Vicissitude.

Because as one darting star crossed another, when the Sky bent down to kiss the Earth, when strands of my hair felt lost interwoven in the dewy grass, A single thought stood out boldly from the rushing train in my mind.

I've always wondered how I want to die.

When I was young, I thought my departure should be all grand and heroic, like a legend should die. Probably a broken neck by falling off from Everest, or a leap from the highest floor of the highest tower. To approach Death with the only moment I'd lived.
But humans are born with these invisible feelers called bonds. You be mean, rude, inconsiderate but people don't stop loving you. That's not even the problem; you never stop loving them. Merely thinking if them as they saw my mangled body with my smirking face was enough to dispel the idea.

Organ donation seemed noble. Donate yourself into saving some other person, or finding some cure when you're old and useless and the only thing remotely healthy about you are your organs.

My friends were worried. What kind of person, lies awake past midnight and wonders about death and dying? Lectures of Viva la Vida. Joie de vivre.

Death has always fascinated me because despite it's visceral appeal and stark, garish reality, it's perhaps the only thing you can be certain about in life. That a time will come when you'll die, and thanks to that cloak of unpredictability your destiny is so fond of adorning, you'd be surprised how willingly you'd let your soul cling to the sole fragment of certainty you'll find.

Everything was in perfect sync that night, just a few hours before the crack of dawn, the song of the crickets synonymous to the cadences of Dark's symphony.  The moon, ethereal, shone omnisciently, reflecting off the wet drops of dew clung to my legs. I cocked my head sideways, my eyes shut, as my ears grasped the familiar notes of a traveller's folk song from the nearby tavern. 

Just sixty minutes ago, I was kneeling in front of a chapel, asking the Mother for forgiveness.
Just a few hours ago, I had killed a man in his Death.
And the disturbing part was, it hadn't appeased my sadistic urges.

A tattered bag on my shoulder, panting hard, I recall my feet slipping off the door of that moving train I was trying to board. A sharp stinging pain in my wrist, grimacing, as a crowd gathered around me, hushed notes of repulsive pity.
I recall how they backed away, when they saw my clothes, soiled with the dirt of fortune's cruel jokes. Lost the attire, labelled a tram.

The sharp, raised rocks of that horrible airport road pierced my bare sole, each stab of pain causing my eyes to flair with determination and tolerance. I took some time to admire the streams of vivid color streaming down my skin when I finally collapsed.

But, like all individuals with severe stubbornness issues, I stood up. I will go to meet him. In his final hours.

The next train wasn't due until evening, and the hunger, desperate as well as a tad carnal, was being too hard on my attempted renunciation. I begged for a burnt cinnamon bun, the crust of a fungus bread maybe. But humanity doesn't harbour hope any more; just mirages of it.

I sat in the train as soon as it arrived, the sole passenger in my carriage. A couple of people entered, looked at me curiously and walked out hurriedly, as if I was a scalding liquid burning into their pretentious  image. Solitude is bliss anyway.

I looked outside the window to entertain myself with the pleasures of a racing view; It's not just time. Nobody, waits for anyone. 
**********

<To be continued>

Virtuoso 2.

She crashed to the floor, clutching her foot, with her head down, as she silently wept.
The boy, shaken from his daze, anxiously comes up and sits beside her. He cranes his beautiful head sideways to examine and slowly runs his finger over the mehendi covered sole. She screams in pain, and then muffles it into a whimper. A silent murmur passes between both, and the boy stood up and took his place again. 

The girl unties one bow from her head and ties her bleeding foot with it. Then dusting her frock, she stands up and takes the same, stiff position with a slight grimace. The tune began to flow again, and the dance with the seraphic dance began again. 
The boy stood up slowly and picked up a small box lying beside him. If you looked carefully enough, you'd see tiny, peculiar little cuts and perforations on it. Not skipping a beat, he used his other hand to gently tap the box.

The taps grew more and more violent with each twirl of the girl. It's as if Horatio knew every move, soul of his lady Hamlet. At one point of time, the legs elongated and her hair grew longer, her skin grew fairer, and in the light of this mirage, I saw the perfect image of my graceful mother, dancing passionately but with excitement, as if she knew every secret of the set floors. 

He looked upwards and smiled with crazed euphoria as the glissando begun with the next beat.

The girl was muttering something with a calm expression on her face. Her feet grew violent, her movements grew cautious and intricate. Lost in her own rhythm, she giggled with delight. Fear passed like a shadowy streak on the boy's face, but he smiled gently as well. She spun around once and sat down in one flaccid movement. "Wasn't that fun, now? The pain made it all the more worthwhile."

The boy handed her something out of a packet, a biscuit. Crumbs fell on the stage. Good. I'd need convincing proof of the angelic visions I'd just seen. But the boy carefully brushed them away.  So lost was I in my daze, I didn't hear the ominous thud,  the children did though.

Trepidation hung in the air. In one quick stride, the boy had picked all his makeshift instruments. They raced towards the back door and halted. My eyes widened. I had shut it on my way in. The kids banged against it in surprise. They hastily tried to get it open.

"I finally got you. This is where you've been coming every night."

A man stepped into view. He would have been good looking, but constant wear, drink and frustration gave way to crease lines on his face. His eyes were red. He had an urumi in his hand.

The children had gone pale. With an expression of pure hatred and anger, he pulled them roughly off the stage. Tears ran down their face as they looked at the repugnant man, then at each other. 

Exiting through the front door must've been a scuffle. I heard shrieks. Helplessly, all I could do was stare. It would simply take one simple flick of that urumi to cut my neck into half. He, on the other hand, may not kill the children for reasons.

Shivering, I made my way back home and lay awake for a long time. The night had surely been eventful, and I was afraid I'd wake up and think it was all a dream. I stayed home for a day. 

Two days later when I made my way to the set,  I got news that there had been no break ins the previous night, but one, the night before that. I was congratulated, since I had gone to investigate. They assumed I had scared the trespassers away.

I traced my steps, hoping to find any sign of the happenings of that night. I made my way to the back door. 
Stuck on a single, rusted nail, peeking out from the hinge, was a torn red ribbon, stained darkly with blood. 

Virtuoso.

The prospect of checking on that movie set at night made me feel uneasy. The winds blew unusually quietly, tinting the dark night with the colors of eventfulness and apprehension. 

I loved the set. Perhaps it's the mere fact that it's unnatural, artificial and staged. Away from reality. How the rain, an involuntary force of nature that Indra controls with great difficulty, falls and stops with the simple click of a finger.  How anyone, can be in the immediate limelight. The way they replicate rarities like the first autumn shower or the torrent of snowflakes. Perhaps it's how you're the one who's done it all, and you still get a kick out of seeing it in action every time. 

I've been behind the lens for as long as I can remember. A pair of soft, fair hands with nimble fingers held me and brought me here, cooing a dulcet lullaby as the bright lights gave my newly opened eyes, the spark. Oh, the spark. 

I used to simply sit there, occasionally causing havoc and throwing tantrums as my mother, graceful and agile, magically twirled her waist and twisted her feet. The crease lines near her eyes as she threw me a furtive wink and a smile, as if aware of the enchantment I had lost myself into. When she passed away, however, I became no Madhubala - I chose to build Madhubalas. 

My car joined the fleet of countless others in the parking lot, and I nervously felt for the set keys in my pocket. The mystery of the countless break ins and strange rumours would now be resolved forever. 

