Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts

Sunday, November 22, 2015

The Sapling & Her Mother



I first woke up
I was buried deep
In her loving embrace
A fall enough to shatter her
For me she acted strong
With time I found my head and heart
Slowly sought to move
Hands outstretched towards the Sun
I dug my feet in deep
She gave me food
Gave me water
She held me close at night
When winter winds cornered me
She made sure to hold on tight
Her watchful gaze, she saw me grow
I took from her so much
I can never give back enough
Tall and strong I became
Her walls began to crack
Tired, battered, she fought on
Fought all the evil in this world
Until one day someone decided
To pluck me from her arms
As I found a new home
With others my kind
I’m sure she feels vacant
For so long she has nurtured me
Keeping me from harm
She gave up her dreams
To fulfill mine
She knows no other life
I write this today
To let you know
I’d give away my most precious jewel
To go back in time
And be the sapling that opened her eyes
In the warmth of her mother’s love
The humble earthen pot


Monday, May 26, 2014

My City, My Home

Delhi, the city which dreams with open eyes, the city which welcomes the lone traveler with a warm embrace… the city which has romanced history yet adapted to have a modern affair… the city where I breathed my first and hope to breathe my last as well. Shrouded in its veil of mystery, Delhi never fails to surprise.

They might call it the crime capital of India or the pollution capital of the big-round-world, nothing, mark you can diminish my love for the city I call home. My love story with Delhi technically began on March 2, 1993 (yes, I just gave out my age) but the real sparks flew when my father was transferred here some eleven years back.

Each day has become a gold leafed entry in my book of life, each memory, a treasured possession.

It is the beauty of how this city weaves together the mundane and the ordinary to make the most astonishing trinkets. From the Old Fort to the Shopping Malls, each monument to the ever-evolving culture contributes its own little share to the magical history of Delhi. From the Mughal Emperors to the common man laboring under the sun, all of them have left indelible marks on our lands… blessing us with a culture vibrant like none other.

For the past decade I’ve lived and loved my city. I’ve enjoyed its rains and cursed its heat. I’ve seen it changing over time. In this series, I’ll try to capture in words, my unique bond with my city. I’ll try to tell the tale of how we grew up and fell in love… Keep watching this space.


Much thanks to @WeAreNewDelhi for making me realize just how special our city is!

Sunday, February 17, 2013

A Date with Beauty




If thou of fortune be bereft
and of thine earthly store have left
two loaves, sell one and with the dole
feed hyacinths to the soul.

These beautiful lines were written by Sir Alexander Clegg…
Ever since these words crossed my eyes, I have been marveling at their depth. These lines hold a profound truth: Man cannot sustain life just with bread.

This morning, when I visited the Ghazipur Pushp Mandi (Ghazipur Flower Market, East Delhi, India), I just could not contain my excitement on finally understanding his words… After carefully navigating my way through little pools of water filled with squishy mud, I found myself in the most delightful of places.  Spread all around me were flowers of virtually all imaginable (and unimaginable) colors, varieties, shapes…

As the early morning breeze caressed my cheeks, the flowers lured me, teased me with their vibrant colors and sensuous fragrances. As I walked by, they seemed to call out to me and I often ended up touching them, looking at them, much to the curiosity of the vendors. From one corner, the carnations looked at me sleepily, from their huddled masses… from the other the orchids, in all their sophistication; lay in neat piles, talking in soft voices. The shy lilies hid their beauty behind closed buds…

As if these were not enough to make me high on flowers… there were gerberas, nodding their acknowledgement to me, tulips sending me cute kisses, the roses dressed up in their best, the genda reminding me of that time around New Year when they’d adorned my home… a host of exotic flowers, which spoke to me in languages unknown… I don’t even know their names… I was just wandering through this wonderland with the dazed eyes of an awestruck admirer.




It was then that I realized the importance of beauty in our life. Imagine a dreary life… where you eat, work and sleep… where there is no joy, no surprises… a world without flowers… it will essentially be a world without smiles. Will we be able to live for long? For one like me… who goes berserk when she sees a flower in full bloom… such a life is hard to imagine. Beauty gives us happiness. And what is life if you’re not happy?

