Her, the complete story…..

It was a dark night. The dogs cried as something vociferous had just passed by them. Their unrest was felt even by the sleeping babies in cradles, the mothers who were tired and slept along with them, woke up to the sound of their babies crying. They immediately took their baby out from the cradle only to comfort them, rocking them to and fro, close to their chest, a mother’s warmth can do wonders, they say. But the babies won’t stop crying. This happened in every house in the small riverine town. Lights were lit across the town as everyone got up. The men of the house took out their torches and lit them with the courage they had to, their families meant everything to them, their families wanted them to protect them. They called out each other’s name as everyone was familiar with everyone in the town. It was a small town, closely knit, strongly held. What it could be in the middle of night, asked Mr Krazinsky. Maybe an owl had set the dogs howling, assumed Mr Reggie. Or it could be “Her”, an old, ancient voice came from the back of the gathering. But wasn’t she killed Mr Roary, said one of them. We never found her body. It was if she had vanished into thin air, said Mr Roary. Who is “Her”? a young boy had asked. His mother quickly lulled his voice. Shush, come back here. Don’t you have to sleep? But mother, I want to know who is “Her”? a curious little kid had just stunned some elders. They were silent for a moment. The sight of her was in their eyes. This night would be a long one, Mr Roary had remarked. The mothers quickly took their younger ones and they all went inside the already dilapidated church, where their prayers were answered, where the lost were found, where the dead were departed. The other half of the community, the women, held their hands together and started to pray. O Lord give us the strength, give us the strength to fight the unnatural, the devil is upon us, he is catching onto us, protect our babies, protect our husbands, brothers and fathers, protect us, help us. It was almost as if they had started to lose hope, prayer was the only thing that was keeping them sane. The men closed the doors. Bolt the door very firm, they said, we will knock five times when we want you to open, do not open the doors even if anyone calls your name, we will be alright as long as you don’t open the doors. They took their torches and every weapon they could find. Pitchforks, shovels and Mr Roary took out his gun, the only gun in town. What Shall we do? asked everyone from the elders. Let’s join hands and pray to the lord first to give us the strength to tackle “Her”. Let’s first move to the river, let’s see if the dam is intact. They cautiously moved towards the dam that was built even before Mr Roary. I wasn’t born when the dam was built, he would tell the children when they would try to ask him about his dam, while he smoked tobacco under the shade of the enormous Mango tree, that too was there before him. The kids would call Mr Roary ” The White Seal” as his teeth all his teeth had fallen down, his beard touched his chest and he barely moved. He was seen on most days near the Mango tree or near the dam. As if his routine was fixed, his focus points were two. The men slowly inched towards the dam. One of them carefully climbed down the dam to check for any damages. I don’t see any, he shouted from below. Did you find anything strange there? Mr Roary had asked. Nothing Sir, the man said. Wait! Wait!, there is a piece of cloth here. How does it look?, the temperatures were rising, the cold of the night had slipped under their noses, sleep ran away like a frightened rabbit. It looks old, torn in between, I cannot see, there isn’t much light. It’s HER. Mr Roary screamed. She was here. Quickly Alex, Shut down the valves, we shouldn’t drink the water. She must have poisoned it. She is indeed the Devil, She doesn’t need to live, Death to the witch, Burn in hell, the crowd had started chanting. The dull, scared faces now had an immense energy. Let’s find her and burn her and make a memory of her that our future generations will never forget.

Mr Roary took his gun in his hands and addressed the gathering, Today we shall free the village from the fear of her, Today we shall begin to live in peace, Today we will make her day end, We will burn her and dance on her grave. Let’s follow the any trails, bring out the dogs, let them smell the piece of cloth and let them guide us to her. Mr Krazinsky brought his ferocious dogs from his barn. They were so strong that two men had to hold one of them. These two puppies from the same mother had grown immensely, Mr Krazinsky had been feeding them all kinds of meat even before teeth had grown in their mouths. Mr Krazinsky and the other men took the piece of cloth that they had found in the dam close their noses. The dogs already anxious from all the energy of the crowd, quickly sniffed the cloth and immediately started growling and barking. They sense something sinister, Mr Roary remarked as he loaded his gun. Let them loose, he said, let’s see where they take us. But Mr Roary what if they get lost in the woods, they are very dear to me and my little girls, Mr Krazinsky was concerned about the dogs. He had made them since they were too young even to walk. Every day they would run to him when he would come back to the house from work, they would lick his face and his hands and jump in happiness on his glimpse. His daughters would sometimes dress the dogs in frocks so pretty that Mr Krazinsky would smile ear to ear. They’ll be fine, Mr Roary assured Mr Krazinsky, after all they are so powerful beasts of nature. With a heavy heart Mr Krazinsky let loose their leash and the dogs started running. Quick, follow them, they will lead us to her, the crowd had started to run after them. I’ll sit near the church for the women need to be protected, Mr Roary remarked. Carry on Lads, he had said. But what will we do if we find her, Mr Krazinsky asked Mr Roary. You’ll be fine as long as you don’t let her touch you, she fears fire and the pitchforks will keep her at bay, Just catch her and bring her to me, I’ll know what to do, Mr Roary took a chair, took out his cigar and sat on the door of the Church. The dogs are getting away, a voice in the crowd remarked. Let’s go, Mr Krazinsky quickly started to follow his dogs. The dogs were loyal enough to sense that their owner was coming for them, they stopped at the entrance of the forest and waited for their owner. Mr Krazinsky patted their heads and they started walking, sniffing the air and the soil on the ground. The forest had been off limits for every citizen of the village because they had always feared of what was in the woods. Since they were little babies their mothers and their mothers before them had told them stories of giants that would eat human heads for breakfast or werewolves that would look like humans but would change into flesh eating beasts as long as dusk settled in. Nobody dared to set foot in the woods, they all celebrated life and the little joys of life. The forest was since a abode for the vagabonds, the outlaws that weren’t ever accepted in the society that the village had grown to become. There was no marking of any path, everywhere grass had covered the soil, the algae on others that were moist. Everyone started to chant their prayers as they slowly moved inside, following Mr Krazinsky and his dogs. Atta Boys, he would say every time they stopped for him as he was left behind. Slow Down Mr Krazinsky, the people following him would remark, you are going too fast. Be Quick, Mr Krazinsky would say, we have to end this today. They got deeper and deeper into the woods. The forest untouched by any human presence looked serene and beautiful. Wild roses had grown on the trees that had fallen, the river flowing was so clear that you could see the fishes swimming in it, the thick canopy of the trees almost didn’t let any moonlight in, although it was enough for them to see each other’s faces. I don’t think we will find her today, its already too late, she must be asleep, I too want to sleep, a voice remarked. Let’s go back to our families, we have kids to feed, a family to take care of, let’s do this in the day. Everyone had started to feel tired and scared. They all wanted to go back to their families, it was hard for them to accept that they too were scared from all this commotion. I am going back to my family, if anyone wants to follow, they are most welcome, Mr Littlefish had remarked. But, we have to find her before it’s too late, Mr Krazinsky said. Why don’t you carry on? You would be enough for her with both your dogs and the strength you have doing farming. I am just a shopkeeper, I Don’t know how long will I last in-front of her, Mr Littlefish turned back and started walking. Very Well, Whoever wants to stay and fight with me, let’s find her. Mr Krazinsky was stunned to see just a handful people standing with him. Only his most trusted allies, his friends who had been there during his thick and thin. We should go back Shawn, his friends said, it’s not safe, we don’t know what her powers are, we don’t even have a gun, they tried to reason with Mr Krazinsky. I understand your concern, Mr Krazinsky said, but I don’t want to live in fear of her for rest of my life, I don’t want to become Mr Roary. I am following my dogs and if my righteousness permits I shall be conqurous tonight. Mr Krazinsky kept on following his dogs, who never left their owner behind. A few steps in the forest and the dogs stopped walking. They had stopped sniffing and immediately ran back to their owner. What is it Boy, asked Mr Krazinsky as he looked towards his front. There was a house in the middle of the forest that was made entirely of wood, a small vegetable garden was carefully laid near to it, some chickens also sleeping in cages next to the garden. Help Me O Lord, I have found Her, Mr Krazinsky said as he took out his pitchfork and in a position of attention carefully started to move towards the house. His dogs having already sensed a danger followed suit. The house had no lights in it, as if it wore a mask to protect itself. As he walked closer to the house, he felt a tinge on his neck, a cry of the dogs and he fell unconscious to the ground. The smell of burning wood woke him up. He was tied to the tree outside the house and his dogs were caged. They had started to wake up and seeing locked up, started to cry. Don’t worry boys, I’ll get you out of here. That’s when he saw her. Dressed in an old evening gown, she had long hairs that due to years of neglect had entangled among themselves, her face had wrinkles and she could barely stand upright if it was not for the stick she held. Who are you and what are you doing here? She asked in a voice calm. Mr Krazinsky already in a state of shock, couldn’t believe what he saw. She was just an old lady who maybe couldn’t harm anyone. I have come from the village, we had heard stories about you, that you want all of us dead, that you want to take our children and make them your slaves, that you poisoned the dam waters so that the entire village could die and you could feed on their soul, you are the devil, you are the living image of the devil. The lady smirked at Mr Krazinsky because this wasn’t the first time she had heard anyone say that about her. Will you harm me, she asked him. I won’t if you will not harm me, Mr Krazinsky said. She picked up the freshly cut chicken and fed it to the dogs who quickly gobbled up the little cut up pieces. Do You want water? I haven’t poisoned it. She drank it first to assure Mr Krazinsky that it was safe. She carefully fed the water to him. I am sorry that I had to hit you and your dogs with darts. I didn’t know what you might do to me. I had looked around to ensure that you were all alone. Mr Krazinsky still couldn’t believe what he was hearing or seeing. It’s too late to be venturing in this forest. There are poisonous vines that will kill you in blink of an eye, jaguars that will feed on your flesh, she said while heating up a pot. We villagers had come to find and kill you, Mr Krazinsky told the woman. Very well, shall I untie you then, you have a job to do, she said as she grabbed a knife that lay around her. She came near to him and cut his ropes. Mr Krazinsky still weak from the tranquilliser couldn’t get up. If I were you, I wouldn’t get up. She said as she opened the gates of his dogs. The dogs came out wagging their tails and started kissing the woman. Mr Krazinsky was shocked as this was the first time his dogs did that to a stranger. The dogs quickly saw their master and did the same to him.

