Dangling Feet

   I’m borderline aqua-phobic. The line lies between that simple stance that my feet can touch the floor of the water bed and the assurance that drowning is not a possibility. It lies submerged in the sea-green blues of the waters, the fear of not death but suffocation unto death and the helplessness of it.

   Sixteen years of age was when I set out to Calcutta for the first time in my life en-route to Manipur. The train chugged away, pulling with ease the coaches that followed, sculpted with steel carrying people full of dreams. The locomotive sped at an immense speed as I edged my way to the doors of my bogie, swaying with the whims of the vehicle itself.

  It was noon and everyone had slept into obliviousness. The door was wide open, as I held the handles just on the outside and lunged my body forward for the erstwhile breezing wind to scream in my ears. Drawn to the avenues open to my senses; I merely collapsed and sat down on the steps, still holding on to the rails, feet dangling to the moving Jelly stones. The rhythmic lull of the wagons over the railway tracks seemed like the ritual of love-making between two as I closed my eyes; unaware of the people around me, singled out within.

   I don’t know how many minutes passed before my eyes opened to a change in sound, the return of the breeze alongside the summer sun. The rhythm was the same, but the echoes and sounds that emanated, completely different.  I gazed ahead to look at the calm blues staring back at me, its ripples moving from one to another, in constant motion.

   My fingers tightened around the handles as I peered down. Hundred feet below were deep waters that could devour me alive. It was the first time I saw seemingly bottomless waters below my own dangling feet. The initial flutters of anxiety and fear had drowned in the overwhelming feeling that was caught at my throat. I had never felt this comfortable, alive and fearless of waters. Transience and permanence loomed to and fro, as the moving waters coupled with the climax of the lulling pleasures put me in the moment, in complete awareness of my senses.

   I was neither in the past, nor an eon later. I lived that moment, completely, without the fear of suffocation and drowning lest I fall. In that unknown place, over an unknown water body somewhere in North-east India, I could then do nothing but smile as the cool wind kissed my face.
I have never felt that liberated, thoughtless and free in all my life, ever since.

~Hemu

I do NOT own this image. Source: Google images 

An Affair With Addiction

I don't understand those poets that romanticize alcohol;
attributing poetry to a glass of high
or a joint of weed.
I'm tempted to judge a man
who loves alcohol and smoke;
a daily dose of exigency
to unlock and  let oneself be.
But what right do I have to roll my eyes
at him, an artist
immersed in the illusion of beauty;
recovering and emerging from
a bottle of whisky
when my words spill and fall like
a momentous dominoes set
when I think of you?
The illusion and the addictive need
to romanticize the image of you?



~Hemu

Mirrored

Image Credit: Laura Williams

If you mirror me and I see your soul,
will I be looking at you or me?
Or,
do you think, maybe it'll be a pensive
of your confident being mixed with mine;
filling it up with stars
where my insecure spirit leaves a hole?






~Hemu 

Karna

|This happened to be a piece I'd penned last year right after I read this book called 'Mrityunjaya-The Death Conqueror'. The life of Karna is one of the most fascinating and tragic stories I've ever come across. He happens to be my most favorite character in The Mahabharata alongside Draupadi and Krsna. I keep attempting to sketch him again and again and never have I been satisfied with what I complete as it never seems to represent him in entirety. The artwork can be found on my blog, here. Cheers! Revel in His life, for it's complicated and beautiful. |



What is more trying by destiny, oh warrior

 than to be painfully oblivious to the origin of your birth?

You who slayed vice with smoldering golden rays

later blanketed in the smog of your munificence

sparked from vanity leased out in thy head;

exorcising material despair,

subduing with grains of praise the

licking ravage flames in your chest,

under the gilded skin armour, shut.

What could have been more ruthless

than the rejection of the dark-skinned maiden-

flinging insults like dung to a damp wall

while your strength lay untested and unapproved?

The woman you loved and hated within eons;

that your brothers  five later betrothed ,undivided

only to garrote you to shameful death.

What decremented your virtuous soul further?

the culminated fury abreast constant light

of doubt-ridden guilt about your legacy

Or losing your honour to jealousy

Beginning a vow out of an unnecessary jabbering

of the tongue unsaddled by righteous thought?

And when you saw your confounded flaws

mirrored on the deceitful glass of an angered moment,

You saw the image that your blue-skinned kin saw,

an enemy you endured with till your

chariot broke

while fighting with the universal wheel of time-

the only aid to defend the dead in you.

There were those grains of sand that fell through

the goodness, your blood dripping onto the muddy moulds

fusing towards an unjustified departure

defended in the karmic book of a godly conman.

The hourglass now contains merely light

in honour of a hero, tragic 

thus denied a deemed title

because his own blood feared the words

out of an unworthy stranger, spitting in the air.

