It was a winter afternoon.
The last paper - Biology - was over. Blissfully blank minds could now indulge in elfin treks to our haunts : the sea , the Hut , the malls ; they would retain the echoes of our wandering footsteps mingled with the tinkling of girlish chortles.
The ground seemed firm , undisturbed ; alas!
Squelch!
The shoes went through water-laden sand. Walk with her often and be certain to carry home a momento : mud-covered , grim shoes. She would grin and trot off unconcerned and I would sigh ruefully at the mess I would have to wipe clean without a tissue paper....
Why did we not learn to keep tissues handy ? Being girls that too : for inkdrops , for drops of water after washing under the cooler (the uniform tie served the purpose often) , for food smears , for dusty desks , for tears , for the Unknown trouble (like the shoes above).Perhaps , we could do without them till life compelled us to be what our mothers scolded us to be like during our wonder years.
In the cold breeze , a few drops of rain fell on us - silently.The sky was a melancholy metal blue , overladen with grey nebulous clouds.
In the mall , we visited the perfume shop ; appreciated a couple, criticised a dozen ; remained forgetful of anyone around us and took away an effusion of scents on scraps of cardboard paper ( that had been a catalogue of some sort , taken from another shop ). Then slipping them in between the pages of our books , it remained a lingering memory.
We left the mall , and head towards the Hut.
The raindrops hastened through gusts of cold wind.
A sumptuous aroma greets you - of hot oven bread and an assortment of saucy titbits. Over an hour we sat ; nibbled on salad ; talked of sweets and sweethearts, the droll and the dreary ; munched pizza , giggled , sipped on drinks ; sighed.
The watch marched beyond the 4'O clock gong : to hurry homewards.
Now the rain fell with suppressed alacrity , in the seducing frenzy of the biting winds.
The tumult of the weather spurred us on ; teeth chattering , teasing , half-running , chuckling - we parted ways - praying to be home without being "caught" -- in the play of wind and rain.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
The Refuge
It has been raining since the previous night.
They quarelled:
Her anger spilled bitter words ;
He withdrew into wrathful silence.
I cannot stop the rains ; I can watch a falcon in his flight.
A pearl in an oyster , in a fathomless sea.
There is no refuge -
From the darkness of the womb , to the harsher light ;
From the confines of the grave , where will we proceed ?
I want to stay shut , in the haven , in me.
They quarelled:
Her anger spilled bitter words ;
He withdrew into wrathful silence.
I cannot stop the rains ; I can watch a falcon in his flight.
A pearl in an oyster , in a fathomless sea.
There is no refuge -
From the darkness of the womb , to the harsher light ;
From the confines of the grave , where will we proceed ?
I want to stay shut , in the haven , in me.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Memorable Quotes
A 5 years old cousin , got into a scrape , whereupon he received a beating from his mother.
After a while , he came to his mother , busy in work and chided her :
" You did not even tell me 'Sorry!' ! "
During the toddler age of the aforementioned cousin , his favorite phrase on being annoyed was :
" You are not good! "
He went further for higher levels of irritation ; thus remarking to his aunt once :
" You are not good , and your Been ( her husband Mubeen , whose name he preferred cut short ) is also not good! "
On marriage :
(1) "The biggest blunder I made in my life."
- A Physics teacher , whose memory reminds me of 'bubbling with talk , laughter , life'.
(2) "Dear , it is the start of all troubles."
- A History teacher , who would say my 'dear children' to a class of bored 15 year olds.
" I love to come to school in the morning and smile at everyone ....."
- A Chemistry teacher. Her smiles inspired those zestful 'Good Morning(s) , ma'am' !'
During a meal , I was reminding my 5 year old twin cousins about saying their prayer prior to eating (i.e 'In the name Allah , and by the blessings of Allah'). My mother futher commented that if they forgot their prayers , the food would go to the Devil.
The younger of the two girls , paused thoughtfully and asked me with eyes wide with somber curiosity :
" Who is the 'Devil' ? "
One of the twins on being forced to eat her lunch by Nani (maternal grandmother) :
" My mother will come and beat you! You are making me eat so much! "
After a while , he came to his mother , busy in work and chided her :
" You did not even tell me 'Sorry!' ! "
During the toddler age of the aforementioned cousin , his favorite phrase on being annoyed was :
" You are not good! "
He went further for higher levels of irritation ; thus remarking to his aunt once :
" You are not good , and your Been ( her husband Mubeen , whose name he preferred cut short ) is also not good! "
On marriage :
(1) "The biggest blunder I made in my life."
