Why I write ?

Words pile up, on and on
like unspent  emotion ,
higgledy -piggledy
every which way
Need channeling ,
streamlining ,
hence the writing
the raining
the out pouring

The clouds dry 

wrung laundry 

Flying under sky 

plain blue sheet 

of paper 

inviting 

hence the writing 

The night descends 

stars twinkle, condescend 

conspire , gossip , laugh 

the earthlings relax, half 

raised on elbows 

of doubt , what follows 

of intrigue 

in pique 

to paint 

and pontificate 

Humans , aah! Never 

allowing each other 

in peace to respire 

only perspire 

with various desire(s) 

Hence the inner fire 

Rise !Aspire !

Write ! Sire!

a life changing event

A life changing event occurs surreptitiously . Like a predator springing on you . It charges softly , out of the blue  , without warnings , and doesn't give you reaction time .

For me , it was my grandmother's death . Seeing her lying there , "ready to go", swathed and bandaged , suddenly hit like a jackhammer . I went falling headlong into a bottomless , dark pit . People were wailing , weeping , but to me , it was like a deafening silence . The ringing of the ears after a bomb-blast kind of effect . In a daze , haze , the world passed by . People came , said kind words and went . It was strange and numbing . I was , or felt I was, suddenly alone . On my own , to fend for myself .

The loss of a parent cannot be described in words . And my grandma was a parent . When I woke from the stupor , people had left , they had a life to live . I was grateful for studies , classes , the humdrum of existence , that buoyed me and somehow dragged my reluctant self out of the bottomless pit of grief .

Overnight , me and my sister , grew up. We took charge of our lives , and my sister took charge of other things besides , a home , my mother and me.

In my day

"Today Rocky hit a boy " , teenage number two giggled at lunch table .

Rocky was the nickname for a history teacher , who un-Rocky like , had a bald pate and a paunch .

He ,on the contrary , had large molars , which were seen crushing walnut shells , hence the nickname.
She raised herself and patted me twice on the back , very gently , dropping crumbs on my arm .

"That is not called hitting , it is called patting ."

I flicked crumbs off and began ,"In my day..." I stopped cautiously , sniffing for non-cooperation . Room doors are known to shut , ever so softly , and earphones replaced back into ears ever so surreptitiously , at the mere mention of the magical three letter words .

Nothing happened , chew , chew , stare , stare . "Yes , in your day?"

 Eyebrows were raised , inquisitively . I grabbed the golden opportunity , and unleashed my memories . Like imprisoned stallions on the green meadow .

'In my day , it was de rigueur for a teacher to carry canes to the class room along with registers . We were asked to outstretch our palms , if we made a mistake , and wham ! " Teen 2 winced .
"Some of us took special pride in fashioning bamboo canes out of shoots ..."
"For you and your friends to be beaten !Mom , you must have been retards to do such a dumb thing!"
"It was considered an honour ."
"How can be preparations for your humiliation be an honour , Ma ?" Teen 2 was smarting by now , and I had lost track of what I was saying.

In fact , I was so muddled up , thinking of what was right and wrong , that I didn't realise her moving out with the plate , faint songs playing in her ears , and me staring at a row of fresh crumbs on my arms .

Time had moved , mores had changed , and accept it , I was old .

All this while , I had been tugging on my unruly hair , and as if on a cue , a grey hair gently floated down , and sat at the head of the crumb row, on my crowded forearm. 

Maybe

Maybe the bullets will stop flying , for once
Maybe we will all breathe lead-shot free air
Maybe homes will be welcoming places, free
Maybe we will garner enough courage to speak
against murders of dissenting journalists
Maybe we will finally welcome people who talk
in different tongues , to our home and hearth
Maybe we will empathise with harrowing ordeals
of others , so we may see humanity reflected
in salty ,tears
Maybe one day we will see a child as a human
and not a carrier of religion and language
Like a contagion , burden of birth
Polluting, labelling , segregating
Maybe one day they will reach out to the sky
and claim a fistful of stars
twinkling
in the same universal language
for thousands of years

Journey by metro

There were two serpentine queues . Two different routes . Yellow line , blue line . There were some charts and maps, displaying which line goes where , but I always found it better to ask a stranger . My neighbour’s mouth was full of “paan” , but he still ventured to indicate that I was standing in the correct queue , if I had to get to the station K. 

