The Middle Ground

Jab Jidd Pe Aa Gayi Parvati ...

2026-08-29T15:02:40.804-07:00

Over the past 2 decades, among the many Hindu mythological stories, the one I have revisited over and over again is that of Mata Sati. And then Mata Parvati. Although this story is a symbolic description of the journey of the individual consciousness to merge with the Divine, it's wisdom remains inaccessible to most of us if the pangs of our modern love stories do not find atleast some psychological resolution in its carefully crafted nuances.

When I was younger, my mind imagined an alternative version with kinder outcomes for beloved Sati in which Mahadev tamed his unkempt hair, took a bath and put on decent clothes instead of his usual tiger/deer skin skirt held up by slithering serpents. In which he presented himself exactly like how Sati's parents had envisaged the husband of their youngest daughter to be.

This could have made the proud king Daksha, Sati's father change his opinion about our sky-clad, ash-smeared Bholenath whose residence alternates between the frozen Kailash and the burning Manikarnika Ghat.

It could finally make him look at Chandrashekhar whom his favorite daughter had come to love ardently - without deep-seated negative bias. After all, Neelkanth wasn't really against praying to Vishnu whom Daksha Prajapati worshipped. In fact he cared the least about Daksha's organised, systematic, rule-based civilization while holding deep reverence for Maha Vishnu.

And Mata Sati was happy to leave her comfortable palatial life and reside in the Kailasha with Mahadev. So it was just semantics and outward appearances. Surely such great love as that between the Father and Mother of this Universe would not mind such a trivial adjustment.

But Mahadev didn't change anything about himself. Not because he didn't love Sati or care about her parents. But because he cared very deeply and wished only for the veil of ignorance to be lifted from the eyes of his relatives. The absolute eternal truth can never shape shift to pander to short lived preferences and conveniences.

Mahadev didn't leave his abode and shift to the plains to make it easy for Sati, so she could be close to her sisters. He didn't abandon his bhoot and pret ganas to make Daksha Prajapati happy. He didn't comb his dreadlocks straight to impress his mother-in-law, Queen Prasuti. He didn't suddenly begin to participate in vedic rituals, homas and yajnas, forgoing his duty of helping souls crossover after death. He didn't bend over.

And this not bending over cost him dearly. It led to Mata Sati immolating, completely erasing herself to bring harmony between the 2 most important men in her life. The scriptures describe Shiva's ensuing grief vividly. He howls in pain as he dances the tremendous Tandav holding the corpse of his young, beloved wife while mocking the whole world - a world proud of all its systems, rules and regulations but unable to accept the simple love between a man and a woman.

Shiva vows to never be moved again by human love. To never take a bride or have a family. In his phase of intense self-loathing for not being able to stop Sati from attending her father's Yajna, he shuts himself off completely from the manifest world. Meanwhile Tarakasura who can be killed by only the child of Shiv-Shakti continues to gain more power, he acquires control over the three worlds, banishes Indra from Swarga and usurps his throne.

Mata Sati's subsequent soul journey, however, is more internal. She is born this time at a higher altitude where it's perhaps more still, to mountain king Himavat and Menavati. She continues her sacred inward journey towards Shiv - this time more steadfast and less distracted. She withdraws into seclusion, eventually quitting food, water and even breath during her intense tapas.

When I was younger, I often wondered for what fault of hers, Parvati had to be penetiant ? And why Mahadev - who is easily appeased by a simple bilva leaf offering , was putting innocent Parvati through such hardship ? Also why Parvati cared so much about Mahadev now when he had lost all interest in life ?

Last year, I visited the locations where these events are purported to have unfolded exactly. The Daksheshwar temple where the tragic yajna never took place, the Sati Mata temple where she was born and the Bilkeshwar Temple surrounded by a forest of Bilva trees where Mata Parvati is supposed to have fasted to self-realization. The sombre energies of these places along the banks of the Ganga in Haridwar is still palpable and had left an indelible mark on our minds. To be able to tie back such a tragic ancient story from our scriptures to real places in the world - was thrilling as well as emotional. I vowed to return as frequently as I could if the universe allowed for it.

How does one live a life in the plains such that the universe keeps the doors to Mata Sati's heart open indefinitely ? Mata Parvati's story feels deeply personal because it is still so relatable. It shows us how to love deeply and what to do when you do not know what to do with that love. It reminds us of our capacity to stand by our goals even in the face of adversity.

I now understand that in every moment of her meditation, Mata Parvati was neither pining nor yearning for Shiva. She wasn't using her incomparable beauty to allure Shiva, to make him forget his pain. She never reasoned with Mahadev that he hadn't actually lost Sati as she was her incarnation - and that nothing had changed in the big picture.

Instead she was unapologetically choosing herself, finally filling her own cup. Like Shiv had shown her how to - in her previous life. Training herself to be unyielding and resolute in her own will. Learning to be ready to face the consequences of her actions. Gathering the parts of herself that was torn between pleasing her father and the clear voice of her own heart in many previous lives. Forgiving herself for every time she chose something else over her own intuition. Becoming more of herself, Adi Parashakti, the mother of this Universe, with every breath.

Realising that it was impossible to love Shiva while burning one's own body. That she is indeed not different from her Mahadev. That in loving herself she was worshipping Bholenath. That every offering to Shambho was an offering to herself. And that in this way they were never two but always One.

After what felt like an eternity, Mahadev emerged from his meditation. The 3 worlds that had grieved with him and were now exhausted. A silent tear rolled down Mahadev's eyes as he saw the almost lifeless body of Aparna before him. Kamdev's ashes lie nearby. He pulled her radiant face to his heart as he realised that the circumstances of Sati's death might have been entirely out of his control but if Parvati died his apathy would be the sole reason. He pours a few sips of water on her lips as Parvati regains consciousness.

The earth heaved a sigh of relief as the Gods cried in elation. All would soon be well.

New girl in the city - The 'Sakal hans mein Ram viraaje' version

2026-08-24T23:11:57.639-07:00

I am 40 years old. I am also not new to the city I live in. I have already spent more than a decade in Pune, or Poona as it is now called. Therefore the title can be a bit misleading at first glance.

Yes, I still discover parts of this city that I haven't known before but I am hardly new to this city. This city hasn't exactly embraced me like I was its long lost son but it has shared with me its sublime music and appreciation for art - even though its people never fail to remind me that I am not one of their own whenever I try to come close to them. Much akin to how the matriarch treated Mastani in the film even though I am not really imposing myself upon any son of the soil. Yes, I am filmy like that.

I am also Indian - I happen to live and work in this city, pay rent, taxes and GST and would except to be treated as an equal citizen in lieu. But I digress, this isn't a rant about the city that I have come to love but which will probably not call me it's own ever.

This post is about me and my best friend from another life Ro. It is about our at times tumultuous but mostly peaceful situationship which has never been consummated or in the parlance of Bridgerton - which has never reached its pinnacle.

A little of the milieu we are in currently - not very far from my country a battle is being waged between relative 'good' and 'evil'. As I write this over the last months several kinds of modern missiles from both sides have reduced to dust several oil refineries, factories, ships, aircrafts, hotels and townships across many cities in west asia. Many little children have lost their lives. A part of the stunning Golestan Palace is decimated.

But more importantly, Ro has still not asked me out on a date even if we know each since the past 4 years. We didn't even meet each other all these years like friends do - over coffee or brunch.

For context, I am currently writing from the famous High Spirits where a band is belting out Pink Floyd favourites live. I am slightly fuzzy from the cosmopolitan and cranberry screwdriver I have gulped down. I landed up here partly because I half hoped Ro would be here too serendepitously. Because Ro has an eclectic taste in music and dark side of the moon is his favourite album from Pink Floyd.

