The Real

Eyes stare out,

Into the blackness beyond,

A blur,

A memory,

A dream…

Broken, Burned

A blinding light,

The sign of awake-ness,

A smile,

A truth,

Real, Forever

The mistiness disappears,

With the welled up tears,

The curve commands,

And beckons joy near

The touch,

Surprises Love,

The eyes,

Piercingly warm,

Turn away the doubts,

The fear, the storm

Words melt,

Their meaning already delivered,

The grey no longer a looming cloud,

The lining already silvered

A speechless promise,

Sealed,

A soft kiss,

A long night,

Alone, not lonely

The coloured dream,

No black, no grey,

The elation spilling over,

No bounds, no seam

The real and unreal,

Merge, unite,

The present,

A gift from life.

Smile, it's today

MOWGLI - My angel :)

Sometimes I wake up,

Flustered,

The dream had broken bits,

Broken, yet clustered


And then suddenly,

Black-and-white comes wiggling forth,

Tail sweeping the air,

East-west, south-north!


Lips parted in a big grin,

And a pink tongue ready to kiss,

Smack, Smack, Smack it goes,

On my lips, cheek, chin, and nose!


I stretch and yawn,

I squint at the trickling rays,

I get some more kisses and wags,

Then, “Smile,” he barks, “it's Today!'

A small speck, that's all

..................................

I've often looked at ants carefully avoiding puddles, and wondered if that puddle were a sea or an ocean in their world...

Today, when I think about the world around me, I feel as small as an ant. I read the news, I watch telly channels flashing reports and I can't help but think that all those things that I'm disgruntled about hardly even matter.

In space, the junk of abandoned rockets, missile shrapnels and shattered satellites has reached a tipping point. One crash with a satellite and we could lose our communication networks. It sends shivers down my spine. Is this is a sign of the beginning of our end? An end that our own actions are responsible for?

In different parts of the world, there are oil spills that could wipe out birds, marine life. There are cyclones; there are earthquakes claiming hundreds and hundreds of human, animal and plant life. Our motherland is being tormented by plane crashes, blasts, terrorist attacks, and wars. There are rapes, reported and unreported, and there are honour killings. There are kidnappings, money launderings. Then there are government people. In Rajasthan, the corporation has left thousands of stray dogs – puppies, pregnant bitches and others – in the deserted desert, without food and water. They are caught with metal braces that cause their teeth to break and also result in other internal injuries. And then they are left to die in the sands.

In Pune, 35 dogs were recently poisoned by the PMC. The poison used was one that slowly attacks different organs and then causes death.

In Delhi, a cop raped a girl; in UP, two cops took obscene video clips of a girl, and drove her to commit suicide.

I can't even pen any more cases, because my stomach is knotted up and the cruelty makes me sick.

And I realise that I have no right to complain about the downs of work, the end-of-the month depleted bank account, the scratches on my car, the clot in my nail... Even if all my woes and worries were put together, they would never ever amount to what's happening in the world around me.

I'm just a speck, that's all. A small, tiny speck, much like an ant. A speck that's watching the ocean of cruelty drown and destroy the world it lives in.

It's time to sizzle

Beaches, bikinis and babes! Read on:

http://epaper.sakaaltimes.com/SakaalTimes/18Apr2010/Normal/Spice/page2.htm

Dancing Dots

I squeeze my eyes shut, but those colourful sparks no longer break the darkness. It's pitch black – there are no dancing red and blue dots, and no abstract circles. Instead, it gets foggy, a thick cloud of tears...

Sometimes life's like that. You can see the small circle of light at the end of the tunnel, but the tunnel's too long, almost unending. The darkness continues to stalk, and nothing you do can shake it away.

Sometimes happiness is like that. You see the other side of the fence, and your naked feet long to enjoy the coolness of the carpet of green grass... but, the fence is too high to cross over. The wires are too sharp, and sometimes, you get a jolt, a shock of Volts.

Sometimes smiles are like that. You can already feel the imminent joy that the curve will bring, but your lips are too dry. The chapness worsens as you wet them and the cracks get deeper. The redness burns inside, and the smile never reaches the eyes.

Sometimes love is like that. Deep down, you know it's enough to make up for the dark tunnel, the jolts and the cracks, yet you block it out, in fear that it won't reach you; in fear that an obstacle will block its path; in fear that it won't bring the dancing dots back...

The silence is deafening

I don't know his favourite food, his favourite restaurant or his favourite colour. I don't even know the colour of his eyes. But when I looked into them today, they were so grey and so lifeless. And the memory of meeting him flashed before me, and I recall his smile, full of mirth and mischief, a smile that reached his eyes.

I don't know Vikas well enough to be called a close friend, but I know him enough to know that he didn't deserve to die like that, in a blast of hatred and terror and cowardice.

