Anna's Lullaby

There once was a man who lived in the shadows. He wore darkness like a blanket and found solace in being aloof.He had calloused feet and a calloused heart. He then met a little girl by the name of Anna. She was like balm to his pain.

He taught her how to dance, for in his prime, he was a dancer himself. They would dance for hours till the man could no more bear to stand. He then would watch Anna dance. After they called it a day, the girl would sing him to sleep everyday till she could see his eyes flutter in sleep reacting to his colourful dreams.

Days passed, months flew by as they danced together. One day after singing him to sleep, she slept and never woke up. The man's heart broke as his cries would keep the dogs awake at night. He was old, infirm and weak. He counted days on his fingers praying for his suffering to stop along with his broken heart. 

One day when he sat burning his last lamp of oil, he found, in the folds of his sheet, the shoes that anna wore while they danced.For a moment as he held the shoes, he felt like he could feel Anna herself. 

He felt a sense of peace settle over him as he stopped longing for death.He knew it was his time now, he knew who would be there to greet him as he neared The Light. With this realisation, he pressed her shoes to his heart and sang Anna's lullby. That was the last night that he slept in pain. With the song, he plunged into a deep, peaceful slumber never to wake again.

Pieces of Burnt Paper

I write me, my time

On a flimsy sheet with faded ink,

In a dark room by a flicker of the flame.

In hopes of manifesting,

Realizing myself.

In me I see a girl.

A little girl with long hair,

Dancing about like a painter’s stroke,

On a yellowed canvas.

In a blue frock and plaited hair

And a basket of roses

She runs across the field,

Chases a sparkle, a dream.

Winds come and strike her down,

Rain becomes her glory.

Her flowers wither and fall,

And with time, so does she.

This I write, I write in regret.

It weighs me down like a thousand chains.

I committed a crime that cost my life, 

I let the girl go.

In her place I find now,

A hardened speck in a paper town,

A flat town in a disc world.

With linear souls and pointless emotion

And a fire that doesn’t burn.

With contagious insanity and desire.

This world deceives her,

Blinds and pushes her.

A fire starts on one end,

reaches the other.

In its wake, leaves ashes that are her.

Ashes blow around This World,

defeated but free, unwavering.

This world, but, crumbles around her,

Like pieces of burnt paper.

Guess who's back.

Sleepless. Eyes wide open. Nose equally blocked. No luggage. Bah.

Well this was a bummer.

To tell you the truth i had expected a bit more. From myself really. But then hey, im sick. Coming here this time doesn't seem like the woohoo scenario I imagined. Infact its quite the opposite. You're sitting in class going .. nuclear. Fuel. Combustion. Hmm combustion. Human bodies do that. Necrosis fascitis. Ugly pictures. To BAM energy and why? Because everything is clawing at you and constantly whispering in your ear, 'have to have to do good'. It was pretty annoying really. I had expected some sort of raw hungry-for-knowledge enthusiasm which turned out to be more like eh-nose-icantbreathe-mylungsareabouttoexplode-blekhiasm. The only thing that has found perfect space is that absolutely heavenly bookshelf which solves my bedside table problem. Really, my bedside earlier was actually the marble floor.

Whats more, after two years of experience I forget to carry that infernal umbrella around and ended up drenched and cold with some really smart people playing volleyball on the basketball court with a football rather expertly. I realise suddenly that I dont really have a place to eat apart from the greasy and spicy restaurants which, may I point out, I'd usually love. Ah, what's better than a piping hot, overspiced, bread pakoda in the chilling rain. And then there's the ginormous realisation of tomorrow's queue hassle for the satanic ritual of paying the fee.

This day couldn't be better. Ah sweet Manipal.

On a rather forcibly optimistic note, tomorrow is a new day. Full of getting things done and setting agendas.

Oh who am I kidding. Im too bleh to think that way. Things are going to be same. Mundane and dry. Hell I might snatch a couple of fun moments what with the weekend and all. Even if that is a lord of the rings marathon. But there are no sisters here. No gossiping with mom or dad. No watching cwg with family. Cheering the Indians on and secretly checking out hot diver bodies. No wayward imagination of worlds on specks. No hot soup of ugly veggies.

I miss you hot soup of ugly veggies.

Zara hatke, zara bachke

The wet road glistens like diamond and gold pellets as the streetlamps and advertisment boards lighten the way ahead. What is it about this city that sends me plunging into my own mind looking for just the right adjectives. Nothing else would do, it has to be just fitting. As i stepped out of the station, into the open, I smell the salt in air, the humidity rubbing against my skin. Bombay has a dull, pulsating charm about it which induces dreams of being a part of one of the NCPA productions, a commercial sailor or some corporate bigshot with a private cabin in BKC. While people usually define cities, its style, standard of living. Bombay defines its people. It drives them to work day and night and still finds them chilling on marine drive after hours. 