The title of this post is a reference that only millenials who have seen a particular Bollywood movie would understand. When Ro and I spoke over a call during the initial days he joked that we were like Sid and Aisha from the movie 'Wake Up Sid' because I was older than him.

We figured that there were more similarities between us and the much loved characters of the film. This post though is not about Sid and Aish. Or the movie 'Wake Up Sid'.

It is about Ro and me who apparently according to Akashic Records have been best friends from other lifetimes. In one such life both of us were men and also soldiers on a battlefield. In that life Ro being a gay person had developed romantic feelings for me which I had neither understood nor reciprocated.

Before dying in a battle, he revealed his final wish that in another lifetime may I yearn for his love and may that love be not reciprocated by him. And my soul had accepted this contract. How dumb.

And therefore, an algorithm connects us after several lifetimes. Ro uses the most unconventional words on chat. Words that many wouldn't even know. Like zaftigism. and farrago. We play several rounds of trivia and word games.

And I suddenly find myself searching his name among millions of sites and blogs on the internet to find his blog where his 19 year old self has written about the genius that was H.Sridhar.

And his drums classes.

I understand only then that Ro meant the heavy metal band when he said he would be reading the kalma on every friday night. Ro is obtuse and sardonic that way. Never giving a straight or direct answer to simple questions, always keeping someone like me guessing and therefore hooked.

I found Ro to be extremely rude initially and his ways of letting me know that he liked me very unconventional. Usually a guy would offer to take you to a nice restaurant and would send chocolates or icecream.

Ro said one has to be deserving of the love they wish for. He also responds to every nice, friendly thing I say with a sexual remark - which is at once offputting without the whole context, yet intimate but cannot be trusted to be personal. He confirms - it's just carnal, nothing else.

On most days I feel it in my bones for certain that I am being played. That there are certainly others like me on the roster - simple, kind and willing to give the other person the benefit of doubt. Willing to understand what traumatic incident created such a formidable emotional defense.

After all Kabir said, 'Sakal hans mein Ram viraaje...'

The problem with any kind of defense system is that you are watching the show with popcorn as long as the opponent struggles with your defense. But it immediately becomes personal the moment the enemy turns offensive. When the opponent suddenly comes on your side, you don't want to share your popcorn.

Loving a human ardently is mostly an act of bravery.

Every step of the journey is ridden with perils and requires unbelievable amounts of courage to overcome. To not like someone at all in the beginning, to still consider their needs, then to understand where they are coming from, to try to see their light even when they only show your their darkness, to hold yourself with grace when they won't love you back like you want them to, when you step away with dignity but realise that life is too short to not be friends.

I want to tell Ro who was my friend in that life as he is now, that it wasn't our time then as it isn't our time now for the kind of subservience he wants in the name of love. That probably as a straight person, in that life, I was not able to return his affection in the way he wanted me to , but my friendship was real.

That to compel someone to love us only in a certain way is to close ourselves to the myriad of ways they already do.

That true love will never disrobe its participants of their dignity or self respect. That real friendship will never leave one confused about where they stand. That the hallmark of real connections are that we show up for whom we care about. That there is a response to every call no matter where one is. That true love never dies even when our bodies do.

Instead it grows across eons to shelter us from our own darkness whenever we choose to let it.

I would dance in elation if we end up together in this life or are able to stand on some kind of common, stable psychological ground of understanding but even if we don't - even if my friendship is unrequited I would be content because stars and galaxies are born from this kind of gravitational tension that has existed between us since several lifetimes.

Dear Zindagi : On Emotional Neglect and Abuse

2025-06-22T14:58:00.000-07:00

Emotional Abuse is real and it's debilitating effects can go unnoticed for several decades. Emotional invalidation and manipulation by parents and primary care-givers are of the worst kind for they are often worded as if they are meant for your benefit and well-being.
You'll know one day and this knowing will be painful and require time - you'll know by the kind of partners you attract in romantic contexts, your own poor health choices, the weariness caused by a perpetual rebellion, when you are constantly exhausted by all the mental work you take on behalf of people who should care but don't, when during major events of illness or change you reguarly find yourself managing alone, if you are in a state of discomfort when your parents are around alternating between over-doing and exhaustion, you'll know you haven't been loved the way you should have.
Emotional abuse by parents can particularly be very confusing for children because of the inherent nature of the parent-child relationship which is globally accepted to be one that is nurturing and full of love.
The child or victim in emotionally abusive relationships remains stuck in cognitive dissonance for years as they are routinely subjected to acts of aggression, verbal abuse, emotional abandonment, neglect and sometimes even physical abuse. All of this has happened with me.
For several years, I was reluctant to talk about my childhood to therapists due to the feelings of betraying my parents. For many years up until recently, I would see the unfairness during CBT sessions but return to over-giving, people-pleasing outside of the session.
I am 39 years old, recently in a particularly dramatic episode my emotional boundaries were severely violated. Again. My feelings were invalidated repeatedly. Yet again. When I asked to be recognised as another child instead of a responsible parent for my sibling, my father screamed that I was being jealous of my sibling. My mother called me toxic when I asked to be treated fairly as well.
The guilt-tripping continued by them giving several fake examples of other children who supposedly didn't talk back to parents as such. Children who regularly stood for their own feelings and spoke on behalf of themselves. Through their entire tirade, I was able to see this same pattern repeat as long as I would allow it to. My mother mocked my faith in God and spiritual practices when I pointed out that there was never enough love to go around.Is believing in God supposed to turn a human into an unfeeling, unthinking piece of wood ?
I broke down in abject pity for myself for everything I had given up for my family for all these years. I had had enough and wanted out.
Perpetrators of emotional abuse will never accept responsibility for their part in hurting you. They will always choose to be victims and will even gaslight you to believe, that it is you who hurt them. They will hate and fight with each other constantly but will unite and cooperate to insult and bully you. If you give examples over examples of them hurting you, humiliating you, as children they will make you believe you deserved it. They will constantly try to change the version of events as they happened in your memory and narrative to absolve themselves of any wrong-doing.They will invalidate your feelings instead of helping you regulate your emotions and navigate through them.
You are equals when it is about them hurting you, you are never helpless children. But they are victims when you ask for your emotional needs to be met - suddenly they act all confused, unable to understand what you want inspite of you articulating yourself clearly repeatedly.
If parents are narcisstic and controlling, they almost consider it their right to not show children appreciation, never give credit where it is due turning their children into hamsters running on the wheel seeking their approval and validation. Having never apologised or taken real responsibility to reflect or change their behavior, they return to mundane conversations dumping their mundane shit on you citing that you never tell them anything about yourself, and hence they must tell you everything about their lives even if you want no part in it.
There will always be an excuse for their insensitivity such as old age when they are old or financial hardship when they were young. You are always supposed to be the more understanding one who listens and understands while these excuses very conveniently disappear for your sibling on several occasions. It's not they can't, they won't for you.
A hallmark of such relationships is that when you bring up unmet needs, they make you feel guilty and ashamed for asking for love. They will make you feel that you got only what you deserved or that you are too much.
They keep you stuck in their psychological control by asking you to not share details of violent and traumatic episodes with your friends in school or other relatives who truly care about you. They criticise all your friends and people whom you love and isolate you from the rest of the world. Then they demean you by saying that you don't have any friends and that you are difficult to live with. The only self-respecting option out of this situation is for the elder child to step up way beyond they should, often forgoing in the process their dreams, ambitions, wishes, desires, innocence and their sense of ease and trust in themselves and others.
When you make a decision for yourself based on the outcome they wanted and later tell them that you did it for their approval or validation, they dismiss your sacrifice and tell you that you should have done what you wanted to. But they made you choose between what they wanted and what you wanted. If you bring up that this choice was unfair, or that you never really had a choice except to not choose what you wanted, they guilt-trip you for asking for credit or validation for sacrificing yourself.
By randomly shifting the bar, by always criticising you, by over-appreciating a peer in front of you without fully knowing them, they keep you constantly worried to lose their attention, none of which they ever gave you anyway.
They never choose you and ensure that you do not choose yourself.
I turn 40 in a few months and am putting this out here for my own mental, psychological and emotional clarity as I decide to walk away from my emotionally manipulative and on occasion even physically abusive parents. I am never going to look back. Attention is not love, the hope of validation and approval is not love.
Once I clearly see the well organised system and the steps that keep repeating in this toxic game, it is easy to put aside the fact that they are my own parents. Parents are supposed to be loving, not manipulating in the name of love. To call this behaviour out even on an unseen corner of the internet means that I recognise what I have been through and that I need not endure this for the rest of my life.
My father would shout, there are worse parents out there - yes, this is very possible but they aren't mine to deal with. I can only speak for my experience. I do not seek applause or attention or any kind of judgement or sympathy for myself or for the tide to be turned against my family's favour. I do not write this out of rage, only a deep sadness for the years I have lost. Outside of this dynamic and role, I am just a regular human who will perhaps require decades of kindness, consideration and compassion to heal.
I am only grateful to all my coaches, mentors and healers who held the mirror all these years. I owe them my clarity to be able to recognise completely through this incident my parent's hypocrisy and extent of inconsideration for my emotional needs. I am proud of myself for not backing down under all the confusion and gaslighting. I am happy that I waited so long that I have evidences of several incidents in which this same dynamic played out over and over again. This way, they cannot confuse me any more.
This way I am certain that I gave them complete consideration for generational trauma they might have faced, listening to their stories of hardships and struggles they faced while growing up. 40 years is a long time for giving someone chances to make different choices, use kinder words, do the inner work. It is time to call a spade a spade.
I am aware that I will be called ungrateful, selfish and unkind for my decision. I will be guilt-tripped for washing dirty laundry in pubic. Many people who know my parents as guests, relatives and aquaintences might even find all this difficult to believe because of the fake charade of niceness that they put before guests. Infact they'll even confirm that my parents always speak very highly of me to them, but they do not know that none of this praise ever comes my way directly. Instead my flaws are constantly criticised and all my original ideas for myself are dismissed.
But I am not doing this for anyone else but myself. By putting everything plainly as it is out here is the first step towards reclaming my agency. One is the product of one's choices, and I am happy to say that I made mostly noble ones for others out of sincerity, generosity and not caring about praise from an audience. I showed them by example how stepping up for another can be done, instead of lauding my efforts I was made to feel guilty for bringing it up.
Perhaps I hoped my parents would one day choose me, validate my actions and appreciate me, naturally because I was the first born and was constantly giving even when I was not given. I wished they realised my value and as a reward not make me constantly give up whatever I wanted just because I was a girl.