I was issued a plastic token , which was imperative for the gates to open . A flood of commuters accompanied me to the said platform. We climbed down two flight of stairs , went under a dimly lit culvert , and emerged onto a neon lit platform . All my co- passengers were young . Young and fit . Two words , light weight . Travelling via metro , reinforced another bitter truth . You have to be fit enough to jog alongside and board the train swiftly, thin enough to squeeze yourself in at rush hour , and strong enough to hold your ground and not be swept off your feet when the train brakes , suddenly. Secondly , minimal luggage . Preferably rucksacks , anything superfluous will be a millstone around your neck .

A small toddler , squirmed out of his mom's arms and started crawling on the crowded floor . After few failed attempts to rein in the bugger, the panting mother sighed and gave up . Keeping a watch from her perch , as the apple of her eye , made his way through impatient boots , slippers and moccasins . A strange girl , decided to help out and grabbed his grimy paws . The baby squealed in delight , tottering unsteadily on his pudgy legs , started walking  the narrow path between rows of trousered legs , rubbing against millions of germs, eliciting a frown here , a smile there . Mostly people ignored this homely scene , and busied themselves in their phones , and i pods .A tiny human being was taking his first tentative steps , and no one noticed 

We were about to reach station K . I had been forewarned that there will be a surge of crowd towards the door at K , as most of the commuters got down there . I dutifully positioned myself at a safe distance from the door . K arrived , announced , doors slid open .No one got out . Not a single person in that jam packed car moved . I read the signs again , asked a neighbour, panicked  , and heaved and pushed my way out of the car , just in time . The train whooshed away , just as both my feet hit the ground . Another lesson learnt . Never presume anything . 

Now K was a massive junction of sorts . There were various exits for K east , K north etc . I caught one and kept walking , don't remember which.I was boarding a regular , long distance train from K. No one told me about K east / north etc. Again I presumed they all would lead to K . But as they say , there are millions of paths to reach God (K in this case ) Some are easy , short ; others torturous and agonisingly long . I cross multitudes of helpful battery operated rickshaw-wallahs . Offering to drop me at my destination. For this and that price . I refused. I started walking. 

And kept walking for the next 45 minutes. I crossed one bridge. Several stretches of road , winding through the residential areas, a school, several bazaars , three automobile repair shops, and no railway station in sight . Several severe looking men in chequered scarves and kohl-lined eyes crossed me . I could not see a single woman. 

Let alone anyone in western clothings . It almost felt like time travel . For a moment I had entered last century.  

Then I saw this boy with his ears plugged with ear phones and walking in a trance , skipping slightly to the beat in his ears . He decidedly belonged to this era . I flagged him down , and to my great embarrassment , he pointed out the sprawling vista of station K to my left . He asked me to keep going and take a U-turn here ,and there I was . 

Back in civilisation. 

Life enters and exits

The shopping complex had a perfect entrance . 

It lay on the road from the city . First the entry , with a petrol refilling station to your right , and the offices , the billing booths and the main building to your left. You parked your vehicle beyond the greengrocers , walked a small road between the parked two wheelers and then walked into the air conditioned world of human consumption . Neat labelled shelves full of merchandise . Food items , utensils , luggage , clothing , plasticware , all in their separate sections . Occasionally , salespersons will be found sitting on unopened cardboard boxes , arranging bottles of shampoo from another box , onto shelves . 

In short , a world of perfection . Well , as they say , perfection is a mirage . 

So , one fine day , a trip to the aforementioned place met with strange mutations in signs , and chaotic traffic jam at both the entrance and the exit . Upon enquiry , it was revealed that the former exit was the new entrance with a large “Enter here ” written in cheeky neon , and vice versa . So , now you entered through the backdoor , with a wall to your right and the LPG cylinder godown to your left.