In this back-breaking competition, a thing of beauty is really rare. It is precious. As Wordsworth said, they remain with us long after we have seen them. They come back to us at  times we expect them the least…at times when we’re alone, lonely or sad… they cheer us up and dance with us to the tune of life… So what if they didn’t have hyacinths today. If I have two pennies, I’ll spend one on bread, the other on a lily (my favourite).

P.S. This Mandi, which is my private ‘soothe-my-soul land’, was established in 2011 in place of the existing Mandis at Connaught Place, Mehrauli and Fatehpuri. The government aimed to give the licensed flower vendors a proper place, with a roof over their head, a cold storage and better facilities, where they could trade for a longer time. If you were to google this particular market, you’ll only find articles expressing discontent. There were protests against the increased costs incurred owing to the shift. There was a lot of talk of cultural heritage being lost, talk of inconvenience to both, the buyers and the sellers.

But the situation isn’t as bad as it is made out to be. Not only is the space big, luxurious as compared to the other markets, it is relatively clean as well (never mind the mud pools… blame it on the torrent last night). If the legal vendors, numbering close to 400, do brisk business inside, their illegal counterparts, selling everything from flowers to sponges make money outside. True, this area is on the periphery of the city, but I found ample auto-rickshaws willing to take me to my destination. Do visit the Mandi… it is definitely worth your time.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

Farewells...


I came here, unmoulded clay
Washed up on your shores
You took me in, soft hands
Moulded me into who I am…

As I helped my brother gel up his hair for the school farewell…I couldn’t help but remember that time, a few hundred days ago, when I was getting ready for my own. I wasn’t suffering from the ‘I- don’t- want-to-leave-school’ syndrome. In fact, all I cared about was wearing a Saree, meeting friends and having a nice time. Little did I realize that farewells change lives… that this single day of dressing up like a young ladies and gentlemen would mark an important transition in our life…
It was not just the end of our school days… it was the end of a way of living… one where expectations were low, rules were flexible and the laughs came easy.

From the moment I stepped inside the school gates everything was different… the teachers who would glare at us if we talked in class, would reprimand us for low attendance (which was almost every other day)…met us with warm welcoming hugs… compliments flowed (champagne was not allowed) and all around me, I had friends, smiling their familiar smiles. I’d known them for just two years and yet somehow, I belonged. I felt safe.

Conveniently ignoring the ticking of the clock, we made memories… lots and lots of happy memories. I distinctly remember the ruckus we made while taking our class photograph. The whole school probably thought we’d lost our minds. None of us cared. But when the time to part came, the merry-making stopped. The spring in our steps disappeared… the smiles began to fade. I knew, I’ll probably never meet them again…save a few… and almost definitely not attend the same lectures again. The feeling was heart breaking… like I was losing something valuable.

The word ‘farewell’ and ‘good bye’ tasted bitter on my tongue. At last… I didn’t want to leave school. We promised we’ll meet up later but everyone knew better. True friendships endure the barriers of time and distance. But to put them to test is the toughest part of it. Each friend you lose leaves a void, where only memories remain.

But somewhere down the line I did  understand that farewells are not all about endings…they are about beginnings too… beginning a new life, with new dreams, new aspirations. To don the shoes of a young adult, you have to let go a kid’s shoes…and this is exactly what farewells do. They help you step into the bigger world with a confident stride. They help you prepare for the eventful journey your life is going to be. They are the sentries guarding the gates of your new life. All along, close to your heart, you have memories of that day you bid farewell to your loved ones.

After our last day at school, life became a roller coaster ride…a whirlwind of new people, new ideas, new expectations… we never got time to look back and think of all that was left behind…but I do think that all of us kept our old friends and memories safe in our strong rooms. Two years down the line, I realize that this is the way it is meant to be. We were neither the first batch of students nor the last to be given a farewell… what is important is holding on to the memories and the friends who were your life once…

Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.
Richard Bach

Dedicated to you… J

P.S. That picture you see... it symbolizes the end of one path, our life at school, but it also gives us a peek at the whole wide world waiting to embrace us... 

