life

Potential lives of endless possibilities
ever reduced to seeking occupation ..mundane routines
each pushing time to grave!.

L

all in a day's work

If only all of life's trials were as (challenging ) welcome as these..

.i.e. sprint for the morning bus and train and GET them,

alight at your designated railway station, without mishaps, even if your dupatta did get stuck is somebody else's neck,

the umbrella is lying available snug in the bag,even after two days of careless weekend holidays, to handle the sudden drizzle that has inexplicably started, when u just got off your local,

the wind which tries its hardest to upturn your umbrella, but u bravely hold on to your umbrella and your senses, as u cover the walk to your workplace, umbrella and senses intact!

Ah, that's what i call universe's way of giving you your day's sense of achievement!

Lik

circle of creation

circle of creation!

should,
creation born of a creator,
be indebted to its lofty maker,
or
is it the originator
who must feel
obligated to the opus
for a chance
at being born some more?

in a circle of creation
who creates whom?

often unexpected is thankfulness,
yet, ingratitude surely hurts!

L

The magical lamp

The magical lamp

The knock on the door on Saturday mornings is irritating..cause its usually the neighbourhood children asking for water...the bane of groundfloor house owners..and it does get tiring being the good Samaritan, when you have been at it for years and years!

Anyway back to my story, so when i opened the door, it was with a irritated frown, which didnt fade when i saw that it was a young, strange, bald 'Shakal' of Kulbhushan Kharbanda 'Shan' fametwentyfiveish North Indian man, whose uniform was more grubbier than his hands that rang my door bell.

"Im the gas meter man" he nastily sneered into my own snooty face,"im have to read your gas meter".

The first thought was "why do such creepy characters always come when im alone at home?" , but of course, i let him into the house without any word except the snarl in my eyes.

i kept a sharp look out for my mobile which was charging away, and to the other expensive disposables lying around carelessly,( a habit learnt from my father's way of functioning, which was never to keep anything under lock and key) while i guided him to my kitchen.

I had long ago, dispensed with the courteous offering of a glass of water and later Tea to any stranger who landed home,( a habit i learnt from my mother), especially the TV , washing machine or refrigerator repairers, as totally unnecessary in cities like Mumbai.

He climbed the platform with my permission, to check the gas meter, while i stood hawk eyed close by, when he suddenly exclaimed, "who uses this?"
I looked up to stare at a glass lantern, which i had purchased in Vasai years ago, and immediately old memories made me give a guttral laugh.

The lamp had been a gift by me to my husband in the initial blush of marriage, he had happened to mention to somebody of how he found such lamps adorable, which are totally made of glass, as opposed to the iron metal that most lamps have at the bottom, and so when i found it with a street hawker in a Vasai market, i immediately brought it.

Though, we never used it.as power cuts in Mumbai are rare( and getting kerosene is rarer, i dont even know where they are being sold), so the lamp lay on a shelf next to the gas meter, still treasured, but sadly forgotten.

"We dont use it any more" i grinned at him.

"Thats what i thought", he smiled back, you usually find such lanterns only in the villages."

Where are you from? I ask.

Uttar Pradesh. He answers.

Ok, I smile.

His work over, he turns to leave, and then suddenly thanks me for the lamp. Its years since ive seen one. It brought back my childhood memories, he sighed.

He leaves. I shut the door.

Both of us are smiling, warm smiles.

Though the magic of a simple village lamp, we both managed to cut through the 'akdu memsaab' and 'uncouth labourer' labels we had unconsciously given each other, and connected as human beings.

Like

I, me and my self

I, me and myself

the more
i want to empty me,
from myself,
the more
i am filled up
with me.

the more
i want to write
in sand,
the more
deeper i get carved
in stone.

it seems never ending
this battle,
of me with myself.

price of worth

price of worth.

what price
is worth measured,
that which is never forgotten,
or that which is forever treasured?

the sorrows that are bound
to follow joys again
worth are they more, or less,
that gains brought about by pain ?

choose if i have to, between
bliss after conscious brewing,
and reckless euphoric pleasure trailed
with dread of indefinite ruin.

