country to begin with? That she was able to realize, much before most of us did, that people's rights are important and if they are compromised, then someday one must stand up to fight for them? And that a country NEVER has the option of going to dogs really? Because it isn't made up some statistical numbers but real people? And the way to go, is always way ahead. So if the systems rusts or rots, it's got be cleaned up. Because Shehla decided to take up that difficult task? Did she not have that right as an individual and as a citizen of this country? I want to know, if this was why Shehla was shot dead.

They say RIP for a dead soul. I won't. I'd rather these questions burn...and hot.

For once, for ever..

2011-08-04T09:53:00.001+05:30

I must have told you so many times

That love is such a waste of time..

But then there are a chosen few

Whom it happens to

And they have no way of getting away

For love happens once, twice, forever..

With the same feeling, in the same way

And then it takes over life and away

It leads your heart…to the point of such

Of nothingness and still much

It become but

A matter of life n death

There’s no you then..

There’s nothing else then…

For those chosen few..

It jz becomes a destiny…

A destiny they only got to choose…

And love

And live forever

That’s love..

Oh yes it is…

Its not the story that you thought to be..

But it’s a story nevertheless

It’s the one that you got to live

Without knowing what it is..

Feel it, ignore it,

but you will be living in it..

Oh yes that’s love…

It happens once, twice ..and forever

With the same feeling, in the same way…

Those who get it once… they get it forever…

They may struggle… they may battle…

But they cant get away…

Oh what’s the use.. you will fall in love again..

With the same feeling, in the same way…

For once,

for ever..

And I thought I was dead..

2011-07-22T10:28:00.001+05:30

Wonder what that warmth is

What makes the Daffodils glow..

For I thought I was dead..

Something seeped in today

Just for a moment

In the dead soul..

In the cold body

And after ages it seems

I felt it again

Life!

For it beckoned

When a poet

Wrote prose

Unlikely

Yet

A circumstance indeed

And something

Even if only for a moment

Seeped in me

And warm

I write for him

This cold dead hymn

To be engraved

On the stone that I am today

For one day

that he will pass by

and read them…

till then I rest

and he will know

only at last

that alive I had come

when I read him.

I can’t say no more

But

I can’t not say no more.

- Shalini

Claim/ Reclaim

2011-07-11T18:13:00.002+05:30

At times, life has too many stories to tell..

And that's when the ink often dries up, even before it could touch itself, on the page. Waiting in the mind.

At the next waiting, it doesn't even leave a blotch.

At times' such, his hand sighs in distress.. and gives up.. each time. Every time. Paralysed.

Paralysed again, he gives up. Destiny, his thoughts to him, ebb.

But a time comes. Sometime later in the Night. or Later in the Day. Or at a later evening.

A time comes.

It ticks. And the hand writes. The writer peers. Curious, to know what the hand has written. What is in the destiny?

Claim/Reclaim. It says.

And that's the alert.

There's enough trigger.

There's enough death.

There's enough violence.

These are, for, the last breaths.

And the dying man, gasps again.

The words flow. And I shall write again.

We bleed blue.. !!! Oh yes we do!

2011-03-31T15:36:00.009+05:30

Ok I never ever thought that I'd ever bleed blue on ma blogz but...here I go!

Oh yes! It's mad and crazy and it's got me and the rest of the world around... hooked and how! Not that I ever.. even remotely.. liked Dhoni's uncouth hair nor Sehwagz err... umm & while I have always maintained my faith in Zaheer the strategist and liked the sight of bhajji's adrenaline going up... and I admit taking some extra delight in watching that killer look on Yuvraj Singh's.. otherwise..erm..expression... :P

But this WC..I BLEED BLUE .. and how :D

Am I enjoying the ride! You could have asked me if were still breathing you know! And last night ...DLF Promenade it was.. where we hooted ourselves hoarse..

And each time the cam zoomed in on our very own GOD and the rest of Demigodz.. ooohhh you should seen the crowds...my my.. what a night it waz!

My vote of thanks first goes to... Sehwagji (whom I can't thank enough) for what you did in the first innings.. the GODz for clearly coming out to be with Tendulkar.. Yuvraj for revenging in pure blue blood... Bhajji, Nehra, Gauti .. for those breathtaking momentz .. and well .. Zaheer still remainz my favourite cool blue strategist esply when teamed up with Dhoni'z brash determination and stay calm attitude which wills the matches into winning...am almost falling in love with a certain pair of brown eyez on the field you know... :P

And today morning I must mention how very sweet it was of TOI to print their headlines in blue.. :D Apparently its a Volks Wagon campaign. So how can I stay off from that mania and reflectionz not turn blue? :P Herez my lil bit for the blue fever.. Cmmon India... The World Cup is waiting :)

Till then and forever.. we bleed blue.. !!! oh yes we do!

Its a beautiful night they say.. it is..

2011-03-24T20:12:00.001+05:30

But something.. something else... stirs in me..
as if there is some other story.. inside me..

Its a beautiful.. beautiful night they say..it is..
Oh but y doesn't the moon...shine hard enough on me..

Coz' the dark side of me.. awaits..
the bright shine .. to end of my wait...

Oh why .. jz why doesn't the shimmer dissolve
my thoughts and logs..
of those past and those present..
of that lost and those yet to lose..
jz why don't both dissolve?

Oh why can't I await
inside my heart..
rather run hither thither..
this one..
on each beat..
as it does..

And yet as i breathe
and just that..
hope.. every minute..
life.. every minute..

Oh why doesn't this moonlight..
shine bright enough on me..
something stirs in me..
as it does.. and Its a beautiful night they say.. it is..

a letter to ma lil' one @...

