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

 H A P P I N E S S. Happiness. Happiness.   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 happiness. The memories of my carefree college days paraded in my mind. My marriage, my first baby, my first car, my first clinic, oh, so many first things came to my mind on scribbling happiness 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 Pursuit Of Happiness. Forget the whole essay, a dramatic, captivating punchline also is not my cup o

 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