My heart stopped and lurched when I reached the steps. The back door was ajar.
 Armed with nothing but a stick, I put my palm on the yoke of my dress, feeling my heartbeat accelerating. I gently peered to find two figures huddled on the stage, and as one cautiously backed away into the wings, I prepared myself for the capturing of the oblivious other.....
The limelight fell on the red carpeted stage. Amazed, I backed away. How on Earth did they manage to hack into the set controls?

The figure stepped in, and I froze. 

It was a tiny girl, with red ribbons and a brown velvet frock. Her skin was patchy and she was missing two fingers on her severely scratched arms, but her eyes had the same excited spark I once had, and lost as I learnt life was nothing to be happy about.

She stretched her body upwards, shut her eyes and pursed her lips as if Antoinette had tasted a raw cake, and said "Horatio, may the music begin!" 

A squeal came from the wings as a boy emerged, leaping. The girl gave him a scolding look, as if furious at his rashness. The boy retreated with a crestfallen face, and came back with a plastic toy piano, which you could probably buy for twenty bucks at the local store. He fondly stroked his fingers along the keys, as if a priceless instrument. Even the girl shot it an affectionate look. Then resuming her pose, she flicked her fingers. "Begin".

Soft, mellifluous notes began to flow from the wings, incapable of being produced from Satan's harp. The boy sat, as parts of the limelight illuminated his face and reflected off his shiny hair and lashes, colouring them golden as the specks of dust around him. As if an angel himself, sent by the Lord, to shame all the mortals who held instruments and tried to mimic him. 

My eyes fell on the girl next. Her expression had considerably softened into one of pure love and passion.  She traced patterns in the air, as if pantomiming the composition of the tunes, and her feet began to race and tap. 

Leaping high in the air, she came back to the stage in a graceful twirl of cheap, brown velvet, clicking her fingers and clashing her toes. Her closed eyes momentarily released a tear drop, as her sole bled from a rusted iron nail she'd unknowingly stepped on. 
 (To be continued) 

The Goddess And That Unfinished Bucket List.

Life is a long, long path, and there are a small number of us who actually plan it out like a strategic map. You know, with checkpoints and signboards and stress relieving techniques, yoga and hopeless idols like Baba Ramdev for the sake of appearing literate and clued-in.  Time is made up of threads which continuously switch around.

When asked to choose certain places I'd like to visit before I die, after being a freckle of fairy dust in Neverland, I chose to be a silverfish on the fabric of the space time continuum. It would be quite an adventure to mess around, trying to annoy all those busy, moving threads, causing the accidental death of a Mandela or the extremely unfortunate birth of an Indian politician. 

All the strategies would be rendered pretty much, sorry to say, pointless. However, I'm a sceptic as well. Of sorts. I do believe in checkpoints. 

I had the fortune of visiting my native paternal village. Free from duties and responsibilities or anything for that matter that weighed you down. Taunting goats with extra food became a favourite pastime. The rest would be spent making a bucket list, lazing in some hut on the fields. 


A bucket list is simply a list of all the things you want to do at least once before you die. Most of the stuff on mine is pretty much impossible.There is no way you would be kind enough to take me to the Comic Con.


Would you?
I'd be...good company.
I swear. I'll try to be polite as well.
No?

It's okay, I don't care anyway.      <Goes to a desolate corner and                                                             sounds like Himesh Reshamiya                                                             attempting a rock song>

Highly overdosed on caffeine, I lay amidst the very mustard field where Veer Zaara was shot. Since I obviously had no Veer, I simply let my mind wander. It evolved from the extremely ugly scarf in my cupboard I should throw away to whether or not Elysium is the best place after Death. Something tells me Cerberus might be cordial to fetching women.
Night used to pass making up constellations and longing for a friend who'd make your good side twinkle and shine as bright as the stars. Occasionally about debating about the existence of God. 
I remember one of my cousins bending down and whispering in the midst of a philosophical conversation, as if he was stating something composed of sheer hypocrisy, " I believe there is no God".

I gazed at him in utter, shell-shocked horror.

Of course there is no God!
The kind of God most people believe in? Wanting offerings of milk and money and young kids? Simply does not exist. 

What exactly is religion? It is a set of guidelines people follow in order to become better people. Humans are absolutely incapable of deciding what is right and what is wrong for them, so even their twenty first century selves allow themselves to be dictated blindly by scriptures written centuries ago. Why? Because those scriptures illustrate the paradigm of an ideal and right lifestyle. Because humans could never figure out not to kill one another or over intoxicate themselves.

Some people realized this and exploited it. Now the very same thing used for bringing about peace, became a source of sheer violence. Communal riots.

 I'm not an atheist because I believe in many of the selective good things religion offers, ones which don't defy all frontiers of logic. Many claim to be atheists because they think it's cool. I'm not an atheist; I like thinking of myself as secular. 

If pretending to acknowledge the presence of a higher, supreme being brings peace and a sense of reliance to people in times of mortal peril, then God should continue to be viewed as simply a highly controversial subject and not as a force of irrationality. 

People are known to be hands of God. God however, is a very busy man and cannot hear the quibbles of more than seven billion people. So sometimes thousands misread his instructions. 

They make idols. Loads of them. Worship them for a week. Then rip them bare of clothes and ornaments and leave them naked on the streets or to pollute a healthy river, which by the way is also, a resource of God.
Saving a life, is the work of God. Helping a hungry child, assisting the impaired. This, is the work of God.

He  doesn't want anyone killing. He definitely doesn't want a starving kid to stare at a lavish Puja feast held in his name. 

I sometimes wish a real human could be as honoured and loved as a Durga idol and then simply thrown away like that. Then I realized, it happens every day. 

"Slowly, then all at once"
   
My pen scraped the now worn out page of my bucket list a million times to write that. Because it would be what real pain would feel like. But I couldn't muster up enough courage. No one can, neither can they prepare for it. I doubt that even after centuries of being treated as such, even the Goddess ever comes to Earth knowing and prepared. Or perhaps the human love they give her out of selfish desire makes her momentarily forget it till the time actually comes.

The pen beside me, I look at the ugly, unfinished sentence. Striking it would make it hard to read, and I wanted to remember this unfinished entry as vividly as possible. 

And just like every parent after the kid's all grown up with its own problems to solve, she's forgotten and abandoned to rot. Wondering where all the love went. Thinking about the sweet kids that played on Earth's green fields ages ago. About her kids, who simply loved, cared and helped because it was worthwhile and made them happy. 

Thinking till the mud dissolves in the water, till she retreats back to the Heavens, disgraced, but with a smile on her face.

And true courage wasn't just defined by slaying Mahishasur any more; it was defined by coming  again  every year. 

Let There Be Pandemonium.

"The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain neutrality in times of mortal crisis."
                                     -Dante Alighieiri, Inferno.
What I wish to question today is, why does neutrality exist?

Why is it, that people pass by  silently as women are molested on the road in front of their very eyes? Or when all of a man's daily savings are snatched by an infidel? When an ATM is robbed, how come no one bats an eyelid except the ATM Security guard? (Who probably wouldn't have either if he wasn't paid for it.)

When teachers abuse a child. When ministers abuse power. When politicians abuse the opportunity of addressing a mass gathering. When rapists abuse womanhood. What do we get instantaneously? 
Bone-chilling, stubborn, uncooperative silence.

Then bring on the candle marches, the protests, the huge lectures and campaigns on gender policing, racial abuse, rape and all the sins of the current society. Yes, people. The cause and thought is noble, commendable and I'm sure you standing there yelling "We want justice" whilst burning yourself with dripping wax from a wasted candle at an unconventional, inconvenient hour of the night will be appreciated by the victim fighting for its life on the hospital bed. But is it enough? No.

