The Good Teacher

When I post graduated last year, the thought that ate my brains out was, "what next?". Though I did not know what next, I certainly knew "what not to?". A school teaching career sat somewhere in the hidden margins of the page that was adorned with my to-do list. Obviousely, a 'good' student like me should look out for better options life has in store, I had to look for the 'accha' job. As it turned out, life lessons starts out from the margins. A good friend (and I am forever indebted to you for this) sent me a vacancy notice of a school in Gurgaon and persuaded me to apply for the post of PGT Psychology. I went through the test rounds, interview rounds and just as I had hoped, cleared it all with flying colours. You see, I was the 'Good' student. However, here started my battle with the accha job inspectors.

To begin with, my parents were extremely heart broken with my decision to start working as a school teacher. The irony here is that my mother herself is a teacher and has been successfully employed as primary wing coordinator for the past 10 years. I don't blame her though, she is after all a product of capitalism- if it doesn't pay you big bucks, its just not worth it. Then, came a set social vultures, who interrogated my parents for their decision in 'allowing' me to continue with a teaching career. "But why?" was a constant rhetoric and my parents would cut a sorry figure with no answer to give. I was spared with mere looks that one would pass on a to dying puppy. Apparently, I had become a social pariah where the items on display required a fancy 'job description' to deserve a shelf space. 

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My self esteem was thrashed and torn to bits for the social scavengers to prey upon. And then my first class happened. Can you imagine walking into a room full of 25 curious, excited minds waiting to pounce on you with an endless stream of questions? It is an exhilarating experience and I knew, despite what the world thought, I was in the right place. Everyday, I read, learn, unlearn, question, answer, think, over a wide variety of topics and in this one year I know I have grown in ways I never fathomed. 

We all want our children to be taught by good teachers, be surrounded by facilitators who are well-read and informed. However, none of the good students are expected to become teachers. Isn't it a disturbing paradox? One of the main reasons why teaching career is shunned by the 'creamy academic' layer because of is its poor monetary compensation. I have been fortunate enough to be employed in an organization that pays me a good package with adequate opportunities of growth. However, I strive to explore the essence of being a teacher beyond a monetary evaluation. I want to remind the world, that the very basics they have built their life on, was because of a good teacher in school who created opportunities for young minds, like theirs, to grow and expand. 

In several countries, teachers are revered for their contribution to the society and their role in creating a better future for the country. In Japan and China, their status is accorded a place along with doctors and top government officials, because they believe all these professions are working towards the benifit of the country with a selfless engagement with humanity. I don't dream of high laurels for the work I do. I do what I do because it makes me happy, content and satisfied. Dignity of labour was never a value held high in our country and hence I don't expect a overnight transformation to an age-old thought. However, I have decided to add laurels to my self esteem and every class where a child tells me that they enjoyed learning with me, is an added feather to my cap. 

Dear teachers around the globe, be proud of your profession because there is none other where you get the opportunity to be a lifelong student. 

Stop growing, start learning!

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Paradox

I kill myself everyday.
Thought by thought,
Breath by breath.
Pushing a knife,
Deeper into my heart.
I twist and turn,
I gasp and shiver.
Then I smile.
Whimsically, if you please,
At the paradox,
This seems to be.
A beating heart,
With blood and all.
A sign of life,
St(r)ained with life.
Full of love,
As the saying goes.
But none for me,
No, not for me.
It's all for someone,
Who needs not me.
Let the beating stop,
I pray, I wish.
It's killing me,
I cry, I swear.
It's merciless,
My loving heart.
So I dig a hole,
Just my fistsize.
Everywhere,
Every now.
A little part of me,
Anyday.
Oh yes!
I kill myself everyday.

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Yours fearfully, #Nirbhaya

Dear M.L Sharma and A.P. Singh,

You see I know who you are- The blessed progeny of Adam who holds the reins to the life and death of the ill-cursed breed, called woman (woe-man?!). Damn you, Eve, you wretched, disgraceful little thing! Didn't the respected Mr. Adam tell you how to dress, how to sit, eat, bathe, breathe, live, die? Didn't he tell you to stay away from the Pandora's box, from the 'desires' of life, to wipe that ugly smile off your face and plop yourself in one corner of the globe, barely breathing? However, you couldn't listen, could you? Its all YOUR fault. You have unleashed the evil torrent of hu-MAN-ity onto yourself, on your own bidding. Be ready to be groped, stripped, raped, beaten and killed because you dared to look out of that well, Adam sentenced you into. Am I right, Mr. Sharma, Mr. Singh? Please do correct me so, because you see I am Eve too, I need to be taught a lesson.

Sirs, (or do you prefer Masters?) Iam overcome by irrepressible desires. I think, yesterday when I stepped out of the protected sphere of my house, covered from head to toe, I incited a young man to touch me. You see, I forgot to cover my fingers; I waved them about, flashing my painted nails right in front of his eyes, in a lustful dance move, making obscene gestures with my fingers as I went about my chore. I sinned, my good MAN; I tore through the pristine white sheet of Indian culture. What do I do now? Should I burn myself to death or are you on your way to that to me? Please do punish me so, because you see I am Eve too, I need to be taught a lesson.

I like how you compared me to a flower. Beautiful, soft, pleasant! You opened my eyes as you explained that a flower is only worth till its kept in a place of worship; you throw it down a gutter and no one will ever touch it again, like the dirty woman. But I like lotuses, yes the same ones that grow in the gutter, mud and slush. Iam scared, Sir. I think the flowers and I are sinning, again. Iam the dirty woman. Should my petals be ripped off and sunk down the same gutter I belong to? Please do show me my place, because you see Iam Eve too, that too a lotus loving one, I need to be taught a lesson.

