A Voice for Change

 "Idhar nahi karne ka, log dar jayega!" Chaudhari Chacha admonished me and my friend for letting our desires run wild outside the hospital OPD. Onlookers gave us disgusting looks. Some stood transfixed, cursing our audacious ways. Others giggled, and threw intermittent glances from the IPD above. With quite a few, it was, "Mera number kab aayega?" look. But none's intestines had the musculature to shoo us away, except the self appointed  moral police of the medical college, Chaudhari Chacha!  "Chacha, viva hai. Practice karne dona. Halka lagega!" I requested him with folded hands.  "Idhar nahi, patient log darneka! Common room mein jao. Chalo, bhago!" Common room was common to girls applying lips to their pouts, some others gossiping about the new lecturer in campus, few enjoying their unrestricted afternoon seistas and many bustling out of this overtly feminine room.  With no respite from Chacha, we picked up the objects of our fondling but ...

 Received this freshly, this morning. The postman with feathery appendages, cooed on the windowsill, till I gave a hand to it. The parchment paper was thin, the inked words bold, and the biggest surprise came to me when I found it was handwritten. Gosh!! Was it from the Rigveda or so? In the era of print, who writes in ink? Seems some silly joke, I thought yet the ruins of my sensibility urged me to read it. I fear a terrorist threat, so reading it aloud with you,  Dear Aparna,  This is a soul in distress, writing to you from Janakpuri. Remember we met in the Forests of Enchantments? It was so thoughtful of Chitra to have brought about this meeting and many more, so that I could get inspired by modern women.        Whatever has been said about me-the strength, resilience and endurance is at one end, but right now my heart is doing somersaults thinking what you will say. Yet, I choose to bare it open. I HATE RAM for what he has done to me. I hate to be ...

 Have you ever tried jumping in and out of the shore waters? Of course you must have! How foolish of me to have asked you such a silly question! Anywhere in the world, there could be times, you must have been a silent spectator at the opera of the sea. Sometimes it's loud and boisterous, roaring like an angry lion to prove its supremacy. Sometimes it's silent and calm, slidding under your bare feet like a docile snail. Sometimes its totally mute, no sound of its ebb and flow. Really is it that different on diverse occasions? Or is it my mind that sees its mood reflected in the waves?  On traumatic days, I see the waves crashing on the boulders making smooth pebbles of it. How tortuous, engulfing the waves are, that they erode the strong, rough surface to metamorphose into a burnished rock! Their untrammelled cruelty, changing the boulder to better. Inspite of the abuse by the waves, the rock stands solid, not moving as if desirous of the torment. My mind too loves the torments...

The waiting days wrenched my nerves. Each minute seemed like an hour, and two hours like a millennium. The kabadiwala, too, had business, and the mochi chipped away at plastics and leather merrily. Empty rickshawalas, not plying to customers’ needs, rushed past frivolously, as if Aishwarya Rai—or someone even higher up the ladder, Sonia Gandhi—were waiting for a ride. Still, these women had places to go, and yet the rickshawalas were arrogant towards their own bread and butter. So, to emphasise my point: even the nukad boy crying “bhindi le lo” was involved in an occupation, but not me. Yes, the doctor’s degree certificate, fresh from printing and framing, mocked me: “Go find a better way to while away time than shooing away the third generation of flies born in two months, thriving in the prosperity of an empty clinic!” If this was the mockery spat in my face by the offspring of my hard work, imagine what distantly related inanimates had to say. “Let the children do some drawings here...

 I step back. The gulmohar has bloomed in full vigour. The canopy of bright yellow and orange flowers filters the sharp sun rays. The rays reaching you are as soft as a baby's fur blanket. Not scorching, not pricking but gently providing warmth, as if giving a company from distance without letting you feel claustrophobic. The leaves rustle as the wind tickles them playfully. Some golden, auburn ones shed their inhibitions and kiss mother earth beneath. Of one tribe, one can't distinguish the just fallen from the eternally lying ones. Very peacefully, the dried community makes a place for the new arrivals. For some time they all unanimously, comfort and cuddle each other. Soak themselves in the moment of supreme unity. As if knowing that the next moment can be of departure, and goodbyes are not always easy.  The wind today is very mischievous, for he again starts the tickling and this time in a mood to set his charges topsy turvy. The serene golden brown leaves, get carried awa...

 One two three... Some slow, some fast. Some walk, some run. Some sit, some talk. Some watch, some observe. I prefer the latter. This is the dusk time. Birds fluttering their way to nest. The sun fading away in the oblivion. Mothers nudging their little ones to take the first step towards washing rituals at home. The last occupant has abandoned the swing which is now oscillating finding it difficult to come to a standstill. Its home calling.  But this beast, the Man's Best friend is still here. It lies recklessly on the pavement in the garden. Occasionally, growling displaying its profound existence. Or significance? Maybe both. As I sit in solitude, its periodic snarls give me company. Love his carefree approach. Admire its I Care a Damn attitude. Not occupying a colossal space yet claiming authority over its boundaries. Some how it gets what it wants. Audacity in the face of adversity. Never is a bark a humble plea still the big dark eyes speak volumes asking for generosity....

 "We understand death only after it has placed it's hands on someone we love." So well has the author Anne L. De Stael understood this abstract yet real phenomenon. Maybe I too find a reflection in it after I lost a dear one to the poisonous pangs of death. The loss left me cold and clammy like the beveled body.  BODY that's what we call when a walking, talking mortal becomes immortal. He may be my friend, my neighbor, my father, my nobody and sometimes my everybody yet the moment breath becomes air he is just a BODY. People assembled in grieving moods inquire, "When will the BODY arrive? When will the last rites be performed? Are there any prayer meets later?" Whose convinence is sort where?  "Not today dear, please die on the weekend. There is a new client coming to close the deal. Your deal closure will be celebrated on a Sunday." Can't we make such requests? Can't we just have a pre-scheduled appointment with death? Why can't we pla...