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……..

Social Story….

The night had just started. Hi, a notification popped in her phone. Often it was her phone that would wake her from her sleep. Sleep that would elude her when she desired. The message seemed familiar, the ones she was usually frequented with, lurking behind the shadows of promiscuity and lust, she was aware of the pattern. Her hopes had died the day a message that turned into a wild drug, an addiction that usually pervades those in distress. Maybe I should ignore, she said to herself. But there was this deep curiosity inside her that took over her hands. She typed hello and with the cold response she was used to giving to people of all sorts, her reply ended. I was wondering if you could give me a suggestion on the ways to write a book. This time it felt genuine. But she did abstain from replying too soon. Maybe the years of neglect and being taken for granted had taught her, maybe it was something else. She tried to absolve herself in her daily chores, but the thought stick in her head. Just like song that you don’t know the lyrics of. You can have a look at these articles, she typed sharing along some that had helped her too. She was lost in the thoughts when she had begun her journey of penning down her thoughts. The adrenaline rush of a beautiful poem, the serenity of the mind, the calmness of the sea. It all hit her at once. The food in her stomach began to boil, an uneasiness crippled her body. Thank you. Her phone chimed again. It was him. I was really worried about how to begin. I’ll trouble you again. I hope that’s okay. The message read. Sure. She had typed. The night had started to cool down as the dark descended into oblivion. An emoji came from him. She saw the emoji. The one maybe she hadn’t seen before. She put the phone down, trying to concentrate on her work that had been keeping her sane for sometime now. For long she had been subjected to flattery as the world around her put her on a pedestal. The world, this slowly degenerating collection of thoughts and processes that had claimed her to be a little too open for their own amusement. A woman can do whatever she wants unless she stays in the mould that has been created for her since centuries. She must be timid, bashful, easily manipulated. Being born, married, birthing and then death. This was her life cycle. Appreciation was distant to her, acknowledgment unknown. Her thoughts had changed in her early years. Her best friends were her books. They would talk to her, help her sleep without the intent of nothing but to appreciate her. Not just the beauty of her face, the body which she possessed but the mind that had nurtured into an organic system of brilliant ideas. Since long, she had preferred
the veil of her screens than the merciless scorching eyes of the world. Done with her work, she lay down on her bed to sleep. But sleep had betrayed her even before the betrayal of many other kinds. The heart had stopped beating irregularly. Just the rhythmic cycle of her heart was that that kept her moving. Emotions had become a sour patch, nicotine that would mess with her mind. Be logical, she had told herself every time a situation came that would need her decision. This time wasn’t any different. She closed her eyes again and tried to sleep, listening to the melodies ancient. The dark had engulfed the night completely and maybe her too. The night had just begun…..

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!

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. 

Joy- are you a dog?

Not a single day passes when we don’t ask Joy if he’s a dog or not because of traits he displays similar to the human..

There is something enigmatic about how dogs (say hi to Joy) behave around objects so simple to the human eye. The clothes lying scrambled on the floor, the birds that seldom chirp and take away a part of their lunch, a knock on the door, the biscuit your hand holds. The way they run hearing something inaudible and yet trying to show us the thing that they have seen. Many articles, many interviews, even more movies had made an image of unconditional love of a dog in my mind. I had seen one in my uncle’s house and was amazed. I always wanted to pet a dog, was always fascinated by those TV ads that showed how a dog and its owner become a single soul. 

“Hutch wala kutta” was the thing my parents first said when I declared I wanted a dog. But like other things, deep research went into finding Joy. We zeroed into Labrador and it was decided Joy will be our new family member. Of course, joy has become a family member more quickly than anyone of us could ever imagine. The way everyday he barges into my parents room and whenever he finds it locked, he instructs one of us to open the door. Joy came to us on a hot summer day of August. My father and brother had already seen joy and were busy playing with him. I was told to go and meet him. But I waited. Not because I feared the little pup. But the selfishness of enjoying that feeling when we meet someone for the first time, all by myself relucted me. They were done playing with him. That’s when I went to see him. He was drinking milk from a saucer in which Amma used to serve the guests.” Haha, Amma itna royal treatment.” I commented. Joy had finished drinking milk. I now saw what 26 days of coming to life meant. His eyes were closed and he moved around smelling things. He came around my foot, smelled my slippers, put his tiny head in that slipper and went to sleep. We all started laughing seeing what just had happened.

