Our Times

We run through the fields

Our hearts bursting within our rib cage

Furious panting

We are young again

Little children who know not

Of fear and loss and grief

Or passion and lust

Our feet dabble in the stream

The water runs over them and the round pebbles

Smoothed to a glossy plane

Through decades, centuries perhaps, of slow erosion

The sun reflecting off the water so bright

It hurts our eyes

But so beautiful that we cannot look away

Here we are, at the edge of a setting era

Tomorrow, you and I may be no more

But gather this, the glory of the setting sun,

The seemingly calm but powerful waters

And breathe the life back into my memories

Let them be the stories you tell your grandchildren

Stories of love, and adventure

Friendship and loyalty,

Laughter and companionship

Of betrayal and coping

Of staying together despite it all

Because the good times, the bad times

They were all our times.

Who Will Be

Who I am, who I was,
Who I try to be,
We lie entangled in a mess.

Damnit, says Was,
Won't you learn from me?
I can save you.

WillBe chuckles,
Discreetly pulls her leg
From the chaos of egos.

Am stays quiet, as ever.
Both Was and WillBe
Shake their heads at her.

She has a plan, though.
Sweet, quiet Am,
Her head full of technicolour ideas.

She is bruised now, a misstep that hurt.
But that will be Was's burden hence.
Am is evolving. WillBe taps her foot.

I can't take both of you along,
Says Am, rising like a sea goddess
Fluid, almost terrifyingly radiant.

You will be hurt
All over again, warns Was,
Shielding her eyes.

For once in her life,
WillBe is clueless,
Agape, wondering.

But I can take parts of you both,
Says Am, reaching out,
Picking the pieces she holds dear.

Was and WillBe writhe
And gasp for air
Engulfed in Am's relentless, vivid waves.

It's always been me, says Am,
Rising to fullness,
Her Self reflected in the aura around her.

Reams of yearning

Your hands, they are what your letters first bring to mind.

Your hands, those fingers locked with mine for a stolen moment or two.

Your hands, the pressure of them on the paper, on my body, in my hair.

These letters... I hold them up and take a deep breath

hoping for a heady whiff of you, thinking of you in that moment, 

at your desk, leaning into the light of the lamp.

Or could it have been written as the warm rays of the sun

fell on you through that bay window you send me pictures of?

I like to imagine you writing during cold nights, the unbearable loneliness

driving you into my arms, open for you, many miles away.

Your hand, now,

the almost calligraphic letters curving into each other,

like us spooning on that rainy night of long ago.

You write words I read over and over again.

Some of these words you once mumbled hoarsely

into my ear, half-asleep.

I read them, and I imagine hearing them

in your throaty whisper all over again.

If there must be spaces in our togetherness,

let's fill them with reams of yearning,

of conversations never-ending,

of everything and nothing,

of the momentous and the meaningless.

These letters, now smeared with my scents as well,

fraying at the edges, silent and eloquent,

they take your place in my bed.

Rain on Me

When you're least expecting it, and
You suddenly miss someone
A cloud of gloom descends on you,
And you stand still. The world seems
To not notice and keeps rushing by.
There's a lump in your throat and
Tears pricking your eyelids
Demanding to be let out.

But then the cloud bursts
Into a shower of glorious memories.
And your parched soul is flooded
By those sweet quenching moments.
You close your eyes and go back in time.
The tears, now running unchecked, stream into a deluge
Yet you smile.

Those moments are forever yours,
Never to be taken away.
Never missed.

The Childhood Friend

She waited.
He was preoccupied, she didn't push him. She knew the stories would come. All she had to do was to wait. And be there.
The silence between them stretched out into what could be considered an uncomfortable one. But between them, there was no discomfort. Their silences were not disquieting, just as their long-drawn talks were never tedious.
Soon enough, just as she knew he would, he started talking. Of his childhood friend.
"Her soft cheeks were a shade of pink that never failed to charm me. I would repeatedly rub my fingers over them, marvelling that such tenderness existed," he said, his eyes bright with remembered wonder. His dimples deepened, and she almost raised her hand to touch them but stopped just in time. She wanted to hear the story; it wouldn't do to distract him.
"Her hair was velvety green," he said, his smile becoming an impish grin.
She rolled her eyes. Was he pulling one over on her again? She peered at him, trying to make out if he was laughing at her. He held her gaze. Does it matter, she thought. If he was tricking her, they would laugh and squabble over it. If he wasn't, this one would fit into some of his most intriguing tales yet. One day, she thought, she would set them all in a book. Or better still, she would get him to write one. She didn't yet know how, but she knew that she would. Long-term planning had always been her forte.
He picked up the story again, sensing that she was ready. "All my free moments, I spent with her in the garden. Always in that same, favourite spot. I never tired of her," he described. A pang of envy hit her, and she averted her eyes lest he read her mind and stop telling the story.
He was still smiling. "Every evening, I bid her goodbye with such a heavy heart even though I knew she was the one constant in my life. That she'd be right there when I came back the next morning," he said. Even through her envy, she realised that he was describing something that was wonderful and precious. She hoped the story wouldn't have a sad ending. On the other hand, she also never wanted to meet this special childhood friend with the soft pink cheeks and the green hair, whatever that meant.
"Every night, when I went to bed, my eyes would inevitably be drawn to the open window which looked out on to the garden," he remembered. "And if it was a clear, moonlit night, I would see her silhouette there, as if painted against the sky. Now she was no longer my friend but a scary fiend, her hair spread out like menacing tentacles, waiting there to catch my eye and to perhaps haul me out the window into her bewitched life."
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. What little girl was allowed to step out like that at night? Now, more than ever, she wanted this story to have an ordinary ending, even if it was 'And you must meet her, you know. You'll get along great with her!'
She held his hand, and he continued, "I'd often run out of the room, fear causing my legs to knot and trip myself up. My mother soon made it a habit of just keeping the window shut. And I preferred the sweltering, stifling heat to the scary sight of her at night."
"Why didn't your mother just tell her not to do that? To not scare you like that night after night?" she burst out, annoyed now that his mother hadn't protected him enough.
The laughter rippled out of him. She was perplexed but the ends of her lips curled up in an involuntary grin when she looked at his mirth-filled face.
Finally, he brought himself to some semblance of control.
"Why didn't my mom yell at her? Because, my darling, my friend was the musanda tree at the bottom of the garden," he said, dissolving into laughter again.
She was nonplussed for a moment, before she joined him. Peals of laughter rang out, his tinged with the slight sadness of a time when friends, of the human kind, were few; and hers, coloured by the realisation that after all, she had been wildly envious of a musanda tree!

