A Voice for Change

 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 ...

 Dear daughter(if I may)           I ask your permission to call you my daughter because I haven't been granted one biologically. It is a privilege as well as a huge responsibility to call a girl your daughter. Am I ready to shoulder this responsibility? Though my letter starts with self-doubt, I yearn to talk to my daughter who is yet to see the tomorrow. Tomorrow, the word floats like a bubble on the wave of my thoughts. Sometimes, I feel I live in that bubble. Bubble of tomorrow. Today is that harsh wind trying to puncture my bubble. Yet, I preserve and guard a safe haven for you, my daughter, in this bubble.  In my bubble, you have the liberty to be you. You, the unapologetic you. You can be who you want to be. Dark nights will not scare you. Empty streets will not pervade your sanity. When you stand tall demanding your rights, you will not be shoved into the earth. Your first cry will not be smothered and your last day will be with a long lasting ...

 Deep maroon or Chocolate brown? Certainly, chocolate brown! My mind quizzed me as my fingertips tapped on the shades of lip colors I own. Not many, I possess merely 2-3 lip shades. Make-up or skin care essentials are my pet peeves, but this particular chocolate brown shade is my favorite. Whenever I have an important meeting or a presentation, I wear it to work. The color applied to my melanized lips adds a spark to my attitude. Somehow, I feel I can win over the world, overcome my shortcomings, and come home with a trophy in hand. The lip color is like a trophy to my mind. It is a dangling carrot which when shown makes me believe I can conquer the uncharted islets of my abilities. I find it amusing, sometimes, why such a trifling thing is so crucial to my self-confidence. Why it strengthens my drooped shoulders? No logical explanation found to date.  On the days when I have to seal a deal for my business venture or simply when stepping out of the house for work seems a Hercu...