But that is only a pipe dream and without it I already feel liberated. My parents are not the gatekeepers of the universe and its abundance.
Without that hope of getting anything from them, I am excited to discover what my future holds.
That sudden spurt in which Bamboo grows after being a fledgling for 20 years has come to pass, der aaye par durst.

POV : I Love the Rains

2023-08-19T05:55:00.002-07:00

It’s coming, the monsoons. I can sense the anticipation all around. The birds who have survived the harsh summer have already begun to chirp happily. There is this heightened sense of excitement combined with this feeling of immense gratitude. Ofcourse the rivers will be flooded and the there will be puddles and muck everywhere. Drainholes will be opened and the dreaded viral infection would return. After the first couple of weeks, when the clothes won't crisp dry or when there is seepage in the walls, I'll have had enough of the same rains. These rains whom I love so much. I'll brood at the thought of the upcoming winter. I'll even miss the sun. I know all this from 37 trips around it. I know that I can be jubilant or ecstatic on meeting old friends but I am incapable of loving them unconditionally. But this is about that time when the monsoons are just about to arrive. Every year it seems as if someone has listened to our prayers for respite from the torrid heat. Today it feels like those prayers are going to be answered. And that is always reason to celebrate. মম চিত্তে নিতি নৃত্যে, কে যে নাচে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ তারি সঙ্গে কী মৃদঙ্গে সদা বাজে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ মম চিত্তে নিতি নৃত্যে কে যে নাচে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ। হাসি কান্না, হীরাপান্না দোলে ভালে, কাঁপে ছন্দে ভালো মন্দ তালে তালে নাচে জন্ম, নাচে মৃত্যু, পাছে পাছে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ। মম চিত্তে নিতি নৃত্যে, কে যে নাচে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ। কী আনন্দ, কী আনন্দ, কী আনন্দ, দিবারাত্রি নাচে মুক্তি, নাচে বন্ধ সে তরঙ্গে ছুটি রঙ্গে পাছে পাছে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ। মম চিত্তে নিতি নৃত্যে, কে যে নাচে তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ, তাতা থৈথৈ।

Dear Journal

2023-04-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

You are the manifestation of Awareness in the physical world. Thank you for existing.
For being the canvas that holds my hurts, griefs, agonies and humiliations - I went around the world and came back with a pen in my hand for connection with you.

I build this bridge word by word between 'us' - Allow me to be without agenda.
As the non-judging, all accepting silent witness of grief, hurt and transformation - as the eternal kindness - I declare that this is what I have been seeking in all experiences.

In your kind allowance - my voice finds it's most honest expression - that I long to unite with your sombre serenity the pangs of incompleteness that echo in my heart.

Everyone had their agendas - I had mine too. I kept the same needs for approval, acceptance, validation in front of my friends, colleagues and audience.

I seek and find it here. In the blank pages of this journal my longing and seeking find peace.

my wish for you (one fine morning...)

2023-04-01T13:39:00.000-07:00

Let what you feel about me be indescribable
but let it be deep
let what you mean to me remain unheard of forever
but let it endure more than grief
let how I am related to you be unnamed
but let it be stronger than solitude

let what we have for each other be
kinder than life
more beautiful than pain
more able than words
and a little more hopeful than this wish

In the Mood for Wong Kar Wai

2022-11-22T03:10:00.001-08:00

Some movies begin to live rent-free inside you, suddenly tugging at your heart strings on a cold November morning with their haunting soundtrack. Maybe this is what ‘rafta rafta wo mere hasti ka saamaan ho gaye’ is all about.
Maybe 'In the mood for love' was reverse engineered so that Yumeji’s theme could be incorporated in the way it was throughout the movie.
Or so that the temple in Siam Reap or Angkor Wat where our melancholic hero whispers his secret in the end, becomes a sacred shrine for unrequited lovers worldwide.
Unfinished love stories like these make this world go round. Love like the Sun’s which defines the Moon, but which the Moon can never return in any form or measure because it is eternally tied to the Earth.
It is indeed unrequited love stories like these that powers the Universe.

On Idol Worshipping

2022-07-27T03:04:00.007-07:00

I had turned 25 that year and he was 27 perhaps. We met once or twice before he went to Boston on an official trip. Along with chocolates and other gifts, he brought back 2 stones - one from the MIT campus and the other from a place beside a lake where he had stopped for a bit as his friends moved ahead. "What an unusual thing to gift somebody", I had thought at that time, brain too flushed with mush to utter the thought out aloud. We subsequently broke up quite violently after which I gave away all the gifts I received from him to an NGO. These two stones and his letters, however I kept close, secretly taking them along to which every city I moved to. On some Friday evenings after a long day at work, I carefully extract them from their envelopes, as if unearthing a secret treasure, and read them while Jagjit Singh's heart-wrenching ghazal , "Tere khushboo mein base khat main jalata kaise ?" plays in the background. I am 35 now and he is married to another. The stones are placed on the altar along with other idols and are worshipped everyday.