2011-03-21T18:32:00.004+05:30

dear dear blog...

sorry its been a while that i put up anething..but then u know how life is..and u know how it gets for me rite.. me dealing with the hajaar thingz that are happenning..

but i gotcha tell u abt the awesome-est and the recent-EST (:P well like ten mins ago literally) piece of newz.....that being my lil gal shreelu getting hands on SK's mail id..and guess wat.. she sent him the mail.. hit the send button ...!!!! :))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

and now i wanna send this letter to her...

dear lil' one..

it waz my dream wasnt it? and my lil one is living it..atleast dreaming it...and almost waking up to it..
yyyoooohhhoooooo!!!

i cant tell u wat my feelings are at this point in time.. i mean apart from being mad with happiness... suddenly...time has come to a stand still... i have come to a stand still...sth has pulled me to the present reality and has grounded me entirely.. i am calm..my breath is calm...only my fingers are typing away..

i dont know wat this feeling is..i mean u know me.. being calm bothers me ..

we were all literally shrieking a few minutes ago...yeh n hugging each other.. and...and now.. after our sumwat crazy folks have also hugged us and are out...after u kids.. have left me alone in the room with the lappie.. after our shrieks r over..after...

m soo shaant .. i cant tell u..am actually SO DAMN HAPPY yaar!!!!!!!!!!!! :)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

i mean this is the awesome-esttttt thing that could have happened in life rite...my dream man...and like hell i hope he responds to that mail...and like with the dream reply... :D

the point is.. i alwez dreamt of workign with his man..jz alwez dreamt of it...and today .. frankly speaking.. sth struck a chord...of past dreams.. of past resolutions.. passionz..of an early time.. movie making..and while i alwez thought that one day i may jump that high n catch that impossible star.. here my lil' gal actually has done it...

today... sth brushed past me...the whiff of that film set...u know.. the one i alwez dreamt of... that that i jz alwez wanted... imagined..lived in ma head...today...sth of that just brushed past me again...its a mixed feeling u know...coz i have started to dream diff stuff now...and this bumping into past.. umm...its a very different feeling...

ok..m sumwat j .. lil sis... hell! i should b v j! i mean...cmmonn u know me..m no saint.. we alwez planned on the other way around.. din we.. ???

but u know wat... to hell with bein J! i dun think.. i cud have beeen soo happeee ever... AND I MEAN IT!!! ... not even if i were dreaming the same dream and maybe getting to shake hands with the man himself... not even if... ane damn thing apart from watz reallee happenin.... :PPPPPPPPPPPP

i alwez thought onez own dreamz were onez own future... n ntn else beat that in life ..but today...
i alwez thought ur dreamz were ur only strength in onez life..achieving them the only goal.. winnin them.. the only..pinnacle...

but today...

as i stand wer i do...and as i watch myself from here...and watch myself n u...my lil one....i get to know for the first time...wat it is feels like..

i mean i know now... wat mumz dadz actually-actually feel like alrite! just why do they put soo much on their kids...just what it feels like to watch wen ur kid grows up n livez ur dreamz...! n fulfill them...i know now...and trust me wen i say...ntn beats that feeling..abs nothing! its like lifez telling me... ders sth more to life...and now i know...

n this young mom is sooooo happee today ..and she cud jz dance and hop her life away...
((ermm..unconventional??? but..erm..u know me...;))

and while u sit in front of me.. singing n playing ma guitar... and while life may take us different directions and make us feel strange thingz... like oofff that film set...and well...the changed anglez...

i jz wanna tell ya ... that if n when 'the dream' comes true...

i promise to live that dream nvrdless...the other way around.. and m gonna watch u at the sets... door se.. and absorb it all... n will proudly say.. heya...thats ma lil' one.. and smile n wave at you.. jz like i alwez do..
...
ntnz changed... ntn will..

love,
pinki di..
muaaahhh...
:D

Where art thou..in me?

2011-02-22T16:35:00.005+05:30

I cleared the cobwebz

I cleared my mind..

the ‘since forever’ tenants in there..

the childhood memories…

The time I carried in a sand clock…

I have let the sand slip..

And I have watched the waves recede…

And let them

Wash me away too

Salted tears

Made of sweet memories

Some sour memoirs

Fallen leaves

Scattered petals

Blushing, warm winds

Grey skies

Two long braids

And friends

Pulling at them

Warm handshakes

Coffee cuppas

Cold milkshakes

Breezy hugs

Strawberry lippers

Each one…

I have hugged and

Said goodbye

Watched them fade

Blur into colours

Some smiling

Some waving

I have simply

let them fade

and with them

their voices

and memories

I embraced

The pain

That came along

But smiled with love

At each passing

With tears in my eyes

I waved my goodbyes

Just which category though, do u fall into?

To my granpa...of sorts...

2011-01-24T13:36:00.009+05:30

It used to be that time in the morning when my mother used to hand me over the big glass of milk. I used to go and sit by my granpa in the living room, always complaining in my head that the glass felt so heavy. Others in the family running around for morning chores used to coax me to hurry up.. "School le liye taiyyar hona hai.. bus choot jayegi.. hurry up Pinkeee.. " Yet something, something always transfixed me there...

It was this rendition that played on DD. I heard it every morning as I sipped my milk. I never realized till today, how much, it had seeped into me.

As I entered my workplace, a lil' earlier than usual today, and switched on the TV set for my regular diet of morning news, I saw the news flashing..

Pt. BHIMSEN JOSHI NO MORE.

I stared, trying to comprehend what it meant.

At 88, breathed his last in a Pune hospital.

What were you thinking Shalini? People would never die? Ofcourse people grow old and then they die..

I watched them play the most recent visuals we had of the man.. and then I turned around. To face my computer. My day at work.

Get dissolved in my world.

But just before I could.. I heard something familiar. This rendition.. sth struck me.. and hard. I looked around to face the TV set again. And I saw the grandest memory I had of this man.

His face always used to 'dissolve'...from a jharna... looking skywards.. lost in rendering the notes...

Suddenly, I was that 7yr old kid, sipping milk from a heavy glass, watching the TV set from the tip of its rim..

...

Maybe it was the 'granpa' effect. Since I used to sit beside mine.. and somehow since both of them looked old... I came to consider him as my TV granpa..

Mile sur mera, tumhara...tooo...soor bane..hammaaaraa...

Why does he pronounce 'sur' as 'soor'...!!!

I suspected if my friends watched it. Or enjoyed it. Like the way my granpa and my momma did. Followed by me.