Here have this, What’s in this, Mr Krazinsky said, it’s just tea, she remarked.

Why didn’t you kill me, Mr Krazinsky was now curious as his whole belief system had started to fall.

You were the only one that followed your dogs and your dogs that followed you, she said. I haven’t seen a connection in time so long, she said. Moreover, the only thing I can kill here in these woods is time and my own mind. I have been living here for God knows how long.

So, the stories about are they all lies. I don’t know what you have heard or from whom you have heard it. They conversed.

How did you end up here? Why do villagers say those thing about you?

Well, my memory betrays me, it was so long that I had lived in a civilisation. But I do remember some bits. I had a father and a mother who thought way ahead of their times. My father was the first person to be educated in the village and he became a doctor. He could earn well and live in the city but he chose to work and help his fellow villagers. He set up a small clinic and very soon he was known around the village for his unconventional methods of treating people. He believed in prayers along with the efficacy of modern medicine. His supplies would come from the city on the horse cart, the driver of which soon became an admirer of my father. The driver had a daughter who he married to my father. My mother was a brilliant young woman and at a time when women were supposed to do the household chores, she learnt medicine and with my father started to work in the clinic. This seriously injured the ego of many around the village, especially the old priests that did nothing except making their subjects fall in the hands of God. I was my parents first born. My birth was celebrated in the village with a feast which wasn’t attended by any soul, as told by my parents. My parents right from the start had started to give me all their knowledge and very soon I was too an educated woman, way ahead of my times. Other parents started to keep their children away from me as they thought I would be a bad influence as I talked about stars, astronomy, the healing power of plants and why thinking logically is the way to go. As I got older, I could see how we were turned into outcastes and one day the water fell off the brim. I remember sleeping peacefully on the first floor when I smelled smoke. My father quickly came running and wrapped me in a blanket. He took me in his arms and we ran to the exit. Where is mother? I remember crying and asking him. He didn’t reply. The doors had been bolted from the front and they didn’t open. We will die, I shrivelled with fear as my father held me close to his chest. He ran off to the roof so as to jump. The villagers had surrounded the house and the head priest was chanting his verses. My father didn’t know what to do. He jumped from the roof of our house and broke a leg. Run Emily, Run, Don’t Look Back, Run to the forest. He screamed until his voice had turned silent. I could hear footsteps coming nearer and nearer. I ran and ran till I entered the forest, the villagers didn’t enter the forest for they knew I couldn’t survive alone in that treacherous forest. I was a child that time. But was intelligent enough to know that I cannot ever go back to the village. I was dead for them and they were dead for me. The first few days in the forest were difficult. I had to hunt for food and shelter but the forest was kind to me.

Mr Krazinsky had tears in his eyes as he heard her story. I am sorry. I am sorry for the acts of my ancestors and those of my fellow villagers. Nobody deserves to be deprived of the love of their parents, no one deserves to live a life so disregarding. I am sorry that we failed you as humans. We didn’t deserve you and your parents. Mr Krazinsky had broken down, maybe the effects of the tranquilizer hadn’t wore down.

It’s okay, she said. Her broken teeth had started to show from the weak smile she had. I have made my peace with it. She sighed. Why did you tell me all of this? You were the only one who asked me who I was. I have been always addressed to as the witch, the devil’s friend, the worshipper of Satan. Also, I absolutely love dogs, they have been my greatest ally in this forest. But not the dogs in your village, for some reason they do hate me. She laughed. I wanted to do so much more for the community I was born in but. She stopped. She didn’t want to explain herself more. It was enough suffering for one lifetime.

What will you do now when you back to your village? She asked Mr Krazinsky. I would tell them about you, you deserve to live your remaining life in a civilisation. I am humbled you think this way, but I believe this is what that’s best for me. She said. Please leave whenever you feel like, or the villagers might come looking for you. I don’t think they will. They still fear the forest. Mr Krazinsky sipped his tea. I’ll just take a short nap and then return back. Mr Krazinsky said. Then get inside the house, you wouldn’t want the mosquitoes to bite, they are poisonous. Where would you sleep, he asked, I have a place, don’t you worry. She closed the doors behind her. I’ll chain your dogs so that they don’t run away. Mr Krazinsky lied down on the cot made of wood and slept. The cry of roaster woke him up and it was already morning. I overslept, he remarked and went outside. He was stunned to find his friends looking for him.

Oh you are here, we were looking for you since the morning. They saw him. Wait, but what were you doing in her house. He is not him, she has taken his form. You Devil, you killed our friend, they started to beat Mr Krazinsky as his dogs cried.  Die you Evil Woman, May you burn in hell.

