Vagabond

                      
He grew up quickly. 

Having learned the tricks of the trade, street smart and savvy, he got absorbed into the underworld like fish to water. 

He soon got into trouble with the law, was dragged numerous times into the police station, his buddies bailed him out, but he remained unfazed.

Soon his drinking got worse and he became a chronic alcoholic;thrown out of the accommodation he shared  with his live-in partner, disheveled and unshaven,  he began  living off the streets.

All because his Mom had abandoned him as an infant, she was a teen then;he had no anchor, no mooring, he turned out to be a vagabond.

Retreat

                     

He walked back slowly,as if in a daze,heart broken, his mind blank. He had prepared so hard for this interview, which would make his career in this top multinational company. Handsome, smart, well qualified, an engineer with an MBA to top it, he was sure he would just breeze through. 'Come in,' a familiar voice sang, as he knocked on the the door to the room where she sat, behind the big ebony desk with CEO written in bold letters on a placard kept on it. Their eyes met and he was dismissed immediately with a wave of her dainty hand without another word;she was his ex-girlfriend.
(5 sentence story)

Mai kaisi lagti hoon..

                    
'Mai kaisi lagti hoon?'asked this upcoming pretty young actress.
I happened to glance through her FB profile the other day.
'Wow.Kya baat hai!'
'Hot'.
'Super'.
The comments followed.

Then she would appear in another avatar.In the next photo.Another day.
'Ab mai kaisi lagti hoon?'
'Waaah'.

I scrolled down her page.She didn't have any other topic.But this.Sometimes a religious photo would wind its way in.
She is so pretty.I don't blame her.And the guys,her die hard fans.About 9000 of them.

But I wondered.Why did she not put in one intelligent post? Only pictures of herself in various outfits.She's plainly addicted to those comments,I realized.

But then,it came to me.How could I blame her?I would end up like the fox who couldn't reach the grapes,so it complained that it was sour and walked away.

To be honest,I wouldn't mind having so many fans myself.But not for my looks.Then I wouldn't be able to age gracefully.I'd have to botox myself every fortnight.Constantly worry about competition from other pretty young things.I'd have to look young,though actually I'm not.Like poor Shahrukh has to in his films.With comic results.

I really want to be known for wit,humor.Godly values,sheer humaneness.In my writings.But yet,I must admit.I am as vain as she is.
I do look for those red notifications.I'm kinda addicted to them.I love them when they're aplenty.They make my day.
I'm no different from her,I conclude finally.
'Mai kaisi likhti hoon?'

A saree state of affairs

Its the most versatile garment.Can make the plainest looking girl look drop dead gorgeous within minutes.

Saree's voted the most attractive garment in the world.It totally flatters your figure as none other can.
Sushmita Sen immortalized it, as the sexy,saree clad, chemistry teacher, whom Shahrukh found impossible to take his eyes off,without humming a tune,whilst imagining her twirling around in the breeze,hair flying,pallu waltzing in 'main hoon na'.
How lovely reel goddesses look,as they tiptoe down red carpeted aisles,hair cascading down their waist,kanjipuram or chiffon clad,then up the steps to collect their trophies!
Vidya Balan's my favorite.

Yet, to the uninitiated,wearing it can prove to be a complicated process.
I did have my struggling days after my marriage.Wearing it to functions ensured I began at least an hour in advance.Finally I'd walk with trepidation,fearing I'd trip somewhere and self consciously waltz along,neatly picking up the pleats a foot high,while climbing steps.
But the fear was always there.About when the darn thing would slip off,though I knew I had secured it everywhere with pins and all.
But the effort was worth it.Compliments did arrive.

Some time ago,short of time, I'd worn it carelessly.I regretted later.For the flimsy thing slipped off me,in public,to my utter embarrassment.Luckily,there were just a few of my friends around, who laughed at me.No males anywhere in sight.
I rushed to the rest room and did it all over again.

After years,I can now wear it confidently within minutes,though during some bad days,I'd still struggle. My poor hubby would patiently wait. And wait.
Nowadays he sighs at its mere mention. 'Oh,that? Just wear something else'.

Saree fascinates westerners.Leaving them totally stumped.I remember a white woman behind me in a queue at the airport,describing a saree clad woman in front of me to her male companions. 'She's worn a small shirt,to go along with the rest of her flowing attire.'
She meant the infamous blouse.

Saree has evolved over the years. Starched,crispy cottons,matched with long sleeved blouse, worn by old fashioned women of old have given way to flimsy chiffons, defeating the very purpose of a saree. Reveals more than it hides.
Designer blouses keep shrinking in size by the day. Backless variety is the latest norm.

