For the one that was razed down almost an year ago. Sorry i couldn't do much.

When I think of that day

Tears well up in me

I try not to

But I weep.

How did I wrong you,

I ask.

Why did you do it,

I prod.

Did you not think,

For even a moment, how

I would feel.

The task wasn’t easy,

Even for you,

Oh Mighty Man!

It took great effort.

Days went by when

Pieces of me you tore down.

Had’t you heard of

Mercy? Were you not

Capable of some?

Why did you have to

Pull me down the way you did.

Bit by bit,

Branch by branch,

One portion after another.

I did put up a fight,

Or so you must have thought;

I didn’t really mean to

It was just nature,

For I had lived

A life so long

you could never imagine.

Many summers I have seen

many an autumn too.

Winters I have won over,

Awaiting the promise

of a vibrant new spring.

Sadly, all that you will

Neither know nor comprehend.

With every strike of the axe,

I bled, I ached.

Every stab denuded me

Of my arms, my limbs

I cannot forget even one cut,

One blow. You attempted to

Suck out my life. And you did so.

But my soul lives on.

My spirit you couldn’t even touch,

Oh Mighty Man!

My roots run deep,

Deeper than you think.

You may have

finished me for now,

but I will grow back

‘tis nature. Decades will

Sweep by until I gain

My erstwhile stature.

Do not stop me then

Or Gaia’s wrath you will face.

Not every time will mother nature

Shower her blessings.

Her rage will destroy you.

I pray, shun me not

From the planet earth,

Take heed for I give you life

Value me for what I am

‘cause I am more than just

A mere tree.

le rêve (The dream)

I have always been interested in writing. Journalism as a career option couldn’t have been better suited than to me. Earlier pen and paper were my best companion and later, the ever faithful PC (give or take a few “crash” incidents.)

I want to become a writer, rather I just want to write. I have had my fair share of published works too, from school magazines to newsletters to newspapers to blogs, etc.

In my work, I dream and I dream away. I live my wish to create life with words... to give life to the words and to give such meaning to them that they sparkle and dance as if alive. Words too have a soul. Don’t they? And therefore, books are my best friends. Nothing can better entertain a lonely man than books. They engross you such that you want to go on and on reading.

Thus, I wish and I dream that one day I would become either a journalist or a writer (famous or otherwise, only time will tell.)

The other responsibilities of life saw me enter the path of marriage and then of the remarkable state of motherhood. Everything was so new. My life had taken a new turn and no matter how my near ones guided and held my hand, this was all new and unfathomably challenging. To start one’s own family and to procreate is probably the heaven that we search for outside of this world. These new roles got me so involved that writing took a backseat.

Ideas kept flooding in and out, but I never got a chance to put them on paper. Now, I realise that it was I who did not give me that chance. Not that I am unhappy about it, all that I wanted then was to live the new life fully. That was priority. I was too busy soaking up the razzle and dazzle of new people and the new relations and relationships. And I couldn’t have enjoyed myself more.

Now, my fingers start to itch again, my mind longs to let the words flow. But it didn’t seem to happen so easily. I felt as if there was the oh-so-common writer's block (read mental block). I just couldn’t get myself to begin. There were so many things I could write about. I didn’t know where to start. I just kept dreaming.

The dream broke when I suddenly woke up one day. My little bubble burst. I realised I was only playing in my mind. What use is it to dream if one can’t see them through. How does it matter if what I wrote isn’t “Booker” material? How could it, if the paper were still blank?

All that, until now. The dream no longer exists... Now, I am living it; atleast I am striving to. What fun is to dream lest you don’t even try to make it real?

I am back after a rather long hiatus. So here goes, my friends, promise me to read all you can while I write all I can.

Mitr

Yesterday, I met a very old friend of mine. Him and I, we go a long way. I’ve known him ever since I first came to Thane. No words of introduction were exchanged between us. A mere smile from him, I smiled back and a bond was struck. Since then, every time I’ve spotted him, the customary “hi and handshake” have followed.