In the night, joy came and slept around my parents bed. He sleeps where they sleep. And while he sleeps, he dreams. In dreams, he runs, tries to shoo away something we all try to gauge seeing his movements while he sleeps.

I don’t have many pictures of joy because he is a bad poser. Every time you ask him to pose, he will run away. And it could be that whenever I see him, I just play with him leaving beside everything( have been scolded million times for this).

Joy has been the biggest listener to me. He knows about all my secrets, all my misadventures, what I do when no one is around. Many a times I got angry at him, many a times he got angry at me. But everyday just at 8 in the evening, he comes wagging his tail, with sparkling eyes commands me to take him out. I have seen all his shades. The sleepy one, the excited one, the sad one, the angry one, the one where Amma begs him to eat his food, the one where Papa scolds him when he lies aimlessly in the middle of his way, when we say Joy “biscuit”.All, but still joy is an enigma. 

This 23rd of July Joy will be 5 years old. 5 years have passed in a blink! His beard has turned white. Today Amma commented when she was going away for some work. ” Amitabh Bacchan jaisi dhadhi Uga Rakhi hai. Kaise kam chalega.” I laughed and joy acknowledged.

I sometimes imagine what life would be after joy because his voice has become addictive. Just like the anger of papa, the bells Amma rings everyday when she prays, my brother calling me “bhaiya”. It would be heartbreaking for all of us, we all know deep down and we don’t discuss it. We don’t fear losing Joy. Because Joy will be always with us. Joy causes us Joy.

I remember Amma had named him Joy…

I now see…… Why

I picked up the pen


Comfortably it had stayed there for a long time,  searching for an excuse to be made a free soul,  a free maker of its own destiny,  to cover canvases of imagination,  to erode misconceptions of the many,  to say things unsaid,  to just play. 
My hands were shaking,  a deep sensation ran down the very nerves that drove these hands,  this body, this mind.  How shall I? What should I write? Were some of the questions that bombarded my peace of mind.
I picked up the pen,  adjusted the glasses which had seen the many,  unseen the many and wrote-

Ma’am,  I need 16 marks to qualify.  I will study seriously the next semester.

I did it.


The story of most of us engineers. I hope you enjoyed. 😀

Do comment. 

The structures we call home 

Reposting a story I wrote sometime back…
Walking through the park that came on my way to home, I saw a nest that had fallen from a tree. There were two beautiful eggs in it, still intact. The nest had played it’s role. It protected the ones for whom it was created. The mother of the eggs was sitting there on the tree, crying helplessly because she had a premonition of what all might happen to the pieces of her.  I couldn’t resist myself, lifted the nest and climbed on the tree from which they had fallen. I carefully placed it on the branch that I thought to be the strongest and most sturdiest one. The bird was relieved- help came to her in an almost unexpected shape, size and form. I climbed down the tree. The bird was now happy in her nest. Suddenly, another bird came flying and perched on the same branch where the nest was now resting. Both the birds were now in a conversation. It seemed as if they were telling each other what had happened. Language looses its relevance as a mode of communication when there is grief or sadness, happiness or joy. Seeing them content I moved on. I reached my apartment, put the keys in the small container by the door and started to change into something more appealing to my body than what appealed to others. I checked my phone for any messages. Normally there would be messages from friends who wanted to meet or there would be messages that nobody listens to-advertisements, Insurance, assurances etc and etc. There was one message that captured my attention. It was from my dad. ” Hi Son, how are you? Our anniversary is this month. We were thinking of organising a get together. Your mother has asked if you could come?” A chill ran down my spine. Had I become so absolved in myself that the two most important people had become so distant from me. I looked at the time of the message. It had arrived early morning and my clock reminded me that they must have slept. I quickly grabbed a calender and searched for the date when my parents became my mother and father. There was so less time! I called my brother who had received a similar message. We decided on meeting as soon as possible. Tickets were booked, bags packed and I was there in the queue waiting for my entry into the plane. As I entered the plane, my mind was replaying all the memories. I sat on my seat and was waiting for the plane to take off. The seats next to me were empty. As the occupants started occupying seats, I came to know who were to be my partners for the entire journey. They were a newly married couple. They were too shy to talk to one another. When the husband saw me already sitting he took the seat next to me and asked his wife to sit at the corner. The wife was heavily dressed and was holding all the jewellery just like a kid who has been given a large scoop of ice cream. He does not want It to spill, does not want it to fall so he is busy balancing all those load. The ice cream is the most precious thing for him. Both of them were excited and nervous. It seemed that they were in a flight for the first time or they were traveling together for the first time. They were rarely looking at one another, but they did ensure that both of them were comfortable. 