How then can we poke a finger at a western woman, accusing her of seductive attire?
So much for our double standards.

Wearing a saree's truly an art at what to show, what not to.
Still it remains the most attractive attire on an Indian woman.
And the compliments keep coming.
And coming.

Masterpiece

 
I was shopping one day, when I came across this do-it-yourself kit, in the stationery section. Caught by the design on its front cover, I brought it home.

There was a thin, metal sheet inside, with an engraving tool neatly lying in its slot. A rough design could be visible on the sheet.

I couldn't wait. I picked up the tool and began carving out the already etched design onto the metal sheet. I had to scratch fine lines,and as I did, metal dust began to form, which I swept away with a damp cloth.
I continued carving. A petal became visible, then a flower..finally in an hours time the entire bunch of flowers.
All golden in color. Wow. I loved the effect.

It wasn't difficult. Only needed carving. Persistent.
I framed it and its now hanging on my wall.
'Did you do it?', they ask me, as I proudly nod my head in affirmation.

As I looked at the picture, a thought flashed through my mind. That God is trying out a pattern too in our lives.

He had a preplanned picture of us already in His mind, when we were created. He expects us to humbly yield ourselves to His hands, as He keeps busy carving out the already etched, unique design for each one of us.
We need to only trust Him, that He knows what He's doing and allow the process.

It's different from a painting where the colors can fade or be washed away.But engraving? Its permanent.
The process isn't easy. Its quite painful, lots of our ego will be have to be dealt with firmly.

Hardship in our lives would give way to some shades of grey here, some white there.
Overall the picture would be perfect.

If we keep our focus steady on Him, eventually He'd have a masterpiece in His hands!

The woman in yellow

It was a chilly,wintry December evening.We were at the station in Delhi,waiting to board the Rajdhani express.
My bro-in-law was to get engaged the next day in Mumbai.
The train arrived.People scrambled from all directions to get into the train.They know its not a Mumbai local,which starts in only a few seconds.So why this tearing hurry to get in? I wondered.

We found our way in.Discovering we had the side seats,(which we both hated),we soon parked our baggage under it.I held on to our two year old restless son,as hubby kept himself busy arranging our bags.
The people kept pouring into the A.C compartment.Peak holiday season,I supposed.A well dressed woman soon appeared.She was tall,dark with good features.Her lemon yellow saree with zari border was accentuated with gold around her neck.

A man,shorter in stature,was ahead of her.She bent low, and asked me our seat numbers. Satisfied,she moved on.
It was departure time.The train began moving slowly.
Looking outside,I saw this woman walking alongside the train on the platform.She seemed to be in a tearing hurry when she inquired of me,but now she's moving away,I wondered.
The train picked up speed quickly.The crowd had dwindled.We both relaxed in our seats.Hubby looked cool in his rich,brown overcoat.

We looked around.There was this Marwari family traveling with us.They were busy talking.
A good thirty minutes passed.My man suddenly got up from his seat and looked up at the berth above.
'The briefcase is missing',he declared in his quiet, unassuming tone.
'What?'
I couldn't believe.
'You mean to say,you kept your briefcase on top, just like that?' I queried.
'Yes',he replied with a sheepish look on his face.

The Marwari lady spoke up.She had seen a man clutching the briefcase handle as he stood in line to move on.He fit the exact description.

He was the woman's man.
The woman in yellow.
Her accomplice.
Their modus operandi-the attractive woman distracts a gullible victim,while the man walks away with the belongings.

The Marwari lady wasn't to be blamed.How could she possibly know the baggage was ours?
The T.C shrugged off our complaints.'Nothing can be done',he admitted.
I looked at my man.
'It's all because of your overcoat',I cried,exasperated.
'Of course not',he replied indignantly.How could his coat attract attention?

On estimation,we discovered we lost no cash,but the clothes he was to wear at the function the next day,a pair of leather slippers and a yashica camera.The camera's loss was rued,it was a good one.
We helplessly resigned ourselves to our fate.So cleverly conned by experts in the field.
I wonder where they are now.Are they still in operation?
Friends,do watch out if they ever come your way.


(p.s-pic of woman-for representation purpose only)

Like old wine

               
I'm going down memory lane
along path strewn with rose petals
though here n there a few thorns
life with you's been never really a pain.

They beckoned that we talk
When I first met you at our home
as we reached the room's door
was dumbstruck when you said,'Pehle aap'.

My heart said you're the one
we said yes,they went ahead
blessed by Him,wished by many
how quickly things were done.

