THE BALLOONWALLA

The mad rush in those haath bazaars. The aroma of freshly brewed chai mixed with the pungent waft of fresh spices. The colorful woolen shawls neatly decorated in Ratan chacha’s little shop. The green parrot shouting Namaste from the cage of an astrologer who predicted doom for almost everybody. This is the Shimla my memory carries till date. The city where I met Karim Chacha.

Karim Chacha!The famous balloonwaala. Blue, red, green, yellow, white. He had every color in his balloon bouquet. Rs 2 for one balloon. In those days Rs 2 could buy a child a smile. But Karim Chacha wasn’t as famous for his balloons as he was for the stories he brought with him everyday. At around 6.30 pm as the sun began to set in the hills, Karim Chacha opened his jukebox of stories. Stories about fairies, demons, witches, kings, princesses, magicians and happy endings. The story sessions lasted for an hour. In that one hour every child in the neighbourhood opened his/her mouth or dropped his/her jaw in amazement or amusement a thousand times. That one hour was full of joy and anticipation, but as the story neared an end, which was always happy, the faces around Karim Chacha turned sad. The day’s story was over. Another 24 hours had to pass before the next began.

One day I asked Karim Chacha about the stories and his love for them. He replied with a smile ‘Aree, My kid forces me to tell him stories each day. So all I do is repeat the stories I tell him when I come to the market.’ I looked at Karim Chacha in awe. He was over fifty and was talking about his kid when he should be talking about his grandkid. Probably a late marriage or the third or fourth in row I figured out. Whatever it was, the neighbourhood kids were lucky that Karim Chacha’s had such a stubborn kid.

The months progressed and then came Eid. It was the last month of my stay in Shimla and I happened to tell this to Karim Chacha. In return he invited me home for an Eid dawaat(dinner). I went with flowers and a little wooden doll. Neatly wrapped in decorative paper. Karim Chacha and his old wife welcomed me in. And invited me to the inner side of the courtyard where dinner was served. I wouldn’t say the dinner was fit for a king, but then too it had a homely touch I was longing for since long.

Finally as I was leaving I asked Karim Chacha about his famous kid, the one whom the kids of our neighbourhood needed to thank. He smiled and directed me inside the house. And that’s where I met the kid.

Seated with his hand dangling towards one side of the chair, in a white kurta and a croquette cap, he hardly looked like a kid, with his moustache and light beard. Almost 24 I figured out. Karim Chacha slowly went close to him, raised his face. The man on the chair blinked his eye. Karim Chacha waved a refusal. He blinked twice. Once again came the refusal. Finally there were a shower of blinks after which Karim Chacha sat and started his story. The story lasted for 30 minutes after which the man on the chair smiled. Karim Chacha kissed his forehead and wiped his own glistened eye.

I walked out of his house that day. Carrying in me the picture of a balloonwaala who was also a storyteller and now the father, a kid who was a man with a paralysed body and adamant not by words, but by blinks, a city where I saw finally and truly, what we all boast about- Unconditional Love.

FAR TOO NEAR

How far could you go?

To erase the lines of destiny,

To delete the first two letters of the word Impossible,

To change the ways the next 24 hours would bend.R

Really, how far could you go?

Aware deep in your heart that,

Time will always defeat you by just half a step.

With the knowledge of a likely loss,

Struggle to try a win.

With faulty shaky legs,

Strive to walk straight on a thin rope dangling in air.

Really, how far could you go?

To put an end to the possibilities of impossible,

And finally finish the limits of limit.

To be that boundless wave with no fixed rhythm,

And the seconds hand of a clock leading time itself.

Really, how far could you go?

To believe this illusion,

To dream an unstretchable dream,

To put yourself above all, even God sometimes.

But then…think about all of this…

Close your eyes and perform the act,

An act where you alone will be a performer and spectator,

Smile as you see yourself the winning warrior,

Yes…you have gone far enough.

Yes…yes…yes...far enough to get closest to you.

I AM

I am not a healer
But I can erase pain
I am not a builder
But I can create a home
I am not a tailor
But I can mend a broken heart
I am not a judge
But I can evaluate the right from the wrong
I am not a magician
But I can enchant tears with smiles
I am not Cupid
But I can make two hearts meet
I am not God
But I can promise trust and fulfill.
But then, I am, yes I am,
Certainly Human

SHE FLIES...

As the wind blows
A leaf breathes a dream
A dream to fly sky high
And take a dip in the stream.

A dream where it reaches a faraway land
And meets the red oak tree
A dream where it rides on a dancing cloud
And brushes through the sun kissed sand

A dream where it will fly
And go for a long day’s ride
Little does it know that the lightening will attack
To make it fall and finally die.

There will be hands to pick it and tear
There will be the thorns that cut they don’t care
There will be pain that she will endure
But the leaf says I will fly, I will for sure.

There will be bad and good and bad
There will be shocks & betrayal to make her sad.
But the leaf is pure and she doesn’t care
She knows her destiny will take her there.

Away from the fears of dust and storm
There is a land where happiness is born
Away she flies to that much awaited land
Where the leaf will smile and rest in his caring hand.

THAT EXTRA BIT...

Since last few days I had been laboring my grey cells time and again over one problem. It so happened that my boss (he is the best boss in the world) pointed out to me that that the difference between success and mediocre is the difference between a job and a career. He has this habit of saying things straight to the point. Well, he just did that. I walked out of his cabin that day a bit confused and unable to understand what exactly the hidden message was?