~Hemu 

Source: Vimanika Comics 

Hold You

Source: Google Images 

I'm not the type of girl
who'll squeal and hug you hard
in trepidation
of thunderbolts clapping across the skies.
Instead,
I'll be staring at the clouds light up
  whilst holding out,
the piercing rain slash my breasts;
in comfort.
I'm the kind of girl
who'll smile and hold you though,
if these forces scare you;
  without judgement or question.
Who said boys can't be afraid of the
  rumblings far above our heads?

~Hemu

My Madras

I was born long after Madras was rechristened as Chennai. I was born long after the trees along the Marina Beach lost itself in the growing roots of modernism and globalization. I was born long after bell bottoms paved way to formal pants and tight shiny clothing of women from the retro era moved on to where we are now. I was not around for the period when Spencers had a much different and a glorious facade. I was born after the fires licked the Moore Market that I only see in pictures now. I never got to see those beautiful trams nor the clean Coovum river. I was not around for a large part of what many people claim to be the best and glorious period of Madras, but it's still the part I connect with the most and if God wills the time machine's existence, I would love to return to the 80's and live here, all over again.

     In an age of fast-pacing and rapidly moving world where change makes its presence felt all over and spilling, my city has managed to hold on to Her reigns and let the gallop slow down, but never stopping. The change that has come about has always been nothing but gradual, taking one step at a time and relishing what it may have to offer. While cities like Bangalore and Delhi may have lost the scent of itself over the years, Madras still lingers on. There was no greed with the city in wanting to swallow the latest and the newest. By this, I do not mean that we shunned anything new and progressing. There has always been progress. The beauty of the ascendance and progression is largely determined by how it is done. In that manner, there is no beating Madras. We hold on to our davara-tumblers long after porcelain coffee mugs have come in. Filter kaapi still beats CCD's cappuccino hands down. 

    Very few cities have a classiness to it. On that front, Madras is almost synonymous with culture and dignity. Margazhi season kutcheris, bharatnatyam recitals, the flavour of Mylapore, literary fests and a long list of festivals and fairs that we celebrate in our own little silent ways.I've heard North-Indians say how South-India, Tamilnadu and Madras in particular don't have fun in celebrating our festivals and weddings. 'It's a drab', they say. But who says loud music and heavy dancing is the only way to unwind? Have they witnessed the 'maalai maatharthu' of a typical Tamil-Brahman wedding here, the excited talk and chatter between households and people across the streets during Navrathri Golu or taken a walk along the long roads on the pristine night of Karthikai Deepam? This just happens to be a different character and hue altogether that no other city has. A silence that shouts joy more than anything else.

   Yes, on more issues than one, Madras is said to be conservative.But it has never stopped anyone from doing anything they want to do. What I love most about this city are the people. Large-hearted, warm people who despite their inhibitions, never throw you about. Shorts never changes a good old auto-driver from giving us the right directions and goodwill. On a particular night, I got lost in North Madras (Royapuram side) and it was  pretty late. I didn't know the way around that area quite well and had to stop two or three times to reach back home. Each of them told me the way like I was related to them.The kindly auto-driver called out to me to be careful and made me wait till the vehicles on the side of the road had passed and the sweeper ladies on the flyover said, 'Badhrama ponga, kannungala' after my friend and myself thanked them. The local departmental store owners smile every time I walk in and the Bhaai's never let go without saying a bye.Religion is not a problem for us and Madras is a a haven of mutual co-existence and religious harmony. Everyone smiles.The bus conductor, the traffic policeman, the daily commuter on the train and the kids on the bicycle. From a city so welcoming, what else would one want? 

  It's been 375 brilliant years of sambar-vadai, filter kaapi, Carnatic music and divine beaches. It's been 375 years of happiness amalgamated with street plays, MGR, Shivaji Ganesan, Superstar Rajinikanth; plays and theatres that support drama and art. It's been 375 years of diverse architecture: vernacular, Indo-sarcenic, colonial and the ones now. It's been 375 years spread with tree walks, temple walks, Panagal park and Ranganathan street hustles. It's been 375 long years of sentiment, love, emotion and pride for Madras. 

Like I read somewhere, Chennai is a city. Madras is an emotion. That explains everything I have to say. 

Happy 375th to you Madras! :) We love you. Let's clink our tumblers together for the years to come. 

~Hemu 

  

Image source:  Internet -google images

One of my Madras doodles.You can check  our the rest of the sketch series on Madras over  here.

