Sometimes you find things where they are least expected.
Like tragedies, miracles, and opportunities. Like hope, friendship, happiness and ……love. Who would have thought…? How could I have imagined….? Is this just an escapist illusion? Or maybe a sweet delusion?
Can I call it love? I can never brush it off as just a casual encounter, a brief escapade…..those days and nights filled with ordinary yet special moments, those fresh effusive feelings, the gentle jabbing and natural bubbliness, secret shared jokes and chuckles, shy downcast-eye smiles, the trace of a slight dimple….there was no staring at the moon, no extravagant promises made for the future, not a word of commitment, yet the moment was there…..captured against the expanse and reality of time and the brisk movement of daily life- like a master piece carved in exquisite gem, like the breathing, living words of soulful poetry, as if God was watching us at that precise moment through a telescope and zooming in on us…..was that love?
I have been through my share of heart ache but the charm of falling in love again, risking your sentiments, laying your heart bare for someone to write upon, making yourself vulnerable to someone you want to share everything with…..cannot be underestimated. Love does that, you see….the ticking and working, the intricacies and subtleties of human hearts can hardly be fathomed…No scientist or thinker has managed to do that…apart from churning out physiological, psychological and philosophical concepts or so I think.
We were not meant to be but we were. It was like fatal fatalism. Our paths were star-crossed but we were together still. One day we would part, both of us knew that, but it did not matter. What mattered was that we had reached out to each other, gone beyond the cursory. It was a beautiful feeling. Our hearts, nature, and words warmed us to each other, touched our souls. It was like watching a ballet….grace and delicacy on tip-toes, like sighting a rainbow after a thunder storm- the view had never been clearer.
I wonder how it happened. I never suspected it. And I never thought myself capable of that….but it happened. It just happened. And there I was, holding onto the moment….living it, treasuring it because it was fleeting…it would pass away. There was no room for permanence but at least it was there for sometime. And you always cherish and value something or someone more if it lasts less.
And now here I am, once again alone, but there is no bitterness or sorrow in me…I loved and I lost but not in the usual sense of the word. There was no pact between us, no agreement, no promises or compromises….it happened, was lovely and enriching while it lasted and ended not in tears or rancor but with a tender, soft understanding and acceptance of fate which could not be altered.
And I am ready to love again.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
CHILDREN OF HEAVEN
I was never a child-lover and I don’t claim to be one right now.
I remember getting irritated with a nephew of mine because he walked all over the place including my freshly laundered bed-cover with shoes on and his mom said nothing so I concluded he was a spoilt child.
I never had to change diapers or nurse nappy rashes because my two younger half-siblings were raised in a different home. And I am not married so I don’t have kids of my own.
I was never familiar with baby-talk or lullabies. I still don’t know how infants should be fed or weaned.
But as I grew up into a young woman (lady?) I started liking kids. “Adoring” is too strong a word. I just started liking them. I don’t know how, when and why (Maternal instinct?).
I love those wide, innocent eyes, the round, dimpled limbs, the toothless smile, their lisping chatter, their sprightliness (if they are not too mischievous).
I love talking to them, teasing them, and once in a while when I am in a wild mood, playing with them.
I have never done a crash course on child psychology but I think I understand kids pretty well and they understand me, too.
When you like them genuinely, they return the affection and that is what makes it so worthwhile.
My maternal uncle’s kids run into my arms whenever I visit them. (Sigh) These moments make life worthwhile.
One of my cousin sister’s son watched me with huge, imploring eyes as I turned to leave as if pleading me to stay behind and play a little while longer with him. I felt an irresistible urge to gather him in my arms and kiss him but I controlled myself.
Even the “naughty” nephew I mentioned is a cutie. He is round all over. And simply brilliant (he is always on a computer). Maybe he will outgrow his “naughtiness” with time.
Okay, I love kids and they (hopefully) love me. But I don’t indulge their every whim. I know when they should be appeased and when a “No” should be a resounding “No.”
And I know they respect me for it. Maybe even love me more.
One day, I went to the Swiss Bakery. I had an appointment with someone and was waiting when suddenly a group of maybe 5-6 little girls entered and started ordering for some goodies.
I called one to me, a cute little girl with a ready smile and asked her whereabouts. Then the group settled down on the sofa next to me.
They had ordered éclairs and maybe hamburgers (I don’t remember exactly). And “Pepsi.” I made small talk. They warmed up to me in no time (innocent beings).
Then I said: “Pepsi is not good for kids like you. Why don’t you take milk or fruit juice?” Not in the way adults usually speak. Just a suggestion.
They did not say anything but going by their facial expressions I knew they were listening.
They asked me questions. I answered them.
Suddenly the door opens and a Black woman enters. She must be a tourist. Her corpulent figure is covered in a pair of tight jeans and a flowery top. The girls burst out laughing. They are highly amused.
I make funny faces at them. And smile secret smiles.
The woman leaves. I ask them why they were laughing.
One says: “Her bottom is huge.”
Another quips: “Her hair is like Maggi.”
A bout of giggling ensues.
I then say quietly: “It is not good to laugh at other people.”
I look at their down-cast faces. Their eyes are lowered.
I ask gently: “Would you like it if others laughed at you?”
Silence.
Then I give the final comment: “Funny looking people have problems.”
I know they have learnt a lesson so I brighten up and ask them if they would like to have anything else. The camaraderie resumes.
Suddenly, the door opens and a fashionable woman with a weird hair-do enters. The girls burst out laughing.
I can’t suppress a smile. I get up to pay my bill and turn to look at them:
“Remember what I said, girls?”
They are already running out almost shrieking with laughter. I run out, too.