In all the feuds and rape cases which happened on a populated street, I would like to know how it would've been possible if a group of men would've gathered and beat them up in a gruesome way. How would the thought of rape even originate into their conciousness , if they had been brought up in a conservative family who propagated sisterly love and respecting motherhood?

It is our silence which has fed this, like dry wood to the flame of horror.

The fact is, ever since probably after India gained Independence, we have always depended on somebody after a moment of action. Half heartedly, illiterately voted in the elections, which is any day worse than not voting at all, and once the new Government is elected, we have our scapegoat. It is blamed for everything. We drink, we get girls drunk, we rape, we murder and it's the Government's fault. We've always had someone who takes the fall of our responsibilities. Not that they shouldn't. It's their job. We'd criticize them if they didn't do that as well. But every action, has an equal and opposite reaction, and our country is facing the adverse consequences of the reaction.

Because we have a readily available scapegoat, we have sunk into ignorance. In the earlier days when people saw a murder report or kidnapping in the papers, children were shut in the houses for days until the parents were convinced it was safe. Now, it has become a report for the side column of every newspaper, and the headline is some worthless politician with a penchant for fighting, strange language and a chappal.
Pretty soon, rape will not be an outrage. It'll be oh-so-normal. Why? Ignorance. 
Why is there ignorance? Because these scapegoats have been upholding the main ideal: Peace. We have been stuffed with the word "Peace" since we've been born. Our textbooks, our lectures, our role models, everything within the range of our hearing capacity propagates "Peace". Even our cartoons are mostly about how friends fight, but how they make up "peacefully" in the end.
The danger here, friends, is not peace being propagated. It's "So called peace" being propagated. We are afraid to fight because we're afraid to disrupt the normal flow of things with chaos. "So called peace"  is synonymous with ignorance, and imagine if we stuff a child's head with that, which we are by the way. The horror. 

When the French were frustrated with the Bourbons. When the Germans began to blame Weimar Republic. When Robespierre's rule was unbearable. What did they do? Sit quietly? Hope for peace?

No. They revolted.
Protested and argued for change with life as the ultimate prize. When demands were met with, and all was well, the people were saner than they ever were.

Crisis, people. Mortal crisis, We need one of those to shake us from this stupor of false safety. Crisis is what triggers fear, and fear compels our senses, our alertness and us to some pretty remarkable places. Maybe fearing a mass rebellion on the streets every now and then is risky. But eventual reality checks are important, especially when times worsen everyday. 
It is then that we rise from the ashes of the hollow our  self has been in. You can even interpret this in another way : If you don't stop ignoring, fear another revolution very soon. Because soon people will realize. So either we can educate and teach our young to be better, moral-respecting individuals, or we can watch the world we've built crumble down. I'm aware the former is harder.

Maybe disturbance of sorts is not so bad after all.
Let there be a miasma of chaos. A chaos that screams "Justice".

Let there be pandemonium.

The River Of Life.

" The River of Life overflows!
  I'm the silent spectator,
  Watching as it disappears,
  Into, the shadows

  The land glistens with it's mere droplets,
  Take the shape of maidens and men.
  Who pray by it, as it flows,
   Into, the meadows. 

  Oh, it has seen it all, oh, the omniscience.
  The prick of a needle, the prick of conscience.
  Friendships breaking, rivalry grow,
  As it flows, above the mountains and below. 

  Render it toxic, render it deadly,
  Try all you want, you can never be free.
  From the force of Life, and all it's shades, dark or mellow,
  As it trickles by Elysium and Dead's Gallow. 

  Age wrinkles face and many a pace,
  The pebbles no longer tremble,
  As the course pacifies.
  And the thrill doesn't suffice. 

  Unto it's final moments, as it converses with Death,
  As it rests, waves faltering, in the river bed.
  Watching with sandy visions, as the wind blows,
  The final essence of the River, carried away by it's shadows. "

The Anchor Of Life.

There was a girl standing at the door of 5E all those years back. She had a clear, white uniform, stiff and uncomfortable with starch, pink, metal rimmed spectacles which she found cool but actually looked weird on her, and short cropped hair tied back into a tiny ponytail. She wasn't short, but her low self esteem was like a hammer whacked on her head multiple times. It was what shortened her.

She didn't have many friends. She clung to one Class 4 acquaintance, who later on found some other friends and sat on the other side of the class. The girl was pretty much alone.
But she remembered one thing. When she had entered class earlier that morning, the backdrop was beautiful. The glass windows were refracting the streaming sunshine into millions of tiny little rainbow drops, which fell on the front desks and colored our boring, dull copy pages. There was some wild, untamed sunshine, which streamed in directly and hit the roof, painting the walls gold with flecks of dust glowing like fairy dust. She remembered my eyes going wide with beauty and her heart soaring high with happiness. She wanted to jump, she wanted to squeal with joy. The problem was, she wanted to share it with someone. And no one was there. The sight of a wooden table in the corner for company was enough to crush her dreams. 

Then she entered. A shy little girl with a ponytail. A ponytail. Great. They already had something in common.
She introduced herself as Natasha. Extremely shy with a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she existed in the oblivion the girl never could afford to.
She turned my head to look around the room. And there sat Natasha, next to a hyper girl who couldn't stop chattering animatedly, not bothering to look whether she had her listener's attention, which was clearly diverted. She smiled at  her wide eyed stalker.

The girl smiled back.
Wait. Did you expect her to go talk to Natasha or something? Like, hahaha, what even?! xD
Okay. Maybe that was the thing to do.
The girl didn't do that. She just sat there.
Maybe it was for the better.

They were soon adjusted in the new class and she had friends. Some girls she  doesn't talk to now, but used to love and look up to back then, and cordial relations with the rest of the girls. She was still pretty much a loner.

The magic begun in August. The first Sunday. Friendship day. The day everybody had hands filled with friendship bands and they boasted. The day friends were found crying in the washroom because "After NINE YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP, how could she forget my friendship band?! "
The day only ten or twelve colored strings tied out of formality adorned her arms.
She was sure today, she'd walk home with none, and smile sportively as her next door neighbor showed her wonderful bracelets and strings, all hallmarks of friendships made over the years. But Natasha changed that.

She walked into the class room early in the morning, came straight up to the girl with a bright yellow and red friendship band and tied it around her wrist. "Happy Friendship Day".

The girl stared for a while in astonishment and then brought out her own pile of friendship bands she had been secretly hoping to tie.  Wordlessly, she tied the band. Then meekly whispered a friendship day greeting.

Natasha probably didn't realize the magnitude of her gesture. She's probably reading this with a blank expression and then she'll laugh at how she had no idea about this, right now. 

Well. Class 5 got over. And the girl got over Class 5. Where everyone was crying in the bus at the prospect of leaving their beautiful class and lovely class teacher, the girl was the one person who wasn't. She tried hard to, but she couldn't.

The acceleration of Life and it's moments are best left not described, because comparing it to anything, even the swiftest rollercoasters in Wonderla and Disneyland, won't give you the inkling of the idea of its immensity. The rest of the years passed by like a blur of technicolor. Ladies and Gentlemen, I shall now skip directly to Class 9. 

The Interact Club was easily the biggest thing that had happened to me ever since I lost the Prefect Badge I loved. Yes. The girl had changed. Oh she had, She no longer cared. She knew who were there for her and who weren't. Her views, her perspectives. Her values. Her friends. Oh yes. She had friends.
Natasha was in the Interact Club with me. Someone I didn't know. Never knew. She too, had become a different person. Our stories however, varied. 
We got to know each other better. Something I had wanted since Day One. The girl I had heard so much about. Her sweetness, her character. I wished I had gone and talked to her that day.

