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.