It Happened That Night

Fun. That was all they were looking for. That, and a quick high.
Perilously close to entering their twenties, the gang of four was determined to make their last 'free' years count. They had a kind of bucket list ready, which was to be achieved before 20 and responsibility took over their lives. Engineering was beginning to seem like a drag and all four were sure they wanted nothing to do with it in real life. Getting into engineering college was almost a coming-of-age ritual in Kerala. Even if they didn't realise what they wanted, most kids decided early on in their course that engineering was most definitely what they didn't want. Then, the other cliche took over: goofing off, spending money on ludicrous and numerous 'affairs', failed subjects, the mounting pile of supplementary exams, building new hostel legacies, experimenting with interesting vices, and the ilk.
For a lucky few, the cliche became an epiphany when clarity arrived: when they realised their life's purpose; then, the engineering course became endurable because then it was one of the means that would help them attain what they wanted to do. Or, at the very least, it would become a bargaining chip in the domestic sphere... the 'See, dad, I finished the course for your sake. Now let me do what I want to do' kind.
Tojy, Prajith, Sebastian and Manu had had no such self-discovery. With happy-go-lucky as their middle name, the four firmly believed in coasting along until Life caught them and buckled them into the no-escape routines of careers and normalcy. Sebastian, or Seban as he was referred to, thought he could do a Vineeth Sreenivasan and bring in a whole new perspective to Malayalam cinema. But he wasn't really sure, and the only steps he had taken so far were to daydream about meeting all his favourite stars when he would be a hotshot moviemaker. And yes, phases of compulsive recording of his roomies at the most inconvenient times. Like when Tojy had the mother of all hangovers and Seban decided to do a little experiment on exactly how much light Tojy's alcohol-fogged brain could tolerate; Seban's iPhone 6s almost got wrecked that day and since then, he had been sticking to relatively less volatile subjects.
Tonight, Seban was fidgety. He had thought he would make a crazy video after the others were sufficiently high; he had had plans for an elaborate Truth or Dare session. But nothing was working out. He lay back on the grass and looked up at the sky. The stars were offering brief glimmers when the heavy clouds allowed them to peek through. They were in Prajith's hometown, a classic Kerala town poised perfectly in that no-man's land on the rural-urban divide. Just a few kilometres away from Prajith's house, there was a bustling town centre; but here, in this clearing--surrounded by rubber plantations and various other trees that the Gulf-born Seban couldn't even begin to recognise--it seemed like they were far away from civilisation. On all four sides, the trees crowded around in brooding melancholy, making 9 pm seem like midnight. Their phones were eerie glowworms in the middle of nowhere.
Tojy's buddy had promised them some Idukki Gold, and they had pooled in a ridiculous amount of money for the 'stuff'. What finally appeared, was rolled and smoked up didn't seem to have ever been within a 50-mile radius of Idukki district. Expectations. They always fuck you up, thought Seban, as he looked over at the other three, who were now peering into the empty Honey Bee bottle to see if there was any brandy left. The normally sober Manu seemed to be totally off his rockers tonight. He was now shaking the empty bottle straight into his open mouth. Seban gave an involuntary giggle; Manu was the most sensible of the lot, unless they got him sufficiently drunk. The stuff seemed to have worked well for him, it seemed. He was now dancing to an invisible tune around the dying bonfire, alternately balancing the bottle on his forehead and on one upturned palm.
Maybe it hadn't worked only for him, thought Seban. Tojy and Prajith too seemed pretty loose-limbed now and they were joining Manu in his crazy dance. Maybe it was time, thought Seban, looking at his phone. He sat up. But didn't. He was still lying on the grass, he realised. He could see the stars fading away, and strange dark shapes moving in, gobbling them up. Clouds, he reminded himself, they were clouds. Just clouds. He glanced at his phone and picked it up. It seemed to take ages for him to bring the screen up to his face. Was the gravity here stronger? 'Weird town,' he thought. 'Weirdass town. I must tell Prajith. That. I. Won't. Come. Back. Here. Hate. It. Weird. People. They. Just. Stare. And. Stare. And. Ask. Toomanykoschnsh. Kwes. Ques. Fuck! Fucking thing is just making me slur. In my head. Hahahahahahahaa.... Slurring. In my head.'
"EDAAAAAAA," he yelled. He was sure he heard himself. But the others were still dancing and made no sign that they had heard him. He realised he was staring at them on the phone's screen. He had somehow managed to start recording and not even realised it.
"Fuck. Fuck. M@*^#. Idukki Gold, my ass!" he said. Or thought he said. Those three were still merrily dancing. There was someone else with them now! Where had this guy come from? Was it a guy? Was it? He peered at the screen, rubbing his eyes in the hope of clearing them up. Looked distinctly female, he thought. Female. But in this town? Where everyone went to bed at 9? Was it possible? 'Yes,' he thought. 'YES! Love Prajith! This place! I am so coming back!' He turned his attention back to the screen. What were these guys doing? Were they dancing with her? Why is it so blurred? Zoom. Zoom, he thought, as he tried to pinch the screen. Fuck! It just wasn't happening!
Suddenly, her face filled his screen, her hair falling over her face, partially covering her wildly beautiful eyes and those red red lips... What was that dripping out of her mouth? It looked like blood... gross! And yet, she was radiant.
And cold. Her hands were icy. He felt them on his face. The silence was deafening. Where were the guys? He turned his head. Why were they lying down? Were they lying down? She was turning his head toward her now, licking her lips, lowering her mouth towards him. He was terrified now.
"Get off me!" He tried pushing her away but she seemed to be incredibly strong. Or maybe he was just too drunk. "Go away! No!" he yelled as her icy breath hit his face. Blood. It smelled of blood. He gagged.
"Noooooooo," he screamed, and put all his strength into pushing her off of him.
He sat up, panting. Sunlight was streaming in through the gap in the curtains. His head hurt like hell. He looked over at the others. Manu and Prajith lay coiled in a tight hug on the other bed. Tojy was fast asleep on the floor, curled up, his lungi doubling up as a quilt.
'Dream,' thought Seban, as he slowly got up, with slow and steady movements that wouldn't annoy his throbbing head any further. He moved up to the window, and pulled the curtains closed. Wincing, he smiled at Tojy's sleeping form.
'Weird dream,' he thought as he sat back on the bed. Almost on their own, his hands searched out the phone from under his pillow. 'What a dream!' He would have liked to shake his head in emphasis but it was way too painful. He checked his Videos. And there was a new video in there. The screenshot showed the grassy clearing, the bonfire and what must be Tojy and Prajith. 'So we had gone there after all,' he thought. 'Not everything was in my imagination.'
He played the video. The night seemed less darker than he had felt it was yesterday. The fire, Prajith and Tojy dancing, then a lot of blur, Tojy and Prajith again, and... he paused the video... was that a person or a shadow? But it was night and there was just the dying fire... would that throw a shadow? He played the video again, his heart racing. Blurred images again. There was just 30 seconds more to go... He peered intently into the screen. Suddenly her eerily mesmerising eyes and bloodstained lips filled the screen. The phone clattered to the floor, and Seban felt his world growing dark.

