A Voice for Change

 A cure resides in the offender! On an untypical day, you find the mother popping pills from the saccharine loaded shrikhand dabba. You peep and probe and your investigating eye is awarded. The mother is using the dabba to store her diabetic medicines. The biggest irony of her life. What joy the dabba must be deriving from storing the comfort it carries in its afterlife! In its overtly sugary living it lures the devastated bodies into a fatal temptation. Yet, in its journey towards reincarnation, the mother gives it an opportunity to escalate her cure which was deterred by consumption of creamy  delicacy. Mothers know it right. They set the karmic wheel in motion. The dabba benefits from their generosity and wide vision. Our mother gives a an afterlife to every animate and inanimates of the house. Like the dabba, the Bhaiyya's worn out t-shirt is hanging on the younger Babli's shoulders. Oversized, yet she has to adorn the shabby fabric. Then when she overgrows it, like a war ...

 "What's your comfort food?" Somebody asked me the other day. Not quite satisfied with my answer or maybe enjoying my simpleton attitude, the intruder of my calm went ahead to probe on my comfort clothing, comfort reading and ectera cetera... That made me wonder whether we could have a comfort language as well? The language with which we can roam naked without inhibitions, without apprehension of being judged, without caring for grammar and without bothering over vocabulary. Is there a language that rolls over my tongue effortlessly like a Jack and Jill tumbling over the hill towards gravity? Is there a language that comes naturally to me in the deepest of my slumbers and surfaces in casual conversations? Is there a language that makes a stranger my friend and a friend my closest mate? Yes, there is. Hindi. No. No. Not the upanayas Hindi. Not the Hindi of Kabir or Tulsidas. It's my Bambaiya Hindi. A dialect born on the streets, yet nutured like royalty. You need no tr...