Mr Krazinsky had started to lose consciousness and soon he slipped into oblivion. Let’s put her into the house and burn her. They dragged Mr Krazinsky and sparked a fire into the house. Burn you Witch. Burn. Mr Krazinsky had started to feel the heat when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Emily was there, she dragged her in through a smoke bomb she had made while she lived. She took him on hand pulled cart and deep down in the valley. Mr Krazinsky slowly opened his eyes to see the house burning. His friends dancing in joy, We have killed the witch, We have Burned the Witch, We Saved the village. Mr Krazinsky opened his eyes the next day and saw his wounds covered up. Emily was sitting there and making ointments for his pain. It’s okay, she said. It took Mr Krazinsky months to recover because of which he was now aware of the ways of the forest. I shall go back, my family still needs me. They won’t ever believe if you are what you used to be. I need to go, I want my family. Very well then, Emily said, you should leave. She said him goodbyes and Mr Krazinsky wore the same clothes he had worn the day his friends tried to burn him, he went to the village next day. The villagers were astonished. Mr Roary was standing there, Wait stop right there, he pointed his gun at him. Tell me who you are. I am Shawn, Mr Roary. But she had killed you. No Mr Roary, she only took my form, I was chained back in her other lair, he said. As soon as my friends killed her, I was free from her, but I was so wounded that I couldn’t move for days. Glad to have you back Shawn. Welcome Home, Mr Roary had lowered his gun. Mr Krazinsky straight away ran to his home. His wife had started to work in the fields and his daughters were working in the house. He couldn’t find his dogs. His heart sank. His wife as soon as she saw him, came running to him and kissed him. Her kiss felt like heaven. The daughters jumped on their father as he swayed them with joy. Where were you? What had happened? Are you Okay? They asked. I am fine, everything is fine. How have you been? Where are the dogs? Mr Krazinsky asked. We are fine now that you are here. They never found the dogs. Your friends said that the witch ate them. Mr Krazinsky was on his knees now. He wanted to cry but tears didn’t drop. I have to tell something to you, we are leaving the village. But why, his wife and daughters asked. Do you trust me? He said. With all our heart, they responded. So pack whatever is necessary, we leave as soon as we can. It was difficult to part with their land and the cattle as rumours had tainted Mr Krazinsky’s image. But he settled for anything he got. His friends came to see him but he couldn’t see now why he was friends with them in the first place. Done with everything, they started to move away from the land where lay their identity. Mr Krazinsky took their cart and slowly steered it away from the village as some came to bid them goodbye. The cart moved in the direction of the city but something came in Mr Krazinsky’s mind, he moved it towards the forest. There’s something I want you all to see. What are you doing? Asked the frightened wife and the daughters. Trust me on this. He said. He slowly took the cart to Emily’s cottage and stopped the cart at her door. His wife came down along with him. I want you to meet Emily, she was the one who saved your husband. Whatever you might hear or whatever you might have heard, she was the one who brought me back from the dead. His wife hugged Emily as both of them cried their hearts out. I want you to come with us, said Mr Krazinsky as he held back his tears. I would be honoured to. Emily said. Wait one moment, I have a surprise for you. She went to the back of the cottage, whistled and came running the two most special friends to Mr Krazinsky. His dogs had returned. He was now crying and sobbing like a little girl. You love them more than me, his wife remarked laughing hysterically.

 

 

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HER…..

It was a dark night. The dogs cried as something vociferous had just passed by them. Their unrest was felt even by the sleeping babies in cradles, the mothers who were tired and slept along with them, woke up to the sound of their babies crying. They immediately took their baby out from the cradle only to comfort them, rocking them to and fro, close to their chest, a mother’s warmth can do wonders, they say. But the babies won’t stop crying. This happened in every house in the small riverine town. Lights were lit across the town as everyone got up. The men of the house took out their torches and lit them with the courage they had to, their families meant everything to them, their families wanted them to protect them. They called out each other’s name as everyone was familiar with everyone in the town. It was a small town, closely knit, strongly held. What it could be in the middle of night, asked Mr Krazinsky. Maybe an owl had set the dogs howling, assumed Mr Reggie. Or it could be “Her”, an old, ancient voice came from the back of the gathering. But wasn’t she killed Mr Roary, said one of them. We never found her body. It was if she had vanished into thin air, said Mr Roary. Who is “Her”? a young boy had asked. His mother quickly lulled his voice. Shush, come back here. Don’t you have to sleep? But mother, I want to know who is “Her”? a curious little kid had just stunned some elders. They were silent for a moment. The sight of her was in their eyes. This night would be a long one, Mr Roary had remarked. The mothers quickly took their younger ones and they all went inside the already dilapidated church, where their prayers were answered, where the lost were found, where the dead were departed. The other half of the community, the women, held their hands together and started to pray. O Lord give us the strength, give us the strength to fight the unnatural, the devil is upon us, he is catching onto us, protect our babies, protect our husbands, brothers and fathers, protect us, help us. It was almost as if they had started to lose hope, prayer was the only thing that was keeping them sane. The men closed the doors. Bolt the door very firm, they said, we will knock five times when we want you to open, do not open the doors even if anyone calls your name, we will be alright as long as you don’t open the doors. They took their torches and every weapon they could find. Pitchforks, shovels and Mr Roary took out his gun, the only gun in town. What Shall we do? asked everyone from the elders. Let’s join hands and pray to the lord first to give us the strength to tackle “Her”. Let’s first move to the river, let’s see if the dam is intact. They cautiously moved towards the dam that was built even before Mr Roary. I wasn’t born when the dam was built, he would tell the children when they would try to ask him about his dam, while he smoked tobacco under the shade of the enormous Mango tree, that too was there before him. The kids would call Mr Roary ” The White Seal” as his teeth all his teeth had fallen down, his beard touched his chest and he barely moved. He was seen on most days near the Mango tree or near the dam. As if his routine was fixed, his focus points were two. The men slowly inched towards the dam. One of them carefully climbed down the dam to check for any damages. I don’t see any, he shouted from below. Did you find anything strange there? Mr Roary had asked. Nothing Sir, the man said. Wait! Wait!, there is a piece of cloth here. How does it look?, the temperatures were rising, the cold of the night had slipped under their noses, sleep ran away like a frightened rabbit. It looks old, torn in between, I cannot see, there isn’t much light. It’s HER. Mr Roary screamed. She was here. Quickly Alex, Shut down the valves, we shouldn’t drink the water. She must have poisoned it.

This is a small piece I just wrote after a long time, would really love your feedback on this. I’ll continue this story as the reader, you may want. Your inputs are highly valuable.

The fire met the ocean….

As the winter set foot in the horizon,
The cold breeze of December gushing through the plains,
A song was about to play,
An act about to begin,
The routine was the order of the day,
But that day a vagabond wind had struck them in their peace,
A quick glance at each other,
All hell had broken loose,
The Universe shrunk,
So did their Space,
And as he lifted her in his arms,
Winter had started to retreat,
Just like when a Volcano meets an Ocean,
And turns her into steam,
The doors of her bedroom called their name,
Pulling them away from reality,
The present, the past, the future,
Time had lost all its meaning,
The room was their purple rose,
He carefully lay down her,
Onto the bed,
The bed that had their footprints,
Their marks, their scent,
The darkness had engulfed the sky,
Their room lit by their fire,
Shall I devour you tonight,
He had whispered in her soft ears,
As she lay helplessly on the bed,
She let escape a sigh of warm air,
That tickled his ears,
It was enough,
Enough to wake up thundering storms,
The sheets were a witness to the act,
The air had gone thin,
Senselessness and sensations ran amok,
Till they were out of breath,
They lied down besides each other,
As their breath started to come to them,
And looked into each others eyes,
The thunder grasped their hearts,
Swindled it through their chests,
And landed it on their lips,
That had locked for eternities in surreal bliss,
The storms had now subsided,
As she closed her eyes to sleep,
While he still adored her,
The greatest reward he could ever get,
Night slowly turned into day,
Their footprints still on the bed……..

The Ocean….

As the ocean covers my face,
The currents carrying me to places,
Deep, cold, strange,
I try to gasp for air,
Its a privilege to breathe,
The air touches my nose,
And runs away like a scared flock of birds,
Apprehensive of what might come,
My legs have already numbed,
The hands struggling for a piece of land,
Oh, that would be the heavens,
My mind plays games with me,
I see the Sun and I see my life,
The old, past, present,
The experienced, the lost and the forgotten,
The salt in the ocean assimilated in my blood,
Makes me sink,
The trenches call my name,
So do the sailors long resting on the sand,
Their ships their holy grail,
Dilapidated, deteriorating, home to fishes,
The bottom of the ocean seems nearer and nearer,
I am flying, sinking, falling,
Senses have decepted me once again,
And as I close my eyes to let the water fill up my lungs,
A distant symphony tickles my ears,
A Siren, a mermaid maybe something magical,
I am lifted up through the blue waters,
Onto something hard,
Something real, phosphorus,
The body tries to eject the water it had taken in,
It coughs hard, belches the salt out from its system,
The brain tries to regain its consciousness,
I look around,
The deserted island doesn’t seem to have any life,
Except me,
The Siren had gone,
Leaving me to myself,
The island and the little shrubs that it could handle,
The Siren had gone,
And I was left to live,
The numbered days I had left,
The Sun maybe an enemy now……..

The Man…..