- A Physics teacher , whose memory reminds me of 'bubbling with talk , laughter , life'.
(2) "Dear , it is the start of all troubles."
- A History teacher , who would say my 'dear children' to a class of bored 15 year olds.
" I love to come to school in the morning and smile at everyone ....."
- A Chemistry teacher. Her smiles inspired those zestful 'Good Morning(s) , ma'am' !'
During a meal , I was reminding my 5 year old twin cousins about saying their prayer prior to eating (i.e 'In the name Allah , and by the blessings of Allah'). My mother futher commented that if they forgot their prayers , the food would go to the Devil.
The younger of the two girls , paused thoughtfully and asked me with eyes wide with somber curiosity :
" Who is the 'Devil' ? "
One of the twins on being forced to eat her lunch by Nani (maternal grandmother) :
" My mother will come and beat you! You are making me eat so much! "
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Snapshots in Writing
Watching the rain fall , alone in the afternoon ;
Listening to the drops slapping on the ground.
Licking ice-creams other than my own ;
Sipping a new juice made by a younger cousin.
Telling stories to the twins ;
Hearing protests on holding one more than the other in my arms.
Playing monopoly , with a ship ;
Sailing stubbornly against hoots claiming my Titanic would sink , as usual ;
Laughing at the banter common to the dinner table ;
Crying at the parting and yet longing for home ;
Gabbling about my love for words to an aunt , busy in the kitchen ;
The milk boiled over -
Apologising for distracting and ruefully commenting on schlimazels and schlemiels ;
Remembering that past vacation , the passionate mourning ;
Rejoicing in the eternal joy that sprung from ephemeral heartbeats.
Listening to the drops slapping on the ground.
Licking ice-creams other than my own ;
Sipping a new juice made by a younger cousin.
Telling stories to the twins ;
Hearing protests on holding one more than the other in my arms.
Playing monopoly , with a ship ;
Sailing stubbornly against hoots claiming my Titanic would sink , as usual ;
Laughing at the banter common to the dinner table ;
Crying at the parting and yet longing for home ;
Gabbling about my love for words to an aunt , busy in the kitchen ;
The milk boiled over -
Apologising for distracting and ruefully commenting on schlimazels and schlemiels ;
Remembering that past vacation , the passionate mourning ;
Rejoicing in the eternal joy that sprung from ephemeral heartbeats.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
The Sounds of Khed , India
Our building is located on the highway leading to the town.Thus, it is subjected to an unceasing cacophony of vrooom , po-pon-po , grrhh , trriiingg , ghhr - ghhrr.The vehicles are simply the background music. The real song begins with the 'paowala'.
For those who don't know , 'pao' is a type of Indian bun bread. And the man who sells them is hence the 'paowala'. Though , we address them 'bhayya' (brother) whether they be 35 or 55 years old.
As the morning prayer of Fajr ends , through the crepuscular light rides the paowala , with a basket full of fresh , soft , delicious buns tied on the backseat of his bicycle. He is the first one to ring your doorbell.
The sparrows twitter and hasten the slumberous sun ; with the breakfast over and children off to school , they continue flitting around and resting on window grills. Soon their melody is interrupted by ding-ding-ding-ting bells of the van of the garbage collector. Even garbage dumps have a signature sound of their own here. Masked , he sifts through the litter in his van , while waiting for the waste to be cleared from the four wings of the complex. If we collected bottles , plastics and such re-usable materials separately , he would be spared the disgusting task of poking into our pell-mell rubbish.
( Couldn't resist digressing ; lets get back to 'sounds' ....)
On Sundays , you would surely awaken to :
'Ay Allah ke bande , (O' Slave of Allah) !
Allah tumhare karobar mein barkat de , Ya Allah , (May Allah bless you in your business , O'Allah!)' , chants the fakir baba with a voice certain to touch the skies even if failing to appeal to the mortals below.
By 10.30am -
'Samosa - garam samosa' ,
'Samosa - samosa garam' ;
the couplet of the Samosa-wala disperses the heavy clouds of tantalising rains. It was inevitably , one of my favorites.
The sun climbs monotonously ; the much awaited rain looks on grumpily from the firmaments.
The crows caw-caw overhead. From the nearby building , a variety of voices float over with amusing implications.
Playful prattle of children lulls the afternoon into a drowsy stupor.
With the lunch reposing in a content chamber, a book in hand and the cushioning heat pressing the eye-lids to droop over eyes that do not need sleep -
'Bhangar , plastic , battli.....' , the Bhangar-wala's vocal chords strike through compressions and rarefactions with gong-like amplitude , creating temporary waves in the vibrating stillness.