My lil' brain couldn't process so much then. Couldn't have thought through these words or phrases. But the music was a dictionary of sorts for me. Those swaras...defined for me, the word pious, touching. I saw that the old man's expressions touched the divine. His voice just flowed through him. Touched the very soul.

'Momma, I really like this tune.'

'Its the 'desh raag' pinkee. That's why it is so powerful. Now finish your milk quickly...cmmonnn.'

I never paid heed to the last line. I just went back to watching my real-life granpa adoring the TV-granpa. And watch the lines being repeated in every bhasha that Hindustan speaks. Loved mimicking the lines in my head. Ironically, I couldn't for the longest, comprehend those lines in my mother tongue, Telugu... Naa swaramu, nee swaramu...lost it after that, duh! But it didn't matter. I used to love the Goa bit too. And I used to wonder at that tanned jet black on a huge elephant. How could someone so starved look so happy? And I used to sip that milk. Ufff!! When will I grow up??

...

20 years later.

I hear the rendition again. But as a rendition to mark the death day of this music maestro. Pt.Bhimsen Joshi. I wonder why I never even found out his name as a child. I wonder when did I stop listening to him daily? And why..some 20 yrs later, I feel a sort of...grief?

Inexplicable.

Nevertheless, the lil' child in me feels the pain. Maybe she never imagined her TV-granpa dying. That was never a concern. But the 25 year-old-sth-me today has to face the reality. I am clearly mourning. There's no sound to it, but there is a truth to it. I am laughing as usual with the others around. But every time one news channel after the other plays that rendition...my heart beats a lil' faster. Trying to take in, what's lost.

As I said, maybe I shall never be able to explain why. Too subtle. Or too sensitive. But unmistakable. Maybe one of those things in life...

But I felt the urge to write. That just like my writing, his voice is etched in my memory. That he...is etched in my memory. And while I can't promise immortality myself, his old figure and his voice promises to live on in my subtle world.

This one's for the great maestro. For my granpa..of sorts.

Lots of love & music..

Sur ki nadiyaan, har disha se... beh ke saagar mein mile...

baadalon ka roop leke.. barse.. halake.. halake...

नया साल मुबारक..

2010-12-31T22:43:00.006+05:30

खूबसूरत से दिन

और उससे भी मीठी रातें

कुछ खुश्क हवा..

तो कुछ गीली रेत

मस्त सी बारिश..

वो मिट्टी की खुशबू..

माँ की गोद

पापा की डांट

दोस्तों की वो सीटी..

छेड़-छाड़ वाला प्यार

बोस्स से surprise gifts (!)

colleagues के साथ coffees

shopping का मज़ा

और वो लुट जाने का uncomfortable ख़याल

वो नयी वाली गाडी

वो occasional tyre puncture

drawing room के लिए एक नया flower vase

और उसमे (बसंती या चमेली) के फूल (:P)

किताबें

जूते

मिठाई-aan

बधाई-aan

कुछ उलझने

कुछ शरारतें

कुछ नयी हिम्मत

और कुछ कभी न छूटने वाले साथ..

वही रोज़मर्रा की आम बातें ..

पर ख्यालों की नयी दुनिया..

बस inhi सब से बना हो..

इनकी ह़ी मिठास में घुला हो..

एक और नया साल

आपका नया साल..

Last Day Do Hazaaarr Das..!! (Angry, hungry, hasty scribblezzz)

2010-12-31T21:55:00.003+05:30

Dear blog..

Dunno why life does what it does.. and you know just what am talking about.. (I mean I just...with great difficulty.. in midst of like hajaar relatives and cousins and cooking and phone calls.. wrote our customary year end blog... and the draft doesnt get saved!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)))

But just want to scribble and say ..

Life may do what it may..

but i Shall blog..

Come what may..

and share myself..

just with you..

like with no one else

that i do..

So while you are me..

And shall remain my truth

Dear my me..

here's sincerely wishing you a very happy new year.. newer times.. and a newer life.. ahead.. with just no looking back..

:) Smiles sprinkled year to each soul that i know.. or do not.. and who does like me or does not.. but reads these reflectionz.. your life and mine..

Love,

My lil' neighbour..

2010-12-21T23:37:00.016+05:30

Today, I passed on a 10 rupee note to a lil' boy at the crossing today.

I felt ashamed that I only passed on ten rupees. Very very ashamed.

As I am typing this away, I am sitting in the cosy recluse of my home provided by my parents. He lives, less than 5 minutes away from me. Maybe he qualifies to be called a neighbour. I don't know his name but I know his home is that hard, tiled, rocky and cold footpath, under the flyover, at the crossing that I stop by on my way back home every evening.

Nine out of times, I brake at that red light. Ten out of ten times, I wonder about him and his family.

I maybe talking over the phone or listening to some loud music. At times they even find me crying. At times, they find me laughing by myself. But as I watch their faces everyday and stare at them, I always look for something. A story. An expression. Any expression. I never find it.

Their faces are always mute. Just always.

In my mind, I think of what I always think about. That I must not turn my face away from them. That I must, face the reality. Not their's, but mine. The fact that I don't know what I have done in this lifetime to deserve a warm enough home and a computer in front of me.. and the leisure and a platform where I could type away my thoughts like I am doing now. And what has my lil' neighbour under the flyover done to not deserve it. Just what?

I was born in a middle class family. My entire clan belongs to those of civil servants. So not much money, but a standing neverthless, made of good values, good books, good taste in literatue, drama, music, at times bad govt. flats, but life made colourful by multilingual neighbours, mean kids for friends, best friends for kids, deadlines at home, worried parents, old grandparents, fighting aunts & uncles, adolescent cousins.. and in the midst of all the conflict.. some love..

It took me lot of time to decide to buy myself a new car. Am yet to get myself an SLR camera. These days, it keeps gnawing at me. The thought of playing with a lens. Today, when I stopped at the crossing, I had thought, a lil' ashamedly, but nevertheless - 'what a shot it would make.. if I had a cam, I might just get down, go near that homeless famly sitting huddled together, and without a word, just click away. Let them stare at me. No issues. Let them look into the camera. No issues. Will they feel offended and drive me away? I would take my chances. Will they feel hurt to be made a subject of? I would..still.. take my chances.'