      

For a Mere Twang of Joyous Life : Education and Learning

| These are but a fraction of my ever-pursuing questions, thoughts and ideas about the vast gap between learning and being educated, a pause to acknowledge the idea of life rather than chasing it. Predominantly, these are questions I would like you think about and I would absolutely love to know your thoughts about the same. Cheers! | 

After having gone through battles in examination halls, memories good and bad at institutions and officially now, a graduate still on a break post-undergraduate studies; it's safe to now indulge in these thoughts that I have been a participating member of in my head all this while. All these years, as I aggressively tried to approach the idea of it, I was only but a passive phase all through it. Had I contemplated more on all of this, would I have been happy or eternally in a state of chaos? (Though, sometimes, chaos is a lot of happiness)

     What a safe life we all lead! Kindergarten, 14 years of school, 4-5 years of undergraduate studies and some more on graduate college and so on and so forth.Most of our parents never considered homeschooling as an option. We just settled into a life of grade after grade of education, of math that makes one's head reel and biology classes where the chapter on reproduction was very quickly skimmed through. There lies no immediate goal, no quest in a child to pursue something in life on the broader sense of it. This hit me massively as I just finished my undergraduate studies because that's when people finally started asking me, 'What next?' Even for that, there are definite set of expectations and options that they'd like me to be a part of that they approve of. Apparently, taking a lot of time to decide what one wants to do for the rest of their life sounds foolish to many because there is a comfortable life ahead of everyone if they choose the path of higher education, a job, marriage, babies and a settled life. How unsettling can it get?

  If at the end of 22 years of age, I take a commemorative step to reflect on my past; there is nothing there but for a well-scheduled life full of classes, exams and 'extra-curricular activities'. The main aim was to do well in the annual exams so that we can move on to the next grade. No one asked me, 'What do you think about taking a day off from school and do something on your own?' Our earlier generation's probable struggle with receiving a decent education has thrown the coming ones into the shackles of the pin-pointed rat race with no finish line, ever. How different would life be today if we were to appreciate kids and people for who they actually are, their understanding of the world, their short term and long term goals?

  What would be the result today if I was asked 'What next?' when I was 8 years old? At 13? At 17? (Assuming the general mode of education is off the table) How different would it have been if I just went to the park one day and slept the day after. While it is true that we would be possibly 'immature' to make the 'right' decisions and not really know what to do, thus 'ruining' our lives; isn't it also equally possible that we would end up discovering more about ourselves in ways we never envisaged we could? Would world peace and contemplative questions ever be accommodated in the current system? Imagine, if we could do wonders after two decades of dealing with authority that knows which direction you have to go by, merely by being pushed to make a decision of our own after say, 3-4 years of being allowed to think for a bit; how would life be if we were allowed to be whatever we are from the very beginning? Life experiences would be a word with immense depth, will it not then?

  Being driven to 'settle', forcing our way through a vivid journey along beautiful sights so that we could enjoy our the visions to assimilate, years later just so that we can sit and take it in... strikes a wrong chord in me somewhere. It is not my opinion that the education system that the world is currently subject to is wrong, but I'm merely wondering why another path would be scandalous to anyone who feels good parenting is the perfect high-end English medium schools, tuition and  extra music or art lessons that can always, only be a sidetrack? Or is it a concern of the fast-paced society we are in where our credentials lie in degrees earned, money made and the house we buy? Will parents have the time to home-school their children, will children be appreciated for the schooling they give themselves in a community?

 For, I sure as hell don't know what I've been chasing all these years. I don't quite know why I studied what I did. I don't know why I'll have to know what to do next when all these years, I was told what to do. Why do I have to 'settle down'? (Boy, do I have a tough time getting that!) Have I been restricted by education and its circles of tight authority or was there much more of a learning there than I am giving it credit now?

Schools without degrees, learning something merely because one loves it and not to enroll in contests to win recognition, putting otherwise exorbitant fees to build a workshop or a place for children to live their lives on their own terms and a life full of travel.. is that too much or too Utopian ask?

I can only hope I have the answers when I become a parent and if I end up where I think I will end up siding with, I can only really hope I have the courage to not put my child in a school at two and a half years of age.. but ride bicycles with her and spell out poetry or whatever the hell she wants, however overwhelmingly beautiful and scary.

Image source: Google pictures: Courtesy Indian Health Service/U.S. Department of Health and Human Services 

Image Source: Google pictures :photo by Stephan Jouhoff)

~Hemu

Transcendence

What hasn't yet been swallowed by the billowing winds of change
catches itself in between the lines in my palms
that I stare at each morning as the sun shakes off its dust
in the quest for a clean, blue sky.

I wash my hands in the pearls thrown ashore
attempting to see nothing, hear no song nor see any dream;
but it has already stitched itself onto my eyelashes
that throw me in lands, I only can wish to see.

A land where transparency reigns over the transient world.
At the least, I'll know what's coming.
And where I'll not be going.

~Hemu

Sorrows and Seashells

For a change, I thought I'd put those words on parchment. :)

Still Little Moments

| Isn't it true that the smallest things, the most minuscule moments in life are what one reminiscences the most? There are some dishes that your grandmother makes/made that you can taste when you think about it, the carnivals you attended as a child whose colours are still fresh in your memory.