Life began on high note
hasn't diminished a wee bit 
cause you my precious
haven't changed a bit,I vote.

I remember on that train
when rough guys barged in
I began to cry,they left me
as soon as you called out my name.

Now we were three,then four
you learned your job so well
feed them,change them
so I could rest my back so sore.

So practical,always looking ahead
very discerning
you knew people instantly
while I by feelings was led.

I look for words in your silence
am now adept at noting every frown
only your beautiful smile
can speak of volumes so very dense.

Out on work,you go outstation
how I miss you,honey
each day,every second
becomes so difficult to mention.

You working so hard, 
I not as much
but you tell me
to this pay no regard.

You're gentle,so caring
I the queen,you the king
are words I reply
to those who ask how I'm faring.

Years have passed
our love still grows
as old wine gets sweeter
am sure very long it'll last.

No words can truly say
how much you mean to me
my sweetheart,my hubby
you truly make my day!

Audience of One

                       
She rummaged through the pile of debris.
Finding it ,she took it in her loving arm..
Held it there for as long as she could.
After a good 45 minutes had passed,it breathed its last.

Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she bent.
To blend the dead body again with the trash.
Her misdemeanor soon discovered,
She was fired. She dared to disobey orders.

She had worked in this nursing home,actually an abortion clinic.
Watched scores of unborn babies mauled to death.
Some women brought in late, still had it done.
If the baby refused to be out as desired, it was cut into pieces and removed from the mother's womb.

Brutal,isn't it? isn't fiction,but real. 
Happening simultaneously in abortion clinics all over this nation.
Thanks to its draconian law supporting abortion.
Murder of millions of unborn innocents,numbering easily the population of U.K.

The crowd cheered.Their leader smiled.
Waved his arms,back on the podium.
His intelligence,his rhetoric probably got him in.
Little did they realize,he had blood on his hands.

The audience clapped.
The nations clapped.
But One looked away, 
His Maker.

The flowers,the accolades would soon wither,brickbats could come his way.
Then why did he so crave for man's approval?
He'd played to the gallery
Instead of performing to the audience of One.

The Indelible Image

                                  
"Please give me a roti," begged the boy.He was of slight build,wheatish complexion approximately our age.
Hearing some noise outside,my sister and I had opened the front door.
It was pouring cats and dogs.

"I'm hungry.Please give me something to eat."
His palms held out.
There was something so pathetic about his face,we stood transfixed.We quickly found something to share with him and watched as he trudged away slowly.

There was such a vulnerability about him,we still cannot forget, even after so many years.What exactly was going on in his life?
Was he an object of unwarranted physical and emotional abuse? At the hands of his drunk father.

Did he watch his mother being beaten up every night? Did he go days without food? What made him walk all the way through our spacious colony in such pouring rain? Unanswered questions plagued our tender minds.He should have been one of us,talented,educated given the best life could offer him.He shouldn't have been a vagabond.

We never saw him again.Young people,when you refuse to eat what your mom lays before you,grumbling,do spare a moment to imagine how many kids starve everyday.

I once saw a video of a man who worked in McDonalds or some joint like that,who collected half eaten discarded chicken pieces from the trash bin,and carried the wrapped stuff back home to serve his family and kids to a candlelit dinner.Their faces lighting up as if being given a five star treat.
Heart rending.

There was the story in the papers lately of kids going blind in Mumbai, for lack of nutrition.Their parents,being so poor..some earned only 1000 rupees a month,couldn't feed them properly.

Affluent women,dressed in their best,decorated with makeup even at home, find it so difficult to reach into their fat purses and give an extra rupee to their maids.

Friends,let's be more compassionate the next time we come across someone poor.We could have been in that state too,but for His grace.

As for that boy who haunts me day and night,asking for roti,I do wish,oh so much,that I would meet him one day and that his would be a rags to riches story!

Let go

Like a colorful balloon
she sways to your tunes
fluttering colorfully in the breeze
but the fact is true
she's still held by you.
Let go.

You worked day and night
thought you would be recognized
someone walked away with the honors
leaving you high and dry
only thing left now is to cry
Let go.

You thought your friend would understand
and help you out of this mess
all you got was stone faced silence
no words thrown like a dagger
but visible in his outrageous swagger
Let go.

Now you owe them nothing
but perhaps a hug when they come back
you are a free man
cause you chose 
to let go
and let God.

Shocking!!!!

                  
I have yet to recover from this scene I witnessed a couple of years ago.
Hearing some commotion on the street outside our building, I ran to the balcony. There was some sort of brawl going on among the slum dwellers who resided nearby. 

