Now that I have survived half the challenge, maybe it is time to relax and be a bit adventurous 😉
I have thought nothing with N and will simply try and allow something to be created out of this nothing. I will pen down whatever random thoughts the word throws up.
Nothing can sometimes mean everything. Especially with women. It’s usually bad news if you ask a woman, ‘What’s wrong?’ and she responds with a ‘Nothing.’
Similarly with kids.
‘What’ve you been upto?’
‘Nothing.’
You know when they say that, there’s mischief afoot!
But nothing can also mean just that, ‘no thing‘. We are created out of nothing and return to nothing. Dust to dust ashes to ashes.
All we can do is live this moment well, and nothing else matters.
A song has begun to play in my head now…
Nothin’ lasts forever And we both know hearts can change And it’s hard to hold a candle In the cold November rain
Here it is for you in Axl Rose’s voice
This post is the fourteenth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
I’d left a comment on a friend’s Facebook status and you ‘liked’ it — the only one to do so. It was a political post, and I had taken an unpopular stance.
The next day, there was a friend request from you.
Those were crazy days — elections were round the corner and unlike any previous years, the atmosphere was highly charged this time, with divisive figures in the fray.
It took me some time to realize that there was no point trying to convince people to see my (our) point of view. That only led to arguments and often invited hurtful comments from trolls. We were battered from all sides and the party we supported lost massively, decisively 🙂
Through it all, you stood by me. And ‘solidarity’, they say, is the political name for ‘love’.
Going by your exuberance, I thought you might be a college girl, carried away by youthful idealism 🙂 But when I visited your profile, I discovered that you were an award-winning pottery artist with hundreds of followers!
The beauty of your soul shone through in all your work.
[One of Manisha’s art installations]
The election frenzy died down. People got on with their lives. You hadn’t been active for a while and I saw a message on your wall — ‘Get well soon Manisha’.
The information didn’t mean much. It seemed unreal, dramatic. You were so full of life, warmth and love. How could the cold touch of death be anywhere near you?
Even when I learnt of your passing, my response was guarded. ‘It’s okay’, I told myself, ‘you’d never met her in person. Sharing the same political views with someone did not mean you would’ve gotten along in real life.’
But the heart never listens to logic and continues to feel your absence. How could it have known that the harmless ‘friend request’ you sent, was an appeal to reside in it forever.
Who knows how long we’ve got Or what we’re made out of Who knows if there’s a plan or not
But I love you and this is our glory
This post is the thirteenth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
‘M’ for Manisha is inspired by Dr. Gulara Vincent’s love letters. She writes bravely and powerfully about love, and has given me the courage to do the same.
‘Yes, yes, give me a minute, will you?’ With great difficulty, Sonali maneuvered her hand inside her purse, pulled out a ten rupee note and handed it to the conductor. She was packed tight like a sardine between an elderly gentleman and a heavily made-up lady.
She really should’ve caught the 8:30. If only she hadn’t got into that last minute argument with her son about not drinking his milk. It was getting increasingly difficult to breathe and to top it all, such a sultry morning! Forget about a place to sit, she barely had space enough to stand!
Gradually, she became aware of something rubbing against her back. Or was it someone? The thought froze her. She turned slightly to see a bespectacled, gangly young man right behind her. Who would’ve thought! Such a sincere looking fellow too! The vague irritation she’d been feeling all morning, finally distilled into rage. Bringing a menacing look into her eyes, she chewed out the words, ‘What. Are. You. Trying to do?’
The man immediately flushed; could barely meet her eyes — signs of guilt, clearly. Still, he managed to blurt out, ‘Madam, kindly adjust. You can see it is a crowded bus.’
‘Adjust? You bloody pervert! How dare you? Behave or else…’ — she left the threat hanging in the air for maximum impact.
Others turned to eye him now, surprised and shaking their heads at how deceptive looks could be! What a disgusting fellow!
By now the man looked like he was going to burst into tears — ‘Madam, if you are so delicate, you should better stay home.’ He probably intended to deliver those lines with a flourish but they came out all whiny and pitiful.
He seemed so crestfallen, that Sonali began to have second thoughts. Puzzled by his reaction, she arched around to have a better look behind her.
Her fears were confirmed.
The young man was holding a slim briefcase in his hands and it was the edge of the case that had been rubbing against her.
Have you ever mistakenly berated someone? 🙂
This post is the eleventh in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
A short one, lasting only a few hours — the journey by train from Siliguri to my hometown Hasimara, can be quite pleasant. (Afraid I cannot help you with the specifics. My mental faculties are unfortunately not up to processing distance, time and directions).