'I maybe helpless in providing them with a home. But I might make great pictures of them .. and maybe hold a photo exhibition one day. I will walk the streets of Delhi, in the cold, but find out their reality, and put it up for the others to see...'

Until, the reality walked upto me.

It was a nine or ten year-ed frame.. or maybe slightly older. Am bad at guessing ages and the kids on Delhi's streets are malnoursihed. I have always wondered what they eat for dinner. Do they buy the chhole kulche off the street vendors? I think you get at least one plate for a ten rupee note. I am sure they earn that much a day at least, selling newspapers, magazines, roses of all colours - red, yellow, pink.. toys, balloons, Christmas masks this week. Its common enough to be bugged by these roadside salespersons. Lil' kids, begging away to give them a rupee.

At times, its a young mother holding an infant or a baby, tied to her body with a ragged cloth. You almost wonder how on earth and where on earth could she have given birth to a child! I mean, most look much younger than me. Doesn't she know, one doesn't have to have kids, if one doesn't want to. Doesn't she know, one doesn't have to have kids if one can't afford to. She only seems to know that she has to keep hr babies with her after they are born. Like some instinct. The young mother always look tired. And ready to faint. But she drags herself to your car window. You give her a rupee, she has the same expression. She gives you a salaam. You pass on a 10 rupee note, she has the same expresssion. She gives you a salaam. Nothing makes a difference. She leaves the responsibilty of making a difference on you. She just holds her lil' baby, that clings to her bony body. And she just gives you a salaam.

With time though, her babies grow into lil' kids who beg. With time, these lil' kids grow into slightly bigger kids, start holding a steel katori or a container, pick up a small picture of a devi maa, put it in there, and beg of you in the name of god. When they grow tall enough, they start to start clean the windsheild of your car with a dirty cloth and insist for a rupee or two. These days, they even shove their hands into the window, trying to touch you. You shout at them and threaten them that you'd get them thrown into the jail. They don't care. They just giggle and scoot off. Its a very common thing. Very common and very irritating. If you are a Delhite, you'd know.

They generally bring in a lot of innvovation to their business. A lot of determination, lot of grit, lots of dedication that they show the whole year long. But they give it up in the cold Delhi winters. They lose to its cruel chill. They huddle together around a small fire they make. I automatically remember that its harmful for the environment to burn those dry leaves. But I shut my mouth up till such a time, that I am able to show them a way to a warm shelter. Education can happen later.

This is Delhi's reality. Delhites like me, have grown up with it. Are used to it.

But the grown up reality that walked towards me today.. I couln't watch it.

A boy of nine or ten, holding a sack like thing over his shoulder, got up off the tiled foothpath and walked towards me, as soon as I braked at the regular crossing on my way way back.. for home. I realised a second or two later, that it was a lil' baby in his hands. His family was huddled up around a very small flame. I peeked to see but couldn't make out if it was enough to keep them warm. But they didn't notice that. They never looked up. But the lil' boy holding the lil' baby snug, walked up to the other side of my car window. I was used to watching lil' girls taking care of the lil' ones in their family after their mothers, who are either working to earn some dinner, or who knows, even dead. But this lil' boy, something about him, stuck me today.

It was the way he held the baby. Snug. The way he comfortably got up, without stumbling. And the ease with which he walked towards me. My car, I mean. The way, nothing seemed out of the place for him. Like it was allright. Yes, he was suffering. Yes it was very cold outside. He looked hungry. He looked depressed. His irises weren't really clear, his dead soul reflected there. Its a tough world out there for him. Everything about him spoke to me of that. But he would stick by the lil' one, no matter what. Like he had accepted that he was just meant to. Like he was never meant for anything else. He had already grown up. His reposnsiblity was the lil' one in his hands. He, himself, never had a childhood. It meant nothing to him. Worse, his eyes spoke no complaints. He was just tired and cold and hungry. Everything else was allright.

I immediately lowered the left window, stretched out my hand and passed on a ten rupee note. He took it. I don't know what he felt. I don't know what he'd thought. But there was no change in the expression. And I knew I wasn't doing enough. When he looked at me, I couldn't meet his eyes.

He walked back, to his footpath.

I went home.

Does he have a name? I wonder.

Courtesy: While I am still saving up to buy myself a good camera, a photographer friend has kindly lent me images from his lens: To check out more stuff by my favourite picture man… jz click at the above pic.

I forgot to say, I love you.

2010-12-11T00:43:00.004+05:30

Everything is perfect... and that's scary!
..

I am 25. I have grown from being a girl to a young woman. I look around and at least five people smile at me and tell me what a fantastic person I am. I love them at times. I get carried away at times. I recognise both at times.

Yet.

I turn the other way around.. and another five faces from the past, present and future, stare at me. Their eyes are sad. Some neutral. But they keep staring at me. They tell me am not so fantastic. At times I hate them. Most times, I try to forget about them. But I let them exist.

You may think these two sets of people are very different.
No. I am scared of both.

And at times like these, in the middle of the night, I feel like going back.. to that feel of starch, or at times chiffon. Crispy it was. But a softness.. only I had found.
..

I was a small kid then. I don't think I was as complicated. I couldn't have typed my thoughts so fast then. I didn't even know I would ever blog. I didn't bother. All I cared was, the touch of a cotton saree. To run into it.. hold fast..close my eyes and the smell..

Her hands were never feeble. I knew her every touch. Her every helplessness. Her every pain. Her every thought. Every heartbeat. I knew as she lifted me up...I recognised only too well.. exactly when they didn't feel very strong. I simply knew.

And yet, from those never tiring arms, I drew my greatest strength. I slept to the lullaby that was her voice. Her skin, soft, pillow-like. She smelt of roses. Whatever it was really like, it was called roses in my world.

I used to feel scared of her too. Whenever she would be angry at me. Other people tried to save me from her. But no one knew that the only way I would ever feel OK..would be to be with her. To rest my head on her chest. To get her hug. To feel her sigh. To listen to her heartbeat. Nothing else could secure me.