The noise grew louder and while I watched, a woman suddenly pulled off the clothes of another woman in the crowd. The victim had her young teenaged daughter too with her.

I couldn't get the whole picture, but it seemed they were being accused of some theft somewhere. The daughter's clothes were torn off soon and while other male and female onlookers stared, the duo was paraded along the busy road to the nearby police station totally naked,holding on to their clothes desperately.
Traffic is usually at a peak during morning hours.

I felt my heart sink.

How many perverted eyes may have been gazing at their vulnerability!
How could this be done to these poor women? That too by a woman.
Confirms my theory that a woman's greatest enemy is-
a woman.

I don't know what happened next. But the image lingers with me.
If it was done in a village, I would have understood or perhaps condoned it a bit. This happening in a 'happening' place like Mumbai?
What a terrible punishment for a small crime!

I wonder where those hapless women are.
Will their scars heal?

Kala

                          
"Are you a Malayalee?", she asked me with a lovely smile on her face.
She seemed pleased when I replied in the affirmative.
She was a Tamilian but could speak my language with ease, I learned.
I had made appams and stew for this group of women residing in our building.
kala seemed to be a nice, sweet person.
Short and dark, she carried herself well with a quiet dignity about her.
I didn't know her too well. She had recently arrived with her family on a transfer.
She asked me if I could join her on her daily evening walks.
I was more than delighted with her offer, since I needed a walking partner badly.

Thus began our friendship. Like a tiny bud, slowly blossoming into a lovely, sweet smelling rose.
We cherished those evenings, walking along still, wide roads, away from the hustle and bustle of traffic.
No horns blowing or cars screeching to a halt.
She inevitably began her conversation with, "what did you cook today?"
Then we would gently explore each others' culinary skills.
She seemed to be a good cook and handed me valuable tips.
I still cherish them.
I learned she was good in sports, had done a short stint in the N.C.C.
An artist and was a pretty good singer too.
I encouraged her to begin painting classes at her home, but she promptly dismissed the very idea.

Days passed by.
I discovered she had some discomfort about her mom-in-law, who seemed to dislike her thoroughly. She often talked about her, yet with no bitterness in her voice.
Kala never gossiped. Our conversations usually centered around her family or food. She seemed particularly perturbed about her nice,quiet college going sons.
Their future, their career.

We had this party at her place. I helped her with preparation of the vadas.
Her usual chirpiness was missing that evening.
I wondered why. But didn't venture to ask.
Our walks slowly came to a halt.
As also the trips to the market.

One day I called her up. The phone rang and rang. Nobody picked it up.
I smelt something fishy.
After a few more weeks I could wait no more.
I went upstairs. She lived on the eighth floor.
I rang the bell. Twice. Heard a female voice giving directions.
The door opened. Her husband told me she couldn't meet me now.
Could I come back later?
I couldn't take it anymore.
Proud that I was, I decided never to step into her life again.
She had just insulted me!

One night I had a dream. I saw kala on some kind of a medication.
Then another dream which wasn't a nice one.
I quickly dismissed them.
It had been almost six months. I hadn't met her all this time.
No one knew her whereabouts.
Then I saw her. She had come down to attend the republic day function on our grounds.
She had chopped off her waist length hair.
She answered everyone's queries with her usual shy smile, giving away little.
She greeted me too. I smiled halfheartedly and turned away, still bitter with her.
"Do come over to my place", she invited me beseechingly, as we found ourselves in the lift.
Maybe she felt hurt by what she had done, I reasoned.
I didn't go.
One day she called. She had been to Port Blair. How she had enjoyed it!
A few days later I called her just to give her some information.
Didn't talk much. Hadn't forgiven her yet.

Early one sunday morning, my neighbour called me.
kala was hospitalized the night before. She couldn't breathe.
She was put on the ventilator.
The doctors had given up on her. She was dying.
Of cancer.
I felt my world falling apart.
Numb with shock, I rebuked my neighbour for not informing me.

But it was too late.
An hour later she was dead.
Residents of the entire building were present when her body was brought in.
She looked asleep, draped in her beautiful saree.
Calm as always.

I felt remorse flooding my entire being.
I had failed to sense her need for me in her acute distress.
I had completely misunderstood her.
If only I had barged my way into her home in spite of her resistance.
Or even responded to her faint cry for companionship, when she did call.

Now it was too late.
It took me a long time to come out of my grief.
We had been together only four months. But our friendship had been so deep.
She impacted my life in a profound way.
By her life and by her death.

Kala taught me to value life.
And friendship.
To accept and cherish others without pride.
Or prejudice.