134 Minutes

134 minutes. Aalia would never forget those 134 minutes that changed her life. Though she had never really lived those minutes. Though she had been just a little bigger than her dad's palm when those 134 minutes happened. 134 minutes, and some, without either parent by her side. Just warm blue light and whirring, clicking machines, and occasionally, gentle hands of sympathetic nurses that brushed her newborn cheek.
Her twin had been dying those 134 minutes. Her twin who, she has heard, was clinging on to her in every single scan report. Love, her Ma said... see, even in the womb, she was so full of love.
Maybe she just wanted to take my place, Aalia wanted to retort. But in 18 years, she has never been able to tell Ma that. Not when Anya's baby pic took pride of place in the living room. And the idea of her took up all the space in Ma's heart. Papa would have been good to me, she thought, trying hard to remember the man who died when she was three.
Ma idolised Anya. 'Everything good I did, she would have done better,' thought Aalia. And the naughty stuff, the bad stuff... Ma would splutter with rage, her words choking each other if Aalia so much as hinted that Anya would have been just as bad as her.
Anya was the angel. There was no fighting with the immortalised. They can sin no more. Death gives them the glow of perfection. In 18 years, all Aalia had learned was that the dead were more beloved.
She twisted the dupatta around her hand, winding it tight into a coil as she gazed at the creaking fan. A dog barked in the distance and she heard the faint thud-thud of a motorcycle engine. She stuffed the dupatta into her backpack, hoisting it on her shoulder as she stepped out into the night.
Death. That was not for her. Instead, she'd choose what her Ma referred to as 'fate worse than death'. She laughed out loud as she got onto her boyfriend's bike. Take that, Anya, she thought.

The Great Wizard of Happiness

He wore his humour around him like a cloak. It made him invincible. Worries and fears, those niggling silent agents of erosion, couldn’t get at him through his cloak. He made people laugh, even at themselves, before they realised the joke was on them. And he made them think. He was a great wizard, his magic peppered with kindness, tricks, treats and packets of joy. People went to him when they wanted their questions answered, when they wanted respite or when they just wanted to be. He was The Great Wizard of Happiness, and everyone wanted a piece of him. He was happy.

One day, The Great Wizard of Happiness was performing to a packed hall; like ever, the audience eating out of the palm of his hand, when he spotted Her. She sat there, somewhere in the middle rows, trying to obscure herself in the crowd, but once his eyes connected with hers, there was no looking away. He was surprised that the audience was oblivious to what was happening… wasn’t there a crackling live wire connecting the two of them, sparks flying, singeing those who came too close? How could they miss that? He was more meticulous that day than ever before, hyper aware of each gesture, each word, gripped by the feeling that everything was reaching out to her, and she would decide to stay or to run away solely based on this one act of his.

After the show, he kept his cloak on while smiling and shaking hands with the long line of people who had gathered to see the master magician in person. Children reached out to touch his beard, women all but swooned at his smile and men expressed their grudging admiration. Usually, The Great Wizard of Happiness found these minutes to be the best part of a performance. This connect he had with people, he thrived on it. But today, all he wanted was to meet her and his cloak of humour barely masked his impatience. He could have asked his staff to look for her but he felt an irrational fear that she was just an apparition. That nobody could see her but him. The long line of eager humans dwindled, and he was disappointed to see that she wasn’t in it. The day felt dull and grey around the edges and all he wanted was to go home and think over what had happened. He asked his entourage to go ahead, that he would find his way home.

He sensed her before he saw her. He was lying back on his chair, his head thrown back beyond the chair-back, his long locks like a curtain. He felt the gloom lifting and an inexplicable feeling of lightness filled the room. His locks swayed of their own volition and he felt a giant throb of energy running through him. He opened his eyes and she was at the door, looking down, hesitant, like she was wondering if she should step in and conquer the world or run away and spare them both. Not pausing to think, he jumped up from the chair and started towards her. The cloak of humour felt like a straitjacket around him and he let it go as he reached out to her. When she raised her head and looked into his eyes, he felt she could read his soul. Still not thinking, he gathered her into his arms. Tears glistened in her eyes and he was seized with a mad impulse to kiss her tears away and wrap his cloak around the two of them to keep her safe forever.