I generally don't post anything from my personal journals.This is the first time I am sharing anything from my personal diary. These are two little moments in my life from my past that I now look back with immense love and longing for, that I have recently written in my 2014 journal, Shon. 

Two little stories that I'd like to share with you from my past that I would trade my present with. The sportsperson in me that I long to meet again.

 I'd love to know what your memorable moments are. Please feel free to share it with everyone here.  |


#1
Synthetic tracks. My spikes dig momentarily into the rubber and shoots out just as quickly. My body leans in to the left, just a slight tilt; like the angle in the mirrored version of number 7. I'm out of breath and feel the pang of heavy wind and breathlessness burn my nose and throat. But the pain is beautiful. It pulls me and pushes me. My feet is never stagnant and there is no thought on my mind but the lines I'm bound within and the place I have to reach. That slight tilt in my body with my legs striding and the pulling within that's trying really hard to finish the race I started... that after that point my legs will be fine and the pain will subside. I can breathe without noticing my own breath and the necessity of air to my lungs. It is the time that I give nothing but my very best. That moment of tilt as I cover the curve of the race, that's when I'm the most steady.

#2
It's almost 5:00- 5:30 pm in the evening but my coach is relentless. I can't go home until I land on my feet from the Round Off Backflip Back Somersault. It doesn't matter how many times I fall down. I can't stop, I'm not allowed to stop. If I left for home now, I may never set foot in my gymnastics training every again. The hall on the left wing corridor on the first floor of my school was empty except for black mats, my coach, a picture of Gurudev with a walking stick and a smile and myself. Anger welled up as tears in my eyes. It's unfair that the other kids are allowed to go home and I am not. My coach didn't care. I just want to leave. I muster my strength and run with quick, agile steps and completed the element, landing on my feet.

I landed right!

I did the Round off Backflip Back Somersault for the first time in my fourth grade.

My anger reaped happiness. My coach merely smiled. I did it a couple of times more and landed right every single time until my coach asked me to stop practicing and go home. Oh, at that moment I never wanted to stop performing the element nor go home.


P.S : I still remember the first time I performed the floor exercises on proper floor. The height, the stillness in the moment when I was in the mid-way of my element, in mid-air and swiftness that existed at the same moment. The perfect landing. It still takes my breath away.

Image source: www.thetelegraphandargus.co.uk

~Hemu

Women, Sex and Other Issues

What's the most important entity and identity for a girl living in India according to the society?

Education? Financial success ? Independence? Talent and skill? 

Nah.

It's her Honour.

Honour and virginity are perhaps the most hyped ideas that the nation lives by. One of the chief reasons a rape victim is looked down upon is because she's 'impure'. Most people don't seem to think that it's a violation of her right, that it's the very helplessness that she's left with; that a man can take undue advantage of her proving his so-called masculinity in the most cruel way possible that hurt her more than the act of rape itself. But no, a woman has been raped and the society goes clicking its tongue on the fact that the most important image of the woman has been snatched upon by a wayward fox. It's not her Freedom and right but her virginity and honour. 

The importance the society attaches to sex is wholly on a negative side unless it is post-marriage. Everyone is happy when there is an heir in the making in the family. Did that baby magically happen? Did an angel bring the child from the sky and drop it within the woman's womb or at the hospital like the little girl in The Cosby Show believes? Of course not. We are all adults and yet we fail to acknowledge what is the most natural path of life. So, why is it that a woman post marriage is lauded for her baby-making abilities but shunned and scorned upon if she is a person involved in a relationship involving premarital sex or is a rape victim? How is the very same baby impure or unchaste? Fertility and motherhood are two factors that should never be contained within the realms of pseudo-morality. 

Sexuality and virginity has long been confused with morality. We have enough and more Indian movies that prove that point. Heroines who commit suicide because they are no longer 'pure' post rape or thrown out of the village limits for having lost their virginity before marriage are the front-running examples. A woman who is open about her sexuality is demoralized and called characterless while the shy, goody-goody woman clothed from top to bottom is the ideal image of an Indian girl. 

I love Superstar Rajinikanth beyond words but to merely hear him depict how a woman needs to be in the movie Padayappa still makes me cringe. Media, TV serials depict the ideal bahu as the woman contained within the house, producing the family heir while the woman who is open to her sexuality, who wears modern clothes or consumes alcohol, wears heavy make-up is generally the villain to the otherwise mellifluous life of the lead woman in the soap opera.Sexist portrayals of women are far too many to count, starting from small advertisements to statements made by famous personalities.  Many of our 'leaders' believe that chowmein, tight clothes, mobile phones, staying out after 7.00PM causes rape. 'Boys will be boys and make mistakes' is the most recent one that flashed by in the news. I can't even begin to explain how disgusting it all sounds.

Images are from the internet

Women are being judged for every single choice of theirs. We still live in a country where white bed sheets are laid out for the wedding night in many a households to check the purity of the bride newly welcomed into the groom's house just the day before. The 'modesty' and the character of a woman is measured by her virginity, her number of boyfriends etc. 