But as time passed by, the illusions begun to crack. I no longer saw the perfect girl many envied. I saw someone who was trying just as hard to fit in as I once was. She wanted friends, she wanted support in times of trouble. She had people close to her, and most of them weren't right. For the first time in my life I realized I was wrong; Our stories did not vary. Her story was just stuck on some pages before mine.

I was on Page "Don't Care. Simply Glare." She was on "Everyone Cares.Everyone Stares". Not a surprise. She was always a slow reader. :P
Natasha is one girl I thought I had the fortune to play counselor to. Giving her my half baked advice and feeling a sense of accomplishment. Making her realize her hidden, untapped potential. She was also the one girl that proved all my assumptions wrong.

I wasn't the counselor here.

Her constant praise, her constant appreciation, I was taken aback. I read all of our chats and every single one of them spoke of a person that couldn't possibly have been me. She puts pressure on my weak points, on the confidence that still isn't there. And that brain which has been labelled "dumb" by some?
Well. It has a whole lobe of common sense.
She is Superwoman. Her super power is to make people feel better about themselves. Her "Sup" is something I look forward to every day, because someone is there to clean up all the shit my life spews after giving me false hope. Yes, I realize I shouldn't treat her like a toilet cleaner. I can't help it if she does it for free, right?

She listens to my boring stories and my dreams about oblivion and serendipitous incidents, even though she doesn't understand half of it. She sees herself as a tough nut to crack when it comes to beating people at speech and arguments. I see a butterfly's chrysalis. I just wish that someone, the correct force of Nature, helps her emerge out of the cocoon with colors as bright and blinding as the sunlight I love. The things she says sometimes? My eyes widen, like they had on the first day of Class 5.

Her drive, her determination will get her places. One day, she will step out of the oblivion her eyes live in, which she very boringly calls "her comfort zone", and rise like a beautifully composed......"cake".

This is exactly what happens when you run out of metaphors at 12 in the night.

She texts me one night and proudly tells me how she gave her name for Hindi Debate Anchoring, something which makes her legs tremble and her tongue stammer. The admirable part is, she knows she may screw up, but she is hellbent not to. She knows it's a baby step for the already talented, but for someone like her, it's a spark to dry wood, which will one day flame up and bring down buildings with its ferocity. 

The cool part of the flame will forever remain, the one you can pass your entire hand through, which solely exists to give light to the lives of the dark. To anchor not just a debate, but hope, encouragement, friendship, trust and appreciation.

To anchor "life".

 

Paper Boats 5

Thanks to inconvenient timing, you would find me not at school with the other kids, but sitting on my own porch , with my old art guru.

Unlike other kids, we didn't need to face the hardships of getting different chalk to work on mud. We had a proper slate with brand new chalk, a drawing book for sketching, a box of bright paint and horse hair brushes. The abnormal attraction between new things and the human nature got better of me, and while Guruji spoke to my mother, I idly twirled the pencils in my hand and made spirals on my exposed calf with the soft brushes.
Then he turned his attention to me. He surveyed me from top to toe, and exclaimed "Hello!"
A bit taken aback, I smiled nervously and in a barely audible tone I said "Hello, sir."
My mother shot me a disapproving look. What? He wasn't a big fan of Namaste!

He  cocked his head to one side and surveyed my sister and I, with wide eyes and just the curve of a smile. It amused him, perhaps, to see how much we had grown. My assumptions were confirmed when he shook his head with a slightly wider smile than before and said, "However much we think we're prepared, somehow Age finds ways of surprising us."
Yes, it did, indeed. We grew lean and tall, with more defined features and a distinct voice, the only fragments of our childhood forms remained in our minds, in faded old photographs. But he managed to remain exactly the same. How some things change, and some things don't.

We sat down and begun the class. He showed me the techniques he had once taught me, years ago, all over again. The way you use boring arithmetic signs to make a flower, and the simplest way to turn marks of sorrow, tears, were into blooming lotuses.
He gave my sister the same withering look he used to shoot her when she used to complete a drawing a two year old could have interpreted better. The only difference was, this time he looked at me and said, " She hasn't changed, has she? She still plays about like it's a joke." He shook his head sadly. "She...did not grow up"
When we started to draw the leaves, he had taught me that the veins look like a lot of aligned "V"s intersected by a line. He used to keep saying "bhee" instead of "vee", sleepily, as if drugged by the monotonous, repetitive sound, until you couldn't possible accommodate anymore "bhee"s.

At the end of every drawing, (satisfactory by his levels, or it's counted as a scribble), he used to gleefully fold up both his sleeves and pick up the pen to survey the one thing which was worth a thousand words. Then, with a flourish, he used to write "Very good!" and add his full signature, complete with the date, in the most sophisticated handwriting, in the fraction of a second.
Did I mention my sister didn't even get one of those?
It was as if just a few minutes had flown by when he was ready to leave. At last, he looked at my mother, shook her hand and said. "This place is very far from where I live. If they weren't old students, I would never have come. I felt obligated to come to your house, because once you start to pursue an art with a student, it's just not a class-it's a relation."
He left, and my eyes followed his silhouette in the slowly darkening evening sky.

On the day of our next class, our eagerness was cut short by my mother's anxious tone. The old man, while coming here, had become a victim of a heart stroke, and somehow his entire right side, was paralyzed.
My mother quickly took out our clothes. "Change. We're going to see him."
Astounded by my mother's determination, I asked her why.
Without looking at me, she said,"He said it himself. It just wasn't a class anymore, it was a relation. If he can come after all these years for his long lost relatives, we must do that as well."
My sister's half-baked, filmy magazine knowledge kicked in as a bonus. "A one sided relationship does not work." She added, smugly.
I shot my mother a look and snorted. She was giving her the all-too-familiar withering look. 

After a torturous one hour journey we reached his humble dwelling. The door was barely tall enough to let my mother in, and we crept in silently. He was lying there, his eyes were the only thing that acknowledged us as we entered the room.
I looked around and saw all his best paintings, cheaply framed, yet adorning the walls in a way the most expensive decorations could not. My eyes fell on his right hand, useless and contorted, which would never be able to draw again. 

He sighed. He knew he was old, and something like this was coming, but he hadn't known acceptance would be so hard. We accumulate wisdom over the years sometimes to share, sometimes to prepare ourselves for the coming worst. Yet, the work it does to cushion the shock is negligible.
As if confirming my assumptions again, he repeated with a pained smile. "However much we think we're prepared, somehow Age finds ways of surprising us."

Paper Boats 4

As usual, I walk outside the house, and things start running into me.
First, there was this rickshaw, The same torn flaps, ragged sunshade, with the faded picture of a modelling Katrina at the backside. The driver had one of those rural model phones with unbelievably loud speakers and nothing called earphones. It passes by sharply, just near my feet, scaring the hell out of me, blasting Bhojpuri songs.

Then the neighbor's dog comes to nibble my toe, and he has this uncanny habit of lying down with his belly exposed to you, so you could pet him, and the minute you shower him with affection, he starts pissing. Yes, you got that right.
My lame ferret bangs into me, and quickly darts away to a more respectful distance, and that aunty next door who has an unhealthy obsession with my cheeks and hair, appears out of nowhere.
Going outside, is a disaster.
Off the pakka and onto the kaccha streets, I walk along the sides and admire how our area had the traditional Indian rural village look, but was probably way more developed than most so called "urban" cities. A well connected network of roads, a flotilla of canoes, landscaping foliage, and excellent irrigation for the always flourishing crops.