The embrace was all he wanted and all he feared. It made him want more, to hold this moment close in the palm of his hand and not scare it away with even a breath. She looked up at his face, leaned up on her toes and brushed her lips softly against his, an invitation that he could not resist but knowing, without knowing, that there would be damnation and condemnation. And in that moment, he didn’t care. He claimed her lips as his own, banishing thoughts and fears into rarely-opened trunks in his mind, finding her passion and reciprocating with his own. When they finally broke apart, he saw that the tears were flowing freely now and that she had an angelic smile on her face. He gathered her close again.

He knew before she spoke that she would talk about going away. That she had stolen a few moments from her Life to find this man whom she connected with, though she had never seen him before. She spoke of her Order, her vows of celibacy and chastity, her words tumbling out like a clear mountain brook that he wanted to drink deep from. He held her tighter as she spoke. He was sure he wouldn’t let her go. She told him of how she would talk to people who had watched his performances, or met him, and try to glean everything she could about him. She told him how she had longed for this day, her desire for him making her limbs slow and heavy even on her busiest days.

He lifted her up as she spoke, settling her into his lap as he sat back in the chair. She still had her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head, making his skin tingle all over. He knew then he had been waiting for her all his life but he feared the hurt that was coming. He tried to wrap his cloak of humour around him, and she laughed at his clumsy attempts to fix the tattered cloak. There would be no forever, she said, and he knew it was true. She might be punished for overstepping her boundaries but she would be brave about it, she said. A knot formed in his throat as he thought about her being brave. He swallowed hard, knowing he would protect her if he could, knowing that it would never be.

They heard the commotion building up outside. It was time to go, she said. That would be her people, checking on why she had overstayed. She would go, she said, even as she stayed in his arms, her only movement being to tighten her hands around him and nuzzle against his neck. He wished he could use his magic to make Time stand still. He was The Great Wizard of Happiness after all; wouldn’t Time listen to him? He laughed, pulled her into a kiss that broke both their hearts. Then he wore his cloak of humour, and helped her up, walking her to the door. There he met her people, laughing with them, putting them at ease, placing her hand in theirs. Letting go.

As she was leaving, she turned to him and said, “Will you come visit me when I am on my deathbed?” He nodded, knowing he would, wishing he didn’t have to.

The Awakening

Woman of substance, sophistication, world-weariness

The woman who knew it all

The multi-tasker, the doer of all things that need to be done

The lover of lists, the lover of checkboxes and checkmarks

The keeper of neat piles in neat stacks in neat boxes

The woman who knew how to manage it all

Who took things in her stride

Not a hair out of place

Then there came a day

Just a day like any other, one of many black figures on the calendar

A little special ‘cos she would go to the beach

A childhood sanctuary, favourite first place on one of her lists

She stood there on the paved walkway by the beach

Watching the boats in the blue yonder

Bobbing like puppets doing a dance

Directed by an invisible hand

A breeze tickled her ear

Wisps of hair came undone from her careful topknot

The breeze gathered strength

Something stirred deep within

She gazed at the sea

Was it calling to her?

The breeze was getting uncomfortable now

And yet in a way she was strangely cosy

Off came her slippers

Tossed aside in an uncharacteristic move

Locks of hair slipping out

She stepped out onto the still-warm sand

Watching the sun begin its descent towards

Its routine yet bewitching dip in the deep

Hesitant steps soon broke into a run

The wind embracing her lifting her hair as she finally let it loose

Now like a benign Medusa she stood

At the foamy edge of the shy waters lapping the shore

The wetness tickling her feet

She saw the high tide build up

And she walked in letting the wave wash over her

She fell back onto the shore drenched

Rivulets of salt running off her

Marking her with sand and bleached remains of seashells

The breeze enveloped her now

A gutsy wind unafraid of her steady gaze

Goosepimples bedraggled hair wet lips

The taste of sand in her mouth

Dirty she was and yet strangely cleansed

A freedom to be herself or even to just be

Delicious in its newness and as comfortable as an old worn blanket

She let herself go

The waves washed over her again and again

The breeze made unruly love to her

Her checkboxes lay unmarked

This woman who suddenly did not know it all

Did not have all the answers

But who had awoken from a long sleep

To soul-quenching, soul-stirring Life

The staid figures on her calendar laughed as they danced

The Spirit of Midnight

Lines of thought
Jumble themselves up in my head
Like woolly yarns of pastel,
Knotty, and tangled, crossing each other
Over and over
Till one knows not beginning nor end.

They slip between my fingers
Like glossy globus pearls
Pitting themselves on the floor,
Scattering everywhere, crushed underfoot.
On all fours, I scramble to gather them in,
My fingers slick with a sweat that seems
Precipitous with the end of reason.

Sleep, the slayer of mundane demons,
Lies forgotten on the crumpled bedspread
Moist with the drool of my meaningless dreams,
Where I still wander in the hope of finding an answer.

I know not what I write
But write I must.
There is a spirit in me that scorches,
Curls tendrils of my hair into feisty disobedience
And demands my obeisance

There's no letting go
Even when the soft threads tighten around me,
Biting into my body to leave dents
And the ravaged pearls take their revenge
In bright spots of crimson red that smudge my fingerprints.

I write, a farewell song,
An elegy, an ode, a hymn,
In desperation to be remembered
Or as a channel for the Unnamed that knows not the limits of Time and Space...
I know not which, but I write.

No more #FOMO, try some #JOMO instead

I often relate Father Time to the person who first came up with this concept of seconds and minutes marching steadily to plot your life. The Hunger Games fans will probably immediately visualise the arena, in Catching Fire (Book 2) which is marked like a clock, with each hourly section housing its own deathly peril. Suzanne Collins did something really smart there (even though I think the first book was far better), in the depiction of Time as a killer, something the Hunger Games contestants need to stay ahead of.

It's something many of us can all relate to, this pressing need to keep up, know more, not miss out. Isn't it ironic that in an age when most of us are living with more conveniences than we could have probably dreamed up, we are more stressed out and burned out than ever before? Time is today more elusive than ever, even when we have all the time-saving and doing-the-job-for-us gizmos our parents and grandparents could have scarcely imagined just a few short decades ago.

#FOMO keeping you on the phone? Take a break!