A leg amputated, furious burns all over his person, failing kidneys... and what was his fault? That he chose to have coffee at German Bakery on February 13, at 7 pm.

The week that was, was of prayers for him. Those prayers are still with his soul that has crossed over. But his going has left behind a dreadful anguish in the minds and hearts of parents, siblings, family, friends – close ones and the ones like me. It will never go away.

My eyes will never forget the lifeless, far away look in his eyes, that I saw today at his funeral. And my mind will also never forget all those times I've met him and laughed and joked with him, oblivious to the fact, that soon, very soon, he'll only be a memory.

My emotions are troubled. They're confused. They don't know whether to feel deep sorrow at this loss of a lovely human being, or to feel justifiable hatred and uncontrolled anger at those who committed such a hideous crime, such an unpardonable sin...

It's been a week since blast, and a day since Vikas left us all, and the papers carry a headline: 'Even after 8 days, no breakthrough'.

I want to yell out to the ATS, to the government, to anyone who will listen:

'Will it even make a difference if there is a breakthrough?


Will the perpetrators be given a 'fair trial' like Kasab (26/11)?


Will I still hear explanations that a fair trial is a must because we're a democratic nation?


Someone tell me please: Are we a democratic nation for the citizens of India or for demons like Kasab and whoever is responsible for the death of Vikas and 14 others?


Will this terror ever end, or does our country want us to get 'used to' losing dear ones?


Will our Vikas ever get justice?'



My mind is constantly screaming. But still, there's only silence around. No answers. Only silence. And it's deafening.

FOR MY DEAREST BHAGWAN

This one's for Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba, only Him... for there is nothing truer than Him and I have no better Best Friend than Him...
Love You Baba...

Our boat was sinking, or so we felt,
We closed our eyes and before You, we knelt,
With a wave of Your hand, You calmed the storm,
In a flash of events, You took away the tears, the mourn.
We were drowning, or so we thought,
But the touch of Your hand was enough to bring our fears to a naught,
You didn't let a drop splash upon our person,
You came to save us, just when we were beginning to think our lot would worsen.

The darkness kept creeping on us, or so we assumed,
'Where is God when we need Him?' we fumed,
And then You whispered, 'Why fear when I am here?'
Our eyes opened, and there You were standing ever so near,
And we saw a light, of a most wondrous hue,
It surrounded us, and then became You.

We were falling, crashing, hurtling down, or so we imagined,
We could see the sinister rocks below,
We could hear our screams, the din,
We clenched our fists, and shut our eyes,
We tried to subdue our fear, our cries,
We tried to show courage, but in vain,
And in our panic, we even forgot to call out Your name.
Still, the crash never came.
Our eyes opened,
And instead of deathly rocks, we lay on a bed of love,
We looked straight up at Your smiling face above,
And you said in a voice of unmatched love and kindness,
'My dear child, You may forget me, but how can I?
I live for You, for Your happiness.
Even when you are not looking, I'm standing right there,
Even when you don't feel it,
You're enveloped in My armour of love and care.
Pain and sorrow are a part of life,
But look once towards Me,
And I'll give you joy that's unchallenged by trouble or strife,
For you may not know it, but I've descended to love you,
A love that's the deepest of deep, and the truest of true…'

Modern-day condolence?

A to B: “Lovely kurti... Where did you pick it up from?”

B to A: “Oh, thanks! Picked it up in such a hurry from Camp just today morning!”

C to D: “You have to, have to, have to come home and taste the chocolate mousse I've made. Have joined this new class...”

D to C: “Really? You toh don't invite me only. Gaayab hi ho jaati hain...!”

E to F: “Arre Neeta, ladki ki shaadi kab kar rahi hain?”

F to E: “God knows ya! She says she wants to focus on her work right now...”

Regular 'women' conversations. They have to be, considering the topics are clothes, cooking and a wedding. Nothing to write home about, right? Wrong.
These seemingly random conversations between two women-friends didn't take place at MG Rd or a parlour or a kitty party or a mall. They took place at a chautha (fourth day after a person's death). I know, because Neeta's 'ladki' in the conversation above is me.
I was aghast when mum recounted the hushed whispers she heard, sitting at the back of the hall where the solemn function was on to honour the dead. She herself was shocked that she was asked about my marriage at such a place and time.
It made me think and wonder why these women had even gathered for the chautha. Is it really just a formality, where they think 'Shakal toh dikhani padegi!” Whether you're whispering or talking aloud, sitting at the back or right in the front doesn't really matter here. The point is that that talk is sheer disrespect for the one who has passed away, and for his or her family members who are grieving the death.
Since when has offering condolence become such a farce? Have we become so caught up in the material world, that we think of what clothes people are wearing to a funeral? I didn't know that a chautha was just another social gathering, as if there aren't enough already. But I know now, and I'd rather not attend such a function than be party to such distasteful behaviour.
Agreed that it's in our nature to talk and gossip, but that gossip can wait till after you've left the function, or can't it? And if you have to talk, then why not talk about how the person for whom you're present at such a function touched your life? Why not talk about the good the person has done? Why not honour him or her by showing the family members that you're there for them during this hard time?
They say souls stay on for some days after death, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the ultimate purpose of a chautha would be to pray that the soul rest in peace. I don't think that knowing where a kurti is bought from or when I'm going to get married is in anyway going to help the soul rest in peace. But then, correct me if I'm wrong.