The winds were calm that day,
The sun still in its cradle,
Jogging along the usual path,
Music blasting in his ears,
He stopped for tea,
Who are you running from,
A voice had asked from behind him,
Someone too wise for his years,
Smiled at him,
The freckles on his face had their own stories,
A cigarette in one hand,
A cup of tea in other,
Sorry, I didn’t get you,
He answered,
The man smiled again,
Finished his tea,
Rubbed the cigarette on the floor,
One day you’ll have to stop running,
Run away,
Run to it,
Or let it stay,
The man got up,
Winked at him,
And jogged away……

10 minutes of a sweet pie…

I picked up the phone. 
Something was to be done about the many thoughts going in my mind. 
I dialed the number and waited for her to pick it up. 
For the first time I talked and she listened. 
I told her everything, she listened patiently. 
My mind was now clear of all thoughts. 
She spoke in a voice so sweet.
And I was immediately happy. 
A voice so beautiful, I had a chance to hear. 
She then said, in that sweet voice, a sweet pie. 
Your internet connection will be soon restored. Thank you for calling the customer care. I hope you have a wonderful day. 

It was a dream come true. 
Truly….

Eyes…

They looked at each other, 
A distance of some was between them, 
And as eyes stumbled upon each other’s, 
They knew the distance didn’t matter…… 

See that hot chick, she gave me a hint.

​As I prepared to get on a busy Metro train after a tiring day at work I saw an extremely beautiful woman standing next in the line to me. My friend was standing along with me and he looked at her and exchanged looks. He passed a smile and so did she. 

He immediately turned to me and said, “See that hot chick, she gave me a hint.” 

As the train came I focussed all my energy on getting on it but my friend had a devilish smile. We got on it somehow and my friend left me to go after her. He came back after sometime. 

His face was red and he seemed a little upset. “All of them are Bi****s.” He said and I was a bit taken back. “What happened?” I asked and he was too angry to speak. Later on I got to know that when he approached the girl, she wasn’t interested in something of more personal. 

He continued, “Why did she gave me a hint if she did not want to do something?” 

I had no answer as I was never given such a hint ever before. The next day at the office, there was a party that was organised by the seniors who were leaving the company. Everyone was invited, so we went there too. There was as usual drinking of all sorts and every kind of thing one may find in a party such like this. Everyone was in the mood, even the girls of our office. 

” I bet if I ask her to go with me, she won’t say no.” said my other friend who was with me and drinking. ” Girls from good family don’t do such type of things. They don’t party or wear such short clothes.” 

I came from a family where I and my sister were treated both as equals. My sister has been a part of the tennis team for almost all her schooling and college life. And I have always seen her dressed in the most comfortable clothes as possible. No one ever objected. Not my parents and I never listened to the ones except them. I have a habit of calling my mother every night before I sleep so she knows that I had dinner. If I don’t call her she cannot sleep. I had told her before of my party and she had asked me to take care. I called her first thing in the morning and she could guess with my voice that something was wrong.

“What happened Karun?” she asked.

“nothing Ma.” I said.

“Take Care and have healthy food.” she said and I started to get ready for my office. But checked to find out that it was a holiday that day.

I rang up my sister who lived in other city. She picked up the phone and answered. “How are you little brother? Did you find a Girlfriend? Was her somewhat satirical comment she always would make on me.

“Who needs one when I have you?” I said and she melted. 

“What do you want” she asked and I had some questions which I need answers to.

“Did you ever give a hint?”  I asked.

“What do you mean?” 

“Did you ever gave a smile at a stranger when they smiled at you because that’s a hint?”

She didn’t answer me but asked me to meet her the weekend she would come to home. 

It was a day after we met at the house. Something had caused between us because of that conversation and she didn’t talk to me the way she talked. My mother was the first to notice and she immediately pointed out. “Nothing Ma”  my sister saved us, the way she always did. We both got comfortable and after  healthy chat we went to our rooms. My sister came to my room and sat besides me.  

“I am sorry if i hurt you.” I said. 

“I think I never had this talk with you before. I guess we should have talked about this before.” she said while adjusting the covers of my pillow. 

” Do you remember the day when I came back from the school and went straight to my room and didn’t open until Ma came, When after college Papa was so furious he almost was red with anger, when I came back from practice and the next day changed my location. Those were somethings a smile cost me or something people termed as a hint. “

There are at times when the sentiments of the moment take your tongue away and nothing can fill that silence except the sound of two beating hearts. 

I wasn’t sure what to say so I stood up and held her hand as she held the pillow tight in her palms.”It’s Okay Didi “,  I said and she just tapped my shoulder. 

” You know Karun, I want to cry”, she said as she saw tears rolling down my eyes. “I feel sometimes do I commit a crime by asking for what I want to be or what or how I want to express. Why is that such a simple emotion of smile is interpreted in such different ways. Have we lost the sanctity of human emotions.”

I had never seen her like that before. She was the strongest person I had ever seen. Stronger than my father, than my mother. She was my guardian, my angel, my God. She cried like a baby that day and I wiped her tears. She wiped mine. 

I took the pillow from her which by now was strangled to death by those long held back emotions, which couldn’t see the light of the day because she wasn’t of a sex that the world wanted her to be. 

“Didi”, I said “What you have achieved I don’t think I would be ever able to achieve that. My respect for you is always something I won’t ever be able to explain.” 

She moved her face towards me and said, “I know little brother.” and went out of the room smiling. 

I have always respected living beings just because of the two women in my house and my father who always taught me to treat a living as a living being first and then think of any other thing. 

My holidays ended and I went back to my city for my job. The daily routine started and I headed back to my office. I met my friend on the way and we shook hands and proceeded towards the station. We saw a beautiful woman yet again and saw her in an different dress we were used to. 

“She definitely must be that type of girl.” my friend said to which I replied. ” That’s a great talent brother. When you can judge a person by their clothes, I think you must be interviewing the top most positions. The country needs people like you who can judge a person’s character by their clothes.” He couldn’t make an eye contact with me for the entire day. 

Back at office I got busy in the official work and took a break to get a cup of coffee. A lot can happen over coffee, I had seen a TV ad someday. I got to see it happen that day. 

“You know Karun”, my floor manager came to me and said, “I have heard that our group mate is interested in you. She was asking about where you belonged and where do you live and how are you.”

“Oh is it.” I was excited as I had a liking for her. 

“But Karun, I will advice you to stay away from her. She drinks and parties. I don’t think she has a character one can rely upon. ” the Floor Manager commented. 

” Sir, have you seen a cuckoo bird. She sings so melodious. But she invades another nest, kills their kids and make it a home for her children. When someone so melodious can be so evil, we still are humans. And I think we have an evolutionary advantage of a better mind. Perception may not always be true. ” I told him politely. 

What you read above was all fictional. But I wrote this story with authenticity of emotions and sentiments. It has always been said that we need to save our girls so that they are safe. But the reality is, the girls can be safe only when our boys are taught to save themselves. We need to save our boys. We need to realise that a NO means No and that a simple smile isn’t an invitation for any type of favour. Respect a being for it is living first, then comes the purity of their heart. If one can see beyond the purity of heart then I don’t think that person will ever be deceived. Clothing is an expression of the mind and it should not be linked with the character of a person because character is something you make over the years. You don’t change it because it is old fashioned. Drinking has always been associated as wrong for women but not for some men who find it a matter of pride to drink. There is this popular TV ad about a scooter that has a tag line why should boys have all the fun. Indeed. Why should they when everything here is made for everyone here. Why is clothing or drinking or partying or even smiling considered a mark of bad character. Shouldn’t we look beyond them? 

 

The prompt for this post came from an excellent movie titled ‘Pink’ by Shoojit Sircar. I would highly recommend watching this movie. 

I now see a beautiful girl smiling at me. Is she giving me a hint? 

What do you say?  Should I take her home? Or should I go upto her and grab her hand? Or maybe if she rejects me I can go and throw acid on her? Will my manhood be questioned if she rejects me? What if she wishes more than to be someone’s wife? Should I strangle her and call it a suicide? Or beat her until she suppresses her emotions? 

Or maybe it could be a start of a beautiful friendship.. 

You tell me. Should I proceed? 