The days passed and I quite forgot about the conversation we had. There were of course more important things to do in my list. Like reminding the channel’s viewers that Counting day was close and my channel would be providing the best coverage, wondering about the next safest way to lose weight, learning a new international recipe, bitching about some people non stop and the list can go on. Random activities without any sheer goal, except the first one. Work is important and yes I was slogging hard. Then why had that line come to me from this man who was my icon today? I wondered, I pondered, and finally I forgot.

Today- the 8.40 am Churchgate local. My vehicle to work, my very active gym (thanks to the squeeze, in spite of the fact that I am a first class traveler), my one stop where I get to hear and learn all the Philmi ghaati gaalis and of course the hub of stories, real stories.
As the train passed Mahim junction, I began to get bored. Bored and tired of the scorching heat, the same old songs, the same faces, the same book cover (well, I haven’t read the book yet), even the same snap on my cell, although its just two days old. Suddenly out of the blue as I was looking for something interesting I saw a strange sight. There was a mother with her 8 year old daughter. Blind daughter. Then the following events occurred, one after the other.

The mother neatly unfolded a paper bag. Inside lay what we call Kanda bhajiyaas (Onion dumplings for the firangs). As her little daughter sat there, speechless, unaffected the mother slowly brought the bhajiyaas close to her mouth. The daughter tasted and gave a big smile. This was an approval and want for more. Her mother fed her the entire piece. Then what followed had the awe element. The mother cut the bhajiyaa into two and very carefully brought out the ingredients one by one to explain what flavor, smell, taste each provided by putting each next to her daughter’s nose and then in her mouth, one by one. Now the little blind girl finally knew what each ingredient was and identified them by their smell, even if she couldn’t see them. It would certainly help her someday, her mother knew. So she tried a bit extra hard to train her better for that day.

The train suddenly halted at Lower Parel and I realized that I had to get up to leave. I picked my bag, wore my scarf (to avoid the heat) and moved towards the door. As I was leaving I gave the mother daughter duo one final look. Both looked happy, one because she was trying one step up to teach, the other because she was trying one step up to learn.

I came to office and switched on my computer and thought about the entire episode once again. And finally I realize, it’s not about how much we do, but about how we run that extra length, make that extra effort. Maybe that’s what my boss meant that day when he spoke about the difference between success and mediocre.

Who else could teach me such a wonderful, important lesson of life better…than a mother?

WE CAN ONLY BE...

We live together…We shall die together…And its ok if we are not Lovers!!!
Those words rang in her ears once again.
They were together. Through their toddler days and finally the graduation years. Hinting the possibility of a secret relationship to the world and then quietly laughing about this trick they played. Friends, truly, sincerely- Just friends!
A day came when they were walking through a not so well lit road and she was about to get hit by a car when he just pulled her back and saved her. It looked more like a super hero on a rescue mission to save the heroine…but then he was always like that. She was convinced about it and happy in his shelter. Knowing fully well that love was taking place of friendship in his heart. But then, it was unsaid and lay untouched. But that particular day after saving her and taking relief that she was in one piece, without any wounds he gave her a moist eyed look and said- You know what… ‘We live together’. She didn’t know what to say in that tense, intense moment. So all she muttered was- ‘We shall die together.’ He looked deeper into her eyes and then finally gave a blank stare a wink and an unexpected reply- ‘Hey! And it’s ok if we are not lovers!’
She ran home. Angry, annoyed, confused, sad. Unable to understand why was it like that. The next 24 hours went brooding about that one single moment. Then finally she gave up and accepted that her first love story, if at all it was, had succumbed to time. And this was it.
They didn’t meet for many days after that. She saw him but hid away, though continued to look at him through the corner of her eyes, struggling to control the flutter in her heart that his presence still caused. From friendship…to almost love…to nowhere.
The next year brought wedding bells along. She looked like the princess of the world in her red outfit. The rites done, the blessings taken, her groom by her side, as she walked towards her car, there was a pat at her shoulder.
He stood there. Dressed in classic black, with a bouquet in his hand. Yes, he looked better than most in that room.
He said- ‘Hey beautiful! You will always be happy. I know that now. Do tell me if you need something.’
She unaffected by the people around returned saying- ‘You should know about what I want. Remember, we lived together.’ To that he reacted with a smile and words she knew well with an added question mark- ‘We shall die together?’ The satire in the way he said it made her laugh and reply- ‘Ya...and its ok…we are not lovers.’
Years passed. They weren’t living together anymore. Responsibilities pushed way into life and she forgot those words. Only one day when she was sending her daughter to school she heard about a badly injured major serving the Indian Army, lying dead in the hospital.
She recognized the name. The photograph. There was no one to claim his body. He didn’t have a family. Just a few belongings. He was a great soldier they said. Fighting till the last minute. The true hero Well, she knew, he always was one.
They didn’t find too many belongings. Just a diary. With his work schedules drawn. His rules written. His important things listed. His goals carved. Nothing of any importance to her. Except the last page where he had scribbled in red-
We hardly lived together
I know we won’t die together
Still…we are, we can only be Lovers!!!

WHY I DO???WHATEVER I DO.