The air hostess came at the front and started the demonstration. The wife couldn’t find the seat belt. The husband when saw this, quickly searched for the seat belt. He found it. His this achievement made him full of confidence, he had shown his wife that he was useful. His wife did acknowledge this by the smile she gave looking down at her feet. While the air hostess was busy explaining the routes for exit if the plane went unruly, my mind took me to a story of my father and mother when they first went on their trip together. “We were married for some time. Back then I used to earn less you know. But I did earn much to feed you mother full.” he used to tell us when we all would come together. He would continue ” 

One day my father said to me, son you have not taken your wife out for sometime. I command you to take her somewhere except this town.”. “So papa where did you take her?” we would ask in curiosity. ” Son you know travelling was so difficult back then. There were no luxuries that we have today and I earned enough to get ourselves an ordinary ticket. But your mother never complained.” Whenever he was telling us this story I could see his eyes sparkle, his voice with an added level of loudness and pitch and his hands adding to the enthusiasm and pride that got inside him. I was brought to the present by the speeding aircraft that was running to fly. I looked at the couple. They had closed their eyes. The wife had held onto her husband’s hand. The husband had gripped her hard. He was abiding by the promise he made to her. “I will always love you. I will always look after you. I will always wipe your tears. You are my queen and I am your king.” my father would tell my mother only to make her shy away in a smile. The plane was in the air. Both of them opened their eyes and quickly shrugged off their hands. Both of them had turned red. Their cheeks covered in the gushing blood that was flowing because of the paced heart beats. The flight was long so I thought of getting to know my partners. They were from a small town and were married a couple of days back. It was their first trip together to a new place. I quickly made friends with them and Told them the purpose of my journey. They were happy to know what I was doing and wished me luck. The end of the journey was closing in. 

I prepared myself to meet my parents. The wife of the husband next to me was still sleeping. The wife had put her head on her husband’s shoulder, the husband did not move. He was freezed in that position, wanted to provide his wife with a place to lie her head. He occasionally looked at her wife. There was this one streak of hair that was disturbing her. He was too shy to touch her but was angry at the streak because it disturbed the most important person to him that very moment. After a while when he couldn’t resist he took the streak and put it behind her ear. He was happy that he could comfort her. The pilot announced that the flight would be landing soon. Everybody started preparing themselves for the landing. I looked outside the window. The land where I was born was welcoming me, another flashback struck me. “Son, you know what all your mother has achieved, she did it when she got married to me. She did her further studies when you were still a baby. She would daily care for you, feed you, make you sleep, took care of the needs of the family and still god knows how she got the time to study. I remember I would stand outside the examination hall holding you when your mother gave her exams. When you would wake up, she would come outside, make you sleep again and then continue her exams. Your mother has done lot for us. Never ever disrespect her.” he would say. There was numbness in my feet. I couldn’t feel the ground beneath. After all those years of struggle and hard work, after all those years of sleepless nights, my parents never asked for anything. I remember my mother scolding my father for every thing that was not needed. My father would always reply to this, ” Let me fulfill their every wish. I couldn’t do it back then.” We did not realise this before, but now when I look at those times, my father gave us a life of a prince. The plane landed and the pilot welcomed us to the city- the same city where I was born, the same city where I learned to walk, the same city where I got my first medal. After the flight, I had to take a flight of stairs down to the ground. The air knew me, the ground welcomed me. I took my bags, bid adieu to the couple and took a cab to the house. As the driver drove, I could see the streets that had changed to let new birds set up their nests. They had widened, the chairs outside were now in an air conditioned environment, the food cooking outside was now covered in a veil of “class”. I remember my father and I used to go on a walk everyday in the morning. We would discuss everything except studies and I always used to get that smoking hot delicacy from around the street. ” You make this so delicious.” I would always tell the man who was busy attending his long queue of customers. ” I am glad you like it.” he would tell. That street corner was now taken by a well renowned saloon. “Development is always necessary. You develop the older so that It continues to Spell magic. We can always throw away an old thing. But new does come at a cost.” My father would always say whenever we asked him to throw away his used clothes, to get rid of old books, to get rid of the ancient. ” I have memories preserved in every thing that you see here. Your books, your clothes, your drawings. How can I throw them away? They help me remember how we became what we are today. One day I too will get old. Then what will you do?” he would say. His every word struck me like a drop of water that falls in a silent night. Every drop that falls, it touches your heart, refreshes you, gives you something to think. Continuous, perpetual, periodic, rhythmic. Everything he ever spoke was to help us in the future. 