Alas,for me, there is no choice!.
whatever the world says, there are no two ways,
tomorrows are for the wise,
imprudent me, Ive always lived for my todays!

Lik

beauty and the beast

the story of beauty and the beast is more about ACCEPTANCE of the beast by beauty, than about the beast transforming into a handsome prince

L

tea - a - tea

Tea a Tea

(This particular story has been lying in the head for more than three years now, but its only today that it has happened to get a life)

Almost three years ago, I was in caught in a circumstance, where i was spending most of my day time, for almost a continuous month, in a nursing home, not as a patient, but a watchdog for a relative, who was stuck between life and death, to the ventilator in the ICU( till he got better).

Of course , initially, we weren't very sure whether he would pull through, so the constant vigil was not so much, the hard work of nursing a sick man, as much as loitering the hospital grounds, and keeping fingers crossed, while waiting for 'some' progress.

And during most of the time that i waited, my best ' stress free' time was my tea time.

Just outside the nursing home was this small tea shop which was called Lucky. The owner was a young bright eyed boy of about twenty something, who also prepared the tea most of the time.

Normally any transaction between a tea seller and his caffine strapped customer in Mumbai is only of the ordering of the 'cutting' or 'full' chai, sometimes pre-brewed in kettles, and sometimes brewed right in front of you(especially if you order 'without sugar') ,expertly poured into tumblers, and mechanically handed over to you, small change collected and glasses handed back, and you go about your business, hardly noticing the hand or the person behind the gas stove.

But somehow this lad immediately entered my awareness, for
there was some certain amount of concern in his look.... a kind of sympathy, which surprisingly coexisted even with the lithe agile look in his eyes. I realised that he was constantly aware of the fact that his tea shop was close to the nursing home, and that most of his customers would be anxious relatives waiting for some ill person/patient , each person lost in his own troubles sorrows, of his near one lying on some bed and financial/or other worries. He always seemed to remember this while handling his customers, though he never used words. The look itself was enough to communicate his support.

The lad had a gaze that went way beyond the call of his job. (The tea was wonderful too.)

The second time i went to have a tea, the place was swarming with men and since I was the only woman around, he, assuming that i would be uncomfortable, thoughtfully told me that i could, if I wanted, wait at the bench in the nursing home, and he would deliver me my tea there(even if it was a bit of a hassle for him).

On my subsequent visits, i noticed that he had a bench or bakda as its called in Mumbiya language, outside his shop,where i could sit and have the tea, and munch small chaklis, tiny motichoor laddus, and biscuits in glass jars, which his shop had........things i had seen years ago, in tiny kirana shops near my school..... things I had always wanted during my school days, but never had enough money to indulge in, things which i thought had died out with time.

Soon we got to talking, i learnt his name was Salim, he took over from his dad's shop after his death, he was married and had a son who was almost two( he even introduced me to his wife and son one evening), and we always exchanged small pleasantries while i waited for my tea to be brewed.

Like i said the tea a tea used to be the best part of my days,during that month.
I never saw the boy again, afterwards, but i often wondered about him, and his little kid and his beautiful wife.

Lots of people before me, and many after me would have come and gone from the tea shop,paying for the tea, and at the same time being gifted with his rare semi literate sensitivity, some like me befriending him for a brief period and then disappearing from his life for ever, while he must be continuing to sell tea to his customers with his own tiny brand of human warmth.

I wouldn't be exaggerating if i say, that it is people like him who make our world a likable place.

Lik

butterflies

Broken wings

long long ago,there was a butterfly,
who lived all his life alone
this tiny wonderful creature
had nobody to call his own.

his fragile multi coloured wings one day
he frayed by his numerous attempts to fly,
and he stood lonely beaten subdued
by his continual unsuccessful tries.