Sometimes

2022-07-10T11:39:00.007-07:00

Sometimes poems about rebellion, equality, unrequited love and freedom are not enough.

Kundera's lightness of being, Murakami's nostalgia, Auden's lament about unrequited love, Cohen's blues about infidelity and lust are all glorious but the gentle rains outside remain aloof.

The winds seem to object strongly : “These feelings have been felt, written about , and enacted upon stage till death!”

Occasionally the leaves of the peepul plead to be written about : “You’ve seen us dance therefore you must write about what we made you feel!”

One sultry afternoon after a short, unexpected shower the koel croons one of its original numbers, clearly approving of the respite that the cool breeze brings. They all seem to whisper, “Write about the things that really matter!”

The most exquisite tapestry created by the vermillion Gulmohar petals invite me back to the carefree times of laid back picnics spread on blue chequered cloth with wicker baskets full of jam, sandwiches, scones and clotted cream.

Sometimes I want to bow my head down in front of a flaming red Gulmohar tree and confess silently, that no one can make me feel as I do when I sit under its shade.

I am gently brought back from this utopia by the rustle of leaves interspersed with the rhythmic knocks and blows of hammers from a construction site nearby. As I clear the table after lunch, the clamouring sounds of metal hitting metal, the chirping of birds, an infant screaming in the adjacent apartment create an allegro of notes and beats bringing me back to the woes and worries of the here and now.

Legend of Champa

2022-06-27T23:52:00.003-07:00

Dear Champa

The world is tainted by the lies and sins of mankind, yet you continue to bear the weight of Narada’s curse for a single lie you spoke. Fate seems to have been unfair to you, that you should still be punished for a trivial error when Ahalya, Mary Magdalene, Amrapali, Vasavadatta have all been ‘redeemed’ apparently and set free from their humiliations.

The Chameli, mogra and sadafulee, though friendly, simple and innocent, pale in your comparison. They adorn stone idols at temples, the dead at funerals, the barely alive at brothels, you participate neither in the sacred nor profane. When you bloom, your gaze fixed at the moon and stars, there is something about your quiet self-assuredness, that makes one pause for a while and take notice.

By embracing your judgment so gracefully and humbly, you set an example for everyone who has been judged and condemned. You became one with the Creator’s purpose for you - to be yourself - fearlessly, unapologetically

May no man redeem you from your ‘curse’ ever, may you remain eternally free to bloom knowing that you have been and will be ardently loved always!

Marriage Story

2020-11-13T00:31:00.003-08:00

If you are me, you are not a morning person. As soon as you open your eyes in the morning, into your head come rushing the events of the previous night in most spectacular detail, then the events of the past week, followed by those of last 5 years, and finally your whole life — all crunched into a script that you are not interested in reading, delivered so abruptly and so unforgivingly as if there was no other way to orient you and set context. As you calm down and make yourself a cup of tea, all you want to do is dodge but fail, then block and say, “ I know this already, just let me be”.

You gradually warm yourself up with light exercise and tune into Guided Meditation with Deepak hoping you’ll glide into the day smoothly, knowing all the while that you are not prepared for the harsh sunlight of the post- breakfast till lunch time period.

Each day as the sun sets, he returns your superpowers that he takes without your permission every morning — as the moon rises, the muse returns coaxing you to write or paint, catching your attention with great ideas, and encourages you to take those acheivable baby steps, gaining your trust by promising to remain by your side through the rest of nights and days. Liar!

It is only when, my futile attempts to ground myself these past mornings were being interrupted by Adam Driver singing ‘Being Alive’ from Sondheim’s musical, Company, in my head – that I opened my eyes and decided to take note. Even amidst broad daylight.

When I first saw ‘Marriage Story’ , I was completely charmed by Charlie Barber, the genius theatre director who was polite and friendly, doted on his son and genuinely took care of the members of his company. The movie showed me how even his mother-in-law fawned over him and as the audience I bought in. But most of all, I loved Charlie for fighting hard to be a part of his young son’s growing up years. I loved him more for not giving up trying even when his young son clearly chose being with his mum.

After all, it is hard to hear of such commitment in these situations in real life where usually the inherent hurt of wounded egos turns into malice of unbelievable proportions and things quickly escalate to a point of non-reconciliation.

It required me to watch parts of the movie again to understand, how as muse of a brilliant director, Nicole becomes Charlie’s extension over the years, hoping to earn his love but only being taken for granted instead. It had never occurred to Charlie, who had come to depend on and draw inspiration largely from Nicole’s love, until ‘the rug was pulled from under his feet' that Nicole too needed to be ardently loved in return. How could these 2 different people reside in the same person ? How do relationships become so messy ? Charlie is not able to see till the end of the movie, how his actions contributed to the situation which he did not expect and was completely unprepared for. In his mind he has justifications for his own transgressions but is unable to allow room for the same by Nicole. Even when he sleeps with another woman, it is because his wife stopped sleeping with him.

But an aspect that will probably remain less discussed about is Nicole’s deep and enduring affection for Charlie, so magnanimously and tenderly downplayed by Scarlett Johansson.

It remained with me long after that even while knowing that Charlie is cheating on her, Nicole asks him for feedback on her performance that evening, even after feeling ‘defeated’ and ‘not-seen’, she genuinely congratulates Charlie when he wins the McArthur Grant, she never raises her voice no matter how mad Charlie is driving her, she orders food on his behalf in the midst of their divorce proceedings, she ties his undone shoelace even after they are divorced. One wonders that such kindness and steadfastness of love must have sprung from a secret vow that she must have taken early on in their relationship to protect Charlie from ever getting hurt again. She can only be spiteful to Charlie over the phone and assertive through her lawyer, always choosing to be amicable and non-confrontational with him in person. In fact, she stamps her own foot after speaking her mind on one occasion.

I was able to feel Nicole’s agony of being the ‘more loving one’ while hoping till the end that the divorce didn’t have to go through. In interviews, the director confirms that the movie is a love story underneath.

And yet, when you thought you lost all hope on Charlie, he unexpectedly redeems himself by confidently walking up on stage and pouring himself out while singing ‘Being Alive’. Did the divorce, finally shake him up a bit? Teach him to trust, open up a little ?

Adam’s moving rendition of the song, set me on a trail to find more about the director and the process behind the scenes. I discovered the movies that Noah Baumbach co-wrote with his now wife and frequent collaborator Greta Gerwig. Incidentally Noah co-wrote and co-directed Greta in the film, ‘Greenberg’ with his then wife, Jennifer Jason Leigh.

‘Marriage Story' is self-referential and metaphorical on so many counts – the director probably wrote the script as as a means of processing his own divorce, about a theatre director who started his career as an actor. Adam Driver, Scarlet Johansson act as actors. In being the more loving Nicole, Scarlet generously gives away - more screen time, the more charming, self-assured, self-sufficient parts of the whole that they are - to Adam Driver’s Charlie. Like she insists on not taking money from Charlie after the divorce, and allowing Charlie to equally be a part of their son’s life, will the Oscar – that they jointly deserve for this moving experience, end up in unfairly only with Adam ?

Scarlet’s Nicole may not mind it in the least, but I certainly will.

Of hugs and sighs

2020-04-01T00:47:00.009-07:00

of hugs and sighs,

big sunglasses and smoke

(and hash and dope)

of friendships to die for

(with friends to die with)

of kindness and generosity

amidst endless laughter and painful tears

of anger bottled within

(and love doled out by heaps)

of loneliness and need,

some desires and a little bit of greed

of mistakes and learning

and the poetry of e.e.cummings

of pillion rides and old songs

of dreams and celluloid,

and a heart full of void

of brave love

with crazy, stupid men

(for a pinch of vermillion and a dead fish)

of sincere prayers and elusive peace

(and the debt crisis in Greece)

of breaths, both lost and found

(and caught between kisses)

for the sake of life dear, in between

and of course, a certain yellow submarine

The Rebel

2020-04-01T00:47:00.008-07:00

To all the men in my life who aspire to be saints and ascetics, to every person who advocates inaction or even detachment as the way to stay away from conflicts or struggle, thank you for showing me the other way.
But I will not allow your opinions to come in the way of my interests which are absolutely worldly in nature. Because passion for plain awesomeness, cannot exist with non-involvement. For awesomeness shall be my life's goal every moment that I live.