Some houses were even at the side of the roads, huts rather, with long rooms inside and children playing. My ferret resided in there. A few children sat on the porch with an old man, learning to sketch with chalk on the mud.

There was a time when drawing and color fascinated me. I pestered my mother so much for it that she got me a teacher.He was this old guy, who came from very far off, dark, sunbaked skin, a crazed look in his eyes and Einstein hair. All he looked for in a person was "interest". All you would need to do was get that glassy eyed look when you doodle nonsense, and voila! He wants to teach you.
He was the guy who I'd like to thank for my neat handwriting.
Then, well, I outgrew the phase and Ma discontinued it.
I went up to the kids and watched their classes for a while. Nobody objects when I do so, because I'm "Bade Sahib". The kid at the center was drawing the ice cream cone wrong.

I took the piece of chalk, and gently corrected it. He stopped me.
"What's the point when the rain's going to wash the beauty away?"
I gave him a half smile, half astounded look. The kid was barely five years old.
The drawing teacher, a lady with white air and deeply unsettling eyes, also enjoyed my company. I entertained them with jokes and puns, occasionally using my fingers to smudge chalk lines for a smoky, shaded effect to beautify the pictures. Their laughs and snorts reminded me so much of the fun me and my sister used to have at our own drawing classes.

That evening, I was found clutching my mother's foot.
She was holding a thali of hot, molten ghee, and was getting seriously alarmed as drops started to trickle down the plate and scald her exposed toes.

"What do you want? Get out of the way you pest!"
"Pleeease?"
"What?! Ouch" Another drop.
"I want my drawing classes back."
"You're too old for it! Aah!" This time, a huge tablespoon full.
Practically in tears, she said "Whatever you want. Just let me go now, will you?"

****************2bc**************

Paper Boats 3

I blinked my eyes to shake that image from my mind.
I  missed Dada. Resting my head on his lap, which had the lovely comforting fragrance old people wore, of age and termites. I still recall him slipping money from the folds of his kurta to me, under my father's very nose, for buying my books. Papa adored Dada, he could never say no to anything he said.
So, even though nothing would really happen, It's still fun to share some secrets with your grand dad.

My eyes were watering now. But real men don't, rather can't cry. So, we disguise our pain into strength, and continue taking the world by the storm of progress. But nobody really understands the fact, that God created tear glands inside our eyes to release suppressed emotions, and sometimes, men need that more than anybody.

Have you ever been a source of constant hope and admiration for someone, and then completely shut out because you didn't turn out the way you were expected to be?
That's what happened with me and Papa.

Often when I was a baby, I didn't get everything I needed. So learning from experience, I used to wail my lungs out, until my ayas got sick of me and handed me the damn thing they were refusing. But the minute I got hurt, or really upset, the first person to leave everything he was doing and run to console me, used to be Papa.
He used to sit with Daadi and make her bless me. Take me to school in a royal jeep. Clean my vomit. Change my diapers. But the day I came back with a bruised nose, wailing "Papa! They hit me!", its as if he gave up on me.

All his efforts to make me a strong, able, athletic man proved futile. He took out all his frustration with that leather strap he used to wear around his waist. Little did he know, that there was a fine line between defending and bullying once your arms gained some extra muscle, and bullying was one thing I would never do.
Don't get me wrong. I learnt many lessons on my hard way, the most prime being that trust and love hurts more than a thousand glass shards plunged deep into your heart.
And also, like all special people, I ramble. 

I also make bad, evil plans of revenge. Like right now, standing in front of Papa's study door.
The great oak wood door swung open on me giving it a hefty push. The shelves were lined with books of all kind. Oh, the irony.
I picked up a sheet of paper, crisp and clean, and his favorite fountain pen. I found some glue, opened his drawer, took out a small, passport-size photograph he kept for emergency, and stuck it in the center. I watched as a drop of ink went ploink! on his face, and using my index finger, I drew a cross, as if eliminating his existence in this world anymore. Because the word "death" stings too much to use.

Then I started drawing arrows from his picture, and all the reasons why I detest him poured out. A broken heart, a bloody waist, a scarred face, a dead rabbit, a torn book, and....a crying baby. 
I had enough to fill a whole sheet, and it wasn't something I was happy about. 
The door creaked, announcing perhaps the arrival of a currently unwelcome presence.
It was Ma. I folded the paper into half, but not before scribbling one last, frustrated thing at the bottom of the page.  She stared at it curiously.
"What is it that you're doing here?"
"Nothing..I came here for some paper."
"Why would you need paper?"
"Because I..." Moms are worse than the Delhi police. "was getting bored."
"What has paper.."
"Oh God! I just wanted to build something!" Terribly frustrated, I used my fingers to fold the paper as I was accustomed to since childhood.  "Into a....into a....."

I looked down to the not-so-uncommon creation on my desk.
"I just wanted to build a paper boat. You know, its going to rain, and I wanted something to stick in my scrapbook to commemorate the day."
Ma looked at me, sighed. " You could've asked me. I would have given you newspaper or something. Why waste you Father's office paper for a boat?
Father's office paper. Even paper. Some people just manage to own everything, don't they? 
Tucking the paper boat into my pocket, I walked away. 
................
2bC

Paper Boats 2

God gives girls that grace and figure. In short, he gives them beauty which even guys are jealous of. Somehow my sister looks beautiful and radiant in spite of the fact that her eyes are shining with tears, in her typical Rajasthani ghagra, Dance classes, yeck. Dunno what they see in it.

She looks up and closes her eyes, mutters something, I think thanking God (or Goddess, we have so many I don't really know. )
"Today's going to be a lovely day"
"Why? What's the big deal?"
"You...you don't remember?:"
"If I did, I won't be asking?"
"The very special day they have predicted rainfall! After MONTHS!"
"Sure doesn't look like it." I shrugged, winking at the sun.
She rolled her eyes. "And...Papa's coming home!"
The sky did seem a bit cloudy after that.
So, the prodigal dad returns.

Yes, he had gone, for another court feud, to defend his usually guilty side. This one was the longest, he had been gone for ages now, and everyone was anxiously awaiting his return. 
Well, everyone except me.
Thankfully, he had taken the belt he used to whip me, with him.
I don't know what he wanted me to be. I was always the smartest kid in school, envy of the other kids, an ideal role model in the eyes of parents. But I think he wanted to make me more the "gaming" type. He was always displeased when I entered the house with books and my, if I was a minute late, I would get the lashing of my wildest dreams.

My sister was Papa's Rajkumari. All he ever said and did was mostly about her. He made sure she got everything she needed, and promoted her and her qualities to such an extent that she became the most sought after girl in the whole area. So while hers were of happiness, my tears were of sorrow.

I'm older now, and the lashes have stopped coming. But each time I feel like forgiving my father, I have been successful in reminding myself of how he ruined my childhood. All the hate pours out, and I change my mind.
Every single time.

Rain, however, was a different issue.

We hardly get Indra's blessed natural resource. Sometimes I wonder, what he must do, herding clouds up in the sky. Why can't he let it rain in the deserts?
We'd have more fertile land. So may farmers would be saved. Thousands are committing suicide everyday. All my family does is watch news, so I should know.
But when it does rain, Its often a very magical atmosphere.
I remember when it had last rained. Earlier this year, when Dadda had died. We went to attend his funeral in the blazing heat, and since we belong to the sahib family, we had to wear those English suits. I couldn't maintain my calm demeanor while my underwear was soaked with sweat, so I ran off midway.
And following me, came my father's disapproving stare.