I have boy-friends who have told me that they will ogle all that they want at busty actresses clad in half-nudity but they themselves only want 'homely' girls for wives. Though it is a matter of opinion, aren't we all at the end of the day looking at women as prized objects to be safeguarded? Women are always being looked upon as property being handed over from one family to the other. If she is open about her sexuality, a woman who is too much into literature or talks too much, she might not be the right fit for the family.

As an Indian girl I don't have the luxury of taking a walk down the road to the beach at 2.00 AM, unaccompanied, well.. because it'll be my 'loss' at the end of the day. If in the process of enjoying a good walk at the wee hours of the morning someone does get raped, even the girl's family and extended relatives will chide the girl. 'Why did you "allow" her to go out at that time?', they will ask. Who allowed your son to go clubbing at 1:00AM in the morning? That is never a question that's asked, sadly. 

 Forgive my digression. It's just that there are too many things that we women are being unwillingly attached to that it takes a while to understand them all. It is no secret how many goddesses we have in India. Every single one of them are celebrated upon and worshiped, yet the woman is abused and called a slut and a whore for her choices. Why? Even today menstruating women are considered impure in many households. It's a sickening picture. A sign of fertility has been tossed upon to be looked at as disgusting. Bravo! Hypocrisy knows no bounds here. 

The instances, incidents and happenings are innumerable.It's high time we learn not to judge a woman open about her choices. It's high time we didn't assume that the highest quality in a woman is her virginity. It is not. When a woman weeps when raped it is not because she's been penetrated but because she was rendered helpless at the point. Rape is an act of power and not sex. A woman is to be understood and approached on her skills, her abilities, her talents and independence and not her sexual choices. And just because someone has slept with another once doesn't mean she's welcoming all of the multitudes of men out there. This judgmental attitude is the biggest malice this nation has. 

If a woman engages in premarital sex, it's her choice. Leave choices as choices and not as foundations to build your useless hypocritical opinions and slut-shaming name-callings. Live your life and not someone else's. 

Peace out! 

Image from the internet. It doesn't belong to me. 

~Hemu 

Our Demon Darkness-es

And so when finally, 

your darkness peeped and led its head out towards opulent skies 

living in a space too bright to be comforting;

mine jumped from a rather cozy nook between unsaid truths and half-complete lies

to lend a hand and save your face disintegrating in the white 

that we later together beat. 

I'm only glad our demons are on the same side. 

~Hemu 

Oh, Date The Girl Who Reads and Writes and Thinks and Dreams

|Way too much has been said about the girl who reads and the girl who writes, travels and takes pictures. Here I am offering you a package in a woman, many I know stuck in a bubble as huge as the solar system.. maybe much bigger.|

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for her worlds are interconnected. She flits between the real and the unreal, uses logical reasoning one moment and points her wand at your nose to turn  it into a great purple snout the next. She's the one who'll want long eventful screams on the roller coaster but also be the one who denies your bike ride when you forget your helmet back at home.

  Never mind with statistics about deaths by roller coasters and bikes or dancing on the road around her. She won't consider them most often. Chances are that you'll end up in an argument in which she'll win hands down unless of course; you are debating, for you'll be allowed to talk once in a while. (You'll maybe even learn the difference between the two)

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she creates stories in her head picking up from her stories in life all real, trying to leave hints for the ones she wishes to see herself with and weaving it in magic and lyric; written with tears and some pretty good grammar. If you can't spot that, then maybe you are not the one. Then again, you'll know she'll think of ways to tell this to you. (which you in all probability will never understand) But oh, don't worry. These are the times her thinking blurs and imagination begins.

   Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she throws your life upside down. She'll want you as sexy as Rhett Butler but also as calm as Atticus Finch, goofy as Ron Weasley and seemingly obnoxious as Fitzwilliam Darcy. 'Perhaps you could learn something from Eeyore who builds his house everytime it's knocked down,' she'll tell you occasionally. You might not know these names or these people, you probably don't even know she called you a donkey towards the end. As opposed to most advice, do not hold her close when this happens and say that you understand when you don't. She'll find it out and yell out loud stating you are a dishonest asshole.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams because she is constantly scared and filled with ideas that could get you killed along with her. Her dreams are unclassified and chances are that you'll have to help her find the perfect spot for skydiving or hunt down at 30 stores before she finds 6 mismatched chairs and a table. You won't understand her wishlist for there is no coherence between successive bullets because she thinks one moment grounded in reality and then takes off to the sky and skydive from there, again. She'll want to buy the complete Calvin and Hobbes collection with her first salary when you'd think she'll donate it to charity and make you come with her in the pouring rain in search of a pitiful yelp at 1:00 AM in the morning when you really just want to sleep.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she'll make you think and dream before you speak if not write and read. She'll teach you the constellations and then connect the stars in her own way. You'll get a 'that's my niece, there's a dog and that cloud looks like Babloo, my first soft-toy-teddy'. (No, all of them don't look the same and she doesn't sleep cuddling a teddy bear either) She'll show you her diaries but you'll learn to never open it without her permission though it's probably filled with your name in every page. She's dumb at times. She might gift you a pink teddy bear key chain on your birthday and 'Donate your eyes' application form to her mother on her 45th birthday, but that's because she falls outside the rule book that tells people 'What to gift people on their birthdays'. Sometimes you'll have a star named after you and sometimes all you'll ever get is a bag of apples. Remember, that's because she hasn't still completely grasped the ideas of celebrating one's birthday.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she's filled with wanderlust and you'll be on your tiptoes all the time like the ballet dancer whose dance she takes you to see, spending all the money you have on the tickets that you have nothing left for dinner. But she'll make you good tea, the best for the ones who read know what support it. You've got to stand by though, never lie on the couch if you're hungry. You'll never get anything to eat if you dwindle around while she makes dinner. But wait, chances are that you're making it for she preferred attending sports lessons when a lot of her peers began to make the tastiest pasta ever. Good luck with that for she'll tell you that the salt is a pinch more than it should be unless you're exceptionally good.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she will go on whiskey drinking competitions and burp louder than you will for that's another feather on her cap already preening with many like karaoke nights and book readings at quaint little bookstores. She'll know people at every street she turns into and wishes she didn't for she loves new people and bumping into ventures round the corner. You will have a ball of a time for many people trust her unpredictability to be true and honest and you'll probably even get cookies for free. (that's a jackpot, isn't it?)

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she a messy mix of what you might not like in a girl. Seeming obnoxiousness, a handful of ego, too many ideal prepositions and demanding stances, craziness hard to control and someone who'll never be subdued.She'll punch you in a fit of anger if I have understood her right. But she'll also pass on her infectious lifestyle of uncertainty and music, her varied concepts of love and your own space to do your own little crazy things, a dog, a cozy home you'll hardly be at owing to all the globe-trotting and perhaps 24 dogs to greet you at the door when come back home from work, together. Later, she'll dance in the rain with you and sing for the same.

Date the girl who reads and writes and thinks and dreams for she's the mess you want for the rest of your life. The perfect mess that will set the crooked painting on the wall straight.

SOURCE FOR IMAGES: GOOGLE- I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP OVER ANY OF THESE PICTURES.

Cheers!
Hemu

The Curious Case of Crematoriums and Women

It's a world riddled by mindless following of empty practices that has lost its meaning and setting in today's world. Starting from everyday notions like a woman being 'impure' during her period to being but an ally during all religious rites in most cases, the status of a woman is always judged by her biological clock ticking or assumptions on her psychological strength.

 The most favorite of all these has been the ban that has been imposed unsaid in the houses of most families, that women aren't allowed to go to the crematorium or perform the last rites of the dead. I have never really understood the concept but from the perspective of mental strength. A woman might probably lack the mental strength to hold back tears (which are apparently considered 'impure') thus causing a scene as the pyre is lit. But aren't there women who are far more stronger than some men are in such cases?

I come from a semi-orthodox Brahmin family as a whole. My parents however, have been broad-minded enough to let me make my own decisions in almost every matter. While the extended relatives scorn at my doings, my parents silently watch me through it irrespective of whether they approve my stance or not. In my opinion, I believe in attending the last rites of the deceased till the end. It's my way of paying the last respects, the final goodbye. Death is a concept I am trying hard to understand and accept as a part of life and something I'll continue to do so.

 My father is an interesting man.He has always made me deal with my situations on my own, instilled a sense of independence in my sister and myself. When I told him that I would definitely attend the last rites of a close relative who passed away recently, he didn't immediately agree to take me there. In the end, he did. But with a disclaimer: 'I'll take you there, no qualms about that. But anything that happens there, you'll have to face on your own.'

Several uncles I knew stopped me at the gates to the cremation grounds. There were blissfully unaware that I had attended these funerals in the past and that I knew what to expect. 

'No. Don't come beyond this point.'

'You won't be able to take it. Don't you come inside.'

Of course, some sensible men there supported me and said it's no big deal and that if I would be strong enough to take it, I may come inside. I did attend the whole rite, but with what level of ease? I had be less obvious of my mere presence among the other men so as to avoid any last minute scene. 

The only thought that constantly races through my head in all these scenarios is a big, block 'WHY'. Why should it be so difficult to pay the last respects to someone dear to me fearing social stigma? Why dodge through a scene that is likely to be caused by some hotheads at a point that is important in the final journey of the deceased? 