And yet, I started running away.

As I grew up, I started running away. And fast. I started forgetting to say, I love you. l suspect she did neither. But I maybe wrong. Entirely mistaken. All I do know is, I did forget.

I kept chasing a perfect life. Good work. Good friends. Good standing. Five people to cheer me and say am fantastic. Five people who stare, but those I easily know how to forget, how to ignore.

I fight to make my own destiny. I break hearts. I win battles. I keep moving. Moving ahead. Moving on. I just keep going.

But in the middle of tonight mamma, I suddenly feel scared. Scared of the world that I have created around myself. The perfect world that I have built around myself. Maybe, perfection wasn't what I was made of. Maybe, perfection wasn't what I was made for either. For I scare, despite it. Even perfection, I realise, isn't a perfect feeling.

And now I realise. That Love, is despite. Despite it. And despite the lack of it.

Now I know.

But its too late in the night now. And although I am awake, am not sure if I could wake you up too. If I should. I don't know...

Tell me how do I come to you. You don't wear that crisp cotton saree any longer. I could have easily hugged you then and simply murmured how much I enjoyed its touch. You would have known the reality though. Both of us would have been happy and satisfied. But what do I do now? Maybe its my fault all the way. I don't know. Maybe you left wearing those cottons, after I stopped hugging you. Is that so? Or would I never know?

Sorry Mamma, I forgot to say I love you.
...

When we are hungry... love will...

2010-12-01T23:25:00.008+05:30

Its about a woman called Sita - and this is her story!

As I sat by the must-be-50-year-old Nepali mother…I couldn’t initially figure what she was trying to tell me...

“Jab mera baccha log chota tha na.. to hamare ghar mein tv nahi tha… padosi ke ghar jate the.. ramayan, mahabharat ya cartoon dekhne ke liye.. to bhaga dete the… dadi ke ghar jate to TV band kar dete. Aankhon mein aansoon leke vo mere paas aati thi…bolti thi ke – mummy tv nahi dekhne de rahe. Mujjhe bohat dukh hota tha…Main kehti thi..jab tere naseeb mein nahi hai to kyun tu…”

She trailed off. I was still listening. But I still hadn’t imagined where it was going.

“Meri bachi ko bachpan mein tv nahi dekhne ko milta tha…par aaj meri bacchi tv pe aa rahi hai..”

Her eyes were wet. I went and sat on the arm of the sofa that she was sitting on edgily, my hand rubbing her back. I knew that it wouldn’t help. Mothers, you know the way they feel, get overwhelmed and all. It may have looked like I was trying to comfort her. But in reality, I was just sitting as close as possible.. to feel her love for her daughter…

Then we just sat there and watched TV.

…

A day before, I was running along to finish an assignment for the WORLD AIDS DAY. That’s when I met 28 year old Sita.

The moment I saw her, I realized she was nothing like I had expected her to be. The email info had read - a 28 year old widow and mother of 3 children. HIV +. And TB +. And well, TB free now. And that she’s ready to talk openly. I had imagined a downsized face, just short of a ghoonghat. Wanting to complain about life. Of course that was what I needed for my story.

But when I did set my eyes on her in a cabin-ed NGO room, all I could see was a young woman, clearly in her prime, a nice simple haircut that suited her, in a grey woolen coat that fell upto the knee of the salwaar kameez that she wore underneath. She was eager to meet me.

I met her eyes, but I couldn’t find a ghoonghat. Her irises were clear. Very clear. I just gave a tight smile.

“Now I must explain this clearly before we start shooting with you. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, you know. We are fine with hiding your identity. We just want you to voice your story.” She looked across at her colleague, Harish Singh, HIV+ too and almost double her age. Both shook their heads. “Jo baat hai so hai. Mujhe kuch nahi chupaana.”

Frankly speaking, I had hoped for it.

…

Mera naam Sita hai. Main HIV+ hoon. Mujhe nahi pata ke mujhe HIV kahan se hua. Ho sakta hai ke mere husband se hua ho…kyunki vo driver the. Ho sakta hai, needles se hua ho, ya fir khoon se. Mujhe nahi maloom.

I was meeting Sita today because of some statistical reasons. I mean, statistics that made sense only to health journalists…like more than half of HIV+ people in this country die due to this preventable disease called TB.

Mujhe HIV ke vajah se TB bhi ho gaya. Magar mujhe ek doctor bolta tha ke aapko TB hai. Doosra bolta tha nahi hai. Ek hospital confirm karta tha. Doosra negative. Kayi baar jaanch karaane ke baad.. kam se kam teen mahine ki bhaag daud ke baad.. unhone bola ke mujhe TB hai. Bohat time lag gaya...jisse Tb badh jata hai.”

Itni bhaag daud. Aur mujhe kaise pata ke kaunsa doctor sahi bol raha hai? Hamareliye to dono hi bhagwaan hote hain na... kitni baar jaun?? Main aapko kya bataun mam'.. sorry aapka naam kya hai? Main bhool gayi.. Shaalni…?? Shalniji main aapko kya bataun..aap sunoge to pareshaan ho jaoge…mere jaise na jane kitne log honge jinke paas paise bhi nahi hote ilaaj karane ke liye...

In the midst of explaining her crisis, she was mentioning others as well. I noticed that. Does she draw strength from that thought? I wondered.

How much does the NGO pay her? I asked. She had just joined one as an HIV activist.

Mushkil se 3000 rupaye...

I tried imagining her in my head. Living in a small rented house (I suspect maybe only a single room) somewhere in JJ nagar in Wazirpur in Delhi. With a family that comprised of 3 adolescent children, an 18 year old sister, a must-be- 50-year-old mother. Did the children go tot school? Yes, a govt. school. Sita herself never got to study beyond 6^th standard. So all she could do is find work in factories now. As labour or as skill, earning her livelihood. Earning bread and butter, or roti or chawal, or I suspect, whatever the most subsidized cereals are, for herself and her family. Her husband had died more than 2 years ago. Cause of death unknown. Could have been HIV. But unknown. After him, Sita was left as the only earning member in that small rented house. And because of the infection, she herself falls ill and very often.