It’s always wonderful to meet this friend of mine (if he can be rightfully called so). The point of encounter has always been the same. Never once has the place changed, although the time of the day may vary, subject to his availability at the spot. The rendezvous is seldom planned. We’ve never spoken for more than a maximum of four minutes, without ever crossing the mark of a 20-word vocabulary in those precious moments.

He looks just the same even after all these years. Besides having put on a few welcome kilos, changes I could make out none. His attire as always, the humble pant and shirt, nothing to write home about. Funny, since so much seems to have transpired in my life; yet with him it’s as if time prefers to preserve than meddle much.

When I met him, he was at his usual occupation, rather pastime. Standing at the bend of the road which leads to his house, daily he spends time looking about the busy street, chatting with nobody in particular and generally amusing himself with the sights and sounds around. I am guessing (although I am wary of assuming things) this is the sole source of entertainment that he has.

With him, I have never ventured into territories that ere haven’t been trodden upon. I haven’t asked more about him, his family, his whereabouts, etc. Neither has he of me. It is better that way. That’s how this relationship is. This is the foundation of our companionship; asking too many questions might just upset the balance. And that’s the reason why I don’t have much to write about him. But only that he is an invalid of our society; the system which gives credence only to those physically and mentally “normal”.

He is slightly mentally-challenged (although I am not the right judge for it medically or otherwise), but in no way that makes him any less smart than you and I. If he could deduce in not more than the three-minute encounter of ours that I have shifted from Mumbai and am married, it surely means that he recognizes me and has also noticed my absence from the scene. Isn’t that common sense enough (especially when so many of us are bereft of it inspite of our biologically sound brains)? Nevertheless, he is what we, the privileged descendants of a “normal society”, loosely and without much thought term as “mad”.

There’s not more to continue with, except that he is special (mind you, I do not pity him or foster any such feelings for him.) That special someone who has in some way, at some time helped mould my identity into what I am today. So, this is about my mitr. A friend who is without name, because I’ve never asked him and never thought it mattered.

Media Madness

Without much ado, I will get straight to the point. There was an extremely intriguing segment on Star News today. Intriguing because it set my grey cells working overtime. For a long time now, I’ve been wondering where Indian media is headed. 24-hour news channels have been sprouting with much intensity. The heat is on. Being the media-enthusiast that I am, I want to know what is the future of journalism and quality reporting.

This piece that I am talking of was the story of a 16-year old girl, Akanksha. Hers was an absolutely shocking tale of the death of all four members of her family. Fate has been playing this dirty trick for the entire length of her teenaged life. Even more soul-stirring was the fact that her father, mother and both her brothers had all committed suicide. Needless to say, she is shattered.

Unfortunately I saw only part of the news report and therefore, know nothing more. But what I do know is that the channel had brought in a doctor to analyse her mental state. Their efforts were directed towards boosting her morale, giving her some emotional support and hence, helping her cope with this awful tragedy. Among other things (which I missed), they had a comedian from a popular comedy show (currently on air) talk to her, trying to make her smile and lift her spirits. And smile she did.

Before I comment on the nuances of the report from a critical viewpoint, I’d have to admit that the novelty of the channel’s attempt is commendable. It slices straight through the heart.

What worries me is exactly that. It is a story heavily laden with emotions. It is about the girl’s mental state and that which must be treated with utmost care. The story surely qualifies as superb “human-interest”. I am concerned whether in this vicious war for scoops, the channels understands what it has done. It taken upon itself, a gargantuan responsibility – that of a human life. I hope they know what they are doing because while there is nothing wrong in trying to make a girl laugh and smile, they must realize that Akanksha’s case is extremely delicate. It is working on her emotions. God forbid if anything goes wrong.
If only somebody would tell me… then I could rest in peace.

Journalism, today, has become a play of time. We are talking seconds and fractions here. All channels can spring up new ideas but the real test is who executes it first. And this is the thin line that distinguishes a Hot Scoop from routine news. Competition is bringing the media closer and closer to the masses. Not only is it about making news reach more and more numbers in the furthest corner of the country, but also about taking stories from these very “once communication-deficient” districts and regions.