It would be simplistic to point fingers at smartphones, the widespread use of the Internet or social media, and say, 'hey, there's the culprit!' Puts in mind the quote about pointing a finger at someone, and having three fingers pointing right back at you! Humans are so quick to absolve themselves of responsibility and blame anything else for their lack of progress/happiness/contentment that I often wonder why God chose this species to confer higher understanding on. Today we are no longer using the tools (social media, smartphones, TV, whatever else); the tools are abusing us and we are happy to be their slaves. And we coolly advertise our addiction too, like for instance, #FOMO. Gee, that's so cool! Quite a few celebrity-related accounts I checked out on Instagram have proudly put up posts advertising their #FOMO, Fear of Missing Out for the uninitiated, as a happy-to-be-guilty-of-this trait.
All you are missing out on is life, yours to be specific. I was pretty happy to chance upon #FOMO's nemesis, #JOMO which is the Joy of Missing Out. It's ok if you don't know what your favourite star wore to every cash-rich advertiser's event, it's totally cool even if you are not able to like every status update posted by all 1,178 of your friends and you will still be breathing if you haven't clicked 8 selfies today and updated the world about every single 'fab' thing you've done, like eating, drinking, hanging out, more eating, drinking, hanging out...
Don't bring out the brickbats yet; I'm no killjoy and I am pretty much active on social media. But now that Facebook brings up all your long-forgotten memories, I realise how much time I wasted by posting inane updates on Facebook (examples are Sumi is thinking, ...is wondering what to do, ....is so excited and raring to go!) and, dear Lord, 'farming' (Isn't Farmville around these days? Was it killed by Candy Crush?). Now that I'm finally writing (short stories and getting on with that novel I always wanted to write), I think back and realise I would have been way ahead of the game if I had started back then!

Go find your rainbow!

What I am advocating is moderation, to live this life grateful for the breaths you take, savouring the food you eat, playing with the children, the cat, the sunlight, whatever catches your fancy, finding your passion... actually being in the moment rather than being a hanger-on in someone else's online world. Yes, I am arguing for real life, which, if you try it, will give you a greater high than any kind of virtual reality.  I am not pitching for the eschewing of one for the other but for a kind of wholesome inclusiveness and a balance that keeps your life dynamic, as it is meant to be. Let me leave you with these beautiful words by George du Maurier:

A little work, a little gay

To keep us going—and so good-day!

A little warmth, a little light

Of love’s bestowing—and so, good-night.

A little fun, to match the sorrow

Of each day’s growing—and so, good-morrow!

A little trust that when we die

We reap our sowing—and so—good-bye! 

My Story

My story flows from my sorrow,
Its jagged edges, a red, reeling heart.

My story is born of my sin,
Deliciously secret, guilt caressing its dirty lips.

My story is born of my love,
Deep, yielding, fraught, delicate, ever more and never again.

My story is filled with my dreams.
Feather-light, they fill me to bursting. And then some more.

My story speaks of desperation
Of dried-up tears, dashed hopes and itchy scars.

My story has the rabid spirit of vengeance,
Of the embers of anger, the ashes of wrath.

My story has splashes of furore,
Of restlessness, and wandering monkeys.

My story is made up in my mind
And lived on the crackling veneer of reality.

My story is made up of my words,
An experiential vocabulary, my eye fixated on syllables that will fit just right.

But really, my story has no beginning, nor end;
It's a speck, it's but nothing in the endless swirl of the Hourglass.

My Choice is, apparently, not in Vogue

Dear Deepika Padukone and the creators of the My Choice video,

Like any other mere mortal on social media, I, too, was flooded with links to the My Choice video. With so many friends sharing it, I did the irresponsible thing I usually do when it involves a favourite celebrity, brand or a good friend's judgement in deciding what to share: I 'liked' the post on Facebook before moving on to watching the video. Sadly, in this case, all three let me down.

So what is My Choice all about? Coming in the #VogueEmpower series, which has done splendid videos on domestic abuse and women's safety, I expected something pathbreaking, mind-blowing. Names like director Homi Adajania and Deepika Padukone meant I definitely had something to look forward to.

And then the film rolled: featuring a stunning Deepika and shot in stark black and white, the film had all the poetic metaphors that made a woman feel good about herself, about being infinite, about not being a caged soul, about roaming free, about wearing what I want, being the size I want... Woohoo... I am all for that!

And haven't I heard them a hundred times before? Are these really about women's empowerment? Are men not judged for what they wear, the work they do, the way their bodies look? Are men not criticised for who they want to marry? Or not? Or if they are gay or bisexual? These did not look like women's issues to me. These sounded a whole lot like gender issues, masquerading yet again as women's problems.

What troubles me is that these are the superficial problems. The choice (or not) of taking on a surname, working late, wearing the clothes one wants... these are the decisions an educated, privileged woman makes. What about the illiterate woman of little means? She may not be so bothered about working late at the homes of these very privileged women, if it means she can earn enough for her family. Her only decision about clothes may be to wear the ones that are least worn out. Do you think she is bothered about being a Size Zero? So who are you really empowering?

The reason I liked the Madhuri Dixit #VogueEmpower video is because it chose a distinctly upper class setting to show a disturbingly common problem. It conveyed the message that domestic abuse happens in every strata of society, not just in underprivileged homes. And it had a great message about sensitising our children, male and female. The Alia Bhatt video, again, could be projected to reflect the mindset and concern of girls, whether they are driving by themselves or taking a late night bus home.

I refuse to think that a woman's empowerment is all about wearing the clothes she wants to wear, being the size she wants to, coming home when she wants to, having extra-marital sex, no sex or whatever. Yes, these are definitely the concerns for a handful of women who are regularly featured in Vogue. But what about the rest of us women?

We want to get better at the work we do, get into leadership roles, make a whole lot of moolah and never worry about the time-money conundrum again, spend some great time with our families, make happy memories with our friends... and that's the middle class me talking. All my house help wants is job security, a little plot to call her own, and funding her children's education. These are just bare life needs I am discussing here. There's a whole lot of deeper societal issues like female infanticide, education (for all children), child marriage and more that need to be addressed in terms of women's issues.