The cab stopped at my house. It was still standing their magnificently just to tell the world that it is always there to protect the ones that live  inside. I paid the driver and thanked him for the ride. I took my bags and rang the bell. I was waiting there and suddenly I saw my school bus passing through. It stopped when I lived there. I never was ready on time and both my parents would take me as it is And drop me to the bus. I always wore my shoes in the bus. Separation from them was never acceptable to me. When I would come back my mother would be Standing there to receive me. She did not let me touch the ground. I was the son in her arms. And today I was standing there at the same house. The house that shielded us when everything was against us. My mother came out to see who had come. I could see big tears rolling down her cheeks. I ran to hug her and she burst into tears. ” Ma don’t cry. See I am back.” I tried to console her. She didn’t say a thing and took me inside holding my hand firmly. She didn’t want me to leave her again. As i entered the home, my every memory also entered alongwith. ” Don’t run in the corridor. If you get hurt get ready for more thrashing.” my father would always scold us when me and my brother would run after each other to tear each other apart. Many a times we fell, many a times we got hurt but my father never thrashed us. He was always there with his first aid kit that comprised everything iodine, sweets, bandages- both for the pain and the heart. He was always there for us standing rock solid but with a heart that melted only for us. I noticed my mother’s hand. Her grip had weakened. She was trying to hold onto her tears. ” Ma I am not going anywhere.” I assured her. At the end of the corridor, my father was sitting on the same chair he used to sit whenever he got time for himself. He would switch on the television. ” What hypocrisy is this? They are good for nothing. Let me come at their position. I can do wonders.” he would tell everybody in the room. He was there sitting, the television was not turned on. He had slept on the chair, his glasses still on his eyes and the cup of tea right besides him. My mother went closer to him and woke him. He jumped on his seat, adjusted his glasses and then saw me. ” welcome back son.” He stood up and came closer to me. He hugged me. He had shrinked in size. My father’s shoulder were the highest peaks for me. They may not be the highest now. But they still are the strongest. He was very happy. ” I am very happy today. I shall have a big bowl of sweets today.” he exclaimed. I sat there with him while my mother went inside to call my brother and bring something for me. My father went along with her to help her. I sat there and looked at the walls where I was brought up. ” Son, our house is small. It was very difficult to get here. I used to earn less. Everyday I walked kilometres to save money. I don’t know how many times I and your mother slept without food. All we ensured was you were fed fully. Your mother has burned her hands over stove, got electric shocks from heaters, fell many a times in unconsciousness. But son we never gave up. Every time we did something it was you and your brother who were in our minds. Although the house is small, but it is all that we could do. I remember when I came here, there was not even a single house. There were farms all over. When I looked at this land, I knew this is the place where my house would be built. Son, we have toiled hard to make what you see today.” he always told us this whenever we talked about him shifting with me or my brother. What is a house I thought? Initially it is just a piece of land. A piece that could have been anything- a farm, a school or may be even a temple. What makes a building a house. Is it just the bricks and the mortar that helps stand it or something more stronger? Why is that people get attached to things? A building cannot be living. I said to myself. My whole family was now in the same room. I met everybody, ate the delicious cookies my mother made and went to my room to change. ” It’s the same as you left it Son.” my mother told me. I went to my room. It was the same. The cupboard had that blue texture covering and on it my examination schedule was still stuck. There was a small note on it. “All the best Son.” I kept on watching it for long. My table was well organised. Although it was never when I studied on it. All my pens were still there. I opened the drawer and found my slam book that was filled by my friends. I sat on my bed. It felt familiar. I kept on reading the book. I fell asleep. I don’t know whether it was the tiredness of the journey or the bed that made me feel at home. When I woke up I saw my shoes had been untied and I was covered in a blanket. ” Don’t sleep here son. Okay let me take you to your bed.” my father would lift me everytime I slept on the couch and make me sleep on my bed. Whenever he would leave he would move is hands over my head, just to make him sure that I was sleeping fine. I opened my cupboard and found my old school dress hanging meticulously there on the hanger. It was like my parents wanted to preserve everything. Everything that did not mean anything to us. They were busy collecting everything that we had left back. Everything that did not fit us. Everything that was old. I took out my clothes from my bag and changed. I went to meet them. A party had to be planned! We deliberated on every thing and then decisions were made, caterers contacted and guests were invited. I saw how my parents fought over many things and how they consented on one thing. The day of the party came. Guest arrived and me and my brother received them all. We took care of all the arrangements. My parents were sitting on the atrium. They were happy to see everyone smiling and enjoying. The party came to an end and we took off for our home. We entered the house and my father narrated the incident when they arrived first time in this house. ” You know kids. When this house was completed, I asked your mother what was the things she wanted inside. You know what she said. I want you all.” We entered the house. That night we had a talk like never before. We slept while talking. The next day both of us had to leave for our work. My mother was crying hard to see us leave. She did not want us to go. But my father gathered herself together. We left with tears in our eyes. I took a flight back to my city. As i was being driven to my apartment, a thought came to my mind. What is House? A structure that is built on a land with bricks and mortar. There is use of steel for reinforcement, wood for doors, paint for finishing. Is it just the materials that make a house or much more. A house is more than a structure. It is the conglomeration of the various aspirations and desires that a man tries to fulfill, nurture over time and try to create it in reality. My mother and father always wanted to build a home where we could always stay together. They bonded the house with their love and affection, nurtured it with their foresightedness, reinforced it with their understanding and brought it into a reality with their hardwork and the respect that they had for one another. Although they fought many a times, got angry over things irrelevant, but at the end they always saw the bigger picture and helped each other grow together. Today when I see them, my respect for them grows by leaps and bounds. They created a Home from a house, they created us, they made us what we are today. As i reached my apartment I was filled with amazement how they pulled this off together. I was standing at my apartment. I opened the door and as I entered I heard some motion. I got alerted and took in my hands a bat that was lying there. I started to move towards the source of the sound like a lion approaching his prey. I saw that a window had broken due to the storm. The storm had caused something delightful. At the window of my apartment I saw something very beautiful. A pair of birds had made it their home.