There are the disadvantages too, like that of lack of verified and complete information, and display of unconfirmed data. The menace of a bias has long tainted the media and continues to do so. It has translated even to our camera-sporting, location-hopping brethren.

At this juncture, I have only a word of caution. Whereas the spirit of the freedom of speech and expression has been extended to newer pastures, there rests a heavy responsibility on the media. It is accountable not only to its viewers but also to the people in the stories. After all, it is not just a story; it is the question of a life.

Shade, Shadows and Stories

The monsoons may be a late arrival this year but the umbrellas have been promptly retrieved from the closets. And they are flying high, bobbing up and down, beating to the rhythm of men and women on roads and pathways.

Coloured in vibrant and sometimes, not-so-vibrant tinges (also those boring blacks), each umbrella has a story to tell. There are lives of people; rich, poor and the ones in the middle. Sometimes the faces are hidden deep in the shade; sometimes they face the world sheltered from the skies and the pitter-patter of the rains. A story there always is. A tale… a life.

There is my mom who tries so hard not to get her umbrella wet. Such is her fanfare that there is always someone to open their own for her. And truly, even the heavens, the clouds seem to belong to her camp. It hardly rains when she is out!

Yesterday, there was a man walking homewards with an undersized rainbow-coloured thing. Now, this was one of those small umbrellas made especially for young kids. Hardly a match for the downpour; the poor soul got soaked inspite of all his efforts. Who knows, probably, his daughter chose to take her daddy’s Biiiiiiiiiiiiig umbrella to school for a change, and daddy had no choice but to make do.

Then there was the hip, young, stubble-sporting guy with what a rocker of an umbrella! In multiple hues, it was a show-stealer. In the evening peak-hour crowd too, one couldn’t have missed it. Even with closed eyes. If umbrella were categorized in sizes, this would be mega – it could easily give refuge to an entire battalion. Make way people, for the attention-seeker. Through some astronomically baffling calculation, the umbrella and the proud owner seemed to suit each other to a tee.

While these were stories beneath the umbrella, sometimes the umbrellas themselves are THE stories. In life, we carry our umbrellas with us. Through the different phases, we face each situation and with each of these, we either don our umbrellas or decide to shed them. Various unspoken decision we take, at different turns in the cycle of life – to keep mum for the happiness of a loved one or to speak out to save the situation. The introverted emerge from beneath their covers with utmost care. Whereas for an extrovert, life is about open skies.

We change and adapt according to circumstances. At times, we are bowed by the obstacles and the trials we face. Fear makes us hide, holding us back from the rainbows of the world. Often, we forget that we might after all have the potential.

Life’s too short to be cowed down. Lift the umbrella of fear, worry, anxiety and the sun with its warmth would reach out to you.
Why be scared of the rain at all? In the worst case, you’d only get wet! How bad can that be?

Ready-Set-ROCk!

I was out this morning. The weather was cool, the previous night’s downpour reduced to a light shower but with a promise of more rains through the course of the day. Some may find such a day gloomy, but for me it just works wonders. The slight drop in temperature adds to the stretch of my smile.

I was waiting for an acquaintance outside a shopping centre in one of the many housing complexes that have cropped up in not more than a span of merely five to six years (that’s how long I’ve been in Thane). To guide your imagination better, just imagine a line of shops extending to a distance of about 30 metres. At 9.00 am, only one or two of these were open for the day’s business. The rest were shuttered fast, awaiting the appearance of their respective owners.

One such utterly inconspicuous store stood just in my line of sight. Its billboard introduced me to “Dolly Furnitures”. And, sheltering below the tin roof outside were seven jet-setting youngsters. They were adorned in the hues of adolescence – tees, jeans and attitude.

With nothing more interesting to occupy myself, I prayed that the minutes moved faster. You would agree, waiting is not a very pleasurable activity, neither intellectually stimulating nor fun by any means. (There may be some who may wish to dissuade me from this line of thought, with their poetic notions of a lover prancing about Coffee Day’s, wishing his/her counterpart arrives. There is a sense of beauty in that, one might argue. But Messrs and Madams, that is besides my point.)

