A Voice for Change

 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...

 Talking has been a hereditary trait while listening to someone talk logic, I have cultivated very often. The writing world has myriad of ideas on how to get that pen running amok on your paper, on how the click-clacking of typewriter can be music to your ears. In these blog series, I bring forth to you words of wisdom straight from the horse's mouth-unadultered, unfiltered.  More recently, on 15th Jan 2022, precisely I had the opportunity to interact with the vivacious author of Rewriting My Happily Ever After, Dr. Ranjani Rao.  Ranjani, is a Singapore based writer who has recently self-published her first full length memoir. She is a scientist by profession and a writer by passion. Talking about her writing journey, Ranjani says she is a self-taught writer having attended only few writing workshops to bring a method to her writing. Otherwise, being a science student, thinking, exploring and then writing came naturally to her. Every writer begins as reader is her strong ...

 "Ma, please hand over my dupatta!" "Ma, Bablu's online class is a little late today." "Ma, today please make khandvi for dinner. I'm craving to have it." "Also, MA.. " "Haan meri Amma, got all your instructions right and now will you please pick up bag and leave for the greener pastures." My mother in law of eight years smirked at me. She didn't have a soft heart to cajole or pamper me but definitely a tender soul that accepted me as a daughter over whatever the law said. Ma, had changed over the years from being a pesky MIL to a no nonsense mother to my husband and specifically Me! Being into an intercultural marriage, we both had our shares of anxiety over accepting the other. We had to share a man- one whom she knew from the first cry and one who I would accompany till my last smile.  "Oh, I would teach her all our customs and see no one would ever know she is not one amongst us." She had promised my husband.  ...