I write because…it’s my bread and butter.
I sing so that…unwanted crowd stays away from me.
I analyze because…I like boasting about being the calculative kind.
I praise others because…I care for the flattering acts in return.
I smile often because…I don’t make sense of anything that my fellow speaker is trying to explain.
I reject a dress often because…I know I need to lose some pounds before I flaunt it.
I stay tight lipped because…I too do lose out on words.
I get angry because…I need some more pampering.
I nod with a smile at office because…in advertising the client is God and I cannot afford to tell him ‘Get yourself checked if you do not like that IDEA!!!’
I often don’t take calls because… You didn’t take my call a day back…and I want you to know how it feels.
I like shopping because…I go for it only after a drastic weight loss and the thought of getting easily into that halter dress without any pain, gives me the ultimate ego boost.
I still sometimes read Enid Blyton because …it’s easy and nice to think that the bad tempered doll finally learnt a lesson when the green eyed goblin punished her. The idea of Bad meets bad lifts your spirits somehow.
I call a girl a B-I-T-C-H because…she purely deserves to be called by that name.
I am mean because…I purely love showing my dark side too.
I am good because…that’s me mostly, truly and I like doing good…even overdoing it sometimes.
I am writing this note because…I have run out on ideas for the day.
You are reading this note because…you have a lot of time to spend on unnecessary rumblings…

Anyways that’s my note for the day…Thanks for your time. Now Run… and Earn!!!

AN UNTIMELY FOREVER...

The first dew of the dawn
The first pink of the morning sky
The first bud in between the greens
The first blink of a new born’s eye.

The last star that twinkles before light
The last echo of the bells in the church
The last waft of the fog before the air clears
The last whisper of the creatures of the night

There would have been many middle moments to encounter
There would be a thousand reasons to live
But she finally gave up and drank that potion
To finally poison those moments and …forever fall asleep.

I AM...

I am
The carrier of every body,
The savior of Life that’s Alive;
The messenger of the angels of Death,
The one that you share, spill, unify.

I am
The talk of ancestry,
The rage of youth;
The First flush of anger,
The last blush of Love.

I am
The element of war,
The bond of Peace;
The fill of the Holy Grail,
The wrath of Demonic deeds.


I am
The impure flow,
The chaste essential of sacred sacrifice;
The gush that runs in the branches of your skin,
The thin twigs in the white of your eyes.

I am
All you can take,
All you can give;
All you can share,
All you can conceive.

But then all I am
Is just another… DROP OF BLOOD!

WHENEVER YOU COME BACK

Our Mondays would be at Blueberry’s candy
You would have your joyride every Tuesday
Wednesdays I would bring you all the colors of the rainbow
And Thursdays we would go the Camping way.

The zoo would wait for us each Friday
And Saturdays you would have your favorite cookies
Sundays we would trek into the woods
And I shall allow you to jump in that dirty puddle everyday.

We would go back to back for the movies you loved
I would get you your much promised butterfly
You would hear about fairies, pixies and elves every night
And yes, no more of that boring lullaby.

This much and much more
You could bring home your favorite ugly toad
I wouldn’t shout about your clothes no matter how dirty they got
Yes, we sail this summer to Neverland in a crescent moon shaped boat.

But as I keep all my promises
You shall have to live by yours
Whenever you come back, oh yes I shall be waiting
You will never leave my hand on that road again…AND GET LOST IN THAT GLOOM TO THE DARK!!!

SILENCED

In a time unknown and in a city unheard Soumen and Souwomen lived together. They had the brightest lives, excellent bonding and the most harmonious relations between each other. However they were what one could call as Two in one. Because the Soumen & Souwomen had a different way with their innerself, their soul. They could talk to their souls. Their souls were their teachers and guides. Whenever a decision needed to be taken, they asked their souls and acted accordingly.
Life moved on happilly in that city unheard.
Then came famine. There wasn’t enough food. Children were dying and so were Soumen and Souwomen. Life looked tougher day by day.
One night when the dark hounded the city, a Souman lingered out of his little home. He didn’t know where he was going, what he was going to do. All he knew was hunger and pain. And that he couldn’t take it any longer.
As he continued his walk he saw some light in the nearby hut. The door looked slightly open. He slowly entered the hut, tempted by a smell he well recognized. A loaf of bread awaited his eyes there. His senses evoked his actions and he was about to grab the loaf when suddenly he heard a voice. His soul's voice.
'No u cant do this. This isnt your bread. Wait, you shall get your fill. It wont be as bad as it is. This isnt yours.' His soul was trying to stop him, guide him.
But then hunger was a strong temptation getting stronger each minute. And at this point the soul's voice sounded more like noise. The Souman's soul didn’t feel like a friend any longer. It sounded like an enemy. And enemies need to be done away with.
Half an hour passed. The hut door was still open. But the loaf was missing. And so was the Souman. He was lying in his empty bed. Without an empty stomach after two long days. But Souman wasn’t himself anymore. The enemy had been silenced. And so had his Soul. The Souman was a man now.
When the true owner of the loaf realised the theft, he blamed his neighbour for it. The next night the neighbour was killed and so was another soul.
As time passed more and more Soumen & Souwomen became men and women. They were still happy, sumptous and healthy, but they were also sad, greedy and weak now. Some of them continued to be Soumen and Souwomen still but then, they couldn’t do much because of the increasing army on the other side.
Life continued and still continues in that unheard city. Just that times have changed. And that city is your city, everyone's city. We gave it a name. The World.

Question is who are you? Souman/ Souwoman or Man/Woman ?

BAHADUR HAD A BRIDE

'Ho! Ho! Ho! Bahadur Ho! Ho!'

As the azan of Jama Masjid echoed across the gallis of Old Delhi, it was time for little Ali Hassan to direct Bahadur back to his shed.

Bahadur- the pride of Hassan family, the talk of the mohallah, Ali’s partner in crime and not to mention, Chand Khaala’s true source of income. After all Rs 4000 that Salim Hassan earned wasn’t enough to support a family of four kids, one begum and his Abba. So as the winters sent across the chills in the city, Bahadur’s yearly woolen fur offering added to the income in a big way. That’s the way the Hassan family survived, progressed and saw some happy sumptuous Eids.