The pencil and the eraser…

Sometimes all we need is a fresh start…… 

Joy is a teacher

​Things joy has taught me:-

1. When you wake up, stretch your legs. 
2. When you are hungry, follow your mother( or in this case, who you think your mother is). 
3. When you are angry, bark. 
4. When you don’t want to be disturbed, stop responding. 
5. Someone who returns to home after a long day, make them fall them over and lick them all over. 
6. When you destroy that expensive mobile phone, act guilty( but not for too long, or else who will give you food). 
7. When someone eyes your house or the ones you love, bark.
8. When you want to play, bring the biggest rug in the house and create a mess. (It can always be cleaned later). 
9. Show your love everytime you come near. 
10. When someone disturbs you, bite him. (it maybe illegal in some countries; maybe all.)
11. Find excitement in small(I mean everything) things. A rolled up newspaper, a ride in the car, maybe a furry cat, a biscuit, a treat, a guest or a simple Plank of wood. 
12. When you want someone to take you seriously, bark. 
13. Stand tall against any difficulty. 
14. It’s okay to be feared. You may walk cautiously. But keep on walking. 
15. When you want to go out, how difficult it may be to bring the leash, you bring it and make people take you outside because life happens in the open and that you don’t dirty your own house. 
16. Sniff things. Good things, bad things, smelly things, gross things. Because how will you then get to know what’s good and what’s not. 
17. Life is as simple as wagging your tail and letting things come your way. 
18. Sleep, sleep and sleep. But you can wake up to eat and bark,  of course. 
19. And Yes, get lots of body rubs. Body runs are good. 

In short, speak up things you want to say like you own the your listeners, live each moment like there wouldnt be next, eat like crazy, play like crazy, love like crazy, live like crazy and still of those who don’t believe Joy. I would like to tell you, he is offended very easily. But I think he won’t bite you. But then everything is unexpected, just like life. 

And for those of you who don’t know Joy, he is my yet to grow Labrador baby. 

That’s him. 

A little story – 3 The end?

This story is in continuation with the previous parts. Please read the two parts, it will definitely make you smile. 

Part 1
Part 2
Thank you. 

All of them moved towards the room. They were silent now and slowly moving so as to cause as little noise as possible. My uncle reached the door and knocked. They went inside with the biggest smile on their face. Congratulations Suresh. You are now a father! They said and the whole family hugged each other. I laid in my mother’s arm and was asleep. My father took me from my mother’s arm and handed me to my Uncle. He was silent, didn’t speak a word. He looked at me for sometime and then said, “We will call her Mudrika.” 

Everyone applauded the name my Uncle had chosen. Nobody ever doubted him or his decisions. The hospital gave us leave the next day and we all headed back to home. It was early morning and Gods had woken up, the ringing bells in the temples marking the start of day. We stopped by the temple near the house. The priest knew us very well. Almost every marriage in the family was arranged by him, every special occasion, every birth was incomplete until he had used his ‘Laal Tika and the Moli, he tied on everyone’s hand.’ ‘By the grace of the gracious God, Lakshmi has come to your house, ‘ and he touched my feet with his head. We asked for permission to leave. At the house everyone was so ecstatic. Nobody slept the previous night except the kids who were too busy absorbing the energy of the previous night. My Grandmother took one look at me and she couldn’t stop herself from crying. She carefully took out some money, waved in circles over me and handed it to my mother. “She is as beautiful as an Angel.”  she commented and welcomed us in the house. So much commotion for someone too young to see the world, I became restless and started crying. But nobody seemed to care. They admired my every movement, everything that I did. But my father, he became too restless seeing me cry. I think he knew what was going inside me. After all, I was his part, an atom of the stature he had acquired in so little time. 

Suresh, or whom I gladly address as Papaji was the youngest and the last Son of my grandparents, so he was adored the most. He was always interested in learning new things and was the best among all his brothers and sisters when it came to studies. He went to the best of schools, best of colleges all by himself. It ran in the family genes. Nobody asked for any help. But they always helped. Suresh(I think I need to address him more respectfully) chose to be a doctor and he became one. The initial days of becoming a doctor are quite difficult. Nobody recognises you until you specialize in something. Papaji(Suresh becomes Papaji here) was always good in reading minds so he became a Psychiatrist. After years of practice, he was the most sought after doctor in the entire city. With Psychiatry, he had some hobbies. He was an excellent Tabla player and a wonderful singer. “I had a huge fan following in College.” he used to tell me whenever we used to get together.

It’s fun. It’s fun talking to people about their talents, about things that bring passion in their eyes, which drips down their mouths in form of words so elegant that they make you fly along with them. 

I always saw Papaji on Sunday evenings. He would switch on the Music System, play Jagjit Singh and would play along the Tabla and sing. He was shocked to core when he saw the death of his favourite singer. 

That day and days after it, our family celebrated my birth with so many occasions. (There must be a DVD lying somewhere in my rack, somewhere.) As I grew up, I realised the world around me, the world outside the world of my family. Many a times I cried, many a times I wanted to shut the doors to my room. But everytime I decided to do something foolish like this, my family was always there to help me. We lived in the same house, the one my grandparents built for us. All of us. Everytime any of us needed anyone, we would just call out. There were happy times, then there were fights.I have seen my parents fight, my uncles fight and even my cousins fight, sometimes over unnecessary things(no, always on unnecessary things.)  Who else fights for tea not served to them in the morning or tearing the homework(this one,  I think that sounds legit). Everyone else used to watch them fight. There’s a saying, we cannot make a blind see what he cannot, so why should one try. They fought when they had no energy left and when they sat down, breathless from the hurling of abuses or utensils or my favourite Red Velvety shoes( God, I loved them), they would realise they wasted some precious time and My Red Velvety Shoes(I must have them in my trunk. I need to stop drooling now) and would hear each one out. My grandfather always said that If one can listen properly, most of the problems won’t exist. And listening for him or for any of us shouldn’t be just the said, it must be the unsaid as well. 

Every Sunday morning, all the ladies in the house would take to cooking the best meals in the house. My mother always scolded me for sitting and not helping me with her work. But everyone else in the house came to my support. I had to bend to her one day when she asked me to do my hair. (I realised that I was more turning into a boy than a girl.). It was not like the males didn’t knew to cook. When my uncles and father would get in the kitchen, they would make something extraordinary (most of the times, except that one time when we had to call the fire department to save us from the fire.) 

One day I was asked at the school to write an essay on what I wanted to be. I approached Papaji who had just came after a heavy day at work. “People take so much stress these days.” He commented while putting down the glass of water I handed to him. “What is it Mudrika?” he asked. Almost as he knew what was going inside me. “I have to write this essay and I don’t know what I want to be.” I said while making circles with my feet on the floor. He opened the buttons of his cuffs, folded his shirt back and held me by my hands. 

“Mudrika, this family is something to which we all have given back something or the other in some form. You have seen your Uncles, your aunts, your grandparents, your mother. They all are an inspiration most children lack. Have you ever seen how effortlessly your mother works day and night so that she could make all of us happy, how the eldest uncle manages his business, how the other two uncles have made a name for themselves in politics and academics. Your Aunts are trendsetters for many ladies out there. Do you know your mother was a successful doctor before she left everything for you. The thing is I believe you are capable of everything you want to be, anyone you want to be. People say one must do what their hearts want. I say one must do what can bring a smile to the people you care about the most. We are here for you whatever happens. We will always be happy in whatever you are happy with. Always remember, family comes first and that you must respect your roots. And I think you will be okay. “ He said this to a nine year old who had just asked what she wanted to be. He went outside the room to help my mother with the food. I sat there absorbing every iota of what he had just said. Next day I went to the school and submitted my essay. 

The title of my essay was” I want to be A Scientist. “

He never asked me again what I wanted to be, nor did anyone in my family. But yes, the Sharmaji’s and the Vermaji’s always did. (I always smiled on their question. My grandfather had taught me this while someone asked him what he was doing after his retirement. His answer was hilarious. “I think I might take part in the Olympics this year.” ) 

There were times when I failed. 

Ideal doesn’t work in the real life. You don’t always win. You will fail. You will fail miserably. You will fail so hard that you would want to quit everything. But no matter how hard you fall, you have to stand up, again on your feet. Try again. Fail again. Eventually you will learn. This was the first lesson my father gave me while I was learning to ride a bicycle. Repeated several times when I was shattered during my course of life. 