Sunday, January 20, 2013

A Loveless World


We love to love...
Better still, we love being loved...
But what if,
We live in a loveless world?



A withered flower
Few shattered dreams
A broken heart
And unheard screams
Is the famed legacy
Love left me...

Long hours contemplating
What went wrong
Took you away
Snapped our bond
A dream felt
by my fluttering heart
Blown to smithereens
Before my eyes
Life's beautiful song
Silenced by this void...

Crying into the pillow
Night after dark night
Smudged tear tracks
Tell  all their plight
I yearn to hear your voice
Crave for your touch
Lose myself in those eyes
I once loved so much...

Caught in a storm
Within, about
This loveless world
No space for doubt
A broken heart
And unheard screams
Are all, left to me
By this cruel play of destiny...

Sunday, July 29, 2012

An Unsigned Letter

Sometimes we stumble upon things which force us to thank our stars that we haven't been exposed to them. Yet, in our own small way we want to contribute and help the victims. The letter that follows is one such collection of words which made me cringe at this harsh reality. This letter was written by an Indian woman revealing the true face of FGM- Female Genital Mutilation.


“Dear Molly,

I am an Indian woman living in Mumbai and I attended a seminar in the United States recently where you spoke on the subject of Female Genital Cutting in Africa.  That day, I know I was the most intent of all listeners, the most interested in what you had to say. Why, you might ask?

It is because I, an Indian woman who has been to University, have myself experienced the practice of FGC.  I know this may surprise you, but it is true.  Did you know that FGC also exists in India?  Many people do not, not even many Indians!

I hail from the Dawoodi Bohra community, whose head is called the Syedna – we are a sect of the Shias, which came to India from Yemen some centuries ago.

As in many parts of the world, parents in the Bohra community suffered from “son stroke” as did my parents, who prayed hard for a son, after having four girls. They did succeed and we finally had a boy in the family.

I was the third among four sisters.  We were very close and shared many secrets. But none of us, not the ones before me, nor I myself, ever shared or warned the ones closest to us about the frightening and incomprehensible experience that we would one day be forced to go through.  It was not spoken about then and it is not spoken about even today.
I am 60 years old now, but will remember that fateful day for the rest of my life. I must have been around 7 years old when my mother told me we were going to my grandma’s house to spend the day with her.  When we reached my grandma’s house, my cousin (my mum’s sister’s daughter), who was a year younger than me, was also there. We were happy to meet each other.

Then, we were both led to a small room, which had a bed and asked to lie down. We kept asking “Why?” Suddenly, a lady dressed in black came into the room. By now, my cousin and I were terrified, not aware of what was to follow.

Our dresses were pulled up and our panties pulled off, and we were asked to keep our legs apart.  There were our mothers and our aunts holding our legs apart and then I felt something cold being applied to my clitoris, and then to my horror, the lady in black, actually held a scissor-like instrument and cut me there – I screamed and screamed but no one seemed to care. Then this same thing was done to my cousin, who was right next to me on the same bed.

Both of us kept screaming and crying in pain. Everyone left the room and asked us to lie down with our legs apart, and told us that all would be well soon. They locked us in for almost the whole day. The burning and painful sensation between my groins is something I will never ever forget.

I felt betrayed by and angry with my mother and humiliated too.  I just could not understand how my mother could have been so cruel and put me through this horrific experience.  Much later I was told that all Bohra girls must go through it, and that it is ‘good’ for you.  I then understood that my mother had no choice, that for her, she was only doing what was expected of her.  She was being a “good mother” because this is a practice that had been carried out in our Bohra group for centuries and was considered essential for a woman’s good reputation and marriage chances.

Little did I know that this would affect my sexual life to such a great extent that reaching an orgasm would be a difficult thing for me!

My husband and I have made sure that our daughter does not go through the same thing. We warned his mother and mine that they dare not do anything behind our backs.  We know of friends from my generation, who did not want their girls to go through FGC, but often it was the grandma or the aunts who took them away and secretly got it done!

The sad part is that my sisters and I, and my cousins too, did not really discuss our experience till many years later. We have spent years feeling shame and humiliation for a senseless act that we were subjugated to as children, incapable of defending our human right to keep all organs of our body.