The butterfly sad, sulky, morose
wistful about his body incomplete,.
unlike the beautiful fragrant rose
whose nectar he did daily seek.

day after day, his partially broken wings
he inspected, wondering, hoping
of some miracle cure
to make him whole again

and thus days went by,
till this sad lonely butterfly,
with his partially tattered wings,
glimpsed, on a sparkling spring day,

a host of other butterflies
all with their wings clipped too
some by cruel callous human hands,
others by nature's furious blows.

hordes of them, just like him,
unfinished, flawed, fragmented
all lonely souls,
by their imperfections tormented.

but they held together
their rent broken wings
helping each other fly higher
singing sweet songs, with the soothing winds

then the butterfly thought,
ah, i'm not unique, in my sorrow,
the whole world is just like me,
pain hits all, today or tomorrow.

he now learnt how to smile,
how to feel whole once again,
together, broken wings holding broken wings,
that is how to feel perfectly full again.

L

ambivalence

donno whether
i love myself the most,
when i hate you
or
is it, that i love you most
when i hate myself?

Li

Lik

Masks

Masks

These masks
Multitudes of them
donned by us,
Some with disdain,
Some with ease!

They adorn
The same one face
From morn to night
Althroughout our waking hours!

These masks
Dexterous, clever, colourful
Now teasing, now fearful,
Yet rarely if ever, they slip.

Oh, our much loved masks
How can we unburden ourselves,,
From the bother of it all
Release...let them all go,
And lay them to eternal rest?

Like

Four poems on love

I
those delicately tender lashes,
they promise and threaten to bind us
into long winding stories
that suspiciously 
smell of love.
II
You chose
to nurture me
with droplets and sunshine,
and then
you cut and trim me
to fit your balcony
i watch amused,
i feel attended to..
i also feel loved.
III
Once upon a time
you wanted to be the victor
in our love story.
Today your surrender
is complete.
IV
does love ever
lose its charm
or does it just
wax and wane
like the luminescent moon?
All i know is ,
i never tire of loving,
of being loved.

Like

fearless love

i know
it sounds rather trite,
but our love is not complete,
we hide chunks of ourselves
from each other faithlessly 
bits we camouflage
cause we fear to reveal ourselves fully

the parts we are afraid
of being unaccepted
most likely to be rejected
we ferociously guard
like some morbid sickness
to be hidden from the world

i know
one day, we will lose this need
to conceal ourselves from each other
when we will crawl out of our very skin
and flash our bare flesh,without dread
be it bloodied and gory,
proudly exulting in all its glory.

till then,
we will continue love incompletely
while waiting patiently, firmly,
for that one day, dear,
when our stark flesh mesh together,
when we will finally love each other,
entirely, totally and without fear

'good deeds'

Often we tend to do 'good deeds' Because we have been conditioned to do them.

When the first time we must have done something nice for somebody . somebody would have patted our backs, or and used words of praises coupled with a happy face that would have got imprinted on our brains. It must have made us feel good too.

So that later, the mind would have trained itself to do good for the joyous feeling it gave us, even if nobody patted our backs and smiled. We had already equated good deeds with back pats and no longer needed them.

Then slowly and slowly we reach where even the joys of giving no longer gives as much joy.

Ah so i know im a good person, i know i do good deeds. So what? The tired mind that no longer feels the joy of giving as much as he used to before asks! What is it that im doing exceptional? Isnt what im doing that what everybody should be doing anyway?

The feel good fixes dont work anymore.

This is the time to drop the yoke of having to feel good to do good. Time which is now ripe for getting that much closer to detachment.

Li

love

The scent
of rebellious love,
that u left with me,
on my tumultuous lips
is now faint..

just like the trail
u left behind
albeit reluctantly,
when you went away
on your mercenary road.

your tempestuous love
like some westerly winds,
blowing and charming
its way through
my wayward heart!

turn around,
my love,come back,
claim your rights,
charm me again,
win my heart and my soul,
fight for us,

before
life takes over
and
we become prisoners
of irretrievable time again!

Like