But he always kept hope in me. Always believed in me when I failed to do so. 

What is a man? A collection of some orderly tissues and cells that together form something concrete or something more. Does the color of skin, the tone of voice or the abnormalities in a person make him someone? Why is it people cry on seeing a dying bird or don’t even blink while ordering to murder hundreds? What makes a man give his life for a nation when he has a family to take care of or makes him work in the scorching heat so that he could feed his family. 

A man is much more than a collection of tissues and cells. In Samkhyan Philosophy, a school of Indian Philosophy, they believe that a man is product of Prakriti – the one unintelligent, unconscious, matter,  ever active and that has three attributes which define its state; and Purusa – which is the consciousness, the soul of the body. The balance between the three attributes found in the Prakriti defines how the person would be.

I believe, a person becomes what his family makes him. A child is a clean slate when he is born. His mind is ‘tabula rasa’. The society, the situations, the people he comes in contact with defines the character he builds over time.

Mahatma Gandhi had once said, “Hate the Crime not the Criminal.” 

No human is at fault when it comes to something not acceptable. Pity is something cruel to a soul. Don’t pity, just try to understand what the person might be going through and you won’t ever be misunderstood. My father Suresh told me this many times. 

I remember his every word of advice, the way he walked, the way he ate. Everything right here in my mind. I have been asked many times do I miss my family. 

Yes, of course I do. But when I see myself sitting here in my room among the top most researchers of the world, I think they must be smiling. 

I have given them a reason to smile. 

This story was a work of Complete fiction. None of the characters are real nor do they bear any resemblance to the real world. But it totally depends on you, the reader, what you want to be real. Every character here can be real or unreal. The only thing that matters is what you take with you when you finish reading this little effort of mine. 

Please do comment and tell me how this was. I am highly grateful to the few people who have admired my work. Your appreciation is something I cannot define in words, although some of you claim I have a way with words. Funny, isn’t it? 

You must be thinking about the question mark in the title. That question mark is something I will leave to the imagination of the reader. If this is the ending you would want or something different. 

Ideals don’t work in the real life. A belief I want everyone of you to take home with you when you finish reading this. 

Thank you for reading till the end. 

A Little Story – 2

This is in continuation with the Part 1. If you may like, you can read it.

Thank You.

Room number 29, the already too tired receptionist told them. My Aunts had managed to prepare some Besan Laddoos, both my parents were too fond of. They had carefully wrapped it in their shawl and the little blankets they had brought along with them. My Uncle adjusted his glasses, there, there it is.

My Uncle was a rugged man. He had long moustaches that sit on his fair face, making him a man of admiration. But he had a beauty far greater than his face could ever show. He was the eldest of all the brothers and sisters in the family and was more of a father to them than their elder brother. He grew up faster than his age. There were too many mouths to feed. Although my grandfather never said anything to him or to anybody about the high toll of work that was falling on him to keep the stomachs and aspirations of everyone full, my uncle thought he should do something to ease him. He had learnt a thing or two about selling things when he would visit his friend who had a flourishing business that ran in their family. He was inquisitive right from the day he could sense and would take interest in anything new that fell upon him. He had quickly made friends with his friend’s father who inspired him a lot. While kids of his age were buying things, he was busy selling them. With every passing day, he honed his skills to perfection, so much that Alok Ji his friend’s father called him a day when he was going back home.

“Son”, he said ” I have been noticing you selling those colored stones after school. You are pretty good at it.” 

“Yes Sir”,  my uncle said. ” I love selling things. They make me feel someone important. I provide whatever the time demands.” 

“Time? “ Alok ji’s curiosity was now centered around him.

” Sir, at the school, we have our geography lesson. There they teach about the various types of rocks that are found in our city. So I sell rocks when they teach about them. When it is too hot, I buy milk from the vendor next to the school. In it I add sugar which is cheap and also bright colors. The days when I am free I sell them for Rs 5 per pint. And when I am not free, I take the boy who comes to my house for cleaning and make him sell it. He doesn’t take money from me. I give him two or three pints of the sweet milk. Sir with this business I have managed to collect Rs 500 in a week.”

Alok ji was silent on hearing this. He asked, “Would you be interested in doing this at a bigger scale?” 

My uncle was calm, a reaction  unexpected of a boy of his age. He said, “when do we start?” 

He had found what he had to do. School never seemed something that would hold a person like him.

Education is like a drop of color in water. It doesn’t depend what the source was. It colors you anyway.

There was retaliation by my grandparents at first. He was locked in the room, beaten hard, given many things to just keep him away from this idea of his. But nothing worked. He sat down one day with my grandfather while he was on his chair reading the newspaper.

“Papaji”, he said. My grandfather has a habit, if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t say, but he would always listen.

“Selling things excites me to my very core. Everyday I wake up to devise new ways just to improve myself. I have worked so much on myself Papaji that if this goes in waste, then I would be of no use to you.” he finished and sat near his foot.

My grandfather stood up, went to his study and brought along with him a box that he used to keep his collection of his favourite songs. “I give you this box. You have a month. This box should be full by the end of this month or else you will do as I say.”

Then there was no turning back. My Uncle gave all his time and energy to setting up his work. He had realised while working with Alok ji that he needed to be his own boss, which Alok ji accepted with a smile. He helped him set up a business of his own. He worked day and night. His hard work paid off when he was able to buy a furniture manufacturing factory just outside the city.

Grandfather had cut the ribbon on the day of its inauguration. He had the widest smile that day, his chest had expanded by few inches.

All of them moved towards the room. They were silent now and slowly moving so as to cause as little noise as possible. My uncle reached the door and knocked. They went inside with the biggest smile on their face. Congratulations Suresh. You are now a father! They said and the whole family hugged each other. I laid in my mother’s arm and was asleep. My father took me from my mother’s arm and handed me to my Uncle. He was silent, didn’t speak a word.

He looked at me for sometime and then said, “We will call her Mudrika.” 

I was so filled with gratitude with the response I got on the first part. This is my try to write the next part. I hope all of you like this small piece of work. This type of writing is new to me and I am doing this for the first time.

Please do comment on how this part was, it will be my inspiration to write the next part.

Thank You!

A little story.

​My story is not unique, then why would you be interested in reading it. I won’t tell you this, because then what difference would it make in your life, in my life. To feel something, one needs to perceive it. And yes, I am here to help you perceive a story in which I am not in the lead role, but yes it’s still mine. 

The day was October 25th, the family was worried. The uncles and the aunts ran here and there, there was commotion in the entire house. Rarely it happened that the whole family became excited at a single moment. A series of phone calls were made, the kids were made to sleep, the old given a dose of tea to let them bear the obnoxious amount of energy the house had suddenly collected. 

Suddenly the phone rang and everyone left their work to listen to what the caller had to say. My uncle had received the call. As soon as he hung up, he was showered with questions. He didn’t answer anybody and went closer to my grandfather. He touched his feet and hugged him. 

Congratulations Papa, you are now a Grandfather and with it the whole house burst into laughter and started hugging each other. 

Come on everyone, we need to go to Suresh, he must need us, said my Uncle and took out the only car we had. 

Suresh is the name of my father. Born to a Clerk in the colorful city of Allahabad, he was among the three other sons and two sisters that had come before him. They all lived in the house, my grandfather could manage with his service to his office which did leave him with little time and energy for the family. But he was always there. He attended every function, every parent teacher meeting of his children so that none ever felt left out. Whatever he did, he never brought work to home, his policy was simple, Manage your Work so it doesn’t manage you. 

The car started with a little effort, it seemed as the cold wind had made it lazy. It did wake up from its sleep and so they started heading towards the hospital.  Everyone was smiling, their face glowing with beaming happiness. The females were too busy in deciding the things to do, the males quietly listening. The streets of Allahabad that day looked different. The usual people were not there as the Sun was still asleep. They reached the hospital and asked for Suresh.

Room number 29, the already too tired receptionist told them. My Aunts had managed to prepare some Besan Laddoos, both my parents were too fond of. They had carefully wrapped it in their shawl and the little blankets they had brought along with them. My Uncle adjusted his glasses, there, there it is. 