Another incident. My uncle’s little son is a gentle spirit but one day he was acting difficult. He would not put on his slippers. I coaxed him but he would not listen. I went to my room and he followed. He was trying to play with me. “Don’t come here. You have not put on your slippers,” I told him in mock-anger. He went to the next room and started crying. Uncle lifted him up. I went there and gathered him in my arms.
“I am sorry. Please put on your slippers,” I said.
The stubborn little guy still refused but such incidences tell them what they should do and what they should not. I believe it remains in their sub-consciousness and will help them to be better-behaved in the future.
Next I have a bubbly, sweet cousin sister. She will be in Class X this year.
She adores me.
Once she told me that she is scared of losing me.
I prod her to study and do well academically. I ask her to read and when she told me that she likes funny, romantic and horror novels I bought her one from each genre.
She watches TV excessively. I told her it is not good. I told her to watch TV only till 10 PM. I told her reading has far more benefits.
She listened. Why? Because I was not commanding her. Just reasoning with her. Giving her options. Moreover she trusts me and my advice because I treat her like a good friend and confidante. Occasionally, I treat her to chocolate (she is still a kid).
So you see, sometimes to live with children and make them listen you get into their shoes and become a child yourself if needed. It pays.
I remember getting irritated with a nephew of mine because he walked all over the place including my freshly laundered bed-cover with shoes on and his mom said nothing so I concluded he was a spoilt child.
I never had to change diapers or nurse nappy rashes because my two younger half-siblings were raised in a different home. And I am not married so I don’t have kids of my own.
I was never familiar with baby-talk or lullabies. I still don’t know how infants should be fed or weaned.
But as I grew up into a young woman (lady?) I started liking kids. “Adoring” is too strong a word. I just started liking them. I don’t know how, when and why (Maternal instinct?).
I love those wide, innocent eyes, the round, dimpled limbs, the toothless smile, their lisping chatter, their sprightliness (if they are not too mischievous).
I love talking to them, teasing them, and once in a while when I am in a wild mood, playing with them.
I have never done a crash course on child psychology but I think I understand kids pretty well and they understand me, too.
When you like them genuinely, they return the affection and that is what makes it so worthwhile.
My maternal uncle’s kids run into my arms whenever I visit them. (Sigh) These moments make life worthwhile.
One of my cousin sister’s son watched me with huge, imploring eyes as I turned to leave as if pleading me to stay behind and play a little while longer with him. I felt an irresistible urge to gather him in my arms and kiss him but I controlled myself.
Even the “naughty” nephew I mentioned is a cutie. He is round all over. And simply brilliant (he is always on a computer). Maybe he will outgrow his “naughtiness” with time.
Okay, I love kids and they (hopefully) love me. But I don’t indulge their every whim. I know when they should be appeased and when a “No” should be a resounding “No.”
And I know they respect me for it. Maybe even love me more.
One day, I went to the Swiss Bakery. I had an appointment with someone and was waiting when suddenly a group of maybe 5-6 little girls entered and started ordering for some goodies.
I called one to me, a cute little girl with a ready smile and asked her whereabouts. Then the group settled down on the sofa next to me.
They had ordered éclairs and maybe hamburgers (I don’t remember exactly). And “Pepsi.” I made small talk. They warmed up to me in no time (innocent beings).
Then I said: “Pepsi is not good for kids like you. Why don’t you take milk or fruit juice?” Not in the way adults usually speak. Just a suggestion.
They did not say anything but going by their facial expressions I knew they were listening.
They asked me questions. I answered them.
Suddenly the door opens and a Black woman enters. She must be a tourist. Her corpulent figure is covered in a pair of tight jeans and a flowery top. The girls burst out laughing. They are highly amused.
I make funny faces at them. And smile secret smiles.
The woman leaves. I ask them why they were laughing.
One says: “Her bottom is huge.”
Another quips: “Her hair is like Maggi.”
A bout of giggling ensues.
I then say quietly: “It is not good to laugh at other people.”
I look at their down-cast faces. Their eyes are lowered.
I ask gently: “Would you like it if others laughed at you?”
Silence.
Then I give the final comment: “Funny looking people have problems.”
I know they have learnt a lesson so I brighten up and ask them if they would like to have anything else. The camaraderie resumes.
Suddenly, the door opens and a fashionable woman with a weird hair-do enters. The girls burst out laughing.
I can’t suppress a smile. I get up to pay my bill and turn to look at them:
“Remember what I said, girls?”
They are already running out almost shrieking with laughter. I run out, too.
Another incident. My uncle’s little son is a gentle spirit but one day he was acting difficult. He would not put on his slippers. I coaxed him but he would not listen. I went to my room and he followed. He was trying to play with me. “Don’t come here. You have not put on your slippers,” I told him in mock-anger. He went to the next room and started crying. Uncle lifted him up. I went there and gathered him in my arms.
“I am sorry. Please put on your slippers,” I said.
The stubborn little guy still refused but such incidences tell them what they should do and what they should not. I believe it remains in their sub-consciousness and will help them to be better-behaved in the future.
Next I have a bubbly, sweet cousin sister. She will be in Class X this year.
She adores me.
Once she told me that she is scared of losing me.
I prod her to study and do well academically. I ask her to read and when she told me that she likes funny, romantic and horror novels I bought her one from each genre.
She watches TV excessively. I told her it is not good. I told her to watch TV only till 10 PM. I told her reading has far more benefits.
She listened. Why? Because I was not commanding her. Just reasoning with her. Giving her options. Moreover she trusts me and my advice because I treat her like a good friend and confidante. Occasionally, I treat her to chocolate (she is still a kid).