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But all men are not like you. Some tell me to open the pandora's box, some tell me to leap out of the well, some tell me to smell the lotus; they look into my eyes and tell me they see more than breasts and a vagina. They hold my hand and together we peep out of the universe of gender, we swim away from the deep oceans of tradition and emerge on the other side of the world, where you don't exist. Who are these men? Or are they even men? Should they be thrown together with my lot? Please do tell me, because you see they are Eve too, we all need to be taught a lesson.

However, when you are done teaching me all the lessons, I want to teach you one too. Incase, just incase, you forgot, I gave life to you. I gave you the right to live, even as they aborted my baby girl. I held you close and warm inside me, bore silently the excruciating pain of childbirth, took care of you like delicate flower (yes, a flower), hoping against hope that you will remember the lesson of womanhood I was teaching you. But you forgot, and so did I. So, please teach me, because you see I am Eve too, I need to be taught a lesson.

Yours fearfully
#Nirbhaya

Movie Review: BABY

Movie: BABY

Director: Neeraj Pandey

Cast: Akshay Kumar, Rana Daggubatti, Tapsee Pannu, Anupam Kher, Danny Denzonga, Mikaal Zulfiqar and Rasheed Naz

Genre: Thriller

Every other day, when some or the other part of the country is burning up in flames in the name of terrorism and communalism, I am overcome by this irresistible itch to smack down atleast one bad guy in my lifetime. Wouldn’t it have been altogether too easy and convenient if all the bad guys were just within arm-reach and if we could bundle them together in a room, and punch them our hearts out? Well, we both know that ain’t happening, and sadly, enough, the Miss. Peace-loving-goody-two-shoes that Iam, I doubt if I will even swat a fly in my lifetime. So for people like me and the others around, Bollywood comes out with patriotic thrillers like BABY, setting our blood surging, heart racing and adrenaline pumping. More than anything else, BABY is a reminder about the many Indian officers who are engaged in risky, life threatening, undercover operations to ensure that we eat, sleep and enjoy our lives in safe confines of our country. Watching BABY just a day before Republic Day, makes me want to salute every single officer who will march down Rajpath tomorrow, with their heads held high and proud to be serving their motherland.

In the backdrop of the post 26/11 Mumbai, a special investigation team is formed and is assigned a top secret mission to hunt down terrorists and rip open the veil over their plans to attack India. Out of the 12 officers who were deployed, only 4 remain. The movie is about the last operation carried out by this team.  

Akshay Kumar is brilliant as an officer heading an undercover operation. He looks like a man who knows his job and has no second thoughts about it. Anupam Kher and Rana Daggubatti deliver very good performances as the other officers in the team. Despite a short role, Tapsee Pannu will floor you in an action packed sequence (trust me I had to forcibly suppress a whistle). Pakistani British actor Mikaal Zulfiqar does a fine job in the movie and veteran Pakistani actor Rasheed Naz is well cast into the role of a most wanted terrorist.

Though on the whole I loved the movie, I do have a few bones to pick with it, so let me lay it down for you. Among the things I loved (the most) are a) the storyline is unwavering from its path. Not even for a second will you be drawn into wondering, irritably, as to where the story is headed; b) there are no songs, well there is one but it barely there takes your focus off the main track; c) all the actors are so well cast that you cannot have had it better and d) the locations are well shot and technical details have been well catered to.

Things I did not like are a) certain scenes which would have been major troublesome circumstances in real life, were portrayed as near about cakewalks; b) some parts were a tad dragged and could have been wound up faster and c) sometimes (just sometimes!) Akshay Kumar’s stoic expressions made him look plastic and lifeless.

A movie for all ages though maybe not kids as in my hall I had atleast 5 little ones loitering around the entire place, so they were clearly bored. Overall, BABY is a fantastic way of getting in touch with your patriotic spirit. So, go for it soldier!

Stars: *** & ½ 

CLOSURE

Ambika stared long at the tiny body wrapped up in that crisp white cloth. The red shirt looked like a blotch of blood on the cloth, staining the cloth of its purity. There were several white bundles of dead bodies lying around her, stripping away the peaceful glory which the colour white had boasted of for all these years. The little boy looked like in deep sleep; except for the bloated face caused by lying in the water for several hours, there were no injury marks. She touched his cold hands, tracing the length of his tiny fingers, imagining them holding colour pencils and drawing mountains, streams, tiny huts, birds and what not. Her Sannath was just the same, always drawing mountains he was never destined to see and filling colors that were never to touch his life.

"Is there no one who has claimed this boy's body? Should we burn it with the rest of the unclaimed bodies?" Ambika was jostled out of her reverie by the voice behind her.

"No sir, it is not an unclaimed body. I will... eer.. this is my ...." Ambika's voice trailed as tears welled up in her eyes.

The man stared at her expressionlessly and a bit impatiently. He had seen this scene several times in the past few weeks. There were alot of bodies to be disposed and he did not have all day to waste with this one body. He hurridly thrust a piece of paper and pen into Ambika's hands and said, "Ma'am sign here please. And please mention your relation with the deceased." Saying this he moved over to another set of grieving family. Ambika stared long and hard at the sheet of paper in her hands. Her hands trembled as she poised the pen over the paper, and wrote on the dotted lines next to the colomn marked as relationship - "Mother!"

As the flames licked up the body on the pyre, as the smoke rose upwards billowing her days of anguish, as the scent of burning body wafted up her nostrils, Ambika smiled through her tears. Her mind was at peace at last, her son's soul was at peace atlast. She had found what she had craved for in the past 3 years, closure!