Bahadur was munching his fresh green diet in the evening when a thought crossed Chand Khaala’s head and formulated a strange calculation. She was thinking about a family. A sheep family and the income it would generate from the wooly kids. Yes, she finally decided. Bahadur needs a bride. The family discussed and debated. And little Ali proclaimed himself as the Bride finder. The search started.

It was a Sunday when the sweet smell of Jalebis, pulled Ali and his clan to Ramcharan’s kadhai which he carefully halted by the roadside everyday. Ramcharan’s jalebis, although overtly glazed with cheap ghee, did tempt quite a few peddlers. As the jalebis were served in leafy bowls, Ali took the first bite and burned his tongue. Then came the scream and finally a splash of water. In between all the chaos, Ali’s little ears caught a bleat. She stood there. Eyeing Ali, not directly though. She was demure, shy and playful. Yes, she was perfect. And whenever she moved, the little tinker bell around her neck created soundful music. She was Lajjo, Ramcharan’s sheep, a female sheep. And Ali was already hearing the shehnaai.

The matter was discussed. It was going to be a grand marriage. A marriage that went beyond the walls of caste. The sturdy male Bahadur was marrying the tender female Lajjo. Two weeks later. Ali was laughing and hugging Lajjo. He had another pet in the family now. Bahadur would have his companion now. It was a joyous event for both the families.A week passed. Things progressed slowly. Free Jalebis made way to Hassan’s family. Greetings were exchanged. The names of the next off springs were decided. The trade would happen on a 60- 40 basis from what the next generation would bring through. Ali found a new friend in Ramcharan’s daughter Radha.

All seemed well, till the night of Thursday.Trouble came from a neighbouring city. The Babri Masjid was demolished and fire broke out in the city of hearts.

The mohallah decided to stay unaware and unaffected, but the flame had already made way through the once colorful gallis. They became cautious. Then they started bitching. Then petty fights came in. Finally, one struck the other. And after two days of hatred, revenge and bloodshed, Ram’s devotee Ramcharan decided to break ties with Rahim’s followers.

Bad news spreads faster. The call off became the talk of the Mohallah. And it brought home shame to Hassan’s little shack. Chand khaala cursed Ramcharan’s family. Hassan’s silence spelt anger. And swore revenge.

The days passed. Bahadur was not allowed to get out of his shed anymore. It was unsafe to allow such a money churning machine to roam in free. Atleast that’s what Ali felt. After all hadn’t he found the tinker bell lying in Abba’s wallet one day when he was trying to rob some money for a few ice candies? And hadn’t Lajjo gone missing three days after the marriage was called off?

Finally came a day when Bahadur was found dead. There was a little blood oozing out of his mouth.And while they were taking him to the burial ground,amidst his tear, Ali saw a glazed fragment of orange sweet near Bahadur’s grass.

And life went on in the Mohallah, without Bahadur and Lajjo.

BARED

I cannot write,

My words fail;

I cannot always offer,

My demanding senses sometimes prevail.

I cannot always be truthful,

Though I regret those lies;

I cannot smile forever,

I very often give up and cry.

I cannot create the perfect home,

There will be loopholes I know;

I might not give you the most beautiful baby,

I shall try very much though.

I cannot lose the love I was gifted,

I know I am a coward deep inside;

I shall be a loser in need of support,

More often than the strength by your side.

All this and much more in hiding,

I conceal from your sharp probing eyes;

I just bared the secrets of my soul to you,

Just stay and listen to its silence…don’t ever utter that last Goodbye.

THE WANDERING

It felt like a lone petal,

Waiting to blossom like a flower;

It felt like an atom of light,

Waiting to shine like a star.

It felt like a jigsaw puzzle,

Waiting to get solved;

It felt like a sketch on that white sheet,

Waiting to get its colors and dissolve.

It felt like a crescent moon,Waiting to cast its full body;

It felt like a problem unfixed,

Waiting to find its right remedy.

It felt like a house on that lane,

Waiting to be a lively home;

It felt like the last few words of a sonnet,

Waiting to receive their final words of worth.

Moments galore incomplete,

Mysteries abundant unsolved;

I wondered in search of that light of perfection,

Till I stumbled and discovered...the deepest dark of my heart.

SHE IS...

My strict teacher
My wondrous creator
My sheltering savior
My perfect anchor
My super talented chef
My very stylish tailor
My extra staunch critic
My truly energetic entertainer.
My never failing doctor
My ever comforting sister
My most adventurous storyteller
My one woman run beauty parlor
My most devoted priestess
My strongest hope when fear paralyses me
My brightest light that never let me get lost in that tunnel
My best, sweetest, strongest, loveliest and better than the rest…Mummy!

DEAD END

The failed conviction of an error
The decay of an agreement breached.
The biting thought of a doubt
The searing pain of a mutilated promise.

A recluse in a land he knew as his own
An offender of permissions that he called rights
A dust eater in that garden of fruits
A fault that screams of its being precise

The moment of separation seeps closer
Sweat washes his side locks with their salty touch
There isn’t any going back from here
A reality he wishes was untrue so much

An attempt to look back at life that was Alive
Reflects the picture of a tragic tomorrow
It’s an evening when youth embraced terrorism once again
A moment of shiver
A minute of calamity,
A flash of terror
And the start of a life full of deaths and sorrows.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF ISAAC BELT

He isn’t a hero
Nor a spy
Neither a space resident
Not even a ladies pie.

He can read but hates to write
He can sing but he’s shy to dance
He knows two plus two make four
But then that’s purely by chance.

He gets older each day
He isn’t like his friend Benjamin
His ideal breakfast is bread with butter
Bacon is just not the thing for him.

Isaac hates apples
Because apples only fall
Isaac respects Newton though
They share their first names,
A name that stands so very tall.