 A relative of mine once told me that the concept of death as understood by a man and woman are two different things altogether. The man sees the ashes and bones of the deceased post cremation and before scattering them in the sea, understands death in its complete sense; that there is no return to the physical being of the one gone.But the women on the other hand are merely exposed to the body last seen, still thinking that there lies the wishful life and the memories but not the hard hitting truth. It makes sense to leave behind people who are bound to be emotional and don't wish to witness what happens 'beyond'. But what about those who wish to come along and say goodbye? What of their wishes to pay their last respects to fulfillment?

The general notion is that the menfolk want to protect the womenfolk from it all. I ask you this : how long will you 'PROTECT' us from all this?

Maybe we don't want to be protected. It's best to call things by what they are. Masking and hiding anything definitely doesn't alleviate issues.Why not try to understand death as a household concept? How long are we going to keep the women in dark about what happens after the body leaves a home in a hearse? What if one day, they can be included in the process and we as a community grow spiritually, understand death in its form and sense? Customs that we tend to 'upkeep' now are irrelevant to current times.As far as my knowledge goes, Hinduism doesn't forbid women from entering crematorium grounds. If there are such 'rules' written down anywhere, I'd love to hear from you and its prevalence to current situations. 

This is a picture I took at Varanasi last year. For a city that is famed for cremations and liberation, no man stood with a stick by the cremation ghat asking me to move on and not witness what happens there everyday. Isn't that Hinduism in its original sense? 

Cheers!

Hemu

Unclog

Source- Google images. This picture is not mine. 

There is just so much to say
that thinking of them all makes me tired.
It never rests though, the constant sound of feet pacing about;
sometimes running and at times heavy and weary,
tapping along the edges of my thoughts
and wiping away the colours of my dreams on a doormat
in-between certain transitions.
Maybe,
if I just said it all, there would be nothing
to worry about.
No colours to end up on dirty ends
but in the sky or my love's eyes.

~Hemu

Adopt a Book

For me, books have been the greatest companions ever. To jump into another world that is not my own, to dream and conjure sets full of people in different clothes or a sky forecast with rain while the sun shines down my back- there is nothing that a good book can't do to the term 'impossible'. I love the parallel lives that any book-lover lives.

   Funnily enough, I have never had a library card outside my school where the habit began and gained momentum.I loved the idea of owning the books I read and I still do, fancy a private library. Back in the days, I used to pocket little coins and change that I used to get and buy 'Tinkle' for Rs.2 from old paper marts where people sell old papers, pamphlets etc for money. I remember the days of relish as the stack of my comic books grew,slowly leading its way to finding Enid Blyton and other authors that people threw away, in the collection. As I grew up, this habit only tantamounted. While I still do shop at the various leading bookstores for new copies of books, most of my books are from second-hand bookstores and old paper marts. A book or two are hand-me-downs from my father's old collection. I can't tell you the pleasant and satisfied sigh that escapes me every time I open my steel bureau full of books. An impending problem with adding merely two more books to the lot is the fact that there is no more space for any more new books. I can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes me feel. Almost like having a child and watching it grow up and go off to college. That would be say the least.

   In the several visits to these old paper marts, I have found many a book that I have always wanted to own. I have books decades older than me, bearing signatures and love notes inside dated from a time when books were still the most popular gifting option. I have come across random authors who I have never heard of, who have moved me to tears making me wonder how they have not been listed on the internet listings of brilliant books. I get super excited when I find a character who shares my name or a close friend's. I still remember the book in which the protagonist shared the same birthday and year as my sister's. It's a wonderland really.

 I am happy every-time I visit these places and get a book. I love it. But I also feel a tad bit bad for the book and sometimes its old owners. I once came across a collection of about hundred or so books dumped at an old paper mart near empty alcohol bottles, plastic junk and the likes that is to be found at any paper mart. That is not odd, to find old books finding its place there. The reason why it was so disheartening was because all of those books that I could lay my hands on that day came from the personal library of a man who had even managed to have them stamp printed on the front page announcing his name and address. Any person who would have collected so many books and built a personal library would never be capable of discarding them away like that. My guess is that the second or third generation of his family would have given it up after the owner and I guess they thought that the books were only good for its weight's equivalent money. (If something like that ever happened to my books after my death, I'd haunt my people.).I have a book picked up, an Ernst Hemingway from that lot for which I am grateful but I can't imagine how the same would have been of so much pleasure to someone else... maybe a circulating second's sales or a library that could always do with more books. I believe we should at the least have the concept of yard give-aways where people can pick up the books they would love to adopt and take care of. What a lovely appeal has that got, eh?

    The books at the paper marts are not immediately thrown away. They are displayed for people like me and you to come and adopt for a new shelf,welcomed by new book-mates. I might even be romanticizing this too much, but I just can't help it. The owners of such marts are ever too helpful. I have befriended a handful from my area who keep aside books if I ask them to and give me discounts on the books I purchase from them. Try it once. I can assure you that it is a fulfilling joy.