A few weeks ago:

"Ambika, come here quickly, the news channles are flashing scenes from of the Uttarkhand floods. This is a horrific tragedy. I hope the clothes we donated reach the people stranded up there. Every small bit of help counts in these moments."

Ambika did not move from her place. She could hear her husband calling her, but she wanted sometime alone. Giving away Sannath's clothes, plucking out the remains of his existence from the house; she had felt she was losing him all over again. When her friend had called up asking her if she had clothes to donate for the relief fund her immediate reaction had been a no. Later as she sat in Sannath's room, smoothening out the bedspread, straightening the books in the book shelf; her mind went back to the call. What if Sannath had been stuck in the disaster; what if it had been Sannath who needed her help right now? Had she not wished a million times that if only there had been someone to help Sannath as he had thrashed about the water, his head bobbing about like a ball in the water flow. She had stood there helplessly on the river side, as he drifted away from her sight, his clothes a splash of colours on the frothy water current. His body was never found; her little boy was never seen again.

She picked up the phone and called back her friend, " Hello Meena, I do have a few clothes to donate. Mostly children's clothes, somewhere a little boy like my Sannath must be waiting for someone to come rescue him. Infact, I would like to accompany you to the disaster site and see if I can be of some help in the rescue work."

She took out all of Sannath's clothes and placed them over the bedspread. She wanted to have a last look at them before she packed them away from her life forever. Her eyes caught the bright red tee shirt, peeping out at her from beneath the pile of clothes. It was his favourite tee-shirt; he would wear it around the house every other day, annoying Ambika to no end. And now, how she longed for just a glimpse of him clad in his red tee-shirt.

With a sigh, Ambika placed the shirt on the white bedspread; the bright red like a blotch of blood in the white cloth!

Kuch Kehna hai Tumse.......

Kuch kehna hai tumse.

Kahi sawalon ki veeraniyan,

Aur jawabon ki gutthiyan.

Par lab kyun lachaar hai,

yeh kaisi bebasi sawaar hai.

Shabdon ki lukka chuppi se,

Yeh man mera pareshaan hai.

 

Kuch kehna hai tumse.

Kahi ehsason ki kahaniyan,

aur ghutathe jasbaton ki rangreliyan.

Par aankhen kyun nam hai,

yeh kaisa anjaana sa gam hai.

Katraati zubaam ki sharaart se

Yeh man mera pareshaan hai.

Kuch kehna hai tumse.                                         Kahi ansune kisso ki daastan

Aur ashkon se bheege palkon ki kaarvaan.

Par dooriyon sa kyun hamara rishta hai

Yeh kaisi kismat ki nishtha hai.

Nazaron ki dhundali nazaron se

Yeh man mera pareshaan hai.

Ab kuch nahi kehna hai tumse,

Par meri khamoshi ko padh lena

Shikayat nahi par ek arzi hai tumse

Agar meri yaadein kisi roz pukaare,

Toh bhoola bisra samjh bas laga lena dilse.

Ab kuch nahi kehna hai tumse.

Secret Ingredient!

I stumbled my way into the crowded Mumbai local. An army of hands, shoulders, sweaty armpits and necks swathed with talcum powder engulfed my senses blanking me out for a second, like every single day. A train bogie is very interesting place to be in; here stories are born, raised, fed, killed, starved, revived. With each life that goes in and out of the local, there is an one ounce of their lives left behind. Gossip hangs in the air like oxygen, you cant help but breathe it in. I've heard stories of marital infidelity, financial stress, trips abroad, depressing breakups, new arrivals in the family, giggled whispers of 'the last night'- well the last one is my favorite, it sends an exciting shiver down my spine. Noise is another thing that breeds inside trains; the rustling of silk saris against the soft fleshy skin, cotton saris making a crisp statement as they caress my hands when I brush past them, even the heavily embroidered saris scratching me, as if condemning me for touching them without consent. There are other clothing too, but none talk as much as saris. This combined with the clinking of bangles, the occasional jingling of an anklet, crying babies being lulled to sleep, the thundering of the train as it snakes its way through the heart of the city; this was music in itself.  

So here I was pushing my way through the crowd, in hopes of finding a kind soul who would offer me her seat. I wanted to sit near the window and sense the warm sunlight pervading through my skin, calming my fluttering heart worrying about trivial matters or simply soothe my jittery nerves still jumpy after my fight with the morning station crowd. Oh! and the wind was a bliss in disguise. It would be my lover for the next 30 mins in the train. The wind would touch my face with its icy morning hands, played with my hair, freeing it from the strict bun I tucked them into and on other days it just listened to my tuneless humming with rapt attention, often whispering along with me. I had to sit on the window seat today.

Suddenly as if in answer to my prayers, a hand caught hold of my hand and guided me to the seat. As I brushed past her, she whispered into my ears, " I hope you are comfortable." Have you ever heard the tinkering of the bells in a monastery? The voice that just touched my ear was more soothing than that. Have you heard the water playfully falling down as a waterfall? Her voice was livelier than that. Have you heard a baby gurgling with happiness? Her voice was softer than that. Today the wind lost its lover and I gained a muse. She was wearing a suit whose dupatta dangled on my arm teasing me to grab it. The other end must have sweptthe dirty floor, for it made her friend comment, "Arre, dekho chunni sambhalo...". She was standing near my seat and was talking incessantly to her friend. Just like the Bombay rains. I couldn't overhear what they where talking, but I heard the clinking of her bangles, as she moved about her hands. I wonder if they were of gold or glass?! As luck would have been, the woman next to me got up to get down and my muse settled down next to me. I knew I had to make some small talk.

I innocently asked her the time, well yeah the same age old easy pick up line, only I really wanted to know the time. She replied "10:00 o'clock" and I think she may have smiled. With that assumption I smile back at her.