To be continued…. 

This will be a series of little stories that I will make according to the response I get from the previous one. 

Please do Comment if you want to see more of this. 

Thank you 

Have a great time. 

It feels right..

What is that that makes you look at me like that. She said. 

I don’t know. But it feels right. He said. ​

Trains..

I remember the school days when we were told the duration of our summer vacations. The excitement was so much we couldn’t wait to tell our parents that the vacations would start soon. With vacations came time when we would go away from the mundane or maybe stay at home doing nothing. Flights were for the affluent back then and none of us had ever seen an aircraft for real. One of those days my father came upto me and showed me a ticket to my cousins. I jumped like a spring and started shouting. We will go in the train! We will have this for lunch! Let me take out my red Bag! I would say and then used to start bugging my mother who would shoo me away as she had other works to do. Haha. 

Then the journey would come and we would leave the house, lock it, assured that it will take care of everything we leave in it. We will board the train and me and my brother would be hungry already. We always kept on asking our mother that we should have the lunch because that fragrance of Aloo-Puri would make the mice in our stomach punch us hard. My father came in to help my mother in this. He would point at something out the window which used to grab our attention for a lot longer. The tracks that laid along our train would make our imagination run wild. The first thing I ever imagined was what if a car runs on these tracks. Will it able to run? Or will it slip? ( I still do the same. Haha) Then we would wait for another train to go screeching past ours. We tried waving to the ones in the other train but they seemed to run so fast that most of the times our heads would go all round and round. With occasional questions from our parents when the train would start, we would be busy looking out the window. A slight jerk and the train would start. The sight of people and things going back would amaze me everytime I would see a train moving forward. I always used to pack in my bags the things I would do during my journey on a train. My father had always made it a habit to bring along with me a diary and a pen so that I could note down anything I wanted to remember later.

I was amazed by how a single engine would carry along with it the many bodies attached to it. I would feel sometime bad for the Engine as it had to carry my burden. But then, I was quickly diverted to a farm field going past the train. In the earlier days of my childhood we travelled mostly in the sleeper class of the Indian Railways and for those who don’t know, sleeper class doesn’t have a glass that covers the entire window.

It is open so that you can feel the air, the aroma of the surroundings and the sound the many things make when a train gushes past them. The best thing about these coaches was that whenever a train would take a curve, one could see the entire train. I used to kiss the rails on the window just to see how a train looks like when it is taking a curve.

Whenever a tunnel would come, me and my brother used to look at each other and all the other present. We would run that joke in our minds which told of a similar funny situation like this. My parents would guess what we were thinking. They would smile and look at us.

Whenever we travelled and we didn’t get a window seat, our hearts would be broken. We would look down our seats just to have a glimpse from which location the train is passing. Once a while a vendor would come carrying a bucket filled with all types of chips, cakes and chocolates. Me and brother would share a look. Then we again would continue the magical experience.

When you sleep in a train, you could hear the slipping of wheels on the rails, even when the train changes tracks. I had this wild imagination that if the train would derail, I would jump onto save my brother and parents, carry them in my arms(I used to watch Shaktimaan a lot) and would as well carry my red Bag. Haha. I would break open the roof of the train. I tried experimenting once or twice when I got the upper berth. But to my disappointment, it was very difficult.

Travelling by trains is an exhilarating experience. You get to know about the things you see mostly pictures of. The yellow fields bearing crops of mustard, cars waiting in line for you to cross, bridges built over mighty rivers, the smell of sugarcane being turned into jaggery, the many voices trying to sell you things on the journey, everything and many more. Trains offer an experience that is far more difficult to explain than any words can ever do. 

I prefer travelling by trains or by roads most of the times because they let me feel the air I am traveling in, something flights deprive you of. But then, everything has a role to play.

My journey would be incomplete without a train or a road because the coming of train onto a platform for you to board is the most satisfying thing I can ever imagine.

Trains bring out the common in me. They don’t distinguish between any because at the end of the journey we all are passengers… 

Do you prefer a journey by Train..?

Day and Night…

​Her hymns and fragrance lasted in his mind. 
As she lost all her form.
I am not as I was before. She said.
Do the day and night ever change. He said.

The new washing machine…

​”Gande kapde neeche phenk do.” Amma with high of her voice would order me to throw down the clothes that now need to be washed. She was regular, disciplined in her act so much that the days when she wouldn’t ask for my clothes,  I would check if the washing machine is working fine. Washing clothes was never so easy for Amma. I still remember the days when our first washing machine came to our house. It was my birthday and papa had given it as a gift to me. “What will I do with it?” I had said to him and he said,  “Use it.”

The washing machine was prepared for a war that it had to fight for all the weekdays. Its enemies trained in special bunkers to cause massive destruction to the image of washing machine. 

Every Sunday was the D-Day. Amma and papa would wake up early, taking out clothes from every nook and corner of the house. The school shirts, ties, socks, curtains, bedsheets. Nobody was spared. They all laid helplessly in huge piles. 

Amma used to wash clothes in batches. White clothes, colored clothes, discolored clothes and even the foot mats. 

                                          
We had that top loading washing machines in which you had do everything yourself. Filling up the water, putting in the detergent, twisting the neck of shirts. Everything but the wash which sometimes was not even visible. Amma separated those clothes. I will wash them when I will have a bath. She would say and continue her fight with the machine. 

Peeeee!,  the machine would sound,  telling Amma and all our neighbours that the first batch of washed clothes was ready. Amma would gradually take them out,  check if they are spotless,  wash them under a running tap over a bucket full of water,  completely immersed in that water, her clothes begging her to stop. But she wouldn’t. Until all the clothes were done with. 

We would quickly bring buckets to carry the done clothes to hang them to dry. Sometimes it happened that the rope broke under the pressure. But Amma wouldn’t. All those clothes she would wash again, without any word, without any complain. 

The drier of the washing machine had surrendered long ago, even before we knew what its use was. When we found out that it was to be used after washing the clothes, our wallets had become lighter in weight. “Who needs a drier when we can dry them in the sun. Natural light is the best.”  Amma would say and papa would bring two more buckets. “These two are done. How many still remain.”  He would ask. “Bas thode aur. Ap jaiye, main dal dungi.” she would say. “Accha” papa would say and go back to his Sunday news,  waiting patiently for the sound of machine. 

I remember those days when Amma would keep on washing the clothes, every Sunday of the year, no season skipped, no fever skipped. We never realised what Amma and Papa went through while using the machine until the day when we started washing them ourselves. 

It is said that great wars are fought over the grounds of a wish, a desire or maybe even an oath. The washing machine served us well. One Sunday it stopped working. We had taken them for granted. But now we could afford that shiny front loading washing they showed in the television. In which Bugs Bunny stuffed the hunter or Mr Bean who had a ride of lifetime. 

After careful consideration, we got it for us. 

The previous machine we had was very light. I could lift it up by myself. But this one was so heavy. I dared not to. The representative came the next day amidst all my excitement. I was alone at home that day. And I was so excited that I took him straight to the machine. And boy, he took so much time in unwrapping that beauty that stood in front of me. I and him, we two took out the machine and placed it where he directed. I watched him as he prepared the machine. That small pipe for inlet and that huge pipe for outlet. I was amazed seeing that artist perform Infront of me. He called me and explained me all the functions. “The clothes will come out dry.”  He said. I was shocked. ” Matlab we don’t have to do anything.” “Yes,  you don’t have to do anything,  except putting in the clothes and taking them out. ” he said and left. 
                                   

Amma came back from work and she could see the excitement on my face.” A gya machine vala. Chla di machine? ” she asked and I replied in affirmation. 

Papa came in evening.” Zra tika toh lga do ispe.” he said. 

And we had finally welcomed the machine in our family. 
Today, when I see Amma washing clothes in the machine,  I remember all those years of hardwork that she and papa did for us. We used to live in a rented 1 room flat, had nothing but the warmth of our relationship.  But now, when I look around, I see their hardwork has grown from a seed to a beautiful tree. “Tum Dono Bhai hi toh hum dono ki mehnat ho”,  they say whenever we all sit down together. 