The very sight of the sea inspires some hidden side in me and I want to write and fly with the eagles over band stand. Bombay is so mysterious.. so enigmatic. Like a woman's moods does its weather change. Like the curves of her body, the waves rise and fall. Like the folds in her saree, the city holds strong, scented secrets. Whispers of bedside lovers, of manslaughter, of a child studying by the candle light fills its nights. It is a city of eyes. Listless eyes of the homeless man, his curly, matted hair, his little sack that holds the sum of his belongings. Stoic eyes  of the working woman in a suit who breaks for a quiet lunch at Mondegar , scan the newspaper. The only hint of emotion is given by her pursed, red lips which quiver with excitement as stocks rise. The lonely writer and his bloodshot eyes linger over a burnt cigarette butt, drawing inspiration from the oddities in life.

 Bombay is like a living organism, slowly inching its way to nirvana. It contains all of its history, all the families that have been here since it was given as dowry. With traffic doubling as blood, its slowly moving lifeforce and sea as its external shine. I have said this before and I won't hesitate in saying it again. Bombay is a city of contradictions. It hides dirt under all the glamour. And under the dirt is where you find more glamour. This is a city where if you shun something because of the looks of it, you're doomed to experience only a fraction of the city. Forever. It is the city of rich imagination where if you merely think it, it comes true. And whatever is the truth you would probably never think of it.

Im in love with this city. And I always will be.

Ek cutting chai.

Co-incidence, fate, whatever. But whenever there's a point of complete and utter despair, a train journey is staring me right in the face. I think every year I can attribute a week's worth of time ONLY to train journeys. It might not sound like much. Ive had major paranoia issues since as long as I can remember and these journeys somehow help me unwind. When I travel back home from college the compartments are mostly filled with students. I have been ragged in a train. Lightly though, was fairly fun. Sometimes some 6-8 guys are found with their heads dug in their pcs working their way through dota or cod. Sometimes a group of students just sit and smoke and exchange anecdotes of how that teacher was such a douche. I usually end up reading or watching something or just sitting down at the door with a friend.
This time was different.  After days of despair and ambiguity before and after results for god knows how many things,  I found myself at the end of my rope. I couldn't think straight and make a sane statement. 'Spiralling out of sanity' as I'd call it. 15 hours later, now im sitting across from my dad just staring into the horizon. I'm at peace. I dont even understand how that works just that it does. And beautifully so. I saw a string of  families living in a slum. Kids with dreadlocked hair from neglect, men with bare backs and women bent low in daily chores. And not a SINGLE one of them with a frown on their faces. One family had made pets out of this family of white strays, their pups playing with the tots. Kids were playing hop scotch and a girl was batting for a team of boys (which was like necter for my feminist soul). ROWS upon rows of identical bunglows in the exact same colours amusing the LIFE out of me and my dad. Open and vast ravines and a lone soul sitting somewhere in what seemed to be silent contemplation. I spent the last half an hour with this little girl, who barely reaches my knee, jumping around me playing let's-jump-around. Since I'm bad at babytalking I kept our conversation limited to 'tractor' and 'cow'. But then it WOULD be a little freaky if  I managed a conversation with a 2 year old. Anyway jokes apart, Travelling is one of the most beautiful aspects of any human. And in modern times its one of those simple pleasures of life which people have forgotten owing to their self important state of being perpetually busy. I'm going to a place where im going to be living alone. And working with people twice my age and I'm TERRIFIED. I have no idea as to what am I gonna make of it. I have no idea how I will deal with shifting and everything else. But after about 51 towns, 15 hours, 3 fields of marigold, some assortment of white and purple flowers, gazillions of salt panes later, I know I'll be fine. And everything else will be fine too.

Darkness and its Sanctity

A room, dark as night

Dark doors, slammed shut.

Dark windows cracked and shattered,

Dark sheets that smell of yew.

A dark lady, her companions dark thoughts.

Of wilted flowers and shriveled fruits, she wrote,

Of crushed hope and of broken souls.

Beside a lamp, she wrote.

Her tresses, wild and unruly.

Twisted freedom plagued her mind

Twisted bonds and twisted ropes,

That bled her writhing arms.

Thorns that dug into her neck,

And that pierced her soul.

In pain she found solace, it became her nectar.

Wrenched away from home and from any humanity

She sat by the light,

Writing, her mane flowing like a waterfall.

In Those moments, filled with darkness

She found her darkened heart.

It bled by the second,

For an estranged love,

For a smashed pride.

It bled onto the tattered gown,

Onto the silk, that once was pristine.

It bled for the pain she saw,

For things that might have been.