Isaac gets funny sometimes
Especially when his belly’s filled with beer
Isaac likes sleeping all day and night
A sleepless life is his first strong fear.

There is a lot about Isaac
That’s funny and strange
But there is one good thing about him too
That makes Isaac, the man of the game.

Isaac got up early one morning
When the rest of us took an off
Isaac walked till there where we should have all gone
And Voted…he knows it’s not a mandatory job.

NIMMI JAISI

Bilkul nimmi jaisi banna! These words echoed in her mind time and again. There wasn’t much to do in her little abode anyways. As she looked outside the jail, it somehow enlightened her world inside and a thousand scenes floated in front of her eyes. Just like a recorder in reverse mode.
Like Nimmi’s first day at school. She didn’t cry. And mami shouted at her sulking daughter- Nimmi jaisi kyun nahi banti?
Nimmi’s fifth standard report card. Her best friend’s mom looked at it and scolded at her daughter- Nimmi jaise marks kyun nahi laati?
The days when she used to sit next to her granny and massage her aging head. Granny used to look at anyone around and say- Nimmi jaise kyun nahi bante sab?
Through the years over and over that dialogue ringed into her ears. It invited pride. But pride was wrong and Nimmi can’t be wrong. So pride was left out.
And finally the marriage day arrived. Her parents, relatives, friends, her world waved her a goodbye with a happy heavy heart. There were a lot of good wishes, but no advices this time. Nimmi is perfect. Nimmi wouldn’t need advice. After all it’s Nimmi.
The first night. With anticipation and excitement deep inside her heart she sat on her bed. What would he be like? Suddenly some noise at the door. And in came a drunken maniac. She suddenly realized. This is what he is like. She felt the pain. But Nimmi is perfect. And Nimmi accepts.
The days rolled. The days got worse. She had two abortions in 2 years. Because her alcoholic hubby couldn’t provide enough. People didn’t know about it ever. Because Nimmi didn’t let anyone know. After all, dutiful wives do not complain about their husbands. And Nimmi was good, perfect.
Finally the child came in the third year. Nimmi had taken a loan to save this one. She would repay by stitching and cooking. She looked at her little bundle of joy, with a smile that was true for the first time, after three long years of waiting and silent suffering.
It must be the sixth month since the baby arrived. She was feeding it some milk when in came the alcoholic and announced that keeping that little bundle of flesh was a financial problem. And he was going to kill it or give it away.
Nimmi looked at him horrified. Suppressed her anger and tried explaining. She was supposed to handle the situation. Every good wife handles things by explaining calmly. And then Nimmi was perfect. But her calm was failing her this time. His heated abuses added to the fire burning her within.
Then she saw the unexpected. He took the child and was about to throw it on the floor. When finally he felt this sharp pain on his back. Then came the scream. Finally the blood.
Nimmi had backstabbed.
Nimmi the good, prefect wife…wasn’t perfect anymore. Atleast that’s what society said.

The incident repeated for the umpteenth time before her eyes. The courtroom tension, the hungry eyes, the anger, her little baby who had now been given away to an orphanage.
Finally the verdict was out on the fourth day. And it was against her. She slowly walked to the police van. They were about to take her away. Her head was down. Her lips were tight. She sat herself in the van and for one last time looked at the world that had perfected her…and then unperfected her.
As the van moved away and as she closed her doors to the world forever, she saw a bunch of gossipers standing at one corner, looking at her and shouting loud words that she had grown up hearing with a small change this time though- Nimmi jaisi mat banna!

HAVE TO GO...

A speedy track, a dusty road
Soon I shall be ripped off
From my walled abode.

Amidst this tension,
Amongst the noise
I can feel your wet cheeks,
Your silent cry.

No complaints I have from you
I know you tried so hard
You were my perfect knight
My carriage, my warrior.

But the army you fought
Wasn’t just of human might
They had their allies
You struggled alone, with few arms called rights.

But the rights were weak
And the enemy was strong
They aimed at your heart
Those wordly arrows made your soul go numb.

You gave up, yes you did
And now I have to go
Its will be a painful journey
Scorching heat and biting snow.

The blades will cut through
I know there will be pain
The springs of my coming have faded.
Oh I shall miss the promised rain.

I heard your heart break someday
When he left you alone to sob
A love died its death that day
And today its child dies, amidst the medical mob.

TRULY...LOVINGLY

Evolving without Realizing
Feeling without Touching
Expressing without Emoting
Burning without Flaming.

Some signs of True Love
And tricky illusionists…we call Writers.

REFLECTIONS

In the river I see

An image very like me.

She stares at me

And tries to keep calms

As the stubborn waves

Try flouting her stance.

Unburdened by the world

Undeterred by her past

She smiles at me silently

As the waves give up now and just pass.

Is she my reflection?

Or am I hers?

A question worth a million doubts

A silent moment worth a thousand words.

There can’t be an end to this

There will never be

Till I meet the moment that answers my simple question of

What makes us so like… so parallel?

While she still stands so unparallel… so unlike me.

YOUR DOUBTS I SEE

I write a world
That you cannot read,
I walk on a road
That you say was never meant to be.
I stay at a time
That you say does not exist indeed,
I live a life
That lies hidden from your realities.
Then can you tell me
A better way to be
You said dreams is all I had
Are there better dreams?
My blind sight fails to see.