I will consider the alternate course only when I will have struggled to have a taste of everything life has to offer today. My struggle will be like the struggle of Man, who has had to do everything by himself to be whatever he is so far. I will work till I bring about change, I will climb the mountains, cross the rivers, laugh through all the tears, love till my heart breaks, be impatient, careless, and funny and love over and over again if I have too. It is only this way that I can do justice to Life.

Here's chucking all those words of wisdom and enlightenment I have read over the years into the recycle bin. They are after all just words, serene and peaceful albeit, but not of much use to me. Like the Medical Encyclopaedia in the book shelf back home,which gathers dust because all that valuable information was never of use to any of us(One Arts Major and Three Engineers in the family).

Moreover, there are other words that help when I drive a nail into my finger while hammering, for instance ;). If these words speak of a Place where I have to go to, I have learnt all about it. But I will make my own path reaching that Place.

The Chalice says...

2020-04-01T00:47:00.007-07:00

I am the Afghanistan that your America has pilfered.
I used to be naive before, but since I have understood your cunning I don't trust you.

I am the hard work, sincerity and the toil that you crushed and trampled with your cunning and deceit.
I am the talent which never saw success because you snatched my opportunity. And so my eyes have become the mirror into which yours can hardly look into.

You have beside you a chattering parrot which tries to seek your attention, fluttering its mascara-ed eye lashes and pouting its red beak. You stare outside the window, the least interested while I look on with amusement from the seat behind.
If I were with you(instead of the parrot), I would sit by the window; you would want me to, every time. I am that kind of a woman.
You waste your time taming a hundred such parrots rather than be with someone like me because between the both of us, I shine. You are definitely polished well, but I shine.

I am that gender which constantly has to fight against a mighty but invisible lobby of shadows of your gender; I say shadows because only your shadows remain. You used to be strong, dependable and worthy of trust once. Today you feed out of crushing whoever is stronger, faster or better. You survive solely by the strength of your lobby rather than by merit and remain increasingly insecure of your dwindling abilities.

I call out to you to face me, if you have the courage, in this battle, because today you have to fight to take what I have. Today I am not giving it all away hoping that you are more responsible, believing that the power will be better used in your hands. Because today I have the feeling that I deserve it more than you; success has never got into my head, money was not spent into nights of mindless boozing and power was never used to hurt another.

From where I see it you hardly stand a chance.

what the bitch from mars said

2020-04-01T00:47:00.004-07:00

(to the loser from venus):

let me do the loving
while you decide between your options:
pretty face
or nice ass

let me do the reading
while you flip playboy pages:
plain vanilla with strawberry lips
or cocoa butter with choco-chip nips
(Shaven smooth or otherwise)

let me do the cooking
while you regale your friends with phony tales of your bravado
(overs pints, ales and barrels of beer)

let me do the bread-winning
while you memorize match stats
(and shag to porn)

let me do the forgiving
while you cheat everybody in the world

let me stand high and haughty
(almost like a tree)
alone always but never without use

unlike you

So much more than just a car...

2020-04-01T00:47:00.003-07:00

This post is about a companion in my adventures - easy and daunting, my steed in mucky terrains and smooth, a reliable friend who sometimes remorselessly burns a hole in my pocket - my car, Abhimanyu .

As I sit down to collect my thoughts, I smile at the fond memories of the time we spent in each other’s company.
2 years ago, I had enrolled for driving lessons at a local driving school who would take me through the process of obtaining an Indian drivers license along with fixed real -time driving kms/hours. I attended the classes quite regularly - with the instructor beside - the clutch, brake and accelarator shared amicably between us. Sure the car moved along the lanes slowly, and stopped rightly at the signals, but could I drive a car on my own ?

I brought this point up during a conversation with the branch manager of my bank who is also a friend - she suggested that it helps greatly if you can practice on your own car everyday for some time.

That really set the gears of my brains in motion - some money I had diligently saved up was soon going to be available for spending...I could get a car !

The idea was soon shared with the parents. It was mutually agreed that I would wait till their next visit to my city - after which a car would be chosen which would match my requirements while fitting into my budget.

Fast forward to Navratri 2016, my father located a white wagon R whose innards were in a reasonably decent shape and which was in a good condition from outside.

He proudly presented it in front of the rest of us for evaluation.

Initially, I didn't quite like it because it was white and had a luggage carrier on top. I soon learnt that it was because the CNG cylinder occupied all luggage room in the dickie.
The car apparently ran on both fuels - petrol and CNG - this key feature distinguished it from other cars. Eventually I ended up buying it mostly convinced by the arguments presented by my father and also because I could not spare any time to check out other available options.

This is how my humble and smart Abhimanyu drove himself into my life.

How he got his name deserves special mention too. Names of many famous steeds, real and mythical, were considered and rejected. ‘Abhimanyu’ won due to the mighty courage and youthful exuberance of the name-bearer over Alexander’s ‘Bucephalus’ (too Greek), Indra’s ‘Airavat’ (too Airy), Rana Pratap’s ‘Chetak’ (already taken!)

Later when we were chided for going round and round in circles, unable to get out of Magarpatta city, the joke hidden in this name wasn’t lost on us!

Our first days together were bumpy with jerky starts and embarrassing stops in the middle of the road. But with our hearts in our mouth , mama beside us, we set out on every morning of that cold December on a 10 km ride on any direction from where we started.

Nowadays, when the cafe’s are too crowded and the home is too silent, I seek refuge in its cosy confines, sinfully munching on fries. And when the rains threaten to wilt my half-burnt cigarette midway, I run into the safe haven under its roof!

When we stop at a signal, looking at the world from the window, I remember to be thankful many times. My favourite fragrance smells refreshingly beautiful in its warmth, the occasional bottle of rose finds its place beside the driving wheel.

And in it I have driven my parents, a grandparent, cousins, an aunt and friends to and from the airport and around my city.

It has been my companion on visits to my favourite stationary stores and monthly grocery binges. It has been my personal tempo when I have moved houses (twice).

It is my modest ride to work and classes.

And though the memories of the numerous rides in auto rickshaws complete with epic conversations with auto wallahs will always be special - they won’t take the place of the bond of friendship that I have formed with Abhimanyu

In other news, the rains have been unrelenting - since last night, they've poured continuously.

It has suddenly turned chilly outside - weather forecasts highly recommend the following :

1 - Remain indoors, as far as possible refrain from stepping out of your doorstep.

2 - Your looniest, most embarrassing, whackiest pair of socks can come out of the closet - quite literally, to warm your feet.

3 - curl up your toes with a cup of piping hot coffee warming your hands as you sink into your all-time favorite books or movies

Or if you are particularly inspired, write a letter to your car saying how much you've grown to love him.

Dreams

2020-04-01T00:47:00.002-07:00

Capture your fears in a shell

Clasp your tears in your hands

Close your eyes and look around

How tranquil is the world within-

Where butterflies bloom into flowers

And burst into a myriad of colors

Where the peacocks soar deep into the sky

Where the leaves are gold by the day

Their tips silver by the night

Where you walk over that bridge

Of fine woven lace

And the moon smiles up from the river

Into your beautiful glowing face

Where the deities dine with us

At our tables

And the kings and queens don't exist

Even in fables

And when you open your shells

Pearls will be revealed within

And when you open your hand

The fears will vanish like grains of sand

Then open your eyes

And realize

That you have for so long been a fool

Life no doubt is very beautiful

Inside me there lives...