For smashed dreams.

Bound in chains,

Bound in shackles she wrote

Her skin raw and fingers bleeding.

She found solace.

In broken dreams and crushed hopes

She found her peace.

Where is my mind.

For the past few days, weeks even, my existence has been a chaotic, unconsolidated mush of unrecognizable emotions. Things that I never felt before as a schoolgirl. Fear, uncertainty, a sense of disconnection to name a few. It struck me today, that it is all a reaction to change. The first few months of college seemed like someone had opened a window in a room, long closed, and let atmosphere in. it was so new, so fresh and most of all, so SO welcome. Met new people, forged relationships, found myself and lost myself again. In my almost-two-years here, never once I thought I would want to go back to That time again. That I would crave that half an hour I got while travelling. That half an hour which was entitled to ME. Not to the teachers, not to those wretched exams, not to my family even. In there almost-two-years, I have had plenty of time to spend alone , doing things my way. I have voraciously thanked my stars for the life I lead and the life that my family leads. And then suddenly there was a void I did not how to fill with work or boys or friends. This void shoved itself head first into my stomach sometime back. I don’t know exactly what triggered it, but then I started enjoying time alone more. That was all I had, a string of moments of weakness in the dark, where no one could see them. And then I would wake up next morning and be that cool brave person again. That strong person who is above all the lesser emotions. This was my ‘enjoyment’ of alone time. This void I tried to fill with music. It gives me satisfaction but it still leaves me hungry. I started reading God of Small Things, and all my memories from That time in school came rushing back. when I was nursing a broken heart, and growing ever closer to my soul mate. This book reminded me of how there were such less people in school, and you could walk to another room and find someone who had read a similar book and start talking about it. College has been a rush of so many lights, thoughts, people, emotions, dresses.. that it is over whelming. And scary. I thought I adjusted very well. No one adjusts well.

Ceremony, rituals. These are the things we hold on to when change sweeps us off our feet. Mine were writing, reading books, finding joy in little things. And when I come here and see people, the maelstrom is so strong that I'm losing grip on my rituals. These rituals are also, in way, building blocks of a religion. They are the pillars, whose strength will be called upon by a crumbling temple. Rituals are pillars to a crumbling faith. I'm losing my pillars. When that fragile mask of societal norm shatters and when you are laid bare for everyone to see. When that knot in your throat becomes bigger and starts to choke you. When that butterfly feeling in your stomach turns to a malevolent lurching of a raging river. In those moments of weaknesses, I cant find anything to hold on to. My writing is as stale as dry wormwood. By the grace of any cosmic entity that I can care to acknowledge, I have everything anyone could wish for. And yet there is a fear gnawing at my innards. A fear of losing it entirely perhaps? No. it is a fear of losing myself completely and become a machine. It is a fear that a burning throat fears when chilli passes through it. A friend pointed out that in all my conversations, I use the first person with ample generosity. Is it because there is someone inside trying to hold on to what I was? It’s a fear of running out of my essence. That fuel , that makes me who I am. 

and Voila! There's your Epiphany for today!

A friend turned to me this one day and very genuinely told me, “You know, you say you want to become a scientist, you’re not really doing anything about it.” And then I say, “I’m still a kid, and I’ll do it when I grow up.” This was a couple days back, when I was 6 months away from turning 20. I’m not phobic like other girls, “oooh I’m 20, I’m so OLD!” frankly I don’t get what the big deal is. We are HERE to turn old and experience everything. But when I come to think of it, I can’t even think of tomorrow. The fact that all elders just go ahead and say, “You young people never think about your future.” This is generally met with a scroll-full of arguments including points like,

“Oh no no, I’m preparing for blah exam.”

 Or,” oh sure I know what job I want” or,” what car I want.”

.. And the works. I can’t think of growing up in this world. I just can’t. I can’t picture myself working under some boss, trying to meet deadlines and reminiscing about college, and the good old days where deadlines were a blur between some teacher flattery and a show of helplessness. It is such a cruel world. I can’t think of my two little sisters taking things so seriously and being all intense and professional about things. I don’t want them to grow up. I don’t want anything to change. But it is all going to and I’ll be forced to wear pencil skirts and look professional. I will be looked down upon if I wear converse to work. People will judge me if I have an extra piercing or a tattoo spelling out led zep or an ex flame.