"Which stop is yours?" I asked

"Dongri"

"Oh, mine too."

I heard the clink of an aluminium box and a second later a greasy sweet smell wafted up my nostrils tickling an old suppressed memory awake.

"Is that sooji ka halwa?" I asked curiousely

"Yes aunty, I made it in the morning in a hurry and did not even get time to check if I got it right. Why don't you taste and tell me how it is?"

And with that she placed the aluminium box with a spoon inside onto my palm. I gingerly picked up a spoonfull of the halwa and guided it towards my mouth. It tasted just like that old memory. That dash of secret ingredient teased my mouth as I savoured the taste, just like the good old days. I still don't know what that secret ingredient was.

"It's very tasty! Your halwa has reminded me of a very old friend who used to make halwa the same way. She always claimed to have a secret ingredient which she would never share with me despite my pleadings." I told the girl, laughing at the memory.

"This is my mother's recipe. And she also had her special secret ingredient which she made me swear to keep it a secret. She used to boast that the whole of Nasik was a fan of her halwa." she replied giggling.

"Nasik? That's where I grew up too. My friend Srikala used to boast the same. We were neighbours and very good friends. I hated admitting how good her cooking was. Oh! the good old days. I never met her after her marriage. I wonder where she is now?!"

"Did you say Shrikala? Was her maiden name Shrikala Kohli? Did she marry a bank manager?"

"Yes" I exclaimed surprised, "How do you know her? Where is she now? I tried contacting her many times after her marriage but her parents also shifted from our block and she never replied to my letters. Maybe they never reached her."

"She is my mother, aunty. And she passed away three years back." Her voice quivered for a second. "But Iam so glad to have met you. Please take my number and address, I want to sit with you and hear all of your childhood stories. What a wonderful morning this is!" Her voice trailed of excitedly into the background as memories stung my eyes as fresh as yesterdays. The touch of her hand, brushing off our lips, the times we held each other tight and close afraid of being discovered. We had our own secret ingredient to our friendship, secrets the world never knew and did not want to know. Blind since birth, I never got to know how she looked, but the contour of her face was familiar to me like the back of my hand and the tinkling of her trinkets, the playful clinking of her bangles, all enticed me towards her. Though I had never met her in the past 25 years, the news of her death tightened its hands around my neck, choking me. She was the only one with whom I had shared my secret, our secret, Our secret ingredient.

I felt a piece of paper pushed into my hands. The train was slowing down, and I heard the familiar bustle of the station.

"Aunty, I have written down my phone number and address. Come let us get down, We have entered Dongri."

"No actually today I have to go a bit further. You carry on beta, I will definitely give you a call today evening. My Shri's daughter, Iam so glad we met today." I replied squeezing her hand. My Shri's hands! 

As the train made its way out of the station, I edged closer to the window. The wind whispered into my ears willing me to let free the memories I had treasured all these ears. I smiled, refusing to share my secret ingredient. Our secret ingredient!

Kanha

Us anjaane dhun ki aahat,

Pairon ke thirakne ki chaahat,

Man ke jasbaaton ki sharaarat,

Nazron ki jhuki si vo nazakat.

Pal bhar main taal se taal mile,

Nainon main bas teri chavi khile,

Koyle sa tan aur vastre peele

Teri murali par saara sansaar hile.

Aaj har gopi teri radha hai,

Rooh ke samarpan ka waada hai,

Bas tujhse dil ko baandha hai,

Main adhoori aur tu mera aadha hai.

Mor-mukut ka pankh hoon main,

Chori ke maakhan ka swaad hoon main,

Gopiyon ka niswarth prem hoon main,

Tere raasleela ka nritya hoon main.

Aaj duniya ka mujhe hosh nahi,

Sab jhoom rahe, koi khamosh nahi

Par mujhe sirf tu dikhe yeh mera dosh nahi

Teri raasleela sirf mere liye hai,

Fir chaahe yeh kehna mera moh sahi.  

P.s: This poem is symbolic of what dance means to me. My choreography always involves elements from Krshna's life and while performing I feel in one with him- As Radha was to Krishna!

Pehli Yaadein

Kya yaad hai tumhe vo pehli mulakaat?

Hamare beech kuch 20 seediyon ka faasla tha,

Aur July ki thi vo pehli barsaat

Na jaane peeche mudkar kyun dekha maine,

Tum bhi muskuraakar mujhe hi dekh rahe the

Shayad mere chaate par nazar daal rahe the.

Us do pal ke khamosh alfaaz

Zindagi ban jayege, yeh na socha tha.

Fir kabhi yehi yaad mere dil ko tatolte

Kuch pal ke aansoon de jayenge, yeh na socha tha.

Aaj firse mudkar dekhne ka man hai,

Usi barish main bheegne ka man hai

Tum wahi khade rehna muskuraate hue.

Kyunki aaj ek baar fir vo pal jeene ka man hai. 

Kya yaad hai tumhe vo pehli baar haath pakadna?

Gaalon ka sharmaana, hoton ka umadte jasbaat dabaana

kuch pal tanha guzarne ki chaah main dil ka tadapna.

Tumne chimti kaati thi mujhe zor ki,

Gusse main haath hataya tha maine.

Pyaar se mere haathon ko choomkar

Apne haathon ke beech chupa liya tha tumne.

Tumhara pyaar se satana,

Zindagi ban jayegi, yeh na socha tha

Fir yehi pyaar dil ko satate hue dard ban kar

kuch pal ke ansoon de jayegi, yeh na socha tha.

