A Voice for Change

We all have some secrets tucked away in the cockles of our hearts, innumerable little secrets. The first night out with friends under the pretext of group study, the first stolen kiss, watching a movie with the chillar saved from grocery shopping, sneaking out to play video games in a shady gaming parlour... oh, so many of them. The list is endless. Many of these secrets we have shared with our friends, spouses, therapists, or even while casually venting to our househelps or drivers. Some we revealed deliberately because we could no longer bear their weight. They sat heavy on our conscience. Time has since washed over them, and now they are like insignificant crabs crawling out of the waves. But share we must, for these secrets pinch, poke, and punch us hard when we are alone. The tossing and turning in bed isn’t because we can’t find a soft spot; it’s because these minuscule mischief-makers keep sleep at bay. Finally, we relent and spill the beans. But among all those secrets lies...

 In one of my recent talks, I surprised myself by saying that respect is more important than love in a marriage. Love fades. Yet, even the color of faded respect shines bright. We often hear people say, “We’ve fallen out of love.” But have we ever heard anyone whisper, “We’ve fallen out of respect”? Even the English language doesn’t support such a notion. A large part of that talk was totally impromptu. I am a spontaneous and organic speaker. Call it my carefree attitude or my deep desire to speak my heart, but I rarely prepare for my talks in advance. My brain simply registers the theme and the age group of my listeners. And that’s it. My heart then opens a small chamber of experience hidden within the chambers of intellect. What spills out is often as surprising to me as it is to my audience. These talks become a mirror to my forgotten self. After that particular talk, for several days, I kept grazing on the thought: Respect is more essential than love in a marriage. Wh...

 She is a doctor’s wife. She is more an observer of his life rather than an active participant in his profession. His mornings many times begin with a call from the relative of a dying patient. He isn't doomed. His grooming isn't affected. He dresses, polishes his shoes, ruffles his son's hair, plants a kiss on his wife's cheek, and grabs the car's key with a sprint in his leg.  The doctor's wife is shocked. Someone is about to leave this world. How can he be so casual about it? But like most wives do, she keeps her opinion to herself. She will bring it up at night as a starter and then go full throttle in accusing him of being insensitive. Like he is towards his patients, he is no different towards her emotions.  That night he is late. Before he gently opens the door to their bedroom, she is blissfully snoring. He quietly tosses his sweat-soaked shirt in the washing machine, caresses his son's forehead, pulls the blanket up to his wife's chin, and like ...

 Born in Bombay, raised in Mumbai, the local train travel is imbibed in my system.  The adrenaline rush to catch a specific train is indescribable. Standing in the long queue to book a ticket, getting reprimanded by the railway clerk for not carrying change, brushing past sluggards who find railways stations idyllic and while time doing nothing, dodging pervert elbows, and then finally landing on the desired platform, was a sweet struggle, I lo oked forward to every morning during college days. The entire struggle would find fruition once inside the train. Finding a seat was no Herculean task. Yes, one had to be lucky to find a window seat. But a seat to sit and enjoy the chugging on wheels was sure.  I caught the same local everyday for straight six years. I made friends who shared breakfast and stories with me. Women of different age and personalities bonded. The 30 minute journey passed in a blur. On holidays, I could actually walk the length of a compartment. As a chi...

 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 year, Aaji passed away at a ripe age of 94 years. She left a one-room apartment for Aai. The place soon went into redev...