Then the first few drops fell, and the clouds thundered. Petrichor wafted through the air, and midst the sorrow, there came a yelp of euphoria.
Then, Rajmohini, the prettiest woman of the village stood up and said. "Dadda had always loved our dance. He said, when he went to the heavens, he would tell the apsaras to learn something from us.
He is up there now, and the apsaras would want to see an example, surely.
Lets show them!"

Then payels tinkled, and bells around their necks jingled, and the old women of the village broke into a melodious Panihari song.
Strangely, everyone was dancing. My sister took my hand and brought me to the center. Hereby the "center of attention" I danced along with the pretty ladies too.

The whole celebration, was watched over by my Dadda's smiling photograph, glistening with the divine drops of occasional rain. 

*****************************

2BC

Paper Boats

Cold water splashed on my face in the morning. Add to it, the annoyance of the morning sun rays.
Then Ma shouting at you, at the top of her voice, and your sleepy mind magnifies it.
Someone rightly said. Sit at home, and you're a Nikamma. Roam outside, and you're an Awaara.
<sigh> will people ever be happy?

Somehow in Rajasthan, deserts have always ruled. Its either too hot or too cold, and unbearable most of the time.
My father, Shanovar Singh, is the thakur of the area. So we have all you could've have dreamed of, a palatial house, lots of boring Indian food which all foreign visitors fall over, maids which constantly fuss over you, an overanxious mother and a father with a heart of stone.
Do you know once he killed around eighty rabbits and called them "game"?

I frankly love animals. The school I go to, is miles away from the desert, and the atmosphere is comparatively colder. You can hardly see any animals in the desert. Once or twice I have spotted the rare desert fox, peeping out from behind the cactus, its tongue hanging out, but it vanishes as soon as it sees me.
I was acquainted with this lame ferret. As lame in the literal sense, meaning without a leg. 

He wasn't a genuine desert inhabitant- some rich guy had wandered into the desert yelping something about "finding spiritual knowledge". All the children of the village areas went to see this city boy with so much knowledge and books. Little did they know that all those books were fashion magazines.
He had a pet ferret, and thank god ferrets can adapt to the desert climate, because it would've been a tragedy if the poor little cute thing had died in the extreme heat (Of the desert as well as the chaotic mess made when the city guy's parents whisked him away. ) 
Some car ran over him, and even though the village people took him in because the kids were making their lives hell, he wasn't expected to survive. But there he was, walking as if he owns the place...only on three legs instead of four.
We are kind people, and we always leave out some korma and roti for him. We have this mutual understanding, and keep our noses out of each other's business, except when it comes to food of course.
So, coming back to the subject, I was getting really, really, really, really, well, increasing the number of really's won't increase my boredom. 

I ran around the whole house, pretending I was a housefly who was going to attack Mom's laddoos. Buzz I entered the kitchen, cunningly stretched my fingers for a laddoo to "contaminate"....and THWACK!

Where's the love, huh?

However, people are REALLY excited today for some reason, especially the girls. I run down the corridor and find my sister chattering like some monkey. Girls can talk so fast, and they expect us to understand each and every WORD, as if we're the tracks to their Duronto Express.

They're holding a newspaper instead of outdated issues of Filmfare (for a change). I run towards them, to spoil all their fun.
...
<Part 2>

Slips Of Paper And Lumps Of Metal

Yes. It was the seaside.

I remember it oh so well. The waves were getting strong, and I was scared. I felt it was taking you away from me sooner than you were supposed to go.

Then you touched the tip of your pinky finger with mine, like you'd seen my girlfriends do with me. A "pinky promise." I was surprised. Guys rarely ever do that, and you were so strong, and manly and handsome.

But we sat there, throughout the afternoon till the sunset.

That was the last time I ever noticed the beauty of sunset again.

The sun gleamed like a gold coin rolling away from me. I ran to catch it, you ran behind me, huffing and puffing. You were exhausted, yet you didn't stop until I did.

The scary waters were now luring me in. You never minded my mood swings, after all, you could do anything in the world for me.

We waded in, ankle deep. I shut my eyes, and we crossed pinkies again. We stood there, perfectly in sync, connected, telepathic, until all my fears floated away with the water.

The wind played with my oh so frizzy hair, yet you told me I was perfect. You said they were "curly", and curly was beautiful and fun.

You said, I don't resemble those ice hearted popular girls that way. I was different, and that I should love being different.

You were forbidden cupcakes, yet you ate a big chocolate chip one with me, because you know eating your favorite dessert alone can be oh so bad.
I tiptoe, and kiss you on the cheek, your eyes twinkle. I beg you to come inside, but you don't, because Ma doesn't like you with me anymore. I try the horrid way out. I start crying and saying that you don't love me. I said all the promises you made were false. Your eyes widen as you watch me run inside my house. I just know you heard Ma, because she yelled oh so loud "Did he hurt you? You won't go back to him anymore, you get me?!"

6 years later, I remember each and every moment I spent with you, and I can only wish you could see me, hug me tight before I go to college and do the most unfamiliar things in life.
You were all the fun and excitement I had in my life, and my first friend. As I look in the mirror, I see my eyes shining, with tears, and I remember the stars we used to see in the water.
Because I remember running to the hospital, screaming, brushing past everyone, into your room. You were sweating terribly, and the AC was oh so cold. The mask on your face was so tight, it was leaving marks around your mouth. You started crying when you saw my face, for the first time ever, and you held my hand and said "I'm scared". 

I said, "Its okay, you'll be with me forever"
"I'm not scared of dying. I'm scared I have lost you. Will you forgive me?"
I laugh nervously " For what?"
"You remember.....that night, I didn't tell you....of course I love you"
I started crying again, then laughing, or both. " I wasn't serious. It was just a prank to get you to come in. I know you love me." Now I was crying bad. "I'm sorry. I let Mom keep you away from me, all these years, and now..." I choked, "now..."
I hooked my pinky around his tightly, as his pain passed. 
"I'll....always..lo..."
I cried till my eyes were all red and infected. He couldn't even finish what he wanted to say.
I don't remember much, it was this dark, distorted blur after that. I recall yelling at Mom, blaming her. I remember the inquest. And all the money he left me.
They say I'm some princess now, with all that money.
I look down at all of it.
It hasn't replaced you. It was supposed to.

You were worth more to me than some slips of paper and lumps of metal.
I'm not going to go on about what they can't buy me. They can buy me nothing I want.
I want my first hero. My first love. My first friend. My first pony. My first protector.
I want the thing I loved most in the world, back.
And I loved you, Dad.

Confluence.

There was a certain character I invented, in a fit of boredom one day.
His name was Ouingu. He was small, round and shiny. His head was slightly flat, so he looked like a semicircle, but not quite. He had two tiny Zoo Zoo hands and legs.
The only word he knew, was Meep.

He wanted to tell the world so much, but never could. When you have much to say, and you can't, the silence can be deafening.

Ouingu was from the future. He was obviously trying to enrapture us with visions of good times, bad times, evils and wonders. His "Meep" meant a lot to me. But to others? It was just an annoying sound.
So Ouingu did something. He actually applied a lesson from his history books. Just like our ancestors, Ouingu learnt to sketch and paint.
His drawings started from the basic stuff. The window. .My parents. My brother. My runaway cat. Me.
In all of the pictures we were washing clothes by the river. Even my runaway cat.
They developed under the light of skill and creativity. Da Vinci level, even. Then one day, they stopped making sense.
Random splashes of red and blue. Sometimes a plain white canvass, A yellow circle. I didn't pay much attention. Modern abstract art, you know.
But, after a few days, my heart started sinking with grief. My life was going well. I didn't know what was wrong. Then I found Ouingu crying in a corner of my brain. I had totally forgotten about him.