So you see, sometimes to live with children and make them listen you get into their shoes and become a child yourself if needed. It pays.
LAUGHING AWAY TO LIFE…….
Laughing has never been this better…..it starts as a mild tremor in the body, spreads slowly till it starts shaking it convulsively and then often ends with the volcanic eruption of loud laughter rocking the whole frame.
I am silly if silliness means laughing at the most incongruous of reasons….I am stupid if stupidity means asking the simplest of questions just because I want to know the answer or because I am curious, I am immature if immaturity is letting go of myself or behaving like a kid because I am just like that…..
Some things in life you can’t enjoy by doing…you enjoy simply by being.
I don’t know why….I find humour in the simplest of things….a flashing expression or even a seemingly innocent phrase or funny incident makes me go into splits; often hysterics and I remember them at the most inappropriate moments so I have a hard time suppressing my laughter and protecting my image of sanity.
I have to repress smiles all the time because I know if I give full vent to my rather unusual sense of humour in public, then I am really a goner. People will think I have flipped the lid.
My recent trip to Delhi had me burning a lot of calories because I was laughing like crazy. Not all the time. I had my low moments (come on, I am also human). But the light moments, my good acquaintances and the new learning experiences made up for all the tears I shed, I guess.
Like I am curiously absent-minded. I don’t know whether this happens with others or I am just making a big deal out of nothing but there were these soup spoons placed alongside soup-bowls and plates. Our cutlery was already at the table. And when I had served my food on the plate, I picked up the big round headed spoon and marched to my table. Only when I got there, I noticed and I would have forgotten about it but the next day I did the same thing and even went a step further- I was actually eating with it. You know I found it so hilarious.
Another incident I still remember was what I call the “desert disaster.” I wanted to have desert during a high level luncheon and I went to the podium and was searching for it. But I just could not find it and I was having a tough time keeping a straight face when a particularly dignified looking figure in a uniform caught my eye and asked me- “You seem to be looking everywhere.”
I was blushing when I said wryly “I can’t exactly seem to be finding the desert,” because I did not have anything better to say and I could not summon up the presence of mind to make up a smart reason at the crux of the moment. I don’t know if the dignitary thought I was a simpleton but he was kind enough to guide me to the desert table. I collected my desert as fast as possible and was ready to flee to my table when someone asked me-“Running away?” I was in such a hurry to get away that I did not even look up to see who had passed the remark. I just fled the scene and I will never know who the Good Samaritan was. I mean it is very funny if you consider the situation I was in. A novice learning and you know, the little hiccups she faces which when she looks back she can laugh at in the future.
Another incident which I found particularly funny- I was watching television at the embassy with my friends when a dignitary and a colleague of mine entered the room. They went behind me and I was not facing them. I got up to go away when I heard a dead-pan voice saying-“You leaving?”
I thought it was the officer who was speaking to me. Without turning I just said “Yes sir, I am going. Good night.” Then when I suddenly turned back, you should have seen the look on my friend’s face. It was just precious. The Chesire cat grin with amused oriental eyes (if he reads this, he will crucify me). And I could not think of a better response than just keeping a poker face and quipping-“Oh, I thought it was you, sir. It turned out to be my friend.” Then I marched stiffly to the door, shut it and back at my own room I confided in my friend and we broke into endless stifled giggles because the guys were just next door.
Numerous incidents like these happened and I just sensed the humour of the situation. I laughed and laughed and I laughed. It made my sides ache. It gave me crow’s feet. But I don’t mind. I just want to throw back my head and let out all my mirth. Joie de vivre.
I want to feel the wind on my face. I want to watch children play. I want to sit alone somewhere, maybe under a tree and contemplate life or read a good book. I want to learn even if I appear foolish. I want to be free enough to be myself. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I am not.
But in some company and with some people you can’t always be yourself, even if you are a free spirit. Your level of comfort counts. And it is good to exercise decorum and discipline when situation demands it. It develops self restraint, gives you time to observe, interact and gives you broader understanding of life. But then if you are obsessed with rules and let it dictate personal image and perception, if you can’t think for yourself, if you don’t exercise a certain amount of detachment and independence, then you are having a problem. You are living but not as yourself. And you always know which rules bind you and which doesn’t. The right rules make you free enough to be happy.
I am silly if silliness means laughing at the most incongruous of reasons….I am stupid if stupidity means asking the simplest of questions just because I want to know the answer or because I am curious, I am immature if immaturity is letting go of myself or behaving like a kid because I am just like that…..
Some things in life you can’t enjoy by doing…you enjoy simply by being.
I don’t know why….I find humour in the simplest of things….a flashing expression or even a seemingly innocent phrase or funny incident makes me go into splits; often hysterics and I remember them at the most inappropriate moments so I have a hard time suppressing my laughter and protecting my image of sanity.
I have to repress smiles all the time because I know if I give full vent to my rather unusual sense of humour in public, then I am really a goner. People will think I have flipped the lid.
My recent trip to Delhi had me burning a lot of calories because I was laughing like crazy. Not all the time. I had my low moments (come on, I am also human). But the light moments, my good acquaintances and the new learning experiences made up for all the tears I shed, I guess.
Like I am curiously absent-minded. I don’t know whether this happens with others or I am just making a big deal out of nothing but there were these soup spoons placed alongside soup-bowls and plates. Our cutlery was already at the table. And when I had served my food on the plate, I picked up the big round headed spoon and marched to my table. Only when I got there, I noticed and I would have forgotten about it but the next day I did the same thing and even went a step further- I was actually eating with it. You know I found it so hilarious.