Main Nepali hun na.. isliye mere liye aur bhi mushkil hai. Naukri nahi milti aasani se. Sarkaar kuch bhi dene ke liye pehle ration card maangti hai. Main kahan se laun? Mera makaan maalik likh ke nahi deta. Isliye jo ration milna chahiye vo bhi nahi milta..

Maine padhai likhai…zyada nahi aata merko. Isliye chota mota kaam karti hun. Magar main vahan bata nahi sakti ke main HIV+ hun. Maine jab pehle baar bataya to mujhe nikaal diya gaya. Isliye agli baar jahan naukri mili…vahan maine nahi bataaya. Magar mujhe aise achha nahi lagta hai.

What must it be like to live in the shadow of fear? The 25 year old amongst was thinking. I asked her again if she then really wanted to do this interview. I wasn’t sure any longer if I wanted it. What if she lost her job?

Jo hoga so hoga Shaliniji! Main darti nahi hun.

I just stared at her. Almost confused. That was coming from a woman who earned less than 4000 a month, has a lifelong infection to deal with, costly medicines without which she may die a painful death, special diet, 3 children to feed and an 18 yr old sister to take care of, an old mother…If I were her, I would have been angry with myself. I just stared at her. She must have noticed that.

Main ye ladai sirf apne liye nahi lad rahi hun… sab ke liye lad rahi hun…

I just took a deep breath. It was one thing to tell HIV activists that they were doing a great job at it. But, this? To watch someone’s life, livelihood at stake? I mean…

I just shook myself and went on with the interview

Aap ka TB status kya hai abhi?

Kal mera final report aana hai… shayad TB khatam hai ab. Pata hai kyun? Maine apna bohat acche se khayal rakha. Ek din bhi dawai miss nahi ki. Aur sahi tareeke se khana khaya. Chalees kilo ki ho gayi thi main.. aaj baawan ki hun. She smiled sheepishly. Magar bohat log aisa nahi karte. Vo maante hi nahi hain ki unko HIV hai ya TB hai. Ek aurat ne to mere saamne report faad ke faink di thi. Kaha ke mujhe HIV ho hi nahi sakta. Maine bola usse.. behan.. test galat nahi ho sakta. Par vo maani nahi. Maine dawai li…aur main theek ho gayi. Kaash vo bhi aisa karti..

I sighed. I was learning the meaning of my own script now. More than a million HIV+ people at risk of TB deaths. I thanked god that the woman sitting in front of me was TB free now. But I knew very well that for Sita and many like her…it was only a small triumph in a bigger war.

Mere doctor ne mujhe bataya tha. HIV ke baad TB ho jaye to…death bhi ho sakti hai. Magar dawai hai. TB ke liye dawai hai. Maine kahan unse..mujhe jeena hai...

…par haan…HIV ke liye abhi koi dawai nahi hai na. Isliye ham kuch nahi kar sakte… par fir bhi mujhe jeena hai… main ladna chahti hun isse…

Her ease almost shook me. Her innocence almost shook me. Not that she was the first survivor that I was interviewing in my career. Not the first ever +person I had met. But it was her very positivity that was almost unbelievable. I decided to pull the final straw.

Aapko pata hai…aapki umr shayad zyada na ho? Jaise aapke aas paas ke logon ki hai…

Haan pata hai.. kabhi kabhi sochti hun main… ke main itna nahi jiungi…par fir mujhe lagta hai ke…jab thoda hi jeena to… to khush ho ke kyun na jiyun? Chahe ek pal ho, ek din ho, ek saal ho… jitna bhi ho…kyu na main khush rahun, acche se rahun, apni phamily ke saath time bitaaoon…

Mere gaanv mein sab mujhse ghrina karte hain...meri behan ko bolte hain ke iske saath mat reh, isse baat mat kar...Main jaanna chahti hun kyun? Isme meri kya galti hai?

Par fir bhi...

...Main batana chahti hun logo ke... ke ghut ghut ke nahi jeena…yeh nahi ke HIV+ ho to mmm… aise mooh banake … dukhi hoke… nahi nahi nahi.. aise nahi jeena…khush rehna hai… haso haso haso…haan aise…hamko bhi ache se jeena hai… dikhaana hai duniya ko.. ke ham bhi kuch hai… hai na?

I do not know what my expressions were like. But her broad smile was enough. The sparkle in her eyes was enough. To be alive, seemed just enough!

We wrapped up the interview.

…

The story ran all day long. In the midst of a busy day, I kept fidgeting, wanting to blog. But something about this amazing woman was stopping me. My own admiration for her. For though it was a day away from her regular routine, a nice meeting, heart to heart chat, it hadn’t changed her life in any other way. I knew she really had nothing to look forward to. No help dawning immediately. Her rented flat had no windows. And with the infection, her life felt rented too. Never knowing when it’d be time to simply leave…

And yet, till that moment, to live and to not be able to leave. I didn’t want to imagine.

And to have to fight for something, constantly, in a losing battle. I didn’t want to imagine.

And to still see life eye to eye. And with clear irises. What was this woman made up of! I couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t write either.

…

In the evening, we invited her to the studio. She was excited.

…

As she sat inside, chatting with the anchors…dekhiye jo ho gaya so ho gaya…ghut ghut ke nahi jeena chahiye…I sat by her must-be-50-year-old Nepali mother. We both watched the television. Each with a different kind of pride.

...

After seeing them off though, the words flowed automatically. For at last, it dawned on me, what really kept this awesome, chirpy, smiley, happy Sita, with every reason to be otherwise, going in life! What really kept her positive!

Love does keep one alive... I thought.
...

दिल्ली का दिल.. वाकई उसके मौसम में बसता है...