Nupur Chaudhuri

Looking inwards first

'Three Indians attacked by a gang of 70 teenaged Australians.'
The headlines screamed out on Sept 16, and the words are still ringing in my head. For some reason, I find it so very hard to associate this horrible, insensitive and racist behaviour with Australians. Only because I've lived amongst them and have been loved by them.
I spent a year of my life in Australia, I made Ozzie friends, I ate at their restaurants, I partied at their nightclubs, I studied at their University and I even lived with an Australian family, complete with an Ozzie cat and dog, who I'm sure found it hard to understand my accent! But the country welcomed me, and not once did I feel like an outsider. Their culture was different, but I was never made to feel like a stranger. Instead, everyone I came across expressed the keenest desire to know more about the land of India, to know if elephants really roamed the streets, and if we knew ancient magic, like the Red Indians.
It will be a year in December that I finished my studies in Australia and came back. Yet, the memories make me smile, and make me want to back. But can I now?
The very fact that it's now unsafe for me to go back to the country and people who made my stay so memorable scares me. It's the same fear that sometimes grips me when I'm travelling home alone at night, or am walking on a street dotted with groups of men.
We call the Australians racist because they've been hurting and telling Indians to go back to their own country. I will not dispute the allegation, but I want to ask what name would we give to the group of 80 men or so who attacked and molested a girl at the Gateway of India in Mumbai a few years ago on New Years' Eve? One girl fondled by 80 men. Do we call the men vulgar, cheap, maniacs, perverts, psychopaths or then plain and simple cowards?
Just like the 80 molesters knew that the girl would not be able to retaliate, so also the 70 Ozzies knew that the three Indians under their attack didn't stand a chance of giving back to them a piece of their disgusting, cowardly behavior. What then is the difference between them and us?
During the recent Ganpati visarjan, as I weaved my car through the different processions a day after the visarjan, the men whistled, hooted and insulted my dignity, and all this while the Ganesha idol, its eyes covered with a cloth, sat behind them. Is this, I ask, a better quality than racism, or sickeningly worse?
Today, I feel as unsafe in my city as an Indian man would at an Australian pub, bus stand or railway station. So, maybe it's time our men give answers for their cowardice before questioning the Australian racism.

Killing the compassion within

My family is synonymous with 'animal lovers'. Even mom's converted, and has been bunking her walks to take our dog out to play instead! So when a cousin dropped by and told us of the cruelly shocking way in which five dogs of her society, near Pleasant Park, Wanowrie, were murdered, we were naturally aghast.
The dogs were poisoned. They were tempted with food, a feast that led them to their death. I read in the newspaper some weeks ago that PETA will award Rs 10,000 to anyone who comes out with information about the killings. Thank God for animal rights activists, and thank god for money, I say. If not for the love of creation, then at least for the love of money, we might have someone offering information.
What did the dogs do that brought death upon them? They were vaccinated and spayed, and had no diseases. Their only fault was that they were dogs. They weren't 'stray' as they were being looked after by different residents of the society. They had never attacked or harmed anyone. They were friendly with kids as well. So what then must have irked someone to resort to the lowly act of murder? That they bark at odd hours of the night perhaps?
I have a family with little kids in my society; and when they were babies, they wailed at every other hour. Now I'm not particularly fond of kids, but I didn't sneak up on them and poison them! It would've been a horrid crime, wouldn't it? So how then can socially 'normal' people residing in a good area poison innocent dogs just because their 'barking' could be a nuisance at times?
Just because the dog clan can't voice its opinion, or take out a morcha to fight for dog/animal rights, doesn't mean we humans can exploit and play with their lives.
When will we learn that we are only a 'part' of creation? That we're meant to live in harmony with other forms of nature and not kill them for pleasure or selfish purposes?
I'm not saying I'm a saint. But I'd never do something so cowardly and so disgusting; something that reflects upon my race and tarnishes the intelligence and compassion we've been gifted with.
The anti-stray or anti-animal folks may say my view is absolutely biased. I will not dispute them. Biased or not, it's a view that condemns the act of taking away something that you do not have the power to create, and in this case, it's life.