Another incident I still remember was what I call the “desert disaster.” I wanted to have desert during a high level luncheon and I went to the podium and was searching for it. But I just could not find it and I was having a tough time keeping a straight face when a particularly dignified looking figure in a uniform caught my eye and asked me- “You seem to be looking everywhere.”
I was blushing when I said wryly “I can’t exactly seem to be finding the desert,” because I did not have anything better to say and I could not summon up the presence of mind to make up a smart reason at the crux of the moment. I don’t know if the dignitary thought I was a simpleton but he was kind enough to guide me to the desert table. I collected my desert as fast as possible and was ready to flee to my table when someone asked me-“Running away?” I was in such a hurry to get away that I did not even look up to see who had passed the remark. I just fled the scene and I will never know who the Good Samaritan was. I mean it is very funny if you consider the situation I was in. A novice learning and you know, the little hiccups she faces which when she looks back she can laugh at in the future.
Another incident which I found particularly funny- I was watching television at the embassy with my friends when a dignitary and a colleague of mine entered the room. They went behind me and I was not facing them. I got up to go away when I heard a dead-pan voice saying-“You leaving?”
I thought it was the officer who was speaking to me. Without turning I just said “Yes sir, I am going. Good night.” Then when I suddenly turned back, you should have seen the look on my friend’s face. It was just precious. The Chesire cat grin with amused oriental eyes (if he reads this, he will crucify me). And I could not think of a better response than just keeping a poker face and quipping-“Oh, I thought it was you, sir. It turned out to be my friend.” Then I marched stiffly to the door, shut it and back at my own room I confided in my friend and we broke into endless stifled giggles because the guys were just next door.
Numerous incidents like these happened and I just sensed the humour of the situation. I laughed and laughed and I laughed. It made my sides ache. It gave me crow’s feet. But I don’t mind. I just want to throw back my head and let out all my mirth. Joie de vivre.
I want to feel the wind on my face. I want to watch children play. I want to sit alone somewhere, maybe under a tree and contemplate life or read a good book. I want to learn even if I appear foolish. I want to be free enough to be myself. I don’t want to pretend to be someone I am not.
But in some company and with some people you can’t always be yourself, even if you are a free spirit. Your level of comfort counts. And it is good to exercise decorum and discipline when situation demands it. It develops self restraint, gives you time to observe, interact and gives you broader understanding of life. But then if you are obsessed with rules and let it dictate personal image and perception, if you can’t think for yourself, if you don’t exercise a certain amount of detachment and independence, then you are having a problem. You are living but not as yourself. And you always know which rules bind you and which doesn’t. The right rules make you free enough to be happy.
HOW TO TREAT A WOMAN
Listen up, men. Listen to us, women. We find men who listen special because for a woman the easiest way to un-burden herself is by communicating. We know you would rather fix a leaking faucet or watch a football match with your buddies, we also understand that you like your guys’ night out and you have a major problem with “opening up,” but sometimes it does good to think over and understand why a woman feels and acts the way she does. You think they are complicated? Good. All the more reason to read this little note. But the more important reason is because without women you are lost creatures just as without men we feel incomplete. Grinning at the last admission? You can but let us get on with this.
Women want to feel special and cherished by their men. They love surprises BUT what counts even more is the intention behind it.
Surprising her with flowers on her birthday when you know she is celebrating it alone will make her feel more special than you gifting her a diamond (!!!) bracelet just because you want to show off that you can afford to.
Just telling her she is attractive because you find her really so is more appealing than telling her that she is stunningly gorgeous in an attempt to flatter her. A woman is not stupid. She can see how sincere you her.
Appreciating the fact that she is intelligent, capable of taking decisions and managing crisis and thus giving her due respect will make her feel more special than you ogling at her legs or drooling over her vital stats. Of course, however efficient she may be, sometimes she needs help from you….a little pampering does not hurt.
You may think women are clingy and crave attention all the time. Wrong. Women also need space. They need space to develop themselves, think things over, put things into perspective and last but not least go out with friends. They will appreciate it if you don’t act possessive, as if you own them. I say possessive, not protective. Protectiveness makes us feel cherished.
Don’t think a woman is dumb because she can’t discuss guy things. She may be an expert in her own areas which are beyond you. Surely you don’t want us to think you are stupid just because you can’t knit a pair of socks, do you? And there ARE some women who are brilliant in areas you pride yourself to be undisputed. Maybe she just does not want to make it too obvious.
And when a woman starts distancing herself from you after you have been through particularly good times, don’t always think she is acting pricey. If she is distancing herself after bad times don’t always think she is getting back at you.
You need to understand that she may just be trying to move on…She may have absolutely no ill feelings toward you. She is not trying to prove anything to you. She may just be trying to protect herself…and that is instinctive.
Finally if you have found THE WOMAN for you- the one who makes you skip a heart beat even in old track pants and a lousy sweat shirt, NEVER EVER let her go. It is real, real hard for a man to come across the right woman as it is for a woman to find the man of her dreams so don’t take chances. Love her, cherish her, be loyal to her. Prove that you are worthy of her.
Women love sensitive men. They are not sissies. There is a difference between sissies and sensitive men. Sissies cry for the wrong reasons. Sensitive men are not afraid to cry for the right reasons.
Women want to feel special and cherished by their men. They love surprises BUT what counts even more is the intention behind it.
Surprising her with flowers on her birthday when you know she is celebrating it alone will make her feel more special than you gifting her a diamond (!!!) bracelet just because you want to show off that you can afford to.
Just telling her she is attractive because you find her really so is more appealing than telling her that she is stunningly gorgeous in an attempt to flatter her. A woman is not stupid. She can see how sincere you her.