Spread the message.Let's be a book-liver as well as lover. Let's all adopt books for the joy of another world that needn't go into the shredder.


P.S: Medical experts and bored people, don't come off with what the term 'liver' means. I don't mean the body part. You exactly know what I mean.

Second hand bookshop on Charing Cross road, London-1951-Photo credits: John Chillingworth/Hulton Duetsch Collection 

~Hemu

What if?

Source: Google images: Flickr: Alex Korting's page

What if I chase you down the alley looking at the lines of your body

meeting the ground,

merging with its moving nature and static while I see? 

What if I run upto you and tap your shoulder,

waiting to see you turn around with a happy smile

but see a stranger's big brown eyes reflecting my own?

Would I still know then, who I am in love with? 

~Hemu 

Dark and Dreary

The afternoon set in, rainy and dark. The clouds had pulled over the sun for having trespassed over my dark period and cried till I felt safe within the multitudinous folds of my quilt. The room gleamed with an eerie gloom that could only be best described as my own mind while a lonely hand stretched hard and waved the curtains across to let in a passive stream of light, exploring the path of the dust that lay accumulated from time lost on its way to Earth.

    The  knocking hasn't ceased. The person is relentless and won't give up. Dragging my heavy feet across  a cold marble floor, I moved, blinking between sorrow and seeing through tears. Stopping at the door, I yelled that I was coming, wiping away the slate clean of any traces of smudged chalk with the sweater whose hands fill mine. The door creaked, almost out of practice from the last few days. I pulled open the heavy door.

 The light was unbearable for me to take. A door-ful of radiance hit me as he entered the house with a kiss and some big bear hugs. I couldn't but stare at the silhouette of light that lit my house like a Christmas star that throws its dots of light, life and hope according to engraved patterns by an artist, a lover in his own accord.

'Maybe you should try coming in,' he said.

I stood rooted near the door as he walked back to me, throwing his light and shadow across the room split by him alone and shut the door tight to retain the flavour this house has become accustomed to.

'You?'

'Yes, me.' he uttered, through those perfectly formed teeth. His overgrown locks fell across my face as he carried me in all ease and grace, that I have never seen anyone else do. Walking to my darker chamber with the single ray of light, I fondled his cheeks with those beautiful dimples that could very well act as the life-saving pond to fish in need of life, that which only grew deeper as my hands traveled their distance.

The imaginary boundary between us threw itself into the corner, the sides of the bed became but one. All I could perceive was his stubble against my collar bone, his body pressed to mine and hands that caressed what I was, every inch through. I twiddled a while, moving away only to be pressed against him, a little closer, some more passionate kisses and tickles transmitting across my own body moving onto his own. Every time he smiled, a burst of light burped out of my laughter, every time his hands played their tune across the boulevards of my body, strings connected from my head and till my toe; music flowed and resonated through the entire room. I could smell the smoke off him and we reveled in our own world of beer and vodka, the scent raising our sensitivity. No longer was any part of me insignificant or strong, it was but whet and vulnerable. For a long time there, we were but one fused mass that might have even melted had not there been that darkness in the air and the coldness in the light. In that warmth that he radiated, I closed my eyes to receive his love and never woke up.

  Hard, breathless raps on the front door landed on my ears.

  The darkness rolled under my eyelids, tears streaming hard as I woke up to an absence where presence was uncertain. The knocking on the door only grew harder. I wiped my face clean of pain and walked towards the edge of the world, in hope of death for a visitor. I passed the shelf and saw the calender lying around, the same from the last time I ever saw it.

Source:Google images 

~Hemu

Book Review- Pittho's World

The book's cover and the blurb is what makes any reader pick up any book. (Sniffing the book follows preceding this action.) 'Pittho's World' seemed to have a very luring cover design and blurb, but the book was definitely not what the blurb promised.

   It was interesting to read the detailed episodes of many of the protagonist Sheiku's relatives as narrated to his what seemed like a rather disinterested listener of a girlfriend, Rani. The family origins and the rather monotonous narration could have been dealt with much better given the rather unexpected characters that arise in the course of the story. 

 The characters Apa and Abbu were rather intriguing. While some parts of their lives seemed to have been stated without reason or any connection, the character sketch has been well done, especially that of Apa's whose strong-headed and independent nature opposed the very setting of the times in the book. The initial thought that strikes people is that these stories are to mingle to reach somewhere, but that never happened except for the fact that the author has tried to establish in 200-odd pages that he is ready to move on to the future. 

 

It was an overall decent read but not brilliant. Probably a buffer book, a light read between heavy reading.Last but not the least, I still don't understand why the book is titled 'Pittho's World'. There appears to be no direct relation, though if thought about, some abstract answers could be presented. It could have rather be titled- 'Sheiku's World'. 

~Hemu 

  

Of Dances and Dyslexia

Way too many