The route will strike you as very scenic, cutting through tea gardens and farmlands; although daily commuters may not even bother looking out the window.
Since I live in big city Bangalore, however, and visit only about once a year, I never tire of the breathtaking beauty of Dooars. Situated in the foothills of the Himalayas, this region is a doorway to Bhutan from India. Dooar means ‘door’ in Assamese, Bengali and Nepali, hence the name! And then you have the Teesta and Torsha rivers to add to it’s charms.
If you do tire of looking out the window, though, there are attractions within. You can buy yourself some coffee and ‘timepass’ to distract yourself. (I swear roasted groundnuts are sold as ‘timepass’ on the train! And don’t be alarmed if someone screams ‘baldy! baldy! They are not referring to your thinning hair but selling boiled eggs — eggs are deem in Bangla and so ‘boiled deem’ gets shortened to ‘baldy!’)
What I also never miss isjhalmuri or masala muri – puffed rice with chopped onion and green chillies, tomatoes, coriander, some spices, nuts and a dash of mustard oil.But I wouldn’t want you to get too adventurous unless you have a strong digestion or a Gelusil tablet handy.
What you could try instead is a bowl of chana gorom or ghugni (black gram cooked in gravy). And if you aren’t the coffee kind of person, there’s lebu cha or excellent lemon tea, for you.
Lastly, don’t forget to wave at kids, if you spot any through the window.
What has been your most favorite train journey?
This post is the tenth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
These days I’ve taken to reading books on philosophy. I notice that they all say the same thing — something I’ve known all along — Idle is Ideal. (as opposed to Just do it).
Don’t do anything, empty your mind of all thoughts, take a deep breath (or a drag of your favorite smoke) and just be. You don’t need to ‘become’ (the next CEO or whatever it is you want to) for you already ‘are’ (perfect).
Not everyone is able to appreciate my Zen. Lesser mortals often ask me: “Have you been sitting on your arse again all day?” “When can I get that report?” ” Are we done yet?” –and so on and so forth. I’ve tried explaining, “I’m not idle, I’m ideal,” but they are usually unable to appreciate that answer, not having attained my level of enlightenment yet.
Idleness is a fine art (of living) that needs a bit of practice to master. “Whenever you get the urge to do something, wait patiently for that feeling to go away,” said the monk who didn’t need to sell a Ferrari (for he never had one to begin with).
And now you know the mantra too.
This post is the ninth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
A winter’s evening at my ancestral home in the village.
My cousins and I have formed a circle around the bonfire, some sitting on chairs, a few on low stools and one squatting on the ground, poking the fire. The atmosphere is convivial – my sister toasts marshmallows and the kids line up from time to time to collect their share, before scampering off again to play. The grown ups discuss their jobs, their lives and gossip about other relatives who are not present.
As I stare into the fire, and listen to the pleasant hum of voices, an image floats up from the past — of another evening, many winters ago, when we were little kids ourselves, sitting around a bonfire just like now, the smell of smoked pork in the air and the pitch blackness around us which the flames did little to dispel.
We sit in rapt attention, the fire dancing in our eyes, as our grandfather recounts tales of horror — of ghosts that paid visits to our village from time to time, particularly on dark nights such as this. We huddle closer together and clutch our blankets tighter, horrified and thrilled at the same time.
A servant walks by with a kerosene lamp that casts ominous shadows. Is that a banana tree in the distance, or a woman waiting in the dark for her dead lover, her head covered with one end of her sari? Hard to tell. The wind makes eerie noises as it whistles through the bamboo.
‘Dinner’s ready!’ – a voice calls out to us, bringing me back to the present. Any ghosts there were, have surely all disappeared in the harsh glare of electric bulbs and the noise of TV.
As we step away from the dying embers and make towards the house, I flash my torch at a banana tree in the distance, just to be sure it is not a lady, standing with her head covered, waiting for her dead lover, just like that evening many winters ago.
This post is the eighth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
After posting for six days straight, I am already beginning to lose steam 😀 The clock is ticking away and I don’t know what to pen down. But I guess this is what a challenge is all about and I can’t allow it to get the better of me.
So today I will simply introduce you to the ‘holy cow’ or ‘gau mata’ as she is known as in India.
In a country where a majority of the population is Hindu, the cow is a symbol of wealth, abundance and selfless giving.
As you probably know, on Indian roads, cows have right of way.
It is quite normal to honk aggressively, yell out curses or display other signs of mutual disrespect towards fellow human beings. But for a cow, you must wait patiently while it crosses the street at its own leisurely pace.