2020-04-01T00:47:00.001-07:00

Inside me, in a warm, little house made of wood, there lives a free woman. She is free because she doesn't have to pick a man to love, because she doesn't have to fight and she chooses not to fly. She is free because she just lives.

Inside me, there lives a woman who is very unlike me.
She breathes deeply and separates orange scents from cinnamon, ginger scents from clove.
Down there, there is a lot of time for doing such kinds of things.

The moon knocks on her door, in the evenings, sometimes.They mend their broken hearts over tea and biscuits. Not many people may know this, but the moon is in love with the sun who doesn't care much for such kind of things. When the moon has left, the woman realizes that she has always been the moon.

Inside me, there lives a woman who is neither young nor old. She sips tea in the afternoon smiling at the memory of an old song while looking outside her window, at the lake beside her house. She likes to write with sharpened pencils and chop vegetables with sharp knives.

Inside me, there lives a woman who doesn't remember her name. Some people call her Meera, some Mary, some Shabari and still some Radha.
Sometimes, there are deeper stirrings in her heart. During these moments of great gratitude and inspiration, the Guest pays her home a visit. The rooms and corridors of her home, that she constantly cleans, airs and frees of clutter in preparation for the Guest's arrival, are flooded with sunshine and filled with the fragrance of the sweetest flowers the instant the Guest steps into them.
Inside me, there lives a brave woman who is not afraid of waiting endlessly for this Guest to arrive.

Inside me, there lives a woman who is Free.

Aaj Rang hai Ri Ma...

2020-04-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

“Come, Come whoever you are.

Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving, come.

Ours is not a caravan of despair, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times, come.

Come, yet again, come, come” - Jalal-ud-din Rumi

“I did my own thing” - Sita, of the 21st century A.D

Acknowledgement

I would like to express my sincerest thanks to Sage Valmiki - after all these years he seems as mythological as the epic he wrote. I am grateful to him for writing the epic, a story that remains as deeply etched in my mind today as it was when I first heard it.

The events that take place in this epic have been repeated so many times over centuries that they've shaped the belief systems of large parts of the human population. The effigies of iconic villain Ravan have been burnt year after year, Diwali, the festival of lights has been celebrated as the triumph of the righteous over evil, making this mythological story more alive than many real events that have taken place in human history.

Over the years, villains and vamps from horrendous, meaningless tripe generated by the largest film factories of the world have thrived in my memory. They have on a number of occasions scared me by intruding my thoughts and intimidating me through my dreams. On being hound thus by psychological demons from novels and movies, I have often sought refuge in the episodes of this enchanting epic, in repeating the names of the monkey-God Hanuman and drawing strength, endurance, patience from the virtuous characters - while imagining the forests of Panchavati and the tribulations faced by this odd triad.

Foreword

I was born in the middle of the 80’s. Like most of the significant events of my life, like my birth, which school I went to, what I was taught while I was growing up, etc., I didn’t choose to know the story of Ramayana. My mother chose to tell it to me, along with many other stories. Since it was written in an ancient period of the Indian history, I couldn’t have been consulted on the decisions made by the characters. A few years after I was born, when the riots broke out in the site known as the birthplace of our heroic prince - I was quite young to make sense of anything.

But now, my time has come.

After almost a quarter of a century since I first heard the story - I wish to narrate my version of this beloved story that has lived through the centuries - and perhaps select my favourite re-telling of events and string them in a way that ends in reconciliation. This is important for me, because newer and more pressing narratives wait for my attention. I have been waiting for far too long for an upgraded version of my beloved Sita - when I am distraught the mundane power struggles and the over-simplified victim-saviour relationship between the favourite Immortals of my imagination, doesn’t offer any solace. My parents are stronger than them, I think.

And because stories are so powerful in shaping our realities, it is only fitting that they are re-visited, re-vitalised and restored with the lessons learnt by their readers and listeners .

I like to think that this story, like many epics from Ancient Greek and Roman literature was imagined first by an individual and then penned down, rather than narrated based on real events that took place on earth.

Much has happened since then - many wise men, and kind women have walked on this earth demonstrating how much easier it is to apologise for our mistakes and stop repeating them.

It only feels fair then to start with my imagination - since the story was planted there first , and from there suddenly got connected to Ayodhya, Awadh, Babri Masjid, etc. in a very quick and a non-linear succession of events.

Many authors have attempted to do this in the past - trying to interpret the characters of Urvashi, Sita ,Mandodari and Soorpanakha according to the social mores prevailing during their times and the position that women held in relation to men in their milieu.

All this has only added richness to the experience that is Ramayana.

With this letter, along with the above, I wish to push the envelope a little further and invite you to imagine the possibilities of kinder, gentler endings.

Dear Ravana -

You don’t need me or anyone to tell you that you are an inspiration among humans. Your legend lives on because of your benevolence, your mighty determination and willingness to sacrifice everything that you hold dear in the pursuit of the higher.

My sisters and I are in awe of your feats and the lengths you went to bring abundance for your people. You might be wondering how we know your stories. Let me then give you some context -

When I learnt of the Svayamvara organised for me, I laughed at the ludicrousness of the selection criteria. A crossbow had to be lifted and strung. That's it. No written assessments, no problem-solving tasks, no introductions, no endorsements - just lift a crossbow and string it. It gave away no information about the suitor or me but somehow apparently the result would confirm that he and I could spend our lives together as partners.

Legends said that not many could move the bow in question, let alone lift it - Shiva himself gave it to my father Janak as a boon. But I only had to use my thumb and forefinger to lift it when I was 2 and have been training on it since then. For me the legends ended with that.

Surely my father intended to find for me a loving and caring partner, but the test he devised to ascertain it would match only our crossbow wielding skills.

However, there are many other things which I can’t do with as much proficiency and I need help with those. Wouldn’t a fairer test for this sort of arranged union comprise of assessments of those skills ?

Anyway, I was unable to convince my father or my uncle of the above. Hence on the night before the Svayamvara, I took my crossbow and rode out of the palace gates.

I left a message for my father which read like this :

“If being able to wield a bow amounts to being able to protect me, then I can protect myself. Because no one can use that bow better than me.”

The next morning, my family was distraught and sent search parties everywhere. My sister Urmila though knew where to find me - I had not gone far away, I was sitting on my favourite hilltop and practising ragas.

My family though irate were more relieved to find me. My father sent me a message through my sister :

“Impressive reasoning, my dear child. Clearly the Svayamvara does not appeal to you as an avenue for meeting your partner-in-crime. What do you want to do instead ?”

I replied :

“To step out of the confines of the palace walls, travel, meet people, stay with families, learn new skills, help, be a part of a community”

To which my father responded :

“But I will constantly worry of your safety, my sweet child...”

My sisters stepped in and together we reassured our parents. Soon they realised that we had made up our minds about this and any amount of persuasion could not change our decision. Our mothers tearfully requested that a regiment of soldiers accompany us for our safety. But we vehemently refused as that would give away our royal identities - something we quite desperately wanted to let go of, at least for a while.

So with troubled and heavy hearts they gave us their consent on the condition that we would come to meet them often and remain on each other’s guard and shout for help the moment we were in danger. The commander of the royal army personally explained to me the safest routes to reach our friendly neighbouring kingdoms. On the maps were also marked fresh water lakes, shallow rivers and fruit orchards for refreshment on our journey. We shed our real names and took on common aliases and practiced introducing ourselves as volunteers offering assistance. Armed with supplies that would sufficiently last us for many months, we bid farewell to our parents and set out on our adventure.