Aaj fir dil ko tadpaane ka man hai,

Bematlab ki baton par naraaz hone ka man hai,

Tum mera haath apne hathon ke beech chupa lena

Kyunki aaj ek baar fir vo pal jeene ka man hai.

Kya yaad hai tumhe humari vo pehli takraar?

Ek hafte tak roz tumhara number milakar kaat deti thi

Aur Raat ko takiye se apna saara gum baant leti thi.

Aakhir jab 7 din baad darwaaze par tumhe dekha

Toh yeh bhi bhool gayi ki kis baat par naraaz hui thi,

Pal bhar main sulah bhi ho gayi aur pyaar bhari baatein bhi ki,

Ek doosre ke ankahi baton ko samajhne ki

anginat kasmain vaadein bhi ki.

Tumse yun kasmon se jud jaana

Zindagi ban jayegi, yeh na socha tha

Fir yehi toote kasmain mere dil ko chubakar,

Kuch pal ke aansun de jayenge, yeh na socha tha.

Aaj fir tumse roothne ka man hai,

Door rehkar tumhe meri yaad dilaane ka man hai

Par is baar tumhe mananne ka mauka nahi denge

Ab bas khudko jeena sikhaane ka man hai.

Kyunki aaj aakhri baar in palon ko yaad karne ka man hai!

A Street Story

She sat on the floor, wailing incessantly with tears coursing their way through her mud caked cheeks. Her mother lay on the floor a feet away from her, oblivious and insensitive to her cries. After wailing for nearly half an hour, her lungs were gasping for breath. Hungry, wet, dirty and desperate for comfort, she ambled off to sit near her mother waiting for the latter to wake up.

Choti, was a street’s child. Born on the street, slept on the street, ate on the street and played on the street. The street was her home and her whole world, a place who owned her with more right than her own mother. Her mother begged near the entrance of a metro station. When hungry, Choti would wail out aloud to catch her mother’s attention, who would then either let Choti suckle at her lifelessly sagging breast or fill her stomach with water from the nearby tap. On better days, her mother would push into her toothless mouth tidbits of the leftovers that the passersby gave her. At night they would sleep in a small house of used tarpaulin behind the metro station. Curled up against the warm comfort of her mother’s body, Choti slept unmindful to the hunger gnawing at her belly. 

As usual when the morning dawned on the darkness of their night, Choti’s mother picked her up and made her way to station dragging her feet behind her. She did not coddle Choti as usual before the melee of travelers thronged the gates and begging for money and food would start. Today her mother set her down near the gate and lay down on the floor besides her. She lay with her eyes wide open but a strange emptiness dominated her vision. The brightness of the morning light stung her eyes, the silent morning broken by the humdrum of life thumped against her ears and the breeze pricked her skin cruelly. 

Choti, unaware of her mother’s unnamed predicament, sat surrounded by the upswept garbage on the floor and played happily in her street’s dirt and dust. Yet after awhile, she craved for her mother’s touch. She crawled over to her mother, grabbing the loose ends of her filthy sari, pulling it free.

Her mother did not react.

She jabbed at her mother fingers, jerking them with urgency.

Her mother did not react.

She poked her mother in the eye, which was staring away earnestly, unblinking, at a sight far beyond.

Her mother did not react.

Choti’s desperation finally gave way to a heart throttled cry for attention. She walked about the gate crying her unsung tale of helplessness and deprivation.

The passersby sidestepped Choti, staying out of her reach as they made their way to mundane destinations. She sat there flailing about her arms trying to catch hold of the flurry of colors that was hurrying past her. Having lost interest in her unreceptive mother, she went back to her precious toys and games. Soon a crowd gathered around the wide eyed woman, lying on the floor bereft of life. The thronging crowd obstructed Choti’s view of her mother, throwing her into another fit of grief which fell on deaf ears. A while later, her mother was picked up from the floor and bundled off to a van which disappeared into oblivion. Choti sat unnoticed in her tears and wails.

The man at the bus stop had been engrossed in the morning news paper when his reverie was broken by the hungama at the station. A woman’s dead body had been found and over endless discussions on the cause of her death, she was whisked away to the mortuary. The ordinary people, whose lives had been disrupted by this extraordinary morning, soon settled back into their routines. The man was also about to go back to his wait at the bus stop when he noticed the sobbing child. Seeing the lone child at the station gates, he enquired with a street hawker,

 “Whose child is this?”

“The dead woman’s sahib” replied the hawker.

“Where is the child’s father?”

“I don’t know sahib. The woman lived here only with this child”

The man walked towards Choti and crouched near her. He offered her his fingers, onto which she grabbed happily. He picked her up and rested her on his shoulder and thumped her back gently; Choti was finally getting the coddling she was crying for since morning. The man retraced his steps back home. It was indeed an extraordinary morning!

PANNE

Ek kitab thi bahut hi pyaari,

Nayi si vo safed panno waali

Uspar ik daastan likne, maine

Kaali siyaahi ki sheeshi thi nikali.           

Kis pal ki galti thi vo kya pata,

Aaj bhi poochti hoon khudse hi

Laaparwaahi thi ya fir janboochkar

Maine panno par syaahi gira di.

Pehle panne par jo giri syaahi

Har panne ko seenchti chal gayi

Ab kone kone main kala dhabba hai

Aur kahaani toh shuru bhi nahi ki thi.

Syaahi ke saaye se kuch pal bachakar

Kaise sajaaoon unhe in panno par yoon

Yaadein bhi kaali pad gayi aur pal bhi

Shayad ab safed rang se kalam bhar loon.

Fir dhabbo se na jasbaat dabenge

Bun bhi loongi main kuch pal naye

Un rang- berang panno par aaj

Kya pata ek naya afsaana mil jaaye. 

