A Voice for Change

 Last night's chatter had died down. The excited sequels of his grandchildren, the booming laughter of his sons, the frivolous banter of his daughters and daughter-in-law, and the loud beating of his heart. It was now quiet and slow life had returned. Yet, his heart was still drumming in his chest, rejoicing after having met her after almost two decades.  Celebration continued post the celebration of his seventy-fifth birthday.  Sandra, the timeless beauty of St Cathederal School in Shimla, had suddenly paid a visit to his slow, arthritic life in Nashik. Not much had changed with the girl. Ouch!! Could he still call her a girl? Forever, his heart replied. The first flutter she caused in his chest like the gentle flapping of a bird eager for flight was always remembered. How could he forget the way his spectacles slipped down the sweaty bridge of his nose when she stood next to him in the assemble? The memory of her stern glance catching him watch her foolishly, bubbled ye...

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...

 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...

 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 Champ...

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, nostalgia grips me in its tight arms. Initially, I feel suffocated with the hard embrace but slowly the warmth of intimacy relaxes me. A smile meanders its way on my tight lips and for a long time it refuses to leave. It watches the stack of toys that I have bundled up in a corner of our bedroom in the 1bhk home. There is no personal bedroom. It is a space I share with my parents and younger sister. The toys occupy a colossal part of the room. Clapping joker, flabby monkey, a copper kitchen set, a pair of plastic badminton rackets, a shabby doll that is oh so dear to me and umpteen other toys jostle for space in the corner. This treasure trove is a shared property. I don't have sole ownership over it but there are no qualms about it. No quandary over it. Infact, the treasure has grown by leaps and bonds with the arrival of my partner in-crime, my sister. Yes, she is the one who makes us, US! The incredible US. Our toys now have rattling, ...

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, an array of questions queue up in my mind. How precious it must be when bought? Which occasion did it brighten? How often the child played with it? Was it the comfort toy of little Riya and her bhaiyya often teased her by hiding it? The questions settle post a turbulence and my memories surface to run a picture film of my childhood. A walk in the forgotten alleys of life. A hop from the swinging swing and a bruise on the left knee. Yet, there would be a quick dusting of the muddy frock and a forced sprint in the leg to hide the naughty impulsivity. Dettol, Savolon did no good for they came with free, verbal rants of a mother who was fed up with a perennially misbehaved child. The swinging would be banned for next few days, and maternal singing would continue ringing in the girl's ears. But the girl cared damn! Home alone or not. She found her own creative ways to land herself in a soup. Sitting by the window sill, she would call out names...

 I'm on the land of Biju Patnaik, the green and clean Odisha. Son's chess tournament brings me to this part of the country which as a globetrotter I wouldn't have considered on my travel map. Why? The terrible Indianess in me wants to visit Greece, sail to the Bahamas, savor a La French wine, and behave tanning on the beaches of Australia. But I don't care a damn about local tourism, despite the many requests, the Prime Minister makes, with folded hands, to boost local tourism. That's his job! And me, doing mine of not following his. Now that I'm here, the explorer bug bites me, and I set out in search of some luxurious time-spending option without spending a penny. Forgot, I'm an Indian after all! I have a noteworthy sense of smell. I can smell a library from a distance. Here, where I'm logged at the KIIT campus, I relish the aroma of books wafting in the air. I immediately go about sniffing and land straight at the school library. Voila! The place is s...

A fellow passenger is playing a Telugu song. The music is soothing the soul. I can't get the words. But it doesn't matter. I enjoy the melody, soak in the tune and feel absorbed in the song totally.  That makes me wonder do our words really count if intentions are great? Can language really be a barrier?  Hmm...not much if one is eager to form a bond. This is my fourth day in a city whose language I don't understand,  a region that does not recognize my 'ye dena' or 'ye  nahi chahiye'. Yet, I'm doing fine with help of my sign language, Google and few translators.  The first day in Vijaywada was a struggle. At food counters, both the people - me and the seller slapped their tensed foreheads in exasperation. I wanted salt. But my good gracious Anna didn't understand salt, namak or mith. There was nothing in menu card that I could show to him that I wanted to order. The menu card had English and Telugu interpretations. So ordering the food was easy by s...

 More recently I read the book 'It Ends With Us'. I found the title intriguing, the blurb simple and not at all attention seeking. Like someone comfortable in its own skin, the book had no glamorous binding or attractive coverpage. I picked it for precisely these reasons. I hate books that shout out loud saying, 'Babes, come buy me!' I like to pursue the lost in oblivion kind of people and books. Now this book started off on a good note and then it took me on a boring ride into the sexual encounters of the protagonist. Gosh!! I just wrote the dreaded S word. So dreaded is it that my auto-correct too writes Sequel if I type Sexual. Boss, I'm a shy Indian who doesn't even whisper the S word forget saying out loud except in the biology class and gender inquisitive government forms. When I talk of love though it has a physical attraction to it, certainly it doesn't end in pushing down my lover's pants the moment he parks into the garage or we find a lonely s...