When we stepped out of our home in Mithila, we wanted to lose our titles as ‘royals’ and take on the duties of real princesses - looking after the needs of their people. So we set on horse back, incognito, armed with bows and arrows, travelling from one village to the next. We listened to people talk about bad harvest, or a flooding river, or attacks by wild Himalayan animals and then helped them win over the situation.

One of us would takes notes and after quickly brainstorming, another would step out to arrange for help from the nearest ruling administration. Since our father Janak was just, friendly and righteous and respected by kingdoms near and far, we never encountered any hindrances in receiving assistance.

A Myth called Closure

2020-04-01T00:46:00.006-07:00

Seems like yesterday when you'd caught hold of my diary and wouldn't give it back before sneaking a peek. You'd opened the pages where I'd written this:

Be the home I return to for laughter
When I turn around let me find you laughing too

Be there
to share with me what I lovingly cook up
let your heart be a canvass for my colours
Let me paint my dreams

Be there
when I bring home a homeless little baby
Help me bring her up.

Be my church and my temple
Pardon me when I err

Be successful in what you do
so that I can take inspiration

Was that the day when you'd sealed the fate of our friendship?

I know the kind of jokes that would make you laugh, that you like to listen more than speak, that you stop for that clandestine cigarette not in front of the stall in front of your apartment but at the one a little further away (although the chances of your mother (who probably knows that you smoke) discovering you smoke are very remote).

I know that you value your friendships. Once when we were walking with friends, I fell behind to tie my laces, to see if you would turn around and wait till I caught up. You did.
I know these these things about you (that will absolutely of no use to me soon)

Whom are you kidding? I know you like me, you always have.
You are at peace when I am around as if there is order suddenly in this chaotic world, as if everything is as it should be in our random lives. I know this about us.

This knowing you and being friends with you didn't happen in a day.

This note though is about today.

Unlike every other time, today I spared the pillion on your bike for your fiancee. Obviously dancing with you was out of the question at the club. Thus, while you were dancing with your fiancee I was left at the gracious company of her friends.
Occasionally I stole a glance to see if you were happy. I caught you looking at me wondering if I was feeling lost among new people.

Your fiancee, I am sure, is a fine woman. One day, she'll know you more closely than I've known you.Can there be an end to how much there is to know about a person?
Occasionally in those stolen moments while deeply inhaling a smoke, you would perhaps think of me, of those long drives along pristine beaches, on silken roads.

Having let you go, I on the other hand would forever have the satisfaction of having known you once in my own way and having written about it.

On cartoons and anger management

2020-04-01T00:46:00.005-07:00

The following is a list of human activities infinitely more cruel and harmful than drawing cartoons or being satirical. These however have nothing in common with what any self-stylized godman, priest or prophet or seer has ever prohibited. Not so surprisingly, these have also not been mentioned in any religious texts.

1) deforestation
2) dumping toxic chemical waste into natural water bodies
3) sweeping seabeds clean while killing million fishes and destroying aquatic ecosystems
4) hunting tigers, whales, dolphins for trade and fun
5) killing animals for food
6) circumscision - because the creator made you with foreskin and you obviously know better
7) killing fellow humans - because thats what you do when you are angry and you are always angry
8) evading taxes - because you owe nothing to the government and your country for your identity
9) hoarding wealth while millions starve
10) abducting and raping women and children
11) exploiting the less mightier through pornography and prostitution
12) creating wealth by trading drugs and weapons which are used to crush the innocent and meek
13) being remorseless about the above

For those who don't understand sarcasm and cynicism i'll put it more plainly:
If you find yourself burning with mad rage and uncontrollable anger use the above list to give direction and reason to your wrath. Perhaps the godmen you respect and revere may even be proud of you. And reserve some special houris in heaven in your name.

Time for Tea, dear!

2020-04-01T00:46:00.004-07:00

Prompt

You are locked in an empty room with no clue how you got there.
The only thing in the room is a book.
You open the book to the first page and read, ' And then the door opened'

And at that point the door opens
What happens next ?

Entry

I wake up gasping. My eyes squint painfully at the harsh sunlight flooding insensitively through the small window above my bed. My arms instinctively reach out to shield them.

They find that my neck and forehead are beaded with sweat and soaking strands of hair stick to my temples. Catching my breath I reach out to the glass of water that rests usually on the table beside my bed. I find none.

I take in a deep breath, while images from my nightmare rush to taunt at me in intimidating, accusatory tones . “ Relax, it’s just a nightmare”, I tell myself. “But they feel so real”, a scared voice responds.

I look around to find myself in a strange place. The air is heavy with the stench of clinical sanitisation. A small cupboard stands at the foot of my bed. At the end of the room is a closed door. My head hurts as I try to remember how I got here. I return my attention to my breath trying to remember - “where is this place ?” , “how did I reach here ?”, “what happened last night?”

I put my wobbly feet to the ground to stand. Dizzy , I gingerly stretch my hands out to regain balance. Water, my parched mouth needs. I must find water.

I squint at the glaring, harsh sunlight coming through the window - 'What time is it?'
There is no clock on the bare walls. I feel my wrists for my watch, I find a patch on the back of my hand.

Oww, that hurts. I notice that I am wearing surgical robes ? why ? Was there an accident?

I groggily find my way to the door, only to find it locked. There seems to be no latch, or lock or keyhole - Only a handle that wont twist or turn or bend.
Well, I try to break it. With all the strength I can muster.

I claw at the door with my nails, only to realise they have been clipped neatly. My hands begin to hurt as I become more frantic.

I break into a sweat as I began to think, 'What if I want to pee? Or poop?' Panic sets in and along with it comes the flooding urge to pee.

'Control', a voice quietly commands in my head, 'You don't want to embarass yourself'

Terrified, I begin to shout for help - “ Can anyone open the door ?”
Banging at the door, I scream to no avail. The effort wears my body as I slump down on the floor. Defeated and distraught, knees bent, hunched on my feet, back against the door, I start to cry.

And then suddenly as I sit there crying, the comforting aroma of freshly baked tarts, cakes and cookies wafts through the spaces around the locked doors - vanilla and cinnamon !

And then it all starts making sense. Tania, it has to be her! Mum must be baking cookies, and tarts for Christmas surely she would have wanted to eat all the deliciousness, all by herself !

So this is her clever plan - As everybody slept in the sultry afternoon, she must have locked me from the outside and raided the kitchen. What a pirate ! - She doesn't share mum's cookies and nobody knows!

Except for the little fact that I do know ! And once she is done finishing the cookies, she will stealthily open the door assuming I am asleep and pretend as if nothing ever happened.

A wave of relief washed over me as I found an explanation to what was going on. But it seemed strange that I didn’t remember this room. As I stood up confused my eyes fell on a table. A table I had not noticed before. On it was a book. A book - how strange.
I turn to the first page and read, ' And then the door opened'.

At that moment, the door actually opened. A kind-looking lady wearing clothes like a nurse’s smiled gently and said, 'Time for tea, dear'. A small, plastic tag, clipped to her lapel read, 'Anita'.

Hah! Touche , Tania, clever anagram - I chuckle to myself. You keep thinking I'll never know your secret. I play along her charade feigning innocence. Checkmate!

Epilogue

Outside Head Nurse Anita signals to the attendants to get the first-aid kit immediately, all the while smiling with the kind of kindness that breaks the limits of endurance.
She asks her colleague to urgently send for the head of the hospital.

Her note reads -

'Emergency. Patient Tania has hurt herself again. For several days now, she has been harping excitedly about writing a new story but has so far only written this much - 'And then the door opened''

The Lament

2020-04-01T00:46:00.003-07:00

My quest for love is like my longing for sunshine on a day when the sky is overcast with grey clouds and the rain lashes against the windows.

You've left taking with yourself everything that was sacred between us. My Mosul is destroyed, Houla and Herat lie massacred inside me.