Life is tough. Living through it is even tougher. But there is some kind of divine force that helps you guide through it. It doesn’t provide you with a bed of roses,  neither a bed of thorns. It keeps on giving you something or the another. It really falls on us to realise the potential of those things, those small little gestures, the fights, the celebrations.

After all, this life is all we got. 

Image source-Google. 

A dream….

Dear Miss yet to come,

Life is a puzzle we all are trying to find a solution. Everyday we wake up to something that we try to forget or something that we want to cherish. 

I woke up today while dreaming of a place set in woods, surrounded by the smell of nature, undisturbed, undisclosed, a secret kept hidden from the eyes of malice. It was cold and I remember the fire that you had lighted in that little fireplace we made together. It had now changed places. The Sun shone bright, spreading its rays indefinitely over the blue canvas. You were still sleeping. 

I took a cup of coffee from that kettle that I gifted you when I broke the one you had bought.(Sorry for that!) I held the cup and went out to see the nature wake up to the day. The river flowing made music with the fishes in its sheen, waiting for someone to applaud, the trees rustled each other into a hug, the birds clicked their beaks, the day had started for them. I went inside our little blue house (although I had to fight a lot for the color ;-)) Climbing the steps we painted together, I now recall how difficult it was for us to bring this into reality. The dress you didn’t buy, the journey we couldn’t sail, the match we missed. Don’t you think it is all part of that solution? We sacrificing everything for something that only we can see. This puzzle, this journey, this birth, all have been a myth that has carried many generations for many centuries onto a simple fact that everything is mortal. Immortal are the memories, the moments that we build together, the smiles, the cries, the fights, the days we didn’t talk. All, every, each. 

As I Reach the bed where you still are dreaming of me ( just kidding ;-)), I couldn’t resist but notice that little smile on your face. The same face that makes my day, that makes my home. 

You are home dear miss yet to come. Yes, you are. And if you are besides me, I am sure something beautiful will come out from this life, this puzzle….

Take your time Dear Miss yet to come. I am a true gamer and a true gamer never gives up. 😉 it will be fun looking for you. 🙂 

Waiting for you.

With lots of love,

Kumar Harsh 

Amma

We all want to thank our mothers for whatever she did for us. But we lack the will to do it. The following story is my way to thank my mother for whatever she did for me.

Cleaning the old store room of my house, I stumbled upon a box. It was the same box that had been an enigma for me since my childhood. The box belonged to my mother who never let anyone touch the box. Whenever I would ask what’s in the box, she would say “everything” and keep the box away. I sat down just staring at the old box that had lost its charm  because it no longer belonged to my mother. Even the box could not bear the separation from its lover, dilapidated, unkempt, unheard, unloved.  I heard a voice, it was similar, it was a voice that made me walk, made me talk, made me find my way in the dark. The voice was that of my mother, but she was far, away from the place, not near me, not visible. I could not open the box. I felt a tingling in my heart, some old records started playing, memories began unfurling, my ears vibrated telling me “don’t open the box”. I sat down on the floor, holding the box in my hands. Sometimes it is the small things that make  you realise that it is the small things that matter, bigger things come into picture when small combine. My mother always says that we are defined by what we do, how we behave with the not so fortunate, how we care for those we love, love is not something that exists between a couple, it is the need that makes you worry about the other person, ask for their health, do a chore for them, massage the tiring work away, call them, talk with them and most importantly listen to them. I started remembering the days when the only thing that mattered was the food that my mother made. How she would carefully dress every bite, wrap it in her filling that comprised every ingredient she could think of- care, affection, belongingness, sprinkle it with her foresightedness, open her mouth so that I could eat it and satisfy her hunger by the eyes that saw the bite entering my mouth, my teeth biting it and it going straight down my throat to my stomach. My father always commented on how she would open her mouth wide, wide enough to let someone peek inside her, to see what she felt, to hear what she never said. Everyday when I came back from the school she would be in the kitchen, preparing delicious meals for me and my brother. The aroma of the food would entice us the moment we would enter the realms where she reigned, the place we called home, where all of us would live, talk, fight, love, stay together. We would bang on the door and she would come sprinting and open the door for us. Dripping in the water that had condensed on her due to the excessive humidity of the abode of spices, she would take our bags and water bottles from us and in a voice that was exerted due to the exhilaration of the moment ask- “how was the day?” and there were we blabbering every thing that happened in the school- the new kid in the bus, the pencil that was lost, the sharpener that broke, the tiffin which the entire class ate, the teacher that spoke in a funny voice, the bird that sat on the desk, the cyclist that fell down. She would listen to our every nonsense and reply with a smile while helping us change. After we were finished talking she would ask- “what happened to your shirt?” and we would go numb, turn our face away from her, look down at our shoes and would say- “Amma what’s for lunch?”. Amma- that is what we used to call her. It was like she knew what happened with shirt, the way the world revolves, how people function, she would not scold us but in a calm voice would say- “you don’t need to fight with every person who starts to fight with you. Intelligent people ignore.” Her words had no relevance for us back then. We would hear it from one ear and let it pass through the other ear. But now I realise- her words were like the water that we give to a sapling, the water that gives it the strength to grow, to fight it’s way upto the top, to stand on its feet, that shapes it. After feeding us till she felt full, she used to escort us to our beds, make us lie down. I remember how when we were sleeping she would occasionally come to check on us. She would move her hands over my head. Her touch was special. It was not soft. Her hands scratched my head, left some marks on it. The delicious meals had carved their spaces on her fingers, her fingerprints disappeared in the tools that helped her prepare ecstacy, her body smell overshadowed by the fragrance of the divine flavours. Her hand was very special, she bore the brunts for the entire family, never complained, always smiled, never exhausted, always full of energy. I never saw her resting. In times when she was sick, we had to make her lie down. Love is not what we show, love is not what we feel, love is melting yourself to make someone better, adding yourself to them so that they grow by leaps and bounds. She always tried to mix with us, match with us in our so called technical know-how but we always ignored her. She never said a word, never changed her love for us, always stood by us. During the exams she would ask -” how are studies, do you need anything” and I don’t know which power she got, she could comprehend the exact same thing what I wanted. She could read faces, hear what I thought, feel the pain of my broken heart. There were times when I got sick. Amma would go anxious, she wanted me running, screaming, shouting. I could see her fighting my sickness with the will that was stronger than the strongest celestial force in the world, searching for the root, devising ways to kill the thing that had kept her little packet of joy on the bed. She would be excited when I was participating in something. Her face reflected how proud she felt when she saw me on stage, her hard work was successful, her kid a star in her eyes. She would clap like crazy and will look at me to make me comfortable on the atrium that was frightening me. Words are always not necessary , eyes speak what words may lack. Whenever I scored well, she would declare to everyone that her kid is the brightest. It was almost a dream come true for her. Amma is a religious person. She loves chatting with the one who lives in some place unknown, but is visible in everyone. Keeping fasts for everything was her way of ensuring that everything went in the same exact order. Anything new that was brought had to undergo a ritual of induction in the family. It was auspicious she said, it makes things last longer. Beliefs are something very dicey. You believe that Earth is round, but at the same time you believe  that the world is flat. Beliefs can drive people to do things impossible or can turn them incapable of doing the possible. Whatever happened she was the one who never broke, never let anything disturb her inner peace or never wanted to show her weaker side. She guided each one of us in the times of distress. Never made us lose hope. While remembering this I realised that i still had the box in my hand. I opened it. The contents of the box took away all the inhibitions I had. After a long time I was crying, crying like a baby, who cannot be consoled. My eyes rolled down tears that were mixed with emotions of respect and love for my mother. I wanted to hug her, wanted to kiss her. But she was not there. The box fell from my hands and everything was scattered on the floor. Everything she had said. Everything for her was everything that we ever did for her. All the birthday cards that we made for her, all the medals we won, all the pictures that were lost. There was stillness in the room, I was crying my heart out. Appearances are deceptive. They cover your inner feelings. After seeing what was everything, I couldn’t resist but ponder what was I doing. I was staying away from the only thing that brought me in this world. I immediately took my car out and started driving in the direction where Amma lived.

Worship..

She worshipped the stone at the temple. He was a mason. The stone satisfied them both. Hunger and faith.