His tears, were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Swirling rainbow patterns, specks of black and white, like ying and yang. 

I closed my eyes, and in the kindest, softest voice I asked him, " Ouingu, what is the matter? Isn't the craziness and happiness of my mind giving you euphoria too?"

The sobbing stopped. He expected me to understand. I didn't.
His soft little fingers touched my brain's sensory nerves. I blacked out. 
*********
It felt like I was inside one of Ouingu's teardrops.
Rainbow patterns swirled around the walls. I was hurtling backwards. When my body was expelled from the travelling dimension, I found myself in a shiny, sunny room.
Really. It was as if the walls were made up of sunlight. 

The room was covered with things. Important things. The sword from the Indian Battle of Panipat, A red Stygian cap, A model of the Holy Grail. And Ouingu's paint set. I was puzzled by the sudden contrast.

Suddenly, people started appearing. Not only wise, wrinkled faces, but young adults, even children. They sat on a round table. Just like King Arthur's. A debate of the wisest minds of the world began. They fought and argued and Ouingu stood there in a corner, sketching.
Then from some where, a green gas started filling the room. All the idealists began to choke. Soon, everyone began to evaporate. I know it sounds weird. But still.
Pretty soon the room was empty. And Ouingu had nothing to draw. His sketches fell to the floor.
I recognized them.

I looked at them closely for the first time.
Me and my family weren't washing clothes. We were washing the colors of nations' flags.
These were all the ideas he had shared with me.

*******************************************

Ouingu was fueled with ideas. The arguments and debates. When the vapors of ignorance and flaneur habits floated into them, they simply stopped. Forever.
With that, stopped enlightenment. Art. Culture. Design. Religion, to some extent.
Ignorance is promoted. Ignorance that destroys nations.
You see, all the important things of the world, have a confluence.
A point very easy to reach,  Just imagine. Watch all the colors, from different fields, blend together. Da Vinci style.

Their strength together, the depth of the brown they make together, is sometimes greater than the ignorance.

Mix a little hope, you have Rangeela glitter shades. 

The Cloak Of Change.

.

Change.

Evolution.

Revolution.

Rebirth

<Swoosh>

<Sweet Breeze>

<Fairy Dust, with that magical, tinkling sound>


A hand appears out of nowhere, and pulls nowhere in the air. Not gripping anything. Then suddenly, lines and creases appear. You can see an invisible fold being pinched. Then the hand tugs hard as that pinched cloth of invisibility gives away.

The black and white world of prejudice gets torn down, and with it it brings a colorful scene of "present".

Where one rupee can hardly buy you anything, and people refer to thousands of rupees as "mere".

Technicolor.

You blink twice as more as you used to, because things are swiftly changing before your eyes can even adjust. Wild, splashes of color, and small houses become huge buildings, a toy windmill becomes a wind turbine. "Fun" is replaced by "Progress", and children just don't mindlessly play anymore.


This is what Change, has brought for us.

While giving us things which make times better, Change has brought about with it sorrow. People are getting poorer and poorer everyday, the river of tears is increasing in volume. The rich are lost in a dream- and the reality checks hurt.

Among all this boring, hard admission stuff, It has also subjected us to a new dawn. At the very beginning of a new day, the things we decide to do before we sleep, are a million times more different than what our parents or grandparents used to decide. While we think of changing Profile pictures, our ancestors found it difficult to change into a new pair of clothes everyday.


Just humble things.

Basically, our priorities were WAY different, if you know what I mean, and everything reflects it. Meanwhile, there is also a change in the human psychology, something I found very interesting upon realization.

Going old fashioned, is suddenly very cool. Like, using simple old English language instead of the urban abbreviations, floor length gowns from the 70s,  listening to old pop hits and most importantly, reading classics. You get instant admiration when you talk about Bob Marley or Gone with the Wind.



Moreover, we still come upon countless instances where the old culture influences our new ideas and society. Our religious customs, for one. They haven't changed for the modern man, reasonable or unreasonable. Scientists do puja for heaven's sake.


Many Indian hospitals insist nurses to wear white sarees as uniform, as the old nurses of India used to. It is something that we Indians should be proud of, because if one nurse from an Indian hospital stands in a row of nurses from different nations, she'll stand out from the rest of the dress wearing nurses.


Change always influences, harms, but never takes. Its us, who ignore the old customs, make trendy new ones, and blame Change for it all. 

Hanging On.

I was on my way home, I saw someone weeping on the side of the road, I hung on.
It was around midnight, but the beggar was cold and crying, so I hung on.
My mother would've probably killed me, but we’re women, we’re born for compassion, so I hung on.
Defense classes were tiring, and six hours without food was agony. But he needed it more, so I gave it to him, I hung on.
The joy and relief on his face as he devoured each and every bite of my tiffin was rewarding.  I hung on.

It was a dark, deserted alley with a humid weather to match, and my full sleeved long dress was clinging to my skin with sweat.  I still hung on.
I stuffed the tiffin in my bag, and hurriedly made my way home. I was scared; but I hung on.
How was I to know that a gang of men would block my way?  Danger vibes were lurking around the corners, like a pack of hungry wolves eyeing prey.  I closed my eyes, prayed, and hung on.
Times were bad for girls ,as the gang surrounded me.  I was pinned to a wall and groped everywhere, my tolerance was tested. But I just had to hang on.

Courageous enough to break their hands and legs and noses, flipping them upside down with strength that put them to shame.  I had nothing to fear; I won the fight. Punishment was approaching swiftly for them; they just had to hang on.
Picking myself off the floor, and helping my dignity up, I ran home. Mama’s arms were around me as I sobbed. She didn't scold me even once. Justice had been self attained, I hung on.
My house wasn't left alone after that; I was on every screen with the guilty, telling my story to these..people with cameras.  My heart was sinking, but my head was held high. 

Each time I feel like giving up during those terror seizures, the nightmares, I see some other girl, who wasn't so fortunate. She couldn't fight and had faced it all, and now her parents were running to the corrupt police stations.  All she could do was cry in frustration.  But her survival gave millions of other girls strength.
The only time when suicide wouldn't be considered cowardice. But we’re born to be heroic, saviors. We’re born to stay and fight for our right to protection.

Yes, I had saved myself.  But I was still broken inside.  While my heart was relieved,  my eyes weren't shining. When my mind said it was safe, my perspiration contradicted it.
I would never again consider the world to be a beautiful, safe place. But  I had people who believed in me, who would be heartbroken  if I gave up.  And just like billions of other girl victims, I’m not enjoying anymore.  Since that fateful night, I am and I always will be,
Hanging On.

Till I Die. 

"I Know"

"Its too hot today"
" I know"
"The weather isn't getting colder"
"I know"
"I wish the weather gets colder"
"I know"
" I'm going mad with heat!"
"I know."
"Just what kind of an answer is that?!!"
"I know"
" While most normal people say why?, you say this. Good answer!"
"I know"

Nowadays, you can either be a knowbody, or a nobody. And its just not the usual, droning, bookish stuff either.
People are progressing deeper and deeper towards development, and the unique approaches surprise us everyday. Science and literature, sore enemies, have started to actually relate, people are now comparatively more aware of what a mirage "magic" is. Fairy tales have become outdated, and in a world where now everybody gets exceptional marks, you have to know what else counts.
You seemingly know every page of your chapter. You seemingly know all the questions coming in the exams. You seemingly know how much you're going to get, so its assumed that you seemingly, can predict your future. 