I wake up in the middle of the day when the sun will be gone soon.The birds are thirsty and tired from gathering food. The flowers frown at the scorching heat.

The sun soon goes away taking with him the flowers and their fragrance, the birds and their chirping, the light and all the glory. They leave me alone in the fog of infinite loneliness to fight with the demons of solitude.

My sighs are still empty, our pipe dreams have turned into stars that light up the velvet night sky. A nail bitten from your little finger seems to have magically flown off to become the moon.

The nights of longing remain painful, on the other side of my bed lies the Sahara with its merciless magnificence. My eyes are like a lamp whose wick has burnt out.

It is nostalgic fondness for having my heart broken that I return to you, when I know that you are emotionally unavailable - demanding, cajoling, persuading, pleading that you love. It is to repeat the enchanting experience that turns unrequited love into nothingness - that very light, particle like lightness which is fundamental to everything that exists - it is this magical possibility of the conversion of a Kafir into the most ardent Believer, that pulls me into this myriad of impossible love.

The Cigarette and the Brothel

2020-04-01T00:46:00.001-07:00

I sit in the balcony, numb. I could also be sitting amidst the bustle of a cold lounge of a busy airport, waiting for another flight. It wouldn't have been any different.

Cold and distant, I look like I am invincible. I want to look that way. I want to be that way, undefeated by touch, sound, voice, sight or taste. There is peace in feeling that I am in control, completely.

But feelings? A thought quips inside. I slaughter the thought instantly.

Deep inside I am scared, lest my belief gives in to the feelings that I ignore with so much ruthlessness. Feelings should never be under-estimated.

Not long ago, some words had helped me look beyond the mere apparent, at the intricate design that lies behind all. The gurgling rivers and the mighty mountains had pacified my broken heart.

And I had marveled innocently and then believed.

The same words today team up to shake the foundations of my belief. I struggle to re-affirm that in faith lays the salvation of mankind. I fight to convince myself that all the strife and the pain has a reason and will culminate to a single purpose.

Words are bloody whores! They dance to anybody's tunes, anybody who cares to spare the time to play a tune. A tune in resonance with their thoughts. A billion thoughts of a single person.

Pain, not the physical one but the one inside, almost has this physical nature too. It resides somewhere in the region between the throat and the heart, like this big thorn dug right through deep inside. Every breath you take fans the fire, makes the burning embers glow hotter. You can't stop breathing all of a sudden now, can you? No matter what you do, this remains in the background like a reminder, a testimony to the fact that you have caused pain.

There may be a thousand correct reasons which justify what you have done. But that one hurt, bewildered look of the other contender, caught unawares, can never be ignored.

I have lived in denial. I am ready to accept now that when a person spews venom around and is brutal, he may not be motivated by sadistic pleasure or trivial whims and fancies. He may not also be avenging himself. Maybe, inflicting pain and misery is inevitable to bring about certain kinds of change. And believe me, in this case, it hurts to raise the weapon as much as it does to bear the blow.

It is far easier to conform to oddities, adjust with complex challenges, remain mum even if you don't like certain things around you and smile as if you didn't have a care in the world. Those are the expectations that everybody sets for everybody else in the world. What is tough is to have the audacity to defy these expectations. What is tough is to raise a voice and demand your right. What is tough is to see disappointment when you say that you didn't get what you deserved. This requires real strength, real courage. After a long time today, I need a smoke.

Reality lives everywhere: in the subways, on blogs, in your filthy mind, on the pages of your favorite book, in the news channels, inside your mom's hopes, even on MTV. In India, you can't escape it.Sometimes, this reality is hard to swallow.

You may be living inside your own comfortable cocoon, with your can't-be-bothered-more attitude, but that doesn't stop destiny from throwing a towel, dripping with grime on your face, sometimes.

At these times, you don't even know whom you can ask, 'Why me? What did I ever do to you?’

You have to wipe the shit clean from your face. (As fast as you can. You can't let your friends know, can you?)

A cigarette, in such times, is of great use.

A piece of paper, in essence, like life itself, you can't help thinking. The fire burning within ironically being put out, by one burning outside. The smoke engulfing you albeit for a few seconds, in that anonymity you covet so much. The burnt bitter taste that it leaves deep down into your throat, analogous to the ugly, gory chunk of truth that you just swallowed. And as you stub out the embers, in the end, the realization that you have grown. Some experience, you can bet on!

As a note to the smokers reading this: This blog is not to be used as a writ condoning your compulsion (read addiction!) The statutory warning bit does not apply to me as I am not addicted.

Hum mein hai zero...

2020-04-01T00:46:00.000-07:00

Fact : the 'Zero' was invented by Aryabhatta, an Indian mathematician. Up until quite recently this used to be my favorite Indian contribution to the evolution of the human thought. But in the aftermath of the global financial crisis, as I look back at everything that led to the present economic condition of the world, (in which war is a legitimate revenue-generating economic activity, tax-havens have illustrious names of politicians and artists associated with them, as banks still continue to pay 'billions' as regulatory fines), I find this fascinating invention at fault for the human condition called greed.

But on further ruminating, this conclusion seems too simplistic. Could it be possible that in the grimy process of systematically looting and methodically killing each other (while believing that shallow, deprecating sarcasm and humour directed at ourselves would somehow justify our actions) we completely misunderstood the zero ?

In any case, there couldn't have been a better time to re-visit this old but quite interesting concept.
Historically, the zero hardly started out as being as mindlessly used as it is today. Infact for several centuries, its inventors didnt even have a symbol or a word denoting it.
In ancient India, 'shunya' for a long time was a metaphysical concept that inquisitive seers contemplated on and understood as that which encompassed an infinite universe - from where creation originated, into which it eventually dissolved.
As trading flourished in the subcontinent, new number systems were developed.
When the Arabs were conceptualizing their ingenious counting system based on the zero, the symbol that they used for it was not anything fancy but the unassuming dot. The dot was used, perhaps to represent the point in space time where infinite nothingness converged into the finite something - the big bang in outdated scientific parlance, the hindu mythical event of the churning of the primordial ocean, the first day of the seven days God took to create creation, biblically.

From this perspective, modern classroom methods of introducing the zero to little children, by marking a point in the center of a horizontal number line ending with angle braces (implying that the stream of numbers on both sides of zero never end) is downright absurd. Zero defined as being that which remains when a number equal to another number is removed, subtracted, taken away from it, is an insult to its real meaning. It is of little wonder then, that Indian mathematicians having 'invented' the concept, never began their number systems with it.
Indeed it would appear silly to place the infinite void - from which every thought, word, action (and feeling?)is born - beside little numbers like 1, 2, 3...

Simply put when all mangoes from a basket are removed, nothing remains. But equating this 'nothingness' - to just the absence of mangoes is preposterous. Because this void singularly contains every other object, living or non living, thoughts both material and metaphysical, planets revolving around stars, unproved yet existing mathematical conjectures musical notes waiting to be discovered, the inspiration for art and perhaps unending Love.

Thus, the problem of defining or measuring zero becomes an interesting metaphysical exercise, the unspoken but implied subject of several koans, the start, destination and the path taken while practicing mindfulness. From a materialistic point of view, perhaps important for an individual who spends a significant part of his productive life trying to add more zeros at the end of his account balance, would be to ponder upon if it is worth the effort and sacrifice.

Is it then even possible for the zero to be invented? Or does one discover it while unravelling the abundance in their hearts ?

Is the zero then an absolute void or the holder of abundant plenty? Or something like the feeling after all the guests have left after a party. Or maybe more akin to what is left when your children have grown and left the nest. Perhaps what is left of you when you realise that the person you thought you loved turns out to be entirely different in reality.

"Chandni ke doobte hi, ghar mein kya reh jayega? Tum chale jaogey, darwaza khula reh jayega."