A Voice for Change

 Once I demanded a treat from a friend, he had reached a significant milestone in his career. 'Let’s party!' I urged him.  ' Party??!!! You don't drink or eat non-veg. What kind of party do you expect me to throw for you?' His response shocked me. But he was correct in way. In an era, where celebration is equated to overflowing beer mugs and KFC chicken buckets, he wasn't sure how he could enjoy with a friend like me. I stepped back. I understood I was not a piece that fit in his jigsaw puzzle.  I love to watch people getting on a high and chilling in the moment with a glass of wine or vodka. Each has their special way. I don't condemn them for not being like me. But gradually I drift away and celebrate in my own company. Finding my type is rare. But yesterday was a different experience. I partied, let my hair down, enjoyed a simple meal, and walked amidst the greenery of nature. Before I could do all of this, I worshiped and prayed. Yes, I was at a temple, ...

 My maternal grandmother-Aaji was a poor woman. She didn't leave heaps of gold or hectares of land for her only child, my mother. Her sarees were also cheap polyester and nylon. Her wedding silk saree and the ones gifted by her nieces, nephews, and later my mother were the only pricey possessions she had.  My grandfather was a civil engineer who never believed in taking anything more than he deserved. Thus, my Aaji had limited resources to run the house. Yet, she made sure my mother was educated and worked as a banker till full retirement. Though Aaji had a Godrej cupboard in which the entire family's clothes were accommodated and still there was space, my mother today has an entire wardrobe to her name with silks from varied corners of the country jostling for space. Aaji gave her the power to build an inheritance that she herself couldn't raise.  Last Aaji passed away at a ripe age of 94 years. She left a one-room apartment for Aai. The place soon went into redevelopmen...

 Sixteen years ago, fresh out of the medical college, as an enthusiastic doctor, I visited the Bidada Medical Camp in Kutch Gujarat, as a volunteer. Amongst the thousands of patients I saw, this mother, aged between 65-70 years, stayed in my troubling thoughts for a long time. She had come to the camp to meet specialists who were visiting India to treat the ragged and frayed people of Kutch for free.  I remember her as a mother of an adult specially abled child. The father had passed away a few years back. No siblings to follow. ‘What after me?’ was the thought that stung her day in and out as she cared for her son. She had come to the camp in the hope that somewhere there would be a place that would care for her son once the heavens had embraced her. The staff refused to help the mother because her plea did not fall into any surgical or medical category.  Years later, as I read the book Not Before You, authored by Lata Gwalani, this mother knocked on my doors in Jaya’s d...

 What a miracle she was!! Waking up at the crack of dawn, before the first ray could find its way flittering through the dense blanket of darkness- she was my Amma. Splashing some cold water on her comely but tired face, she lit the firewood to facilitate a warm bath for both of us. This firewood was a stellar luxury, for the zamindar granted us the comfort only on special occasions. And today was Diwali!  As she washed her long locks, which were tied in a taut bun, Chutki, my elder sister, demanded to be lifted in her arms. Amma quickly winded up the bathing ritual and rushed to comfort Chutki. The first light that dispelled the darkness of the hut scared Chutki. It had become a routine for her to wake up crying, as the demons of the past brought out their ugly heads in her dreams.  "Kuruvi…" Amma's little birdie, that she was, "…we are far, far away from the tormentors. The ghosts of animosity have left for their graveyards."  Amma clemently brushed aside the ...

  I can only tell stories. That doesn’t sound like a great opening to a blog, right? Especially when you are looking at a giant called Happiness. Well, I can’t do much about it because I can only tell stories. Stories to me are happiness.  What kind of stories you will ask? Love stories? Horror stories? Thrilling stories? Adventurous stories? A little bit of everything, I would say. Like the Mumbai bhelpuri, tangy, spicy, sweet, and fulfilling. Again an old comparison. But what to do? That is what I’m made up of. Stories and food. Stories of people around me. I’m no unique individual. I’m a fragment of my mother, my father, my son, my husband, my friends, and even my milkman and house-help. Sometimes, I’m also like the rickshaw driver, in whose vehicle I commute every day to work. You must be finding it very funny. But many times, I’m like my pressure cooker and mixer grinder, too. I start abruptly whistling, when the there is too much pressure inside me. When I find too man...

 F E S T I V A L S. Festivals. Festivals.   Doesn't work. I have been writing this word on a blank page in different ways yet there is nothing beyond the word that comes to my mind. Okay, let me confess I was reminded of my fifth birthday party celebrated in pomp by my parents when I wrote festivals. The memories of Ganpati Utsav celebrated during my carefree college days paraded in my mind. Diwali, Christmas carols at school , the colours of Holi, and the songs of garba , oh, so many bright things came to my mind on scribbling festival on paper. But no. These are the things I have written about a zillion times. I want to write something fresh. Another paper ball gets tossed in the bin. The basket has about ten to fifteen paper balls crumbled in frustration. The creases on paper talk of the intensity of my burnout. Yes, I'm burning out of ideas to write. Freak! Is that me who just published her second novel? I am not able to write on Feeling Festive. Forget the whole essay, a ...