HONNEY- My encounters with an Aspiring Prostitute

Dark swollen skin. Pigmented cheeks. A slight hunch. Dirty hair. She looks like she’s straight walked out of the slums. I abhorred her when she came knocking at my car’s window that day. A dark red sari wrapped around her minimalistic frame…just like a red rose petal scarcely covering a stinging thorn. Yes that’s Honney for you.
From the time I remember, she had this weird way of reciting her name. Honney! She had come to the Financial Capital from the City of Joy at 20, was an illiterate with a gifted classical mujrawali voice which wasn’t really what anyone would pay for anymore. A few scraps of bread to live in a costly metropolitan weren’t really enough. Honney had tried her luck as a maid, as a sweeper, an ayah, almost every depressing job; but had miserably failed. And then she needed shelter now. Even if it was in the dark and shady streets of the Red Lights in Mumbai.
I saw her each day then. Knocking at every window pane that halted by the red lights of the traffic signal in search of a possible customer. It was one of these searches when she had knocked into my window and asked if I knew of anyone interested in a body on sale for a few hours. And yes, no bargaining. Her language shocked me a little more than her appearance. But then something about her speech appealed, inspite of the crudeness in it. Probably the fact that she wasn’t realizing how low she had fallen.I asked her in one of our many chance 15 second meetings that why wasn’t she departing to Mahalaxmi, the hub of her trade. Her answer- Surat A1 hota, five star hota… to jaati…Itna compatison ka jamaana…Kaun Marne ko jayega?
I knew she wouldn’t give up. She was selling away her bare few belongings to live up to the next day. Find one good customer. She was sure she would. She had after all, ventured into the world’s most ancient profession, where class, creed, even sex didn’t really matter. All you had to do was wear off any shame you restored. And she had done that long back.
Last week I happened to meet her again. She came running to me while I was crossing the street. With sweets. I thought she had finally got a new place to work. Well she almost did. Her first customer had paid her really well. And she had six new deals done for day two. Very enterprising I figured out.
I looked at her once again. Happy Honney. Ugly Honney. Shameless Honney. Weird Honney…and definitely now Independent Honney.
And for once, Honney the aspiring prostitute isn’t aspiring anymore.
Mockery of human values or a Successful venture begun...I wonder in quiet!

UNSPOKEN

I saw a God this morning
Seated in a beggar’s needy bowl
With few worn pennies for company.
And I asked him- Did you pay your carrier his price?
God didn’t answer my question.
As the day progressed,
And the sun was about to set;
Its last rays lit the beggar’s bowl
And my eyes met some new pennies that accompanied that God
And then I knew- Who was the carrier?
Strange answer…But then Gods are like that.

TRICKY TONGUE

Girls say- She is a bitch

It means- I am insecure

Boys say- Huh…that gal’s just got a hot bod

It means- She’ll make me pay a bill, I cannot afford.

Girls say- You don’t care

It means- Show me some concern

Boys say- I do care.

It means- Bas kar yaar

Girls say- My shoes are old

It means- Its time you buy me one

Boys say- Today’s not the day honey

It means- Cash for your stilettos- Sorry I got none.

Girls say- Rings are beautiful

It means- When will we get engaged?

Boys say- Ya, lets see if I can get you one

It means- Get a reality check darling…you sound a little too dazed!

A battle of Mars and Venus

Or the different hues of pink and blue

But then gals will be gals and guys will be guys

Tell me if its just not true.

THE MORNING OF FOREVER

His truth has a bit of my lies,

My smile has a bit of his cry.

Yes he cried to me one night,

When the sky was dark, lights out of sight.

That night I was acquainted to his fears,

And what I call, His hidden secret tears.

What I now recall is an unsaid night long story,

That lit all our mornings with a bit of me in him,

And… a bit of him in me.

THE STORY BEGINS

It was just like any other day. The venue was crowded as usual. The mood was youthful, the atmosphere alive with all the hustle bustle, loud laughter and mindless confusion too. The day did seem tiring in most ways. In between so much however there was a slight dullness in the air.But then the mood was just about to change…
She crossed the lane and entered the venue with her ever graceful walk. She wasn’t particularly the best face on earth, but she carried a charm the opposite sex would fall for. Her appeal guaranteed a second look. And more than anything else, she had a heart of gold. She was called Love.
His moods were different though. He carried an infectious smile. Bright outfits, harmlessly flirtatious humor, rib tickling jokes…he was the true blue carrier of happiness. They called him Joy.
Both were advancing towards each other unknowingly. Though they could perceive it. Love looked around and smiled. Joy halted for a second to pray and thank the gods for the lovely life he was bestowed with.
His prayers played a tune Cupid couldn’t ignore. He saw the perfect time, the perfect stage. He came running with his famous bow and arrow towards the two and arched the most tickling arrow intoxicated with love, lust, hope and trust towards the point where he could hit both in one go.
As Love and Joy walked to that exact place where the arrow would meet its aim, suddenly a little naughty bee stung Cupid. Ouch!!! Cupid whined. He lost control and the arrow very narrowly missed the two. Cupid regained his lost senses once again, agitated but looked back to see what his arrow had done.
Well, Love and Joy had met finally. The arrow caused a sudden thirst and Love asked for a glass of water. Which Joy offered her. But proud Love refused such a small offering from an unknown stranger and walked away. Seeing this Joy felt insulted and swore revenge. Although in a sarcastic way. He too was in a way charmed by Love's magic.
Poor Cupid sighed and walked away disgusted by the unfortunate happening, sad that his arrow couldn’t meet the desired aim.
However he didn’t know one little secret. That the right time for Love and Joy hadnt really arrived. They would meet again very soon to come together in perfect harmony. But today was not the time because both had a lot to see and places to go.
College had just started.(to be continued next week)

SOMETHING MORE

Someday endeavors will become Actions
Dreams will merge into Realities
Hope will realize into Achievements
Finite will become Forever.
And still I shall explore for Something More
What is this Something More?
Probably a search that never started
A destination I still haven’t planned to reach
A state I still don’t know exists
But I shall still look for this something more
Knowing well that it’s not yet in my timeline
But then, aren’t we all travelers of time?