The entrance became dismal , severe . A concurrent slashing of subsidies saw the consumer goods vanish off shelves , and not replenished . The footfalls reduced . Another supermarket opened its services to the needy public , and moss engulfed the wall lining the "entrance ". The once bustling market wore a  deserted , abandoned look , and the billing counters , once jostling with cramped humanity , had one single cashier ,playing temple run on his phone and yawning occasionally . Flies sat on the tray of cream cakes in the display , and few abandoned shopping carts  in the foyer developed irreparable rust. 

Of traffic rules and breaking them

The siren is audible over long distances . When the siren wails at unearthly hours , even in the dark , the motorcycles start honking and run amok . The pedestrians and cyclists race. General cacophony ensues , and one wonders what the fuss is about. A rickshaw wallah pedals his rickety ,noisy vehicle, loose shirt end flapping wildly , narrowly missing a doodhwala with his aluminium canisters banging against the sides of his mutant bike .


Along with the siren the barriers are lowered inch by inevitable inch. Now the hysteria reaches a crescendo , and everyone , small enough wants to crawl past . Well , almost everyone. A large Honda car slows and then stops , like a law abiding citizen . See , that is the problem with law abiding . In a place where no one knows or recognises the law , abiding by the rules can come a s a major irritant for most of the lawless populace .

When negotiating a one way , I encounter confident motorists and bike riders roaring down at me , from the reverse direction . They are such a multitude that you wonder if you are going the wrong way .

It is common practise to jump the red light at traffic lights , if the coast is clear. But someone from the reverse direction may decide to speed up at supersonic levels ,just to use up the last second of his green light .That causes not collisions but ugly name calling and fist waving in the middle of the crossing with a trillion shrill horns drowning the expletives in a flood of  impatient honking.

Mostly , the trespasser goes scot free , escaping harm by a hair's breadth. That encourages him to do it again, and again , till it becomes a habit with him , and he forgets what the red light at crossings was meant for . To halt him , or to egg him on .

Stars

That week it rained , and rained .

As if Gods had left the taps on and forgot to turn it off. Said Sibo as she moped around .Her jobs increased tremendously . In the cramped space of her hut , She had to dry the washing , make a make-shift chullah(oven) by sacrificing a good aluminium bucket , and store firewood indoors . One third of her good pots would be placed at strategic points to catch the drips from the roof.

Bhushan in his booming , domineering voice said "It is because the Gods are angry , they are angry because Nimmo ran away with the barber's son ." Bhushan always had a judgemental reasoning to most calamities , small or big. He didn't expect people to giggle as they did at Sibo's remarks . He expected them to be shocked into silence . He would achieve his goal with aplomb.

He was the village eccentric , and no one wanted to argue with him . He sat on his charpoy , smoking his chillum with blood shot eyes , and expounding wisdom of questionable variety . Sibo was content to have him out of her hair . Philosophy or no philosophy . Mostly Bhushan would talk to himself , and be not answered. He was used to the silent treatment . It was a mark of respect . Someone adding a rejoinder , or questioning would be insolence .

On the third night of rain , there was a lull in the rain , and Sibo cooked on her dear beloved outdoor wood stove . A large thud emanated from the hut . A part of the roof had caved in , given up after being lashed by rain . The floor was a mess of splintered rotten bamboo, and stinking heap of sodden straw. Sibo was close to tears .

Bhushan stopped smoking . He got up and cleared the floor with a broom and threw away the trash . He then spread dry gunny sacks on the floor . It was a miracle . Sibo went back to her cooking , in silent gratitude . When she brought in his roti on a steel thali , he was lying down,face up , hands locked behind the head , and admiring the jagged edged  gaping hole left by the missing piece of roof . He smiled at Sibo. Another miracle. Sibo didn't like it . A succession of good events put her on the defensive .

"Can you see ?" Bhushan pointed up"All those stars suddenly smiling down at us "

The next day it stopped raining and the sun came out . Bhushan went to the market , and bought  a length of transparent plastic sheet . He fixed it around the edges so it became a natural skylight . Now , he could see stars every night from his vantage point . His mood improved and so did Sibo's . Now she could get sunlight throughout the day , and her hut with the bright light of the sun became a talk of the town.