The donkeys bray ; believers seek protection from the devil for the braying signifies evil.
Then the fruitwallah comes with his 'Mausambi , chikoo , aam-wale-aamwale' triplets cry, pleasing the little girl who pestered her mother with , 'Mummy , mana mausambi hawi' (Mummy , I want orange) . And then she would whine for the fruitwallah to come soon , 'Aamwale, ye naa!!' (Mango-seller come no!!) - the whines growing louder till she tired of hearing her own echoes.
Once again , in the evening brightness , rides the paowala. This time , he too has his lines to be sung , 'Cake , toast , butter , paowale...'
With the fading twilight , old women - Nani ,aaji , dadi , buwa call their darling brats home.
The song is far from over , but becomes muted to ignorant senses happily anticipating to climb to bed after dinner.
Soon the human sounds sleep into oblivion and the sounds of the night awaken to a promising symphony.
Tick - tick - tick...
Goes the clock.
Whirr - whirr - whirrr
The fan overhead.
Creak...
Some door , pushed by the wind ?
Unnngg.
The whistle of the train , tunneling through the hill.
Bow-wow-bow ; the dogs having a disagreement.
The voice of Darkness , when all is quiet.
Listen closely , tonight.
For those who don't know , 'pao' is a type of Indian bun bread. And the man who sells them is hence the 'paowala'. Though , we address them 'bhayya' (brother) whether they be 35 or 55 years old.
As the morning prayer of Fajr ends , through the crepuscular light rides the paowala , with a basket full of fresh , soft , delicious buns tied on the backseat of his bicycle. He is the first one to ring your doorbell.
The sparrows twitter and hasten the slumberous sun ; with the breakfast over and children off to school , they continue flitting around and resting on window grills. Soon their melody is interrupted by ding-ding-ding-ting bells of the van of the garbage collector. Even garbage dumps have a signature sound of their own here. Masked , he sifts through the litter in his van , while waiting for the waste to be cleared from the four wings of the complex. If we collected bottles , plastics and such re-usable materials separately , he would be spared the disgusting task of poking into our pell-mell rubbish.
( Couldn't resist digressing ; lets get back to 'sounds' ....)
On Sundays , you would surely awaken to :
'Ay Allah ke bande , (O' Slave of Allah) !
Allah tumhare karobar mein barkat de , Ya Allah , (May Allah bless you in your business , O'Allah!)' , chants the fakir baba with a voice certain to touch the skies even if failing to appeal to the mortals below.
By 10.30am -
'Samosa - garam samosa' ,
'Samosa - samosa garam' ;
the couplet of the Samosa-wala disperses the heavy clouds of tantalising rains. It was inevitably , one of my favorites.
The sun climbs monotonously ; the much awaited rain looks on grumpily from the firmaments.
The crows caw-caw overhead. From the nearby building , a variety of voices float over with amusing implications.
Playful prattle of children lulls the afternoon into a drowsy stupor.
With the lunch reposing in a content chamber, a book in hand and the cushioning heat pressing the eye-lids to droop over eyes that do not need sleep -
'Bhangar , plastic , battli.....' , the Bhangar-wala's vocal chords strike through compressions and rarefactions with gong-like amplitude , creating temporary waves in the vibrating stillness.
The donkeys bray ; believers seek protection from the devil for the braying signifies evil.
Then the fruitwallah comes with his 'Mausambi , chikoo , aam-wale-aamwale' triplets cry, pleasing the little girl who pestered her mother with , 'Mummy , mana mausambi hawi' (Mummy , I want orange) . And then she would whine for the fruitwallah to come soon , 'Aamwale, ye naa!!' (Mango-seller come no!!) - the whines growing louder till she tired of hearing her own echoes.
Once again , in the evening brightness , rides the paowala. This time , he too has his lines to be sung , 'Cake , toast , butter , paowale...'
With the fading twilight , old women - Nani ,aaji , dadi , buwa call their darling brats home.
The song is far from over , but becomes muted to ignorant senses happily anticipating to climb to bed after dinner.
Soon the human sounds sleep into oblivion and the sounds of the night awaken to a promising symphony.
Tick - tick - tick...
Goes the clock.
Whirr - whirr - whirrr
The fan overhead.
Creak...
Some door , pushed by the wind ?
Unnngg.
The whistle of the train , tunneling through the hill.
Bow-wow-bow ; the dogs having a disagreement.