Appreciating the fact that she is intelligent, capable of taking decisions and managing crisis and thus giving her due respect will make her feel more special than you ogling at her legs or drooling over her vital stats. Of course, however efficient she may be, sometimes she needs help from you….a little pampering does not hurt.
You may think women are clingy and crave attention all the time. Wrong. Women also need space. They need space to develop themselves, think things over, put things into perspective and last but not least go out with friends. They will appreciate it if you don’t act possessive, as if you own them. I say possessive, not protective. Protectiveness makes us feel cherished.
Don’t think a woman is dumb because she can’t discuss guy things. She may be an expert in her own areas which are beyond you. Surely you don’t want us to think you are stupid just because you can’t knit a pair of socks, do you? And there ARE some women who are brilliant in areas you pride yourself to be undisputed. Maybe she just does not want to make it too obvious.
And when a woman starts distancing herself from you after you have been through particularly good times, don’t always think she is acting pricey. If she is distancing herself after bad times don’t always think she is getting back at you.
You need to understand that she may just be trying to move on…She may have absolutely no ill feelings toward you. She is not trying to prove anything to you. She may just be trying to protect herself…and that is instinctive.
Finally if you have found THE WOMAN for you- the one who makes you skip a heart beat even in old track pants and a lousy sweat shirt, NEVER EVER let her go. It is real, real hard for a man to come across the right woman as it is for a woman to find the man of her dreams so don’t take chances. Love her, cherish her, be loyal to her. Prove that you are worthy of her.
Women love sensitive men. They are not sissies. There is a difference between sissies and sensitive men. Sissies cry for the wrong reasons. Sensitive men are not afraid to cry for the right reasons.
HELP!!!
Lies, deception, politics, lechery, debasement, ego, perversion, hypocrisy, vulgarity.
Free flowing liquor, ideals gone up in hazy cigarette smoke, dingy bars and shady pubs, loud raucous laughter and leers.
Curses and cuss words.
Welcome to my present world.
People whom you look up to fail you.
People whom you trust let you down.
People whom you love don’t care.
Is this even ‘my’ world?
I am alienated from myself.
I no longer am myself.
I am being drawn into a world I had only heard of.
And the scary part is I am getting attracted to it.
What the hell is happening?
It is as if a sheet of virgin paper is being blotted.
No, I am not glorifying myself.
But a world where ideals are considered trash
And principles are scoffed at
Where morality is considered old fashioned?
NO, I protest.
I don’t belong here.
I loathe this world and I loathe myself.
I loathe what I am becoming.
I loathe what I have become.
I try to clutch onto the last remnant of hope.
I gasp for a breath of fresh air.
No relief.
I need to save myself.
I need to tear away.
I need to go away somewhere.
Some place where I can be sane.
Some place where I am unburdened
By the struggle to keep myself afloat
On the raging waters, swirling, forming an eddy
Around me, trying to drown me.
I must breathe.
Help.
I feel hot, pulsating heat
I hear harsh breathing
I hear voices, mocking, insulting.
I see smirks and twisted smiles
Winking eyes and deceptive gestures.
I cry out loud.
They surround me.
They are closing in.
I tremble.
My legs are jelly, my heart thumps
My voice is a whimper.
Someone help me!
GOD! Are you there?
Rescue me!
Before I turn insane!
Before my brains burst.
Before I sell my soul to the Devil.
Free flowing liquor, ideals gone up in hazy cigarette smoke, dingy bars and shady pubs, loud raucous laughter and leers.
Curses and cuss words.
Welcome to my present world.
People whom you look up to fail you.
People whom you trust let you down.
People whom you love don’t care.
Is this even ‘my’ world?
I am alienated from myself.
I no longer am myself.
I am being drawn into a world I had only heard of.
And the scary part is I am getting attracted to it.
What the hell is happening?
It is as if a sheet of virgin paper is being blotted.
No, I am not glorifying myself.
But a world where ideals are considered trash
And principles are scoffed at
Where morality is considered old fashioned?
NO, I protest.
I don’t belong here.
I loathe this world and I loathe myself.
I loathe what I am becoming.
I loathe what I have become.
I try to clutch onto the last remnant of hope.
I gasp for a breath of fresh air.
No relief.
I need to save myself.
I need to tear away.
I need to go away somewhere.
Some place where I can be sane.
Some place where I am unburdened
By the struggle to keep myself afloat
On the raging waters, swirling, forming an eddy
Around me, trying to drown me.
I must breathe.
Help.
I feel hot, pulsating heat
I hear harsh breathing
I hear voices, mocking, insulting.
I see smirks and twisted smiles
Winking eyes and deceptive gestures.
I cry out loud.
They surround me.
They are closing in.
I tremble.
My legs are jelly, my heart thumps
My voice is a whimper.
Someone help me!
GOD! Are you there?
Rescue me!
Before I turn insane!
Before my brains burst.
Before I sell my soul to the Devil.
BUMTHANG, CHILDHOOD AND TOM SAWYER
I have fond memories associated with Bumthang and this is not only because it is a place at once pristinely beautiful and vibrant. Some of the happiest memories I have are associated with it, my most idyllic childhood days being spent there.
I still remember those days- as fresh as the chilly nip in the air, the whistling of the wind through the pine jungles and the sparkling icicles on the roof eaves melting in the warm winter sun.
I never realized the enormity then of their words when elders said that childhood was the best phase in a person’s life. I was too busy in my carefree, make-believe world. Even as a growing teenager I wasn’t convinced because I was entering an exciting phase in life and could not wait to grow up. As I neared adulthood, I was too busy preparing for the life of an adult.