Initially, this swish set of collegians interested me none too much. I simply presumed they were thronging the place after or before some “classes” just as ants would, around a picnic hamper. I let my eyes wander so as to take in some more sights and sounds. Just then, my eyeballs did a double-take. Well, what I saw was a party-of-sorts in progress amidst this huddled-bunch. Closer inspection revealed a birthday cake and a few other knickknacks to munch and glug!!!

Pictures were being clicked. Fingers dug into the creamy layers of the cake and smiles played on all the youthful faces. Who would have thought of something like this in a place like that? But the enthusiasm of the scene seemed to belittle this matter of concern.

It hardly matters. Whether the footpath, Mumbai’s suburban rather-packed station or one of the Taj Hotels… the perfect ingredients for a perfect time (yea yea, I mean rocking time) are simply a bunch of loving friends. What more can one ask for?

Most of us would agree to that.
(As for the birthday girl and her pals... Long live the spirit and god bless them all.)

The Point of No End

(To my dearest pals, Soul"media"mate and Whiff of Fresh Air)

I ne’er knew
What I was missing
Until I had met you.
The realization didn’t dawn
Upon me even then.

But now, when you are away
I feel the pang,
The heart misses
Those remarkable moments
When you showered me
With dazzling sunshine.

I know, you would say
Proximity has nothing to do with it.
Why bother,
When our souls are connected so
that we can even hear
the hearts beat.

Our fervour never dies,
The spirit always flies
For, friends we will be
Till our mortal selves perish
And even beyond.

And so I say,
Keep the faith.
Live it up,
Do not fear the end
Coz’ to our kinship… Our friendship,
THERE IS NO END.

SHAKEN!!!

Still trying to digest the fact that last evening could have been FATAL.
It was like any other day... absolutely no indication of what was to come... Probably, that's how these things happen.ALL OF A SUDDEN. WITHOUT EVEN A WARNING.

I was getting back home (from where, what, etc are inconsequential), as usual mulling over every little issue under the sun. The road we (auto driver and me) were traversing was so familiar to me that even with closed eyes I could easily tell where we had reached.

The familiarity of the oft-frequented area, of the confines of the auto, of the destination I was headed to... probably all added up to making it absolutely unexpected.

What happened was that the front wheel of the auto in anticipation of tackling an unnoticed speed-breaker leapt, almost three feet, in the air and came down with a such a jolt that it stunned my senses for god-knows-how-long... an eternity. Neither the driver nor me could say what had just occurred. It lasted for not more than two minutes but we were shaken.

After what seemed like the passing of an eon, I realised that we were still alive with all bones in place.
"You were lucky"- that's what one horribly amazed on-looker told me.

A brush with the unknown... jolted out of my little world of reverie... my long-awaited rendezvous with "fate".

For now, am unable to come to terms. Life. Death. What do they hold for me?

Can't Let Go

How these things work,
I've never known,
Must be some magic or other,
else how would i have met you.

I remember the day vividly,
a bright sun shone and the sky clear blue.
One could have never guessed
what surprise awaited.

It didn't happen until much later,
at sundown...
when fate played its game
and our paths crossed.

No, I don't claim
sparks to have gone off...
but you can't deny
the connection of two souls.

Floating in the river
called 'life'...
we sought each other
and found that peace of heart...
the calm... no one else could give.

The time we shared,
(no matter how less)
were most beautiful...
much more than I'd ever asked for.

Pushed, thus, we continued to live
our separate lives,
seeking our own dreams...
THE HOLY GRAIL!

Life's funny, we all say,
for the way it unfolds.
I agree... with all my heart
but please don't make it worse.

Don't you ask me
to break all ties with just one blow,
coz let me tell you, i can't do it so easily.
I can't let go.

Amchi Mumbai to Namma Bengaluru

October 27, 2006
Mumbai.

Boarded Udayan Express without much event. Godmom packed me off with loads of good tidings.

Back in the compartment - my abode for the day - I was alone except for Mr. Roshogulla (pardon me for the cliché.) Sitting across him, I could sense him sizing me up. His eyes lingering on my face for a couple of seconds. I was just bracing myself for some chit-chat when enter Mr. Hands & Legs. Well, that’s all there was to him. Boy, was he tall!!