The voice of Darkness , when all is quiet.
Listen closely , tonight.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Lock and Seek!
Once a cousin , aged about 2.5 years , was visiting us. His elder brother had not come ; thus being companionless , he went about the flat , prying into murky corners and poking into everyday oddities.
Having kissed and petted him , I shifted my attention on the conversation between my aunt and my mother.
Some while later...
I glided out of their doleful exchanges on the chaos of married life to bestow some more kisses on his chubby cheeks.
He was not in the hall.
Nor in the alley between the kitchen and bathroom.
He must be in my room.
The door was closed : I turned the handle.
It was locked.(How can it be ?)
I tried again - truly locked. ( ??? )
I called out to him.
No reply.
Knock ! Knock ! ( Are you there naughty boy ? Playing ? Let me in too...)
Silence.
OK. There is a gap between the door and the floor so I went down on all fours and peeped.
He was pattering around.
I drew his attention to the gap.
On the other side , two little black eyes twinkled back at me.
I could sense him grinning. ( He was being cheeky ?! )
'Open the door...see what I have got for you...'
No response.
'There is a key in the door..just turn it ...' ( Perhaps , he didn't know how to unlock ? )
No action; nothing doing.
I called my Aunt. She tried similar tactics.The baby ignored his darling Ammi as well.
We whispered worrying possibilities - What if he can't open ? Can he actually turn the key ? Is it possible to get in through the window ? (We live on the Groundfloor) The window has grills....
The pair of eyes regarded us casually through the gap.
His mother's patient worry snapped.
'I am going. Open the door and come out soon.'
We went to the hall.
In a few minutes...
'Ammi....' , said the baby and found his mother sitting in the hall.
The elf!
So he did know how to unlock ; tricky game.
Lesson learnt : Never leave the key into the door lock when toddlers are around.
Having kissed and petted him , I shifted my attention on the conversation between my aunt and my mother.
Some while later...
I glided out of their doleful exchanges on the chaos of married life to bestow some more kisses on his chubby cheeks.
He was not in the hall.
Nor in the alley between the kitchen and bathroom.
He must be in my room.
The door was closed : I turned the handle.
It was locked.(How can it be ?)
I tried again - truly locked. ( ??? )
I called out to him.
No reply.
Knock ! Knock ! ( Are you there naughty boy ? Playing ? Let me in too...)
Silence.
OK. There is a gap between the door and the floor so I went down on all fours and peeped.
He was pattering around.
I drew his attention to the gap.
On the other side , two little black eyes twinkled back at me.
I could sense him grinning. ( He was being cheeky ?! )
'Open the door...see what I have got for you...'
No response.
'There is a key in the door..just turn it ...' ( Perhaps , he didn't know how to unlock ? )
No action; nothing doing.
I called my Aunt. She tried similar tactics.The baby ignored his darling Ammi as well.
We whispered worrying possibilities - What if he can't open ? Can he actually turn the key ? Is it possible to get in through the window ? (We live on the Groundfloor) The window has grills....
The pair of eyes regarded us casually through the gap.
His mother's patient worry snapped.
'I am going. Open the door and come out soon.'
We went to the hall.
In a few minutes...
'Ammi....' , said the baby and found his mother sitting in the hall.
The elf!
So he did know how to unlock ; tricky game.
Lesson learnt : Never leave the key into the door lock when toddlers are around.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
I am Alone
The sun was bright ,
I was young ,
The days were carefree and light ,
There were friends , there were people.
I am alone.
Parents - they were there then:
In the remote background , close to touch ;
Now nearer and dearer , yet farther away ;
We spoke less ; now the talk is much...
I am alone.
The memories swirl as misty ghosts -
They are mine ; not gone away.
The books hold out a stronger hand -
They are mine ; soul entrenched within soul.
The sun still shines ,
The people still pass by , leaving pages to fill in.
I am alone , not empty ;
I am with God -
Is that lonely ?
He is alone: The One and Only.
I was young ,
The days were carefree and light ,
There were friends , there were people.
I am alone.
Parents - they were there then:
In the remote background , close to touch ;
Now nearer and dearer , yet farther away ;
We spoke less ; now the talk is much...
I am alone.
The memories swirl as misty ghosts -
They are mine ; not gone away.
The books hold out a stronger hand -
They are mine ; soul entrenched within soul.
The sun still shines ,
The people still pass by , leaving pages to fill in.
I am alone , not empty ;
I am with God -
Is that lonely ?
He is alone: The One and Only.
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