But now I have crossed these phases. I am 25 (mid-life crisis?) and fairly well settled. I am an independent working woman, I love my job, I have a car (though I still have to master the art of reversing without getting the tyre into a ditch somewhere) and I have a loving family always forthcoming with their support but then they have faded into the back ground now, as it so happens when you grow up and get on with a life which you call your own (sadly).
And now that I am fairly mature and can settle down into moments of quiet introspection without getting carried away by extreme emotional tides (except occasionally) unlike those painful, teary and fiery withdrawals into yourself common during raging hormonal teenage years, I can look back at life and even manage a smile.
A wry smile. An amused smile. A wistful smile. A sad smile. A fond smile. Many a times a sunny smile.
And when childhood memories beckon me, when the sights, sounds and smells of yore pervade my being, my senses, I am transported once again to the world I once belonged -the world of nicked fingers and bruised knees but a mom ever ready with first aid, a world of Tinkle comics and Cadbury, a world of rosy cheeks- the result of playing in the sun and running in the autumn breeze chasing falling leaves, a world where handing a toffee was an easy way to reconcile after a tiff.
I remember we used to live in a beautiful, spacious house in Lama Goenpa. A double storied structure- partly wood and partly concrete, it stood at the base of the rolling wooded hills yet offering a satisfactory view of what was going on below up to quite a distance.
We had a chicken coop and a kitchen garden with a green house. There was a compound to play in and lots of neighbourhood kids. What more could we ask for?
Very soon, I had joined the other kids on “skating sprees” in the woods. “Skating” simply meant riding down the slope made slippery with dry brown pine needles on wood planks with polished bases to aid the skate down hill. Often we toppled down peeling the skin on our knee caps or knuckles but it was fun alright.
Then playing “hide and seek,” “Am I right,” “rubber band,” or skipping rope and in more adventurous moods, “super heroes(iones)” and “ninjas” (too many cartoons and action movies, I daresay).
Then, one fine day I had a bright idea. I was inspired to form a “secret club” after reading Enid Blyton’s “Secret Seven Society.” Producing my colour pens, scissors and paper, I set to work and soon I had made membership badges for my would-be “secret club members” of which of course and most obviously I would be the leader!
I remember going for picnics too. Once we had cooked “wai-wai” but which could not exactly be termed palatable because the egg we had stirred in was still raw! Another picnic had us eating almost uncooked rice because of our premature culinary skills (or the lack of it).
But as a child I was very interested in cooking. I remember trying to prepare a sweet dish from a “Milk-Maid” recipe-book I had managed to salvage from somewhere and if I remember correctly, the household devoured it! (Should I then say that I was a natural in the kitchen? Ahem! Ha, ha…To be honest, my elders helped me with it. They could not trust me, not at that age!)
Then there was school. Dressing up for school was not an ordeal for me. It was though for my dad who used to help me with my “kira.” Once my grandma fixed my “kira’s” open end the wrong way so my friends in school undid the error. Mom gave up on it. In fact her kira used to be fixed by dad.
Going to school was an experience in itself. If all the neighbourhood kids- a noisy, restless bunch at that, could not huddle into the rickety, green jeep which dropt us every morning, we would be strolling through the secluded woods, breaking off whole branches of wild red berry shrubs, munching all the way to school. The process was repeated on the way back.
In school, lunches meant shared tiffins or oily “puris,” hot “aloo-dum,” thin white tea, cheap biscuits or raw “wai-wai” brought from the nearby canteen.
Then there were the senior girls or “big-sisters” making a fuss and babying the little ones.
And oh! Wasn’t I an avid dancer! Our school cultural programs had me prancing about excitedly. I remember playing the part of “Sleeping Beauty” in a nursery rhyme skit once! Ha, ha! I am one even now. I can’t claim to be a beauty (not blatantly) but sleepy, I always am! (As for dancing, lately I have developed two left feet so I can’t qualify for the title of a competent dancer).
It is strange but even at that age you do have an inkling of the inexplicable chemistry that exists between the opposite sexes, so you imagine that even you are part of it. I remember childishly “liking” a few little boys and snubbing a few others if they evinced an unsolicited interest in me. Ha, ha….those were the days…
As I looked at through the bus window during my most recent journey via Chumey, I could not help wishing I was living in that magical little valley. I stared at the tranquil forests, clear brooks with smooth round pebbles winking beneath the silvery little ripples and the schools. Yes, the schools….that will always remain an integral part of my childhood.
I could see some lanky adolescents taking a leisurely stroll on the lonely cold road, another group engaged in playing basketball and yet another group comprising mostly girls sunning themselves by the school gate. “Growing children,” I mused.
As the bus moved on, winding through the flat valley punctuated by gentle slopes, I smelt again Bumthang- the smell of my childhood: the smell of pine needles, saw-dust, burning fire-wood- a subtle fragrance.
Chumey undoubtedly is another wonderful thing about Bumthang. The goods which adorn the front of the handicraft shop are a visual treat for any passerby. Then come the farm houses- traditional two-storied structures with stretches of tilled land before them. Some of them are spread with fine earth while others have big clouts with the faintest trace of frost on the surface so that they look like big frozen chunks of ice cream. Prayer flags flutter spasmodically to sudden gusts of chilly wind. Little huts made of matted bamboo are scattered among the houses. Picture perfect. I drink in the beauty.
There are numerous pine trees along the road. Pine trees hold a special place in my heart- I remember them for their sharp sweet smell, their hard brown cones strewn across little traversed paths, and little brown pine nuts which we used to pick up gingerly and crack in between our teeth.