Image is my first try at drawing. 🙂 


Dear Miss yet to come,
How are you Miss yet to come? I have been looking for you for sometime now. Yesterday I was walking through the park where sometimes I find really strange but yet too jovial things happening. A kid was learning to ride his bicycle there. I sat down on the same bench where sometimes the little squirrel that lives on the red tree comes down to chew on some munchies. I saw how carefully the father put down his son’s new bicycle. It was a red shining hotride customised only for him, that’s what the kid thought. I could see his face, filled with the emotion of happiness combined with the inhibition of trying the new adventure. He was all ready to ride it. But his father, a little too careful wanted him to wait. “See son you can ride it once I check it.” He said and got busy tweaking the bicycle. The boy noticed every gesture his father made. The movement of the screwdriver, the little red can of oil, the way his father looked at his bicycle. ” When can I ride it?” Curiously he would ask and everytime his father would say just a minute. It was just like preparing for war. Fathers never let their kids enter a war unprepared. I told myself. He checked the protection gear on his son. “Ride my boy.” He exclaimed with joy and a tinge of scepticism. The boy got on the bicycle, ready to ride he asked his father,” what should I do?”. ” Put your legs on the pedal and there you go my lad” he smiled. The kid injected with a desire to ride and a hope to fly, Pushed the pedal. “I am with you son” said the father as he carefully pushed his son into a new Kingdom. It happens frequently. Don’t you think Miss? We are seldom pushed into something we don’t want to venture into and then something magical happens. The earlier feared arena becomes a piece of cake, a walk of lifetime and then we realise it was nothing but our mind that stopped the heart from beating emotionally, not just functionally. The father let go off the bicycle and the kid was now a master of his beast! “Dad, I can ride a bicycle”. His face had grown like the sun which had nothing to fear for, no one to beat, nothing to hide. The kid fell on the next turn. His father came running to him. “See, now you know what it feels like to ride in the wind. You have to keep your feet down my Son.” 

The winds were becoming colder as the day had started to sink into the sheets of the calm. The two took off for their home. “We will try harder tomorrow” the father had said. 

I sat down there for some more time after they left. A strange fragrance had captured my attention. The same fragrance that poets reverb about, the fragrance we all seek in times of apocalypse. I let myself absorb that fragrance. Intricate cannot be seen, delicate can’t be heard. I had started to feel the cold, my body had started to accept the stillness, it was ready to disintegrate. The best thing about experiences like these is that they are new. One cannot just make them happen. They just flow. I left myself in that state, hoping to a achieve something. 