"The future belongs to those, who know where they belong." No. This doesn't mean sharp, strategic planning, prodigies, achievements. This means knowing actually who you are and why are you in this world. All of us have a role to play. Doctors save lives, engineers build them, technicians power them, architects shelter them, and idiots liven them up. We can decide what we want to do, what we want to choose.
The hardest challenge life throws at us is always in the form of a choice. Since our choices make us who we are,  and shape us, we have to cross fingers and make sure its the right one.

I was browsing this website called TED : Technology, Entertainment, Design. Its a platform for sharing ideas which can change the world. Sort of academic, the cleverness amuses me. They made sure not to include "study", "education", "literacy" or any other academic word in the title.

There are amazing videos, of manipulating DNA of microorganisms to make super solar batteries or cells, making personalized skin tissue models of our organs and testing cures for different ailments, diseases. Moreover, its a lovely place to gain insight into the more complicated matters of the world. Everyone, even the dumbest ass, wants to know. They may not want to know how to calculate x or the vectors and scalars, but they certainly want to know which company hair dye did the Principal use today morning, or even the peculiar, strange meal times of their obese friends. Curiosity is the most wonderful as well as the most fatal flaw our human nature possesses.

So if we abandon school, sit at home doing futile things, sever all connections from the outside world and marry our TV and video games, will you end up being the king, or his attendant? Or none?

I don't know about you, but trust me, I Know.

The Nightingale.

It was the worst day of my life.
French class was the best place to ease my frustration. I sat on the last bench, quiet, with my eyes and fist clenched shut. Then a figure sat beside me. I had to look up only for a fraction of a second before the whole story and a river of tears came flowing out.

An incident I swore I won't speak to anyone about, I told her. When I was done, I felt no regret, no fear. Because I knew she wouldn't tell. I knew she wouldn't let anyone know what a pathetic condition she had found me in. She never tried to console me once, in fact, she very easily stated the pure simplicity of the situation. It instantly made me feel better. It was she, who made me realize that sympathy in the form of pity was the worst thing you could offer to someone in trouble.

The kindest heart I have ever come across. She was always there, beside me when I needed her most. No, I never showered her with praise, or flattered her, or called her my best friend. She was still there.

I often felt angry about things that have been unfair to me. I tend to say bitter things about the people I care about, and later it subjects me to a sleepless night. She stopped me from doing that. She always told me to let go, and nobody's perfect. There exists a backbiter in everyone, some great person had said. I can't even imagine how it feels to have been proven wrong. 

I have seen her face glow, with happiness and delight, each time some less fortunate child got a new toy when we went for Social Services together. I have listened to her simple requests and refusals at doing something extravagant for her, and have admired her each time for it. I have tried hard to learn some of her best qualities, her attitude and character, and have failed miserably every time.

Right now, while most friends would be on the verge of tears with happiness, she's just going to be shaking her head in disapproval, because she would just think that all this was unnecessary and pompous and showy, and above all, untrue. After all, I've portrayed her as an angel. I was giving her compliments I didn't mean, just to make her happy. That itself was a heinous crime for her.

Saanchi Agarwal, my Florence Nightingale.

Yes. She's allowed to disapprove and blush all she wants. But its her birthday today, and it was the perfect excuse for me to tell her how much I think of her. How lovely it is to tell her about the marvelous books I've read. Above all, how wonderful it is to have her as a friend.

I'm not comparing you to someone utterly and overly saintly. I'm doing that because you are my Nightingale. You see, you came up to me with utmost cautiousness, with just the right amount of tenderness and firmness to make me stop cursing myself, with a lantern of hope shining brightly from you.

Happy Birthday, Saanchi. Because you deserve each and every bit of this. And also because you've always wanted to read my blog. And also because I really love you. :) 

The Excitable Little China Doll.

"एक चतुर नार कर के सिंगर 
मेरे मन के द्वार ये घुसत जात 
हम मारत जात, अरे हे हे हे 
यक चतुर नारकर के सिंगर... "

1968, Saira Banu gave us something to appreciate. An epitome of charm and grace. 
Yes, Bindu won many hearts in the Hindi movie "Padosan".The moody, competitive, winner-of-hearts was our selection for the Annual Day, to pay tribute to the people who so gallantly appeared on stage and gave us the best time of our lives.  Now to choose the people who would act it out.

I'm not a huge fan of Annual Day. The last time I participated, I ended up losing my spectacles, my mom's favorite dupatta and my skirt ! (Who does that?) So yes, this time I wasn't exactly the most eager participant.
But the fun gradually lured me in, and in a matter of few days, me, Ms. Anti Annual Day, was sitting in the hall, waiting for the next act to begin. You must have guessed. It was this very song from Padosan, and I was to see the cast for the very first time.

A very melodious, classic "ta ta din ta " begun the song after a  hour of tummy-aching comedy.  The source was a senior boy playing the lead on the harmonium, with my best friend, Trina, beside him, playing Bindu.

I watched in astonishment as singer began to gesticulate the notes of the song, and both Trina's and his feet began to rise up and down in perfect unison. 
She was amazing at doing this shoulder thing, as in, she moved her shoulder blades left and right while stretching her back bone upwards with a dazzling smile. As some of my friends stated correctly, the attitude and grace came naturally to her.

Then the song started. The hall, usually jam packed and noisy, and least sensitive to the people performing, was unusually quiet. Trina leaped lightly around the whole stage, as if made up of air, while the boy with the harmonium followed her doing classic kathak steps. 
The song itself commanded attention and celebration, and the actors were doing the most wonderful job of nailing it.


Then the last, hyper beat came, and the two opponents came to fight each other. Amidst the angry "hmm! hmm!" Trina moved in between the two, flailing her arms wildly and sending them toppling backward. Then with two more graceful leaps and a smile, she finished with a flourish and looked up. The hall was dead quiet for one magical moment, before it boomed with spontaneous applause. 
I still remember her jumping high in the air shouting "Woo Hoo!", as people couldn't stop clapping for her. The spell bounding, astonishing part was, that we had this dance a billion times after that, and she evoked the same reaction every time.
I mainly wrote this for her to let her know how much people think of her and her talents.
She had always been hyperactive and jumpy and chirpy. She had always laughed the loudest at my jokes, and when we walked beside each other on the street, we were stopped every time, and asked " Are you both sisters?". The warmest question I have ever received.When she asked for her biography, I was stumped. I didn't know what title would I give her. And these aren't even proper biographies. Then I remembered a china doll my grandma used to own, probably still does. It was pure white, with a perfect, graceful figure and the happiest expression, holding her heart on one hand. I had a tendency of dropping it every time. And along with the heart, it used to shatter into two pieces. 

Grandma used to come with a tube of Fevicol and glue the pieces back together again. The china doll used to stay in the show case, brand new again, happy again. 
Trina is exactly like that. She is a tiny little beautiful thing, who is very sensitive and breakable. People hurt her uncountable times, and she shatters into so many pieces. Eventually someone comes along, with a warm smile and kind emotions, and glues her back together with her own tears and theirs, but if you just look closely enough, you'll see the fine cracks on her, which'll probably always be there.

But you know what makes her such a great person? She'll always smile. She'll occasionally make the cracks visible, but she'll always be cheerful.

And her heart, will always be out, in her hand, to give out to those who need her.