A Girl-Friend!

Our first picture together. Too special! 

Though she was nothing more than another face in the sea of faces at the coaching center  something about her caught my attention. What exactly was it, you would wonder? I don’t know. Maybe it was her attractive face, or maybe it the riot of colors she wrapped herself in, or maybe it was just because she was the only unknown face in the line to use the washroom that day. Whatever it was, I noticed her. And then I noticed her everyday. Some days I wondered which classes she was taking, and on others I silently complimented her bright choice of colors, yet she never lingered on for more than five minutes in my mind. After all, as I said, for me she was just a bored observer’s object of casual fancy, a face in the crowd.

Then one day I saw her at the metro station. I had been catching the same metro at the same time every day for the past one month, yet this was the first time I had seen her outside the coaching center. Preoccupied as I was due to an upcoming test, I chose to ignore her. The metro rumbled into the metro station, and the doors slid open, she tapped my shoulder and said, “Hey, we are at the same coaching right? “ I smiled pathetically and mumbled a yes. (You can’t blame me, tests make me grumpy!)  We took adjacent seats in the metro and exchanged courtesies. After 5 minutes of conversing, she suddenly (and very painfully) reminded of an old friend (foe actually) and the rest of the conversation was not exactly a pleasant affair for me, as I kept sensing a healed wound stinging again. We exchanged numbers and I offered to pick her up in the morning, as we found that we lived quite nearby. Later into the day, once I was out of my ‘test- mood’ I realized I was unconsciously being hard on someone who unknowingly reminded me of a forgotten pain. Yet it was not the same person. So, I decided to be my best self the next day. As assumed, we clicked off pretty well, and I saw it blossoming into something deeper that just a casual friendship.

We slowly unraveled a big list of similarities, common ones, weird ones and eerie ones. As we started spending more time together, I started observing more closely. Her intent brown eyes seemed to say a lot at the same time seemed to hide a lot. There are times she would smile mischievously at something I said, leaving me in a lurch to figure out what she was thinking. With every peck on the cheek and tight hugs we shared in the corridors assured me it was friendship to stay. Her straightforwardness, intellect and determination to make something out of her life, impressed me.

And then, the unnoticed got noticed. Not once, not twice, but every single moment we spent together- the fact that we resemble each other. No we don’t ‘just’ resemble each other, they told us, in fact you are twins. You sound the same, you dress the same, you look the same, and you smile the same way.  Now we have resigned ourselves to the undeniable fate of a ‘past_life_blood_tie’. A friendship that started a year back and feeds on promises of a lifelong bond, it's is not a mere part of my life, it’s a part of my self.  

And there are 39 more years to spend together. Sigh! :P  

Meri Saheli

Aakhir tum aa hi gayi mujhse milne 
Is saal badi der laga di aane main,

Kya meri yaad nahi dilayi tumhare dilne?

Badlon par sawaar bahut door se aayi ho

Kahi kahaniyaan bhi suni hongi?!

Ab kuch chatpate kisse mujhpar barsa bhi do.

Arre kya hua, roothi kyun ho mujhse?
Yun badlon ki godh main kab tak chipogi?

Shikayatein garaj do aur nikaldo apne dilse.

Tumne apni mohabbat ka zikre nahi kiya

Naraaz toh khair hum bhi hai tumse,

Itni purani dosti ka tumne aisa sila diya?

Ab gaalon ko sehlakar mana bhi rahi ho

Tumse kab tak mooh phere baithoongi,

Is baras ki aakhri aas bhi toh tum hi ho. 

Bas bhiga do mujhe apne ehsaas main

Ki yoon kho jaaun khudse anjaan hokar

Ab is pal hi toh tum ho, yeh pal hi toh mera hai. 

A Ray of Change

“Ma’am, may I come in?” A voice from outside the door called out. Manushree looked up from her work and replied, “Yes please”. Her assistant entered carrying an assortment of colorful files in her arms.

“Ma’am, the first file contains the records of all the child laborers our organization has rescued from households and industries last year. The second file contains details regarding their rehabilitation and reintroduction into the mainstream society as skilled workers.” said Manushree’s assistant , placing two files on her desk.

Manushree opened the first file and ran her eyes through the details typed out neatly on a plain white paper. A photo of a girl with a gap toothed smile stared back at her. Her bright lively eyes pulled Manushree back down the memory lane to that day where a girl with similar dancing eyes was given a second chance at life. That day, which was etched in Manushree’s memory like it happened just yesterday.

***

Her grubby fingers clung on to the balcony railing. She could stand there the whole day looking down at the park. The summer holidays had begun and the children spent their every waking hour playing in the park, while their mothers cried hoarse, willing them to stay away from the sun, and come home. Manu too was oblivious to the sun scorching her tender skin.

“Manu, andhar aao! Wash these plates,” her mother called out.

Reluctantly she turned back into the house to help her mother with her chores. Manu’s mother was a maid at Mrs. Nita’s house. Some days Manu accompanied her mother and helped her with her work and on other days she stayed back at home, cooked food, looked after her siblings or played with the street urchins in her free time. Today she had insisted on accompanying her mother to Mrs. Nita’s house. It was on Manu’s first visit to the house that she discovered the magical view of the world below, where children played with net bats and feathered balls, big bright orange bouncy ball and a colorful long rope on which little girls skipped gleefully. It had amazed Manu that there were so many things to play with when all she played with were stones and pebbles. If you hit your opponent by pelting stones at their legs while running, you would win, Manu had a bad aim and hence she always got pelted at. She had a lot of cuts and bruises below her knees, but then, she didn’t mind, it was all a part of the game. 