2010-11-25T12:40:00.003+05:30

चाहे लाइफ में साला कितना भी प्रोब्लेम्स हो..
बोस्स से जितने भी झगडे हों..
सुबह-सुबह मम्मी-पापा की usual... 'यू-क्नो-व्हाट' फिर हो..
यार दोस्त जितने भी busy क्यूँ न हो गए हों..
तुम्हारा crush तुम्हारी ह़ी दोस्त पे लाइन क्यूँ न मार रहा हो..
तुम्हारी फेवरेट बुक पे coffee क्यूँ न गिर गयी हो..
traffic बैड से worse क्यूँ न हो गया हो..

साला.. एक बार दिल्ली में जाड़ा पड़ जाए ना ..
जब..
no धूप.. no छाँव..
खिलखिलाते फूल.. जहाँ देखो वहाँ fallen leaves..
और सबके चेहरों पे एक वही awesome सी मुस्कान..
और वो ठंडी हवा का झोंका ना....सब भुला देता है!
एक lean सा स्वेटर.. लाइफ का सबसे warm hug दे देता है..

सब भूल जाते हैं...के लाइफ में कितनी प्रोब्लेम्स हैं..
दिल्ली का मौसम.. वाकई..बस दिल में बस जाता है...

No..i didn't think it would hurt.. I had lied to myself.

2010-11-18T14:17:00.001+05:30

I thought I had it under my control. Really.

But this morning, just as some bile that I can feel rising inside me, I feel my mind, disturbed. Perturbed. I hadn't imagined it coming. At least, not blowing me up

For in my eyes too, I feel a slight wetness. And that is what, I suspect, is causing it all. That is just what, I hadn't anticipated.

So atleast one thing is clear as I follow my own thoughts. It is not about another living being, not about friends, nothing to do with his or her emotions, nor his or her actions. It is indeed to do with .. the bile or that slight witness.. both mine, both threatening me.

Uncomfortable they are. Angry they are. Amazing they are. Enemies, they tell me, they are.

The kind that stick to you.. inside your own being. So that you just cannot detach yourself at the word go. They will perish only when you feed it with you entire attention. They will perish only when a certain part of you perishes with it. They will perish only when you go through those circles of emotions. The head is spinning, fingers typing out fast. Breathless. But I already know, these feeble attempts, to be of no use. I will have to get consumed, now or..till the moment I can fight. Get consumed, I will.

As I follow my own thoughts a lil' farther, I sense some strength..from some unknown source. Am confused by it now. I do not know what's coming. Or is it just a matter of time? Am thinking.

Already, it seems farce. Its true, but just why does it arise anyway? Experience tells me, fighting isn't exactly asked for.

Yet I know, that my fingers go on. I have already freed myself of the metal bangle, that I wore in the morn.. to stop it from slowing me down...

And now the breathlessness is settling down as a pain...and I know from now on, it shall settle into my eyes. Every other soul, shall view it.

I feel the pain somewhere in the right side of my cast. My eyes are paining too. I had been wanting to sleep. Now I know, i won't be able to.

I hurt. I am. I hurt. I bow my head. I raise it again. Oh why is it so difficult..losing? And well, not losing itself, but the idea of it, that that really hurts.

I knew what was going to happen. I saw it coming. Rather going away. But...as ever... its not the outside that eludes me.. its the inside that takes me by surprise..

And I thought I had it under my control. Really.

A picturesque loner..

2010-11-08T13:40:00.003+05:30

I watch him.. staring into the space...

An idiot he is..I think...but my smile at that thought, tells me.. he's all right!

One may cross those boundaries that make one's own country. One may sit alone at a cafe till the dead of the night. One may make friends with the lone waiter at that cafe. One may even just uselessly watch the smoke swirl, the world blur.. just a little..with some cool breeze on the face.. bumping a crooked nose.. and trying those careless curls.. just a lil'..

One maybe lone.. but when is one ever alone?

For the boundaries that he has crossed, I suspect, he is still bound by the imprints that he'd left. For the cafe that he lounges at, all alone today.. I glimpse.. a number of memories surrounding him. And for every lone waiter who serves him.. I imagine.. he leaves a picturesque imagination for him.. of the slumped figure he poses. And as the smoke twirls once more.. he can't tell the difference in the effect, its taste...and he wonders why.

And all these ghosts, less present, more past, surround him. Not entirely picturesque. Not really audible.. but just like the smoke.. the effect surrounds him..

And he smiles. Just slightly. And then continues to sit, slumped, staring far ahead into nothing. Challenging nothing. Giving in nothing. For that moment.. he lives.. in that nothing..

I almost wonder in my own mind's eye.. is he even alive? Just then, a feeling brushes past me...I experience some cool breeze. And that brings me my answers. For it stirs him. The picturesque loner, at that unknown cafe.

For it brings him too.. some answers. It ain't telling.. nor him, nor anyone. Nor does it leave whispers all over the place. But all the same, carries them, from the time immemorial of a man's life, some answers he had whispered only to the wind...and today...it brings back to him, just those. Making him, just what he is.

I watch him, from the recesses of my own mind. I know nothing will be revealed. No secret of the past, nor present. But I know something will... so I shift my gaze...and watch not him, instead I start, to trace the path of the breeze... bumping over a crooked nose..trying some careless curls..

And I watch it, at work..

It wakes him.. softly..into the present..

It sweeps him.. and touches his very purpose..

It lulls him.. into the pleasure..

It leads him out of one reverie, into another..

He smiles, I suspect, just slightly. Orders for more food, or plays with more smoke. He lets no word out, no ink escapes his pen. He, but sits perched, savouring the present..

I watch him.. staring into the space...

An idiot he is..I think...but my smile at that thought, tells me.. he's all right!

भीनी-भीनी सी कोई ..

2010-11-06T11:50:00.000+05:30

...याद मुस्कुरा रही है...

कुछ ऐसा ह़ी सपना देखा था,
कुछ ऐसे ह़ी ख्वाब बुने थे,
और ज़िन्दगी से, सजदे में बैठ कर,
कुछ ऐसी ह़ी दुआ माँगी थी..

कुछ ऐसा प्यार.. जो प्यार न हो
कुछ ऐसा इकरार.. जो इकरार न हो
कुछ ऐसी मोहब्बत.. जो इनकार न हो
कुछ ऐसा रिश्ता..
जो इबादत से कम न हो..