Then again, India is nothing but a land of contradictions. So where a majority of the population sees the cow as divine, a significant minority considers a beef steak divine 😉
And while it is important to respect the sentiments of the majority, it is also necessary to uphold the rights of the minority. Holy cow! What a predicament!
This post is the seventh in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
We were kindred spirits — you and I. We smiled the same knowing smile and our eyes always lit up at the thought of the next big adventure — yours light brown, with a merry twinkle. Two magnificent beings who could be whoever we wanted, we pitied others their mundane existence.
Each little escapade was exhilarating, every act of rebellion a victory for ‘us’ against ‘them’.
Until I backed out.
I betrayed you.
Here is my truth.
We were different — you and I. You were magnificent — I only basked in reflected glory. I was a lot like ‘them’ — regular, timid, predictable. Your eyes twinkled with mischief, mine only shone with love for you. I wanted so much to be you, but didn’t know how to stop being me.
It was not an easy rebellion, for I was fighting against myself.
And then I backed out.
I could no longer betray myself. So I betrayed you.
This post is the sixth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
A sultry April afternoon in Siliguri and I was on the veranda of a friend’s house, sipping tea and exchanging pleasantries.
Suddenly the tea table seemed to shift the slightest bit and a sugar spoon clinked against a plate. I looked up at my friend and wondered if her foot had struck the table, maybe while trying to stretch her legs? She stared back with an inscrutable expression and as if reading my mind, said ‘Not me. I think it’s an earthquake.’
The next jolt was stronger. This time my heart shifted inside of me. We got up shakily and ran out to the garden calling to the maid and dog to hurry up, please… leaving cups and plates to clatter to the floor.
We held hands and stood in a circle — my friend, her maid and I — the furry white Apsu in the center — while the ground swayed beneath us. Would it crack open and swallow us up, like in the movies?
As the tremors continued, I looked up at the rain-laden clouds above and wondered if this was how my life was destined to end. I didn’t want to die just yet, but was glad of the company of the little doggy, the wide-eyed maid and my friend who continued to mumble a prayer –just in case I did.
Perhaps it lasted only a minute but it could’ve been a lifetime.
It was later that I learnt the epicenter was in Nepal, the quake was of magnitude 7.8 and had caused the capital city, Kathmandu, to shift 3 meters to the south in just 30 seconds. More than 8,800 people died in the catastrophe and nearly three times as many were injured. Another 3.5 million more were rendered homeless. (source: Wikipedia)
I’ve asked myself since – why does it take an earthquake for us to hold each other’s hands and realize that we are all a part of the same limitless, formless whole?
This post is the fifth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
I remember the moment I first held you in my arms. Your eyes had barely opened and you weren’t much interested in the world around – not as yet – you just snuggled close and continued to sleep with your little head on my palm.
You walked in a slightly wobbly manner and slipped once when running too fast after a squirrel. That made us laugh and we decided to call you Tipsy. True to your name, you loved to lick up drops of beer that spilled to the floor.
‘Tipsy’ was soon lovingly distorted to ‘Teepoo’ — spelt with a double ‘e’ and double ‘o’ to distinguish you from ‘Tipu’ – the brave Sultan of Mysore, who died defending his fort of Srirangapatna against the British — for you did not display any signs of bravery and hid under the couch whenever the boy of the house unleashed his hexbugs on you.
Your days were spent running up and down the stairs, giving futile chase to squirrels and sometimes going on long drives with the wind in your face and ears flapping in the breeze.
Then one day was different. You stayed put in bed too long and seemed to have difficulty walking afterward. We thought it may be a tummy ache from the donuts you’d slyly stolen the evening before.
But days passed and we decided to let your doctor have a look at you.
“IVDD, Intervertebral Disc Disease,” he pronounced. “Pretty common. Dachshunds are the breed with the highest incidence of IVDD due to their long bodies and short legs.”
You had to go for an MRI followed by a surgery. You were in hospital for 3 days and the house felt sad and quiet without you.
We have you back home now but you can’t walk yet – your hind legs are paralyzed and it’s hard to watch you drag your back around.
You no longer scamper off after squirrels or jump onto my bed – ignoring the roll of my eyes and the stern NO – like you used to. Neither do you plonk yourself on the sofa, right on top of the TV remote where no one can find it.
But you continue to fill up our lives with love and light just the same as ever. I hope it is only a matter of time before you will be up on all fours again. Meanwhile I am happy to carry you around in my arms, just like the time when you had newly come into this world and looked up at me with barely open eyes.
This post is the fourth in a series of 26 posts that I am writing throughout the month of April as part of the A to Z challenge 2016.
durbadhyani 