Manu helped her mother wash the dishes, and then soaked dirty clothes for washing as her mother mopped the floor. Nita swallowed a lump of guilt and discomfort, as she watched Manu go about her chores. Often at dinner parties, she had vociferously voiced child rights issues and quoted articles from the Constitution designed to abolish child labour. Yet here she was, mutedly watching a six year old doing mundane household chores, Nita herself avoided doing. Her own six year old, sat surrounded by her color pencils and crayons, oblivious to life’s harsh realities meted out to her lesser privileged peers.

Bored of coloring, Nita’s daughter got up to watch cartoons on TV.

“Wind up your things beta, how many times do I have to tell you to keep your things back at their proper places? Look at the mess you have created!” lamented Nita.

“Koi nahi mem Saheb, Manu will keep everything back in the right place.”

Manu looked fascinated, by the array of colors, spread on the floor, a bright contrast to the boring white marble tiles; she greedily grabbed, a handful of crayons, and ran her fingers, around their stubby worn out tips. She examined each color pencil carefully before keeping it back in the box.

Nita was observing Manu, she smiled seeing Manu’s evident excitement on holding color pencils and crayons. She remembered how her own daughter had carelessly lost several boxes of colors, and how her interest in them lasted a mere half an hour. Nita went to her daughters room and pulled out a few old color books and drawing sheets from the bookshelf. There were still a few unused sheets in them; she took an old yet unused box of colors from the cupboard.

“Manu come here.”

Holding the child’s hand, armed with the colors and sheets, Nita led her to the very balcony where some time ago, Manu stood enraptured by the sights below. Seating Manu on a chair, Nita pulled one for herself, and handed Manu a drawing sheet and a bright red crayon. Manu’s eyes lit up on seeing the colors on the books. Guiding her hand, Nita wrote a big red “A” on the drawing sheet. Manu squealed in delight and her happiness stood out in the medley of sounds coming from the park below.

When the day’s work got over, Mrs. Nita decided to have a chat with Manu’s mother.

“Why don’t you send Manu to school?” Mrs. Nita said. “It’s a pain to see the little thing work. By sending her to school she can get a better job when she grows up.”

“I can’t afford the school fees, Memsahib.”

When Mrs. Nita suggested paying for Manu’s education, Manu’s mother was not too enthusiastic.

“Memsahib, I’ve found a house for Manu to work. School vagerah is not for us poor people. I cannot afford to lose an additional source of income. My husband abandoned me last year and I’ve two more mouths back home to feed. School will not feed my children and me, memsahib.”

“Okay, tell me how much extra will you earn by employing Manu somewhere?”

“At least a thousand rupees more” replied Manu’s mother.

“Fine then! From next month onwards I will pay you thousand rupees extra. Just let Manu go to school.”

Overjoyed with an unexpected rise in her pay, Manu’s mother agreed to send Manu to school, though she occasionally grumbled about how nothing good came out of studying so much.

School opened windows of several opportunities for Manu. Intelligent and bright, she topped school and received scholarships to good universities. Mrs. Nita on the other hand tried talking to her neighbors against child labor and tried dissuading them from employing children below 14 years at their houses. However due to lack of resources and means to fight this social crisis, she was unable to help other children like Manu.

***

Years later one day a petite girl rang the bell of Mrs. Nita’s house.

The moment the door was opened, Manu rushed forward to hug Mrs. Nita.

“Nita aunty, remember, the little girl who stood in your balcony enchanted by the sights below and to whom you gave a new lease of life? Yes, today your Manu is going to the top university of the country. How can I pay back all that you have done for me?”

“Pass it on, Manu,” smiled Mrs. Nita. “Often poverty driven families are reluctant to send their children to schools as they fear losing an additional source of income. This is a serious problem that needs to be tackled. There are so many children who need to be rescued, who need to be given their right to education and right to lead a respectable life. Fight for their cause, Manu.”

“I promise, Nita aunty.”

Manu went on to become a legal expert on child’s right’s issues. She opened an NGO ‘Nitanjali’ in her gratitude to Mrs. Nita. She fought aggressively for children’s right to education. Her NGO also ran a part time recreational centre where the parents of these rescued children where equipped with skills to earn enough to sustain their family, without sending their children to work.

***

The creaking of the doors jolted back Manushree from her reverie. In walked her assistant, accompanied by a little girl of around 4 years. Her big round eyes looked scared and suspicious of her new surrounding.

“Ma’am, this is Meenakshi. Our team rescued her from the cracker factory on the outskirts of the city.” Manu’s assistant informed her.

Manu beckoned the girl forward. Shy and awkward, the girl approached Manu’s table slowly and reluctantly. Manu took out something from inside her cupboard and placed it on the girl’s hand. It was a bright red crayon. The girl’s stance softened and her face broke into a smile. “After all these years, the charm of the bright red crayon still worked,” Manushree smiled to herself.

Many a times, we see right before our eyes, children being employed at various households, factories, restaurants, shops etc. We quietly ignore. But when it comes to a debate, we raise our voices against child labour. It is time we act on these arguments and douse the flames of child labour before it annihilates the future of our nation. Let us do our little bit, to make these little lives, a little better.