THE HAPPENING

I am a not so happening girl,
With a happening sense of humour
I happen to kick a fight
But I also happen to throw it out many a time.
Confusion keeps happening to me
But whatever happens I sort it out well
I happened to your life some day
And that’s why this note has happened here.
And if you are still reading this non stop blabber of mis-happenings
Then honestly…you happen to be a Happening fool.
And now I am feeling happy about the happening that happened.
Because life happens when happenings happen.
So what do you feel about this happening?
There happens to be some space down
Can you happen some words on the Happening???

THE DREAM SECRET

Once upon a time in a land faraway, all dreams lived together. They slept through the day and finally awoke each night to light up another world. The world of fantasies and wishes.
Each night they woke, sang, laughed…some even cried. But just for that one night. Because each night the dreams died and new dreams took their place.
They all knew this truth of their lives. But they were fine with it and went on living their one night lives, dying at the very first ray of sunlight, some even before. But they went on living joyously.
Out of all those dreams there was one such dream however, who was rather unhappy about this truth. He was gifted a little more knowledge than the others. He had more power than the rest. Perhaps a little more light too. But then he thought- Why a life of just one night? Why can’t I live a little more? Enjoy my identity for some more time?
Finally that night when all the others left for the world of fantasies, this dream hid away. It continued sleeping. Night after nights. Day after day. It just slept.
Years have passed since then. And that dream is old now. It has lost all its light. Its glow has faded away. But it still sleeps thinking about how lucky it has been to not enter the world of fantasies and die away.
Just that it doesn’t know one little secret. That each dream that entered the world of fantasies died to come back to life once again. And this time not as dreams for a night.

But Realities beyond a lifetime.

THE GREAT 7

Michel Petrucciani was one of the most powerful jazz pianists of all time.

Tom Shakespeare, a geneticist & sociologist was the co author of The Sexual Politics of Disability.

Robert Bernard Riche, a former Harvard University professor, has served as the twenty second United States Secretary of Labour, under President Bill Clinton. He has also been listed by The Wall street Journal as America Top Ten Business Thinkers.

Dylan Postl, popularly known as Hornswoggle is an American Professional Wrestler . He was the last Cruiserweight Champion before the belt was decommissioned.

Jude-Lyn del Rey, a science fiction editor was posthumously awarded the Hugo Award for the Best Professional Editor, which her husband refused to receive.

François de Cuvilliés, a Belgium born architect played a very significant role in bringing the Rococo (an Italian art form) to life in his various artistic impressions. The Palace in Bruhl, Germany is one of his most prized designs.

Charles Proteus Steinmetz, a mathematician & electrical engineer fathered the development of alternating current thanks to which the electrical power industry in USA saw expansion. He was popularly called The Forger of Thunderbolts.

7 Great individuals. 7 Great minds. 7 Great works. Everything great. Except one small detail that binds them all. They were essentially the 7 Dwarfs. 7 great dwarfs that the world saw, appreciated and applauded.

The 7 dwarfs who teach us one important lesson. That Size really doesn’t matter.

To Hrishi Da...with love

Dearest Hrishida,

I was in fifth grade when I saw Guddi and wanted a frock just like hers. I wanted to sing Kucch dil ne kahan like Anupama someday. Can’t believe but someday I also wanted to flaunt a moustache…the Golmaal effect. And finally after all those moments of pure joy I finally dropped a tear as Anand cried out Babu Moshaiye in his final moments. And I still wonder how you did it?

As time passed I was exposed to other mediums of cinematic expression. The mushy whispers of Raj and Simran, the raw appeal of Rambo, the sleek and swank effect of James Bond etc etc. But there was something about you and your style that I couldn’t let go. No offence to anyone, but that X factor was unparallel. A difference of a different kind. And surprisingly that X Factor, that difference here was merely simply- Simplicity.

Simple plots with a much deeper meaning, heart rendering music, one frame where being a part of the middle class is not a problem and finally a reel that’s real enough to carry a bit of you and a bit of me.

Today I am not writing to a Dadasaheb Phalke or a Padmabhushan award winner. Nor to a man who saw unparallel success with a string of hits. Not to a man who made actors like Rajesh Khanna, Amitabh Bacchan, Jaya Bhaduri, Sharmila Tagore and many more famous. But to a science and mathematics teacher who decided that the camera was his ultimate destination. To the one who gave us immortals like Parimal Tripathi, Babu Moshaiye, Anupama, Guddi and of course Anand. To the great film maker who told us that Simplicity is beautiful and you do not really need a reason to smile.
You actually meant that song didn’t you- Maine tere liye hi saat rang ke sapne chune…sapne surile sapne

Thanks Hrishida! For all this love wrapped in those three hours of cinema

With love and loads of gratitude
Himika

TREACHERY OF BIRTH

Of their heights and success
Of their royalty and finesse;
Of their strength and luxury
Of his own lowliness and misery.

He finds competition on the garbage dump
He gathers scraps of heat in the night so cold and numb.

The school’s bell, the flash of the light bulbs
The candy’s smell, the porcelain doll’s curls
He sits by the streetlight to endlessly search
The difference and the destitution- All for this treachery of Birth.