Yes, society needs to change. And I am happy to see government and private initiatives in this regard. But making a remarkably beautiful video on the peripheral issues is just Vogue reaching out to its target audience. It's just a misplaced wish of mine, but I wish Deepika hadn't been a part of it. Now the message reaches out to so many people who are likely to be misled by her sheer aura. Don't get me wrong, I love the woman and think she is a damn fine and intelligent actor... which is why I wish she had put some thought into reading this script.

My 9-year-old and 3-year-old are both fans of this lovely lady and I do not want them hearing this message one day, and coming away with the idea that feminism is just about wearing what we like or living the way we like. What about our responsibility to society? Where does that figure? Why get into a marriage if you are looking for sex outside of it? Would you be okay if a man told you that? Gosh, that would be offensive! And what was that line ... 'don't be fooled if I am home by 6 pm'? I don't even want to start on all that's wrong with what that line implies...

Sex is definitely an important part of our life, but it does not (and must not) define every relationship we have or choice we make. And yes, I do hope my girls can choose to love who they wish to love, man or woman, but I definitely hope they will have the courage to end a relationship before they sleep with someone else. Casual sex is a choice women (and men) should be free to make, but it is not women's empowerment.

Let's not use feminism and women's empowerment as an excuse to stereotype men further and trample on them. Even if you believe patriarchy did that to us, 'an eye for an eye' hardly seems to be the appropriate revenge. I am all for change. But let that change be inclusive. Men are not the enemy. The enemy is a social mindset and lack of a level playing field for everyone. And we must work towards changing that. So let's cheer the man who gives up a career to stay home and look after the family's needs and the woman who conquers the world! And all of  us mere mortals in between!

Team Blog-O-Holics--Week 2--16th post--#GameofBlogs by BlogAdda

A Time to Die

Read the last part over at shiuli.com.

Jen wound the dupatta twice around her neck as she sat in the rickshaw. She pulled out a pair of black-rimmed spectacles from her nondescript black leather bag, and put them on. She loved flirting with danger, oh she did! Which is why she had decided to walk straight into the lion's den: yes, she would go to to the police cormmissioner's office and snoop around. She would pose as a reporter and no one would suspect a thing! She even had a fake ID!. 'Everything was in place,' she thought. 'The thing about courting danger is to know your risks and to play them carefully.' She smiled to herself.
She stopped the rickshaw a little way away from the police commissioner's office, pretending to go into one of the apartment complexes nearby. Once she was sure the rickshaw-wallah had gone, she quickly strode over to the commissioner's office, the Press badge around her neck giving her an air of authority.
'Oh, how he would hate this,' she thought, as an image of her 'boss' flashed in her mind. The grapevine had it that the ATS and RAW were collaborating on ousting their game. But they had no idea, did they? They just had no clue how many seemingly ordinary people with ordinary lives were actually sleeper cells waiting for the 'go' order. But he had told her to play it safe. There could be informers among us, too, he had said. And he had looked at her too with suspicion. Damn his patient and perseverant attitude! It just got to her at times. But she had to curb her impulsiveness or the Big Man wouldn't like it, she thought. Wait till she got her hands on the info about Mishra! She would bypass him and take it directly to the Big Man! That should show him!
She moved confidently in the building, trying to recall the pictures that their informer had got them. She stopped in front of a glass door, with no identification on it. This was it, she thought, her heart beating so loud she was sure anyone coming near her could hear it. She pushed the door open and walked in. She had entered another long passage, at the end of which was another glass door, this time manned by two policemen, who were now looking at her curiously. She put on a nonchalant face as she walked slowly towards them, letting them take in her reporter's outfit.
"Sa'ab-ji hai andar?" she asked when she reached them.
"Samar saab nahi hai. Lekin Inspector John D'Cruz hai," said one of the policemen. And then, as if he quickly, remembered his duty. "Aap ka ID, madam?"
"Meera," she said, brusquely, handing over her ID and looking at him expectantly as if he should have known her at sight!
The two policemen fidgeted a little, and looked at each other. Jen kept mum, knowing that her silence would only intimidate them. Finally the other policeman stepped up and took the ID, saying, "Sorry, Madamji. John sir ne kaha hai ki kisi ko andar bhejne ka nahi."
Jen raised her voice. "And now the public has to wait for news kyunki aapke boss ke paas time nahi hai? Nonsense! Maybe I should just go and meet Commissioner Rathod and ask him why his constables are making life so difficult for me. Is there a gag order here or what? The public has a right to know!"
She paused to take a breath. She could see that the mention of Commissioner Rathod had shaken them up. Before she could set off on another tirade, the policemen pushed the door open wide and let her through. Jen adjusted her dupatta and glasses as she walked in, secretly smiling to herself.

.....................

Read the rest at shiuli.com: http://shiuli.com/2014/09/26/week2-post17-gameofblogs-by-blogadda/

Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.

Illusion

Let them be,
Do not dwell on those brightly coloured dreams
Or open the closed door
To that treasure trove of memories
That lie dark, heavy and deep in the mind.

Precious, yet so painful,
Now that the illusion no longer exists.
So fragile were the moments we shared,
But so real they seemed,
And so full of meaning.

Now I know there was no love,
No longing. Just some wishful thinking.
But the heart holds the fantasy close,
Refusing to let go,
Still laughing at your words of long ago.

But I still hope, against all reason,
That some of those lost pockets of time
Meant as much to you, as to me.
No matter how tight you hold yourself,
Misery will be your secret companion, as it is mine.

What's with a puddle and productivity?