The Sound of Silence

She stood stark naked in the darkness of her room illuminated only by a shiny ray of moonlight trickling in through the half shut window. She had hidden the candle and the matchbox somewhere in the room but she just couldn’t recall where. After awhile of groping about in the dark, she finally found them below her mattress. She lit the candle and suddenly the room seemed alive. Throwing elongated shadows on the walls, the yellow glaring eye of the candle cast its sight on her body. She held the candle close to her face and ran a finger on the melting wax forming tiny white pearl drops on the candle’s body. “It’s time” the voice whispered behind her. She sighed softly and closed her eyes as if in prayer. Then she bent forward and held the candle between her legs, setting afire her vaginal hair. A searing pain shot through her spine, sending down shivers all over the body. She screamed out aloud in pain; a scream that left her lips silently and vanished into the dark corners of the room. But the pain had to be borne, it was her penance. “Your penance will bring him back” assured the voice. She proceeded on with her act of burning herself till the room was clogged with the stink of burns and with an undetected faint fragrance of satisfaction. Soon she passed out on the floor in pain. 

She was 25 when a biker snatched her chain when she stood waiting for the bus at a roadside. The shock left her numb for a week and soon after she started displaying erratic behavior and severe mood swings. After several rendezvous with physicians and psychiatrists, she was diagnosed with clinical depression. There on began her never ending association with doctors and medicines. Locked within the confines of her room, she lost sense of the day and time. Pushed down a desolate road of unhappiness and loneliness, she constructed a silent world for herself. Nobody but her family knew about her illness. Fearing social stigma, they guarded their little secret with utmost care. 

 She did not know when it all started but she remembered being increasingly aware of a voice calling out to her. Faint at first, she shrugged her shoulders and ignored the strange voice. But the voice grew louder every day till one day she clamped her fingers into her ears to drive away the voice pounding on her eardrums. When after awhile she withdrew her fingers the voice was gone. Scared and trembling, as she looked around her room, the voice called out to her again, though this time softly and gently as if caressing her.

“I know how it feels to be alone. I can feel your pain as my own. I want to be your friend.”

“But who are you and why can’t I see you?” she asked

“My name is Nazna. You cannot see me because I come from another world. But from now on I will live with you forever. But you cannot talk about me to anyone or else I will have to kill you. Our friendship is our secret.” The voice replied.

A friendship, which was formed in the secret, became her escape from the clutches of reality. She could speak her heart out with Nazna who understood her pain like her own. She would share secrets with Nazna who assured her of safekeeping. She shed tears of abandonment and Nazna lulled her to sleep with her lullabies. Soon Nazna became a friend she never had. The silent world that she had created was now ringing with laughter, chatter, tears and happiness. But this did not go unnoticed in the real world. The doctors were informed and her medicine dosage was increased. The effect of the tranquilizers made her groggy and made Nazna’s voice sound faint and distant. She could hear Nazna calling out to her as she fell deeper into a sleep state.

“Get her married off.” the psychiatrist advised her father.

“Hers is just a mild case of clinical depression which got triggered by the chain snatching incident. Her imaginary friend is a side effect of the medicines which will be cured by the strong dosage that I have prescribed. The hormonal changes in her body that will occur as a result of an intercourse after marriage, will help bring about the necessary stability in her mental state. So my professional advice to you is to get her married into a good family. Though take care to not miss the course of her medicine. I am certain in a few months she will not need medicines any more.” Her father was assured.

A man with a good name and standing in the society, her father had no trouble finding her an eligible groom. The prevailing social norms did not call for a formal meeting between the boy and the girl, so only photos were exchanged.  With the marriage fixed and the date decided, her tranquilizers were reduced and she woke up to the news of her wedding. After the strong dose of medicines she was feeling better though she realized she could no longer hear Nazna’s voice. In the privacy of her room she tried calling out to Nazna; no voice answered her. But excited and elated with all the attention showered on her, she sailed through the pre- wedding days in a dreamlike state.

Soon the wedding day came and the bride was decked up. The wedding bells rang clear and loud and the bride and groom were declared man and wife. A tearful parting gave way to nervousness which coiled inside her stomach like a snake. Shyly and coyly she entered into her new house with the man who would now be her companion for life through sickness and health. She was shown into his room; no it was her room also now. She sat on the bed waiting for her man. The wedding night had begun!

Back home her father heaved a sigh of relief; finally there was no secret to guard and no stigma to be scared of.

Two weeks later she was back at her father’s house, bags packed and suitcases locked. Not a word was said to her and neither was any eye contact made. One fine morning, he packed her bags loaded them into the car, asked her sit and drove down to her father’s house. As her mother took her inside, she heard heated words being exchanged between her father and him, and then the door slammed shut. His footsteps crunched the gravel angrily as he walked towards the car. She run upstairs and climbed on the slab near the window ledge. Hanging onto the window railing she could see him walk away. And there she stood every single day waiting for him to come back and take her with him. The stranger she had grown to love had abandoned her like a stranger.

 Her only comfort was that Nazna had returned. On the wedding night, Nazna had whispered in her ear. She berated Nazna for disappearing without a word. Having Nazna around, she felt more comfortable in the new house. She could be often heard talking to Nazna in the garden; while working in the kitchen; even when taking a bath. Her friend did not go unnoticed by her new family. A search of her suitcase exposed her well guarded secret; prescriptions and unused medicines bellowed of treachery. The girl was mad, and they had been cheated.

“You have to pay penance” Nazna hissed in her ear. “Your husband left you because you were not a good wife to him. Now, he will only accept you if you pay penance.”

She did not respond.

“Listen to me! You will be left in this dark hole for the rest of your life if you don’t listen to me. Penance is the only way to go back to your husband.” The voice screeched.

She was scared. Of late Nazna had become more dominating and demanding of her. But she also wanted to get back to her husband.

“What do I have to do?” she asked.

“Burn yourself. There is no greater penance than suffering pain. But you have to bear the pain in silence.” Nazna whispered excitedly.

She sneaked stealthily out of her room and returned awhile later. In her hand she clutched a candle and a matchbox. After tonight her sufferings would end and he would come back for her. Just this night! Just this one night, Nazna agreed.