A flurry of activity ensued – shifting of luggage, moving of human form, the ring of a cellphone, me sifting through stuff in my backpack.

Meanwhile, the phone that rang was Roshogulla’s. He gave some short and curt directions to a woman (probably, his wife). I could hear the woman defying all laws of distance and communication – her voice screaming out of the phone. Could almost distinguish the words she uttered. But I wasn’t interested.

And then it happened – that what I call ‘Divine Intervention’. It was almost as if the Gods had joined forces to humour me with a few moments of happiness and cheer.

It was just pure entertainment!!! Tom & Jerry, Shrek, Looney Toons – all put together. Total blockbuster!!!

At first, when my Bundle of Joy (BoJ, is what m going to call her) got in, I could hear only shrill repetitive cries of "Shreyas! Shreyas!" Then it became more urgent, started getting more worried by the minute. These were the cries of a harried mother who couldn’t find her five-year-old son. She was probably thinking she had lost him in the madness called 'Dadar station'.

Appear big-blue-strolley, followed by 20-something, salwar-kameez clad, mother of two. She had a pleasant face, one which sports a smile comfortably and quite often. Strands of her hair were sticking out in different directions as if electrocuted. And why not? Boarding a train with as much luggage fit for a month and with more important baggage called “kids” is no mean feat.

I didn’t take their arrival very well because it meant me having to forgo the coveted window-seat. But who was I to complain, it wasn’t even my seat. I shifted, made space for the little party (Shreyas had been found, much to the mother’s relief.)

BoJ placed all her luggage on the seat. Shreyas and Baby (unfortunately, was unable to find the lil un's name) were made to sit. Then she started pulling my poor bags from their resting place under the seat. I started; retorted at her to let them be. A tad rude I was. I could have continued to be that way, but I guess the kids melted my heart. And almost spontaneously, things took a comic turn.

Baby was bawling for mummy’s attention. And Shreyas decided he wanted his sandwiches now! now! Mummy dearest was trying to bring some order to the house.

One thing led to another. BoJ, in her effort to satiate her lil ones, dived into her bag… out came milk bottle and then the sandwiches. Just then she banged her head not once but twice on the tier above. BOING!!! BOING!!! a la Tom & Jerry style. Her lips hissed and she writhed with pain but her hands never stopped working. Her Jerry-like swift movements continued. Table was set.

Baby was merrily sucking his milk bottle, full with sound effects. Shreyas started munching and BoJ also managed to take a bite or two.

Just as things started to cool down and peace restored, Baby decided he wanted mummy right next to him and he conveyed it to her in his baby-ways, meaning tantrums. The bawling resumed – this time with hands shaking wildly in the air. Mommy had just gotten up to let sweet Baby have his way and take him in her arms when the teeny meeny little baby hands caught one end of the plastic bag on which rested the home-made cucumber sandwiches sprinkled with chat masala. One swipe and down tumbled the stack of sandwiches. Tom & Jerry Part II !!!

Mom didn’t know what to do, whether to be angry with the little angels or to curse her own luck. Luckily, she was able to recover some of the sandwiches before they touched the floor.

Yours truly was enjoying completely. Camaraderie already being established between them and me. Shreyas already had a name for me (Jyot"puzzle", coz' mine proved to tough for him) and even Baby, I reckon, had taken a liking towards me. Mom was as sweet as honey. Meself was only just preparing for a pleasant journey of gossip-exchange, baby talk, kiddy games when the TC decided to play devil.

On his customary ticket-checking round, he informed BoJ that her ticket had been upgraded, courtesy dear Lalu Prasad Yadavji and that she had to shift. So, we had to reluctantly bid each other farewell. I could do only so much to keep myself from screaming and asking them not to leave. Smiled through it.

It had ended too soon, as fast as it had started. But my new friends were to me what a gust of cool air is to a tired, lonesome traveller. :)

That's it for now,
Ciao.

(p.s. It turned out that ‘cellphone banshee’ wasn’t Roshogulla’s wife after all.)