I opened my eyes when a stroke of wind had carefully feathered my forehead. I was now someone I didn’t knew. 

I found the kid who was lost in the mundane routine, the father who was crushed by the gigantic boulders of work and most importantly the wind who had lost its ability to fly, to change, to breathe, to listen, to smell and to see. 

This park made  a way for me  Miss. I am glad I stayed. 

This winter I hope that winds gets a little colder, the sun a little warmer, the flowers a little merrier and the us a little more closer.

Hoping that you experience something magical like this.
Waiting for you,
With lots of love,

Kumar Harsh 


Beautiful was the word they said,
You were there all afraid,
I could see your eyes down with regret,
You had chased away a glorious dream,
Indulged in the thoughts damm so mean,
Jumped, drove and then a stumble,
Beautiful was the word they said,
You were there all afraid,
Your hands had a tremble far too seam,
You are my girl was the only synth,
You fought, you loved, had a scream,
But still it was them who won,
Wars and guns grow a crown,
Beautiful was the word they said,
You were there all afraid,
Ripped off your soul, standing all alone,
You skipped even a beat,
Justice should be served,
Bring the man who did it all,
Arms of justice were busy,
Carrying the man who was all hazy,
A wave of energy had struck,
Justice should be served,
The man was taken on a pedestal far too high,
Birds flew with a griny brigh,
The man had lifted her eyes,
A dream was about to die,
The crowd cheered, took a stone,
See there’s a bird who flew too high,
Justice should be served, 
Was their only cry,
The Sun came above the sky,
The man was shinning like a golden cry,
A scene she couldn’t have seen,
She closed her eyes, 
With hands that were his,
The pedestal was now empty,
The bird was now free,
Justice is served they said,
No birds should fly so high,
Wars and guns are forces of men,
The dreams that die a death of flight,
All the love that is lost in the democracies of might,
Preposterous it may seem,
The sky is so high,
The chains that bind every child,
The ideas that revolutionise,
Is there something wrong with being a wave,
A bird had flown far too high,
Shot down by a golden arrow,
Two dreams were buried that day,
Justice should be served,
They had all declared.

A letter to me…

Dear Harsh,
We live in a world that is heavily shaped by what others think of you. There are times when the thought of being you just skips your mind because what others may think of you becomes prominent- that is what we have been told for almost all our life. Climb down the bench, don’t talk too loud, behave, don’t run, don’t touch, don’t understand, just obey. We have been subject to conditions that could have brought the best in us but Alas, we were shaped by what society might would have thought about us. I have been thinking about you a lot lately. You have been a good son till now, followed everything which was laid upon you, never broke any rules, was always helpful and could never lie. Your heart always overpowered your mind where there were some major decisions to be taken. You never intended any wrong to befall on your loved ones because they were the ones that resided in your heart, they were the ones that helped mend it when it was broken, gave it shots of adrenaline when it was almost dead. You never ever thought what your present action will do because you never thought from your mind. This did not affect many as your major decisions until now included mostly that involved you the major part and somebody or a group of some bodies as a minor or even an insignificant part. But from what I have seen in the past few watches, your decisions have started to affect many and the most affected is you. I am observing you and I don’t find you in a very functional state just because of the one decision that has made some people erase you from their life. I know this is painful because these people were your closest accomplice in some very good times. Grieving for them has become an order of the day for you. Everyday you become older than what you probably are just because you keep on thinking about them. I am not saying that this should not be done. But look at yourself buddy. You have lost all your happiness and joy that once you spread across everyone you met. You are not even justifying your own name- Harsh that means happiness. I just have to say this to you- you are everything that the universe is made up of. You have a body, a soul, a purpose and most importantly an aim in life. You have tried your best to maintain the relations that you wanted to maintain. Buddy, you look tired to me. I request you to please stop. You are just letting yourself go in this process that has snatched you from all the happiness and has made you a walking corpse. I can very well understand how difficult it is for you to let go because you find happiness in smallest things. A bubble of water can excite you, a bird bathing in a pool of mud can entice you, a baby laughing can mesmerize you. I know you will never forget those people because they will always remain special to you. You have grown in their company. But buddy you will have to learn to let go or else you will lose yourself. 
I will always be here. I will always help you when you need me. Just listen to me because I am you.

Your best friend, 
Kumar Harsh