My friend sent me a video today in a Whatsapp group. Since the current trend is to share gory videos of the boy who got mauled by the tiger, I decided not to check it out. However, my friend then confirmed that it wasn't the dreaded tiger video, but one that even the kids would enjoy watching. As such fun videos go, it had all the elements of slapstick to it. There was a young fella merrily walking down a puddle-filled path, jumping enthusiastically into every puddle until he falls into one big pothole. The water comes right up to his neck! The poor fellow hauls himself out, does a quick U-turn and heads back the way he came.
As promised, the video was definitely entertaining. But it also reminded me of a similar kind of puddle that I face almost daily, often fall into, and struggle to get out of. Distractions: those are the puddles I am talking about. You know, like you plug in your phone to charge in the morning and decide you will just check if your friend texted you back last night. It will just take a minute, you think, and there you will be 15 minutes later, with half a tweet composed, numerous Facebook photos and statuses liked and downloading a few articles to Pocket to read later! Not to mention catching up on the 133 messages in various Whatsapp groups! Oops... was that a pothole or what?
Now these pothole-sized distractions turn up everywhere, from the short video your friend shares at work, which has numerous other interesting video links to click at the end; to the 'urgent' email from a client, which you go to attend to, leaving the major project you were busily working on! And bam! That's probably a nice time-black hole that you stepped into. Perhaps, it could be because I am a lot less disciplined than I like to be. But I am also a note-taker and list-maker. And I've been running a small experiment to see if I can put my distractions to good use and up my productivity at the same time.

Pic courtesy: http://cdn0.stocksy.com/

See, these distractions are not necessarily all bad. You know, sometimes, they inspire me to tweet something nice or give me a thread for a story or lead me to an interesting site that I now love to read. But on the whole, these little lost pockets of time were turning into a gross loss of productivity, and consequently, some self-image bashing. So here's what I did: I decided to give the distractions their own slot. For instance, if I am at work, I close my big pothole tabs, mainly mail, Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest (ah, this could have been a whole post in itself) and concentrate on the project of the moment for anything from 30 minutes to an hour, depending on its nature and complexity. Admittedly, I sometimes use my phone's timer to help with this. After the self-allotted time is done, I reward myself with five minutes of puddle time!

At home, this sometimes means turning off data/Wifi (on particularly unruly days) and tending to my plants, my kids, my book, my husband, my curry or whatever really deserves my attention at that point. (Mostly, I just keep the phone away in a corner so that I don't look at it often. If someone needs me really urgently, I'm sure they will use that least-used function in a smartphone and just call!) I save up my puddle time at home in nice, big hourly chunks that I use once early in the morning--after the elder one goes off to school, the hubby on his walk, and the toddler is (hopefully) still asleep in bed--and then later at night, after everyone is tucked in and I have had my Masterchef Australia fix. All in all, the experiment is turning out to be quite a success. I have 'gained' so much time and I also get my fun, which means I can still jump into puddles without fearing the pothole.

Team Blog-O-Holics-Week 2-9th post-#GameofBlogs by BlogAdda

Recap: Tara is in hospital, after she escaped from her kidnapper. Shekar has been behaving strangely, and Roohi is inconsolable for her mother. Meanwhile, the body of a top-notch secret agent washes up ashore. Who is he? Find out in Part 8 by clicking here.
............................................................

It's her third day in the hospital, realises Tara, and Shekar has yet to bring Roohi to see her. He keeps making noncommittal grunts every time she asks about Roohi, and tells her not to stress herself unnecessarily. "She is absolutely fine, Tara," said Shekar, the last time he had been in to see her. "I don't want her to see you like this, nor do I want you to fret and affect your recovery. Please listen to your doctor and learn to relax." Tara did not like being told what to do, but she could see a grain of logic in Shekar's words.
However, her fiery Aries nature would not allow her to sit still. Though she still had a couple of deep muscle injuries to recover from, besides extensive blood loss, she was itching to get back to work. Her only ally in the present situation was the eager Cyrus, who was keen to make an impression on his boss by serving her in this time of dire need. Shekar would not hear of her getting back to work; trying to tell him that she actually wanted to trace her kidnapper seemed a big no-no to her. He would just tell her it was the job of the police!
The police had of course been in to see her. Shekar had watched her chat with the inspector closely, his face tense, almost as if he hated to hear her relive her trauma. She felt a new surge of love for him when she remembered his worried frown. She had given away precious little to the police, though. This was one loose end she wanted to tie by herself. She had put Cyrus on the job of finding out Shekar's attarwallah; he would be the first link in the chain, she thought to herself.
............................................................

Cyrus hurried to Tara's room in the hospital, clutching the little slip of paper tightly. 'Was Tara sending him on a fool's errand?' he thought to himself, not for the first time. But she insisted it was important, and his eagerness to prove himself got the better of him. She had definitely given him a tough job, one that would have landed him in a completely humiliating position if he had been caught out! Thank God things went smoothly, he thought.

He had waited patiently outside Tara's apartment complex until he saw Shekar starting off to school with Roohi. Tara had told him he would have exactly half an hour before the maid arrived, followed by Shekar a while later. He had let himself in using the spare key hidden under the potted palm by the door, thinking in his head that this seemed to be almost a universal hiding place of spare keys in every household! Tara's instructions were extremely accurate, he realised once he entered the house. Everything was exactly as she had described. Her heightened power of observation was probably one of the reasons why she was such a great editor, thought Cyrus as he made his way into the master bedroom and opened the wardrobe door on the far right.

He found the little drawer and the wooden box in it--the wooden box in which, Tara had said, Shekar stored all his bills and invoices. And he had found the one she wanted: a ragged handwritten bill from the attarwallah. Thankfully, it had an address and phone number printed on it! Cyrus clutched the paper harder, remembering the trouble he had been to in order to get it. He reached the door to Tara's room in the hospital, and pushed it open.

............................................................

Click here to read Part 10 by Rubina.

Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.