MIRACLES OF MY WORLD

If I could stretch the day beyond its 24 hours
If I could make the bee deliver me a drop of honey each day
If I could steal the blush of the pink rose and make it mine
If I could put the fish in the sky and fly it across the blue line.
If I could touch and bring some green to the fallen autumn leaves
If I could raise the wrinkles of an ageing hand
If I could add some light into the squirrel’s burrow
If I could breathe life into my wooden dolls.
I realize I cannot do any of this
Not in the world in which you and I live
So I weave my own little world
Now I know why I am a Storyteller.

THATS NEWS!!!

PINK CHADDI CAMPAIGN
VALENTINES DAY SHOULD BE CELEBRATED AS MARRIAGE DAY
KAREENA AND SAIF SEEN SHOPPING IN NEW YORK
AMIR KHAN NAMES HIS DOG SHAHRUKH

And yes, for people who still do not know what I am talking about (the possibility is very marginal) these were some major news stories this month.
How do we react to it? Anger! Frustration! Chaos! Confusion. No Of course not. Gossip is more like it. In the trains, bus queues, restaurants, cafeterias, page 3 parties, office washrooms too. I have heard people voraciously gathering and sharing Information about every big news story riding high on controversy.

I work in the creative department of a business news channel. Luckily business news doesn’t see much beyond world stock markets and ideally anything that’s Business. So there’s hardly much room left for tabloid tones. But a year in media has definitely inculcated a strong value system in me. And what I realize is- The Indian audience is sensitive to news. And the country’s larger population still boasts of a higher emotional quotient rather than the intelligent one. The Bangalore attacks on the pub visiting women is a serious threat. Giving couples unwanted trouble on Valentines day is a bad idea. Kareena and Saif could boast about being the most happy star couple. Amir can name his dog whatever he wants.
The question is 1st- Does the overhyped PINK CHADDI CAMPAIGN really make a difference to the larger sections of the society? Or will celebrating Valentines day as Marriage day really change things? Or Do people who celebrate Valentines day anyway away from their cultural roots?

The 2nd set of questions- Does it really matter to the common man if Kareena shops with Saif or even if they have a possible break up tomorrow? Or At a time when the world is fighting with more serious causes like terrorism, recession, job cuts, mayhem etc does it really matter if Amir names his dog SRK or continues with his loud attention calling stunts?

Whose fault is it? Not just the subjects of these headlines. Not just the ones who captured them. Not just the people who read them? Not just the gossip mongers? Not just anybody at large.
But WE THE PEOPLE. Of the Democracy called India. Where Freedom is no longer just an expression. Probably a land where individuals misuse individualistic freedom to take away the other’s independence. Freedom is more than an expression. Its perhaps the most important responsibility we took over more than fifty years back. And its time we all unlearn the crap about freedom we have been learning so far and use it for a better cause… maybe A BRIGHTER NATION if nothing else.

Lovely Questions...???

How would you see love?
Its one vibrant color,
No painter could ever paint.
How would you hear love?
Its one soulful tune,
No musician could ever play.
How would you read love?
Its one true language,
No author could ever write.
How would you smell love?
Its one embracing scent,
No fragrance could ever ignite.
Never close or ever close
Never far or the faraway star
The most complicated riddle
Or the simplest fable ever narrated
Love is just an expression all carry
Or is it an emotion that stays hidden, in the very depths of every living heart?

SIMPLY SENSED

I am just a messenger
I just express that expression
My worth is nil, I perish as I reach my destination.

I don’t hold on, I do not abondon
Not till you realise, the message I carry within.

Do you really need me?

Where have you lost that gaze?
That seeped into her poignant tear
Where did you leave that heart that heard?
The silent steps of his everlasting fear.

Have you forgotten that touch?
That sensed her coming as the bells rang
Did you orphan your powers to smell?
His fragrance as you walked hand in hand.

A smile is too simple to be read
Anxities are too effortless to be told
Only if you awaken your heart once more
26 letters are too unworthy to decode messages of any soul.

AS I REST

Far from separation,
Away from turmoil
I nurture a dream
That I call mine.

No reality, neither delusions of the prime
No limitations, till the end of time.

A dream that stays veiled
Away from the white and the dark peers
No measure of how pure its survival
Away from the evaluations weighing on smiles and tears.

I call it mine
In dark and sunshine
Its flaw isn’t crime, its sanctity my silent rhyme.

A dream that awakens
When a pair of eyes rest
A dream that progresses
When I go back to slumber nest

I may deceive this dream
But the dream is an honest friend
I promise I shall be a more faithful partner
But life is a tricky sea; its waves may force my promises to bend.

I am going back to sleep
Its time you light up my dark
Till the first ray brightens my soul
Stay my friend; give my imaginations a new start.

A LOCAL LEGACY

It’s mostly too late,
It’s rarely too fast
It’s never too early,
Its subject close to my heart.

I see it everyday,
See the fight royally at display
I wonder at the violence it brings out,
How we long to get a foothold in it everyday.

Amidst the world’s luxuries,
Its dullness stands long and proud
I see myself struggling in and out of it,
Am I too among the desperate I doubt?

You really need to give it a deep thought; sometimes you might have to rack your brains,
Just to understand what keeps on- the legacy of the Mumbai local trains.

STRUGGLER'S PARABLE

She feels like a fallen star,
Alone on the rugged ground;
The heights snare at her,
Her shine is fading, its unseen around.

She feels like a forgotten tune,
Her rythem lost, her melody breathless
The new song of the day has played her trick
Is time whispering, that the wait is endless?

She feels like the wretched flower,
She was promised life- a beautiful life
But the promise was an illusion and as the horizon darkens
She can see time raise that ugly slaughtering knife.

I see many of her stories everyday
Not just her…but of many hers
All for a few minutes on the 70 mm
She struggles for that blessing…while lives on the curse.