I regret also, dear Molly that I cannot reveal my name to you, as I am not certain of the best way to help put an end to this practice that still persists on a large scale in the Dawoodi Bohra community of India.  However, your explanation of how people themselves changed this social convention in Africa through discussing non judgmental information on the dangers and human rights violations of FGC, then allowing people to collectively abandon the practice, seems the best way forward.

In the meantime, I hope that you will publish this letter to let others know that women suffer greatly from this practice, not only in Africa, but in other countries such as India as well.  Women need to break the silence and support one another in this effort so that our daughters will have a brighter future in the years to come”.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

A Part of Me



“Every savage can dance”…that is what Mr Darcy said about dance in Pride and Prejudice. I couldn’t have disagreed more.

I was introduced to Kathak, a classical form of dance, at a very young age. I knew all the taals and tukdas while still in preparatory school. Joining my college’s dance team was an obvious choice then. Western dance styles are way different from kathak but it is an experience I enjoyed to the hilt.

Dance is an art. It needs devotion. It demands a lot of sacrifices, a zillion truckloads of effort and mountains of patience. I always think of it as a slow art. You can’t make a performer in a day. It takes years of silent work before one can step on stage and dazzle the audience.

I vividly remember the long practice sessions we had, dancing for close to eight hours each day, pushing ourselves beyond our limits. In those days, dance became my drug. I was addicted to it. I talked of nothing else, thought of little else. And now that I look back at that time, I think those hours spent in the company of my team-mates, twisting our bodies into impossible shapes, will be the most cherished of my college life.

Whenever I dance, I am transformed into a different person. It is like a trance. It lifts me above the worries of everyday life. When each beat of the music resonates with the beating of my heart, I lose all sense of this world. It is a state of bliss which bestows upon me a sense of achievement, of fulfillment, of being complete. It makes me love myself.

The array of emotions expressed by the slightest change in posture, the silent words said by the movement of my eyes, the great tales told without uttering so much as a word; all left me overwhelmed and humbled.

While I am dancing, I can be anyone I wish to be. I am not restrained to fit into a particular image or social norms which bind me. I can just be me, free as a bird in the purple sky of her dreams…

But even as I am reliving those moments from my not-so-distant past, I cannot help but keep in mind that that joy is forbidden to me now. Happy stories do not always have happy ends. A series of events forced me to give up my place on the team. During the days that followed, I alternated between being angry and painfully grief-stricken. It was like having a part of me snatched away. Some part of my little heart went cold. Dance was my passion, still is. But I realized, sometimes you just have to give up the things most dear to you.

Dance helped me learn a lot, from little things like taking care of my own belongings and travelling by DTC to larger lessons of life like discipline and perseverance. It has played a pivotal role in shaping me into the person I am today. It changed this fish’s perspective towards life. I interacted with new people and opened up to this world. I came out of my shell to leave others shell-shocked…

I still dance but it is within the confines of four walls. I do not hear the loud cheering anymore or the thunder-like applause, so common during our performances. That was another world. Today, dance is a form of meditation for me, a way to connect and communicate with my inner self. It is a means to escape into a different world where I am not chained down. Nobody can take away my heart’s foot-tapping beats…

“Swaying to the music, lost to the world… I live the dreams I dreamed as a little girl.”

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Craving...

I wrote this poem way back in grade 9...Though I found some of the lines amusing now but nonetheless, I posted them just as they were...:)

CRAVING

Craving for many is a way of life
Some men crave for a beautiful wife
They crave for money and joys around
They crave for pleasures they haven't found...

But the girl there craves for a friend
A soul who will be with her till the end
A person who would guide her through night and day
Who would lead her to the warmth of May...

The aged woman craves for a son
Who she can love every moment, a ton
Who would just listen to her talk
To her deathbed, help her walk...

And there is the boy who craves for a sister
Who would painlessly treat every blister
Who would be his life's best feature
And sometimes reprimand him as his teacher...


My friends!There is so much to life than just earning gold
Sometimes in life, you have to be bold
Yet craving for many is a way of life
Some men crave for a beautiful wife...