Team Blog-o-holics - Week 1 - 6th post - #GameofBlogs by BlogAdda

Do read part 5 here: https://theindianidiot.wordpress.com/2014/09/16/week-1-5th-post-team-blog-o-holics-gameofblogs-by-blogadda/

Part 6

Tara summoned up all her strength and ran into the welcoming, wide road at the end of the alley. She felt scared, angry and strangely, even dirty... as if she had been sullied by this terrible encounter with the hoodie guy. She was shocked at how seemingly innocent that epithet sounded: the hoodie guy. He could have been anyone; could it have been someone she knew? Did she know that grey hoodie from somewhere? No, she tried to rationalise, such hoodies are a dime a dozen in the market. Yet there was something about the hoodie-wearing stranger that had left a mark in her ravaged mind.
She walked quickly and tried to blend into the crowds on the pavement. She wanted to get away from this strange place as soon as possible; all she wanted was to get to her clean, organised, safe home and hug her family. Over and over again. And then maybe call the police. Her anger came surging back: she was a top-notch editor and she wasn't going to let anyone bully her into anything. If someone was trying to teach her a lesson with this kidnapping, she would teach them something! She would get to the bottom of this, she resolved.
However, her willpower wasn't enough to take her bruised body forward. She felt her knees sag, and she simply crumpled into the pavement. She could barely brace herself before her body hit the ground with a thud. 'More bruises,' thought Tara wryly, even as she felt her head spinning. Everything around her seemed to be a blur. She could only sense the feelings of the people around her: the initial shock and irritation, the hesitant curiosity, the indifferent crowding around to see a spectacle. She wished someone would just help her stand up and put her in a rickshaw. She wanted to go home so desperately; tears began streaming down her cheeks.
Suddenly she felt strong arms around her. "Tara ma'am! What happened to you?"
She willed her eyes open and caught a glimpse of a familiar face: Cyrus! She opened her mouth to talk but couldn't. Her world went black, and she slipped into the comfort of the welcoming darkness.
...................................
When Tara awoke, she looked up at the harsh, unblinking light above her and fought the urgency to run. Another strange place! Slowly she took in her surroundings: the neat room, various monitors by the bedside, the IV line hooked up to a colourless liquid, her crisp white sheets, the TV in the corner with a Bollywood starlet soundlessly doing a round of crude gymnastics, and there, facing the TV, slumped in a sofa, was Cyrus. He was dozing and she noted the tired look on his face. 'God knows how long he has been here taking care of me,' thought Tara. 'Has it been hours or days?'
'And where's Shekar?' she thought. He should have been here by now. 'Oh how I miss him, and Roohi!' Just thinking of them made her want to cry. But she had decided that she would not waste any more of her precious tears on this cruel monster of a kidnapper. He may have scared her, but he definitely could not break her. She tried to build up a profile of him in her head; she would need to give the best description she could to the police.
There wasn't much she recognised about him physically, except for that hoodie. But there was something intangible... something she felt she knew but couldn't grasp. Her head ached from thinking so hard.
And then it hit her! That smell! His smell! The kidnapper used a perfume startlingly similar to the attar that Shekar got concocted at his favourite attar-wallah's. Perhaps this guy bought his attar too at the same place; perhaps he knew Shekar! Was this someone with a vendetta against Shekar? No, that wasn't possible... Shekar was too mild-mannered. He didn't have a problem with anybody! Nevertheless, Shekar would be able to help her find this guy. First she must ask him about this perfume shop of his. She might find some answers there! With all these thoughts swirling in her head, she tried to sit up in bed.
The door to her room opened abruptly, and Shekar stood in the doorway. He looked strangely dishevelled. He had a concerned expression on his face as he walked slowly into the room.

Keep reading. Go here for part 7: http://imcapturingsunshine.blogspot.in/2014/09/week-1-part-7-game-of-blogs.html

Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com. #CelebrateBlogging with us.

My love, you are my joy

Shutterstock/thoughtcatalog.com

My love, it's a scary world,

Every day so unpredictable and untrue.

It's your love that keeps me sane

And drives away the blues.

Every time you hold my hand

It's an affirmation of faith

In all that we have cherished

And lovingly built up through the years.

My love, you are my rock,

My go-to spot for happiness

And my pillar of support.

Life is so much better with you.

Every time you smile at me 

And say I am treasured,

My insides well up with a happiness so great

I fear my heart will burst.

My love, you are my joy,

My sunshine and my friend.

Every challenge I face

Is made obsolete by the special love we share.

Nearly there... five months

Good Morning!

Little Diya is such a bundle of joy; I am actually enjoying the pleasures of laid-back mothering this time around. There's so much to be thankful for now that I feel such a need to just sit down and connect with the Almighty.

Let me count my blessings:

1. It's 18 years this day to the official start of our Love Story. And I think we have gone through all the phases--from giggly romance to the can't-keep-my-hands-off-you stage to side-by-side best-buddies co-existence. Right now, we are at this stage where we kind of take the other for granted, in a nice way, give each other the space we need and yet manage to keep the spark going strong .
2. Diya is nearly 5 months old; she is a healthy, calm child who has taken to eating her solids like a pro. Starting on idlis today, after four days of pureed rice. :)PS: Love her hearty laughs!
3. Ditu is doing so well at school, asking questions, understanding the world she interacts with and more. And she takes such care of the little one, even if she inadvertently slips into horseplay at times. I wish I could be a kinder mother to her, but it's difficult. I guess, firstborns get this penchant for perfection from being yelled at relentlessly by their mothers. Dear God, I don't want to end up as the nastiest chapter in her memoir even though she tells me now, "I will never hate you Mumma. Sometimes I get angry but it's not at you. I LOVE you!" Okay, let's just wait for teenage to set in, which, I hear, starts at 10 these days!
4. My sister! I am always thankful for her: she's my sanity at times, even though I tend to forget that, between minding my chores and telling her how to live her life. I hope she will find true happiness in her heart. And I'm guessing our parents staying with her for a few months is bound to put a smile on that pretty face.
5. Friends... loads and loads of them. I am thankful for each one of my buddies. From the ones who help me manage a harried day by sending me a home-cooked dish to the ones who make me smile by 'Liking' my photos on FB, I am thankful for each one of you.
6. Good health, and I am saying this despite my bad cold and sprained back.

I used to keep an online journal on Penzu while I was pregnant. And boy, am I glad I did! The account sends me random entries from the diary once in a while and just today, I read up on some funny-crazy dreams I had when I was pregnant with Diya. I am glad those dreams did not just slip into oblivion. Writing my new entry in the journal today prompted me to blog as well. So hola everyone! Hope to be back soon!