Everyone says experiences in college are nothing; they just train you for the future. Where is the future? School was supposed to make me ready for college because that was our interpretation of the real world. What is real world anyway? How is THIS not real? I’m typing on a real laptop, sitting on a real chair. If things we face later are going to be worse than this why should ANYBODY grow up? It’s like letting life fuck you around with your permission. And anyway, what IS this bullshit about facing bigger problems. It is not as if one day the earth will be dying and I’ll be the only person who can save it. Now THAT would be a real problem, if seen objectively. Because after that nothing would be real so that will be the last real thing happening to ANYONE. Anyway, why SHOULD I not take NOW seriously when I don’t even know what I’m doing 5 minutes from now (preferably studying, but when has that happened). All I want to do right now, is go to the ground, lie down in the middle of it and look at the stars. If I were the last person on earth, it would be so nice, there would be nobody. It would be so quiet and then there would be no fear of bumping into someone and make small talk.

“Hey! You’re alive!”

 “Yea! So are you.”

 “Umm Yay okay.”

 And then what. You’d be forced to be friends with that person. It’s like marrying that person. Or you could just shoot them. OR you could trick them into believing that you don’t see them, now THAT would be a sight.

Anyway, coming back to the point, this is all damn immature of me; I’m being like how I was in 11^th grade, all pessimistic about things. It’s a mentality, being pessimistic. Take me for an example, I'm sitting here cribbing about something that is biologically bound to happen (unless of course), I should be doing something which I could use later in life, or simply what interests me. Well the good part in my case is that at least I have a vision; I know what I want to do which is based purely on my interests. I have absolutely no resistance from anybody to do it except my own self. So what I SHALL do now, instead of writing this, is study. I will, do math.

Big woman.

Hello there, all you feminists. Let me tell you one thing, it’s a bad time to be a woman. It will always be a bad time to be a woman, and , oh you suddenly agree to that? Well, hold your horses. Your being a feminist is only your ego lashing out, desperate to hold on to something that renders a woman even remotely respected. Notice how I said respectED and not respectABLE. Women are always respectable, but then deep down inside, we all know you(man and woman alike) don’t respect a woman. However much you want to scream at me right now, and well, remind me of the fact that I'm a woman too, the fact remains the same. Since you were a kid, you’ve been taught to disrespect ‘the female’, and by example no less. That girl in your grade who  you pushed around and bullied because you had a ‘crush’ on her, or well, simply. Your sister, whose plaits you’ve pulled since as long as you can remember, and then branded it sibling-affection. Your mother who you have manipulated into giving you extra money to have that canteen meal which your father refused to. Men have always found ways of disrespecting women, be it a teacher who has given you the gift of knowledge, or your mother who, well, bore you for 9 months, or that girl you saw drunk the other day on the road.

This, as has been repeatedly observed, everyone denies. “No, I’m not like other people you know, I have grown up with three sisters and I TOTAlly respect them” if you catch them on a normal day, you could often hear them say, “MAN did you LOOK at that ass. That shit is what I'm gonna tap one day. *hooting and grins*”.  Hitting a woman, as a matter of fact, is not as demeaning as ordering her to get your tea and then getting pissed off when she hasn’t mixed the sugar. Yes sir, open your eyes, this is a human being working, physically, as much as you are and emotionally, probably even more. Oh and that’s another thing. You're having a fight with your girlfriend and then you tell her, “hey I love you, just wait for a couple days. You’re PMSing , it will pass. Don’t worry.” 

Well while we are at it, I'm gonna take up the age old dilemma of gender disparity. A boy drinks, comes back to hostel with a couple smokes and his friends are like, “bhai, ab bohot ho gaya, stop smoking. Try toh kar.” Replace the boy with a girl and you hear, “dude, go to so and so room, you can smell smoke from outside. Her parents haven’t taught her anything or what?”, “ oh that girl? Yea yea, Ive seen her drunk a lot of times.” And a third one joins in,” oh yea man, I saw her making out with this guy the other day. What a slut.”. now this was an example of a woman’s reaction to their kind. All unicorns and rainbows. What about a man, you say? What does a man think? “dude she’s so badass, but naah, she’s not the kind of girl you date, you know because my girlfriend will be decent .. blah blah” and the works.

A woman will always remain a plaything to EVERY man on earth. She’s the one you will go to when you need comforting. She’s also the one you(straight men) will go to when you are horny. She is nothing but a device to you, a device you can appreciate from time to time, revel in its beauty or that new tube dress that accentuates her figure, but you will never consider her your equal. She has climbed mountains, smashed world records, won laureates, has patents. She has given birth to you, she has seen to your every demand, she has held your hand and sat by you when she had a cabinet full of work, she has tended to you with no complaints selflessly. And you won’t acknowledge it, why? Because , “I’m a man, I'm stronger and smarter than you, you can take care of the babies while I prove my masculinity to others by insulting and ordering you.” Even if you do, even if a woman sparks that inspiration and admiration in you, you say, “I like women on top*pun intended*. The alpha woman, who is the best among all” because why, it flatters your ego.

Basically, if you are a woman with ego, ambitions, emotions and natural human needs,

my sincere condolences.