A Voice for Change

  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 many ideas c

 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 d

 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 smile. What kind of mother am

 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 Herculean task

 I have nothing to do. I want to write but find no prompt to initiate the process. I pester the husband to give me a good word or picture prompt to write. He is as usual doing stuff that interests me little. Money-making. He ignores me. Yet, I continue nudging him in the rib. Some more indifference from his end. Followed by a little more prodding from me. 'What?' He looks up from his mobile. 'Give me a prompt to write.' I blink my eyes and give him my best smile.  'Go write on those steel dabbas!' The dabbas are lying peacefully on the bed after I have finished munching their contents are now in focus. 'Who writes on steel dabbas?' I give the husband an aluminum dabba look, non-reflective and nonchalant. 'If you consider yourself a writer, then you must able to write on everything and anything. No? Or No.' He gets back to his android and me... I tramp down memory lane. Though not immediately but surely. I stare at the imbecile stainless steel dab

 Table no. 12. Final round. Ahmedabad. Under-7 National Chess Championship, 2022.  The sky was as blue as it should have been. The wind cooled the sweat beads on anxious foreheads. The sun had chosen to go a little easy on us. The outside environment was supportive and stood by us. Nothing worked for me within. Meditation, prayers, reading, writing, talking to my husband or a friend. Nothing helped to ease the trepidation of a mother's heart whose son was playing the second most important match of his life.  Life. I paused at that. Wasn't he born just yesterday? Here, he was fighting for a win. All of seven. A mere seven-year-old who was standing for the past one hour and giving his opponent a tough fight over the chess board. Sitting was not an option. His height barely reached up to table no. 12.  Table. no.12. A position where if he won, he would escalate to the top six players of India, and if his stars favored him, he would represent India at the Asian U-7 Championship. Th