भीनी-भीनी एक नज़र से,
पलकों के दायरे से ,
आज एक बूँद छलक गयी..
आरज़ू थी बोहत,
आज झलक मिल गयी...

Of Desert Love..

2010-10-25T18:02:00.005+05:30

She knew the moment she set her eyes on him. She knew the moment, he stared back at her, past her. She simply knew.

>>>

The Desert Men

It wasn't a deserted day. There was a lot of activity in the kafila. Nomads too, have a particular life. And the desert, knows it well!

Veiled, unhurried, she walked past them. At times with a pitcher full of water. At times, with the pitcher, empty. At times, emptying her pitcher to quench a traveler's thirst, and watch his eyes, come alive, a rebirth of sorts. She knew, what water meant. The men revelled at it. She...she simply knew.

At times, she just walked past them...just to wander.

They all watched her, from the caves of their own mind. Each a different colour. Each a different shade. Each a certain darkness. They watched her unhurried gait. Her colourful wear clothing her dark, desert tanned, but shimmering skin. They could somehow always hear that lil' jingle that hung at her waist from her skirt, dangling as she walked past. Their eyes naturally caught in its movement, and so too, their breath. As if her entire being was centered in that dangling bit of robe. And her footsteps jz fell, not to carry her, but that lil' jingle on her waist.

And as their eyes travelled, along the jingle and the pitcher that she carried at her waist, up her slender neck...and then the veil...they suddenly found themselves wishing, if only there was a certain veil made, to stop her from boring her eyes back at them...

Almost immediately, their eyes faltered, but they could see that her steps never did. They fell into perfect footsteps, and suddenly they couldn't decide if it was the desert that was scorching or did her feet, the desert?

>>>

The Desert Damsel

She walked past them, in no more than a few moments, and yet they felt her gaze for long after. She observed each one, but knew that none, was the home where her heart was. She simply walked past. With her pitcher. Stopping to help an occasional traveler, nodding mutely, as he lived a moment in death, and felt he could die for a bit of life, that the water in her pitcher revoked.

That evening though, an Arab entered her Kafila.

>>>

The Moment

He was fair. He had traveled for long, she could tell by his robes, the way the gravel was almost engrained into the cotton that draped him. She knew he'd be thirsty. But he showed no signs of it. She watched him descend.. seeking mutely, time and rest, at her kafila. And as he looked at her, in a proper moment of time, she knew.. who he was. And that, he wouldn't...

The Desert had always told her, that she must love the sand, for men only rose from its gravel. The gravel lured them, lead them, chose them, directed them...and finally, survived and willed them. She recognised him by that gravel.

"The Moment' arrived. She saw the gravel swirl. She heard the desert whisper, the tale of love, that would be hers...and knew in that instant, that he wouldn't...

For in that 'moment' that the desert rose, to swirl the gravel on him and her, he had stared past her. She almost laughed. What was he thinking? He didn't seem to know 'the moment'. The stars usually didn't shine this bright. The winds, never this gentle. Their roar never so meaningful. But she watched him. And she knew the tale was hers. And his' to never know!

>>>

The Kafila

The kafila always welcomed travelers. It was a way of life. Never completely trusting the stranger, but serving him nevertheless, to learn to trust. Learn to live with it. Learn to lose it. And move on.

As days passed, the men in her kafila watched her. Carrying her pitcher, as ever. But they knew better, that she was carrying the winds of change in her heart. There was an air of certainty that she carried now. Of turmoil and acceptance. A desert tale, finally hers. A time ripe, to begin her story.

How did they know? They knew, for she didn't hide it. She simply walked past them, as she did every day, with a pitcher at her waist. She hid nothing, nor the tale, and the men that sensed it, she left them like ever, with a wish, there was indeed a veil.

She alone knew though, what could robe her. And where she could steal it from.

>>>

The Arab

He had arrived on a fateful night. He knew, his fate depended on it. For it was the longest journey the young man had ever taken, and yet, he wasn't finished. His Oasis lay farther still. He had left a great deal of treasure behind, and he carried a lot of reminiscences of the past. Never letting him rest, but never quenching his thirst either.

He stared past the kafila, and tried to envision his life farther.

>>>

The Desert

The Desert loved its children. The Desert understood the nomadic life. The Desert followed its traditions. The Desert knew not reasons. The Desert knew only love. And the Desert alone recognized, what the desert woman had.

For, as it settled its gravel, at 'the moment', amongst 'the desert men', at 'the kafila', under 'the stars' burning bright, on the dark skin of one 'desert damsel', causing it to shimmer even more at night, and cast its glances at 'the fair Arab', willing the youth reach its summit of existence, and dissolve the truth that lay in the sand, into their being...

Simple it should have been..and yet..

Clear it must have been...and yet...

He should have seen...and yet...

The Desert roared...

And yet..he wouldn't...

So, the Desert cast one furtive glance at the woman, who stood watching...just before it settled.. she hadn't moved..

Through those few eternal moments, it kept watching her. All it needed was just a nod, all it needed was a slight expression, one sigh, one look, one call, it was her moment, nothing could have stopped it from granting her wish...but for her silence..

And her silence, settled it...

She hadn't moved, when she could have moved the world. She hadn't moved when she could have..

She didn't move the time, instead she let it settle..

She didn't move the wind.. to change the direction..

She didn't move the water, which could have revoked..

She didn't move the stars, burning down on her..

She didn't let her heart beat, didn't care if it stopped..

Her decision was made, as she stood watching, her Arab..

She didn't will the Desert.. to taketh over..

She had stood there...moved by love. And The Desert understood for it was...her silence. The Desert winced..but willed her along..

The wind died.. the Arab slept peacefully that night.

>>>

For she knew the moment she set her eyes on him. She knew the moment, he stared back at her, past her. She knew he wouldn't...stay.

And that her tale, would be his'. Instead of his', her's.

She had waited for him to come. And now she awaits his leave...

Ah! Only the still Desert, whispered of her love!

>>>