My heart soars as I catch a glimpse of Chamkhar stretched out below me- the large serene plain, the river running through it, the familiar structures… It is getting dark now but as I observe the Chamkhar chu , flowing swiftly past the road, deceptively shallow at some stretches and dangerously deep at others, as I look at the mini-islands with the shrubs laden with sour, yellow berries, feeling their tangy taste on my tongue, I again drift back to a childhood fantasy.
Maybe some readers will be surprised at this but as a child when I read “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,” I could not get rid of my burning desire to be in Tom’s shoes! Agreed he was a boy, a naughty little boy at that, but I guess at that age, gender matters little as long as you can have fun, so there I was- longing to run away from home and stay at one of the islands on Chamkhar chu much like Tom did. His living the life of a little Robinson Crusoe (only his isolation was self imposed), fishing, fending for himself, fooling around with friends was a dream adventure for me. I loved every bit of it.
Finally, we entered the town and the bus came to a halt at the bus stop. I was back- back from my childhood Bumthang to the present one. But as the sights and sounds again surrounded and seeped into me, I knew Bumthang was the same- it would always remain so for me because it grew up with me.
I still remember those days- as fresh as the chilly nip in the air, the whistling of the wind through the pine jungles and the sparkling icicles on the roof eaves melting in the warm winter sun.
I never realized the enormity then of their words when elders said that childhood was the best phase in a person’s life. I was too busy in my carefree, make-believe world. Even as a growing teenager I wasn’t convinced because I was entering an exciting phase in life and could not wait to grow up. As I neared adulthood, I was too busy preparing for the life of an adult.
But now I have crossed these phases. I am 25 (mid-life crisis?) and fairly well settled. I am an independent working woman, I love my job, I have a car (though I still have to master the art of reversing without getting the tyre into a ditch somewhere) and I have a loving family always forthcoming with their support but then they have faded into the back ground now, as it so happens when you grow up and get on with a life which you call your own (sadly).
And now that I am fairly mature and can settle down into moments of quiet introspection without getting carried away by extreme emotional tides (except occasionally) unlike those painful, teary and fiery withdrawals into yourself common during raging hormonal teenage years, I can look back at life and even manage a smile.
A wry smile. An amused smile. A wistful smile. A sad smile. A fond smile. Many a times a sunny smile.
And when childhood memories beckon me, when the sights, sounds and smells of yore pervade my being, my senses, I am transported once again to the world I once belonged -the world of nicked fingers and bruised knees but a mom ever ready with first aid, a world of Tinkle comics and Cadbury, a world of rosy cheeks- the result of playing in the sun and running in the autumn breeze chasing falling leaves, a world where handing a toffee was an easy way to reconcile after a tiff.
I remember we used to live in a beautiful, spacious house in Lama Goenpa. A double storied structure- partly wood and partly concrete, it stood at the base of the rolling wooded hills yet offering a satisfactory view of what was going on below up to quite a distance.
We had a chicken coop and a kitchen garden with a green house. There was a compound to play in and lots of neighbourhood kids. What more could we ask for?
Very soon, I had joined the other kids on “skating sprees” in the woods. “Skating” simply meant riding down the slope made slippery with dry brown pine needles on wood planks with polished bases to aid the skate down hill. Often we toppled down peeling the skin on our knee caps or knuckles but it was fun alright.
Then playing “hide and seek,” “Am I right,” “rubber band,” or skipping rope and in more adventurous moods, “super heroes(iones)” and “ninjas” (too many cartoons and action movies, I daresay).
Then, one fine day I had a bright idea. I was inspired to form a “secret club” after reading Enid Blyton’s “Secret Seven Society.” Producing my colour pens, scissors and paper, I set to work and soon I had made membership badges for my would-be “secret club members” of which of course and most obviously I would be the leader!
I remember going for picnics too. Once we had cooked “wai-wai” but which could not exactly be termed palatable because the egg we had stirred in was still raw! Another picnic had us eating almost uncooked rice because of our premature culinary skills (or the lack of it).
But as a child I was very interested in cooking. I remember trying to prepare a sweet dish from a “Milk-Maid” recipe-book I had managed to salvage from somewhere and if I remember correctly, the household devoured it! (Should I then say that I was a natural in the kitchen? Ahem! Ha, ha…To be honest, my elders helped me with it. They could not trust me, not at that age!)
Then there was school. Dressing up for school was not an ordeal for me. It was though for my dad who used to help me with my “kira.” Once my grandma fixed my “kira’s” open end the wrong way so my friends in school undid the error. Mom gave up on it. In fact her kira used to be fixed by dad.
Going to school was an experience in itself. If all the neighbourhood kids- a noisy, restless bunch at that, could not huddle into the rickety, green jeep which dropt us every morning, we would be strolling through the secluded woods, breaking off whole branches of wild red berry shrubs, munching all the way to school. The process was repeated on the way back.
In school, lunches meant shared tiffins or oily “puris,” hot “aloo-dum,” thin white tea, cheap biscuits or raw “wai-wai” brought from the nearby canteen.
Then there were the senior girls or “big-sisters” making a fuss and babying the little ones.
And oh! Wasn’t I an avid dancer! Our school cultural programs had me prancing about excitedly. I remember playing the part of “Sleeping Beauty” in a nursery rhyme skit once! Ha, ha! I am one even now. I can’t claim to be a beauty (not blatantly) but sleepy, I always am! (As for dancing, lately I have developed two left feet so I can’t qualify for the title of a competent dancer).
It is strange but even at that age you do have an inkling of the inexplicable chemistry that exists between the opposite sexes, so you imagine that even you are part of it. I remember childishly “liking” a few little boys and snubbing a few others if they evinced an unsolicited interest in me. Ha, ha….those were the days…
As I looked at through the bus window during my most recent journey via Chumey, I could not help wishing I was living in that magical little valley. I stared at the tranquil forests, clear brooks with smooth round pebbles winking beneath the silvery little ripples and the schools. Yes, the schools….that will always remain an integral part of my childhood.
I could see some lanky adolescents taking a leisurely stroll on the lonely cold road, another group engaged in playing basketball and yet another group comprising mostly girls sunning themselves by the school gate. “Growing children,” I mused.
As the bus moved on, winding through the flat valley punctuated by gentle slopes, I smelt again Bumthang- the smell of my childhood: the smell of pine needles, saw-dust, burning fire-wood- a subtle fragrance.
Chumey undoubtedly is another wonderful thing about Bumthang. The goods which adorn the front of the handicraft shop are a visual treat for any passerby. Then come the farm houses- traditional two-storied structures with stretches of tilled land before them. Some of them are spread with fine earth while others have big clouts with the faintest trace of frost on the surface so that they look like big frozen chunks of ice cream. Prayer flags flutter spasmodically to sudden gusts of chilly wind. Little huts made of matted bamboo are scattered among the houses. Picture perfect. I drink in the beauty.
There are numerous pine trees along the road. Pine trees hold a special place in my heart- I remember them for their sharp sweet smell, their hard brown cones strewn across little traversed paths, and little brown pine nuts which we used to pick up gingerly and crack in between our teeth.
My heart soars as I catch a glimpse of Chamkhar stretched out below me- the large serene plain, the river running through it, the familiar structures… It is getting dark now but as I observe the Chamkhar chu , flowing swiftly past the road, deceptively shallow at some stretches and dangerously deep at others, as I look at the mini-islands with the shrubs laden with sour, yellow berries, feeling their tangy taste on my tongue, I again drift back to a childhood fantasy.
Maybe some readers will be surprised at this but as a child when I read “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,” I could not get rid of my burning desire to be in Tom’s shoes! Agreed he was a boy, a naughty little boy at that, but I guess at that age, gender matters little as long as you can have fun, so there I was- longing to run away from home and stay at one of the islands on Chamkhar chu much like Tom did. His living the life of a little Robinson Crusoe (only his isolation was self imposed), fishing, fending for himself, fooling around with friends was a dream adventure for me. I loved every bit of it.
Finally, we entered the town and the bus came to a halt at the bus stop. I was back- back from my childhood Bumthang to the present one. But as the sights and sounds again surrounded and seeped into me, I knew Bumthang was the same- it would always remain so for me because it grew up with me.
ALONE
I walk alone.
The street lights cast a garish glare on my face.
I walk on.
Tears blur my eyes.
I hear the honking of numerous vehicles rushing by.
Nameless faces, blank stares, lifeless forms which move.
Night falls. Shadows. Dark silhouettes. Strange leers.
I am alone.
I am being sucked into a vortex.
Where am I?
Where is the life I knew?
Where is the warm sunlight and the twittering of birds?
Where is the joy, the anticipation with which I welcomed each day?
Where are the fresh, bright mornings?
The noisy albeit concerned neighbours?
The reviving meals and laughter shared amidst kith and kin?
The heartwarming prayers and wishes at every gathering?
Where is fulfilling leisure?
Where have I reached? Where am I?
I can’t even watch a sunset or muse over the moon.
I hardly find time to scribble a note or enjoy a poem.
I can’t even feel the breeze through my hair or hear the pitter patter of rain.
All I feel is hollowness and weariness.
All I feel are tear drops running a marathon on my face.
Is this what I asked for, God?
Is this what You willed for me?
Time seems breathless.
And memories hung in space.
I am just a mortal, God.
I can’t bear more than what I can.
Don’t test me unbearably. I can’t stand it.
See how weak I am, how frail….
I am mere dust; I need your strength and power.
I know if I live in you I live.
Otherwise, God, Oh how hard it is for me!
To survive.
When I am on the verge of tears, I have to smile.
When I am about to fall apart, I have to put on a brave front.
I can’t go on like this.
Help me, God.
Lest I lose my sanity.
Help me, I pray, help me.
The street lights cast a garish glare on my face.
I walk on.
Tears blur my eyes.
I hear the honking of numerous vehicles rushing by.
Nameless faces, blank stares, lifeless forms which move.
Night falls. Shadows. Dark silhouettes. Strange leers.
I am alone.
I am being sucked into a vortex.
Where am I?
Where is the life I knew?
Where is the warm sunlight and the twittering of birds?
Where is the joy, the anticipation with which I welcomed each day?
Where are the fresh, bright mornings?
The noisy albeit concerned neighbours?
The reviving meals and laughter shared amidst kith and kin?
The heartwarming prayers and wishes at every gathering?
Where is fulfilling leisure?
Where have I reached? Where am I?
I can’t even watch a sunset or muse over the moon.
I hardly find time to scribble a note or enjoy a poem.
I can’t even feel the breeze through my hair or hear the pitter patter of rain.
All I feel is hollowness and weariness.
All I feel are tear drops running a marathon on my face.
Is this what I asked for, God?
Is this what You willed for me?
Time seems breathless.
And memories hung in space.
I am just a mortal, God.
I can’t bear more than what I can.
Don’t test me unbearably. I can’t stand it.
See how weak I am, how frail….
I am mere dust; I need your strength and power.
I know if I live in you I live.
Otherwise, God, Oh how hard it is for me!
To survive.
When I am on the verge of tears, I have to smile.
When I am about to fall apart, I have to put on a brave front.
I can’t go on like this.
Help me, God.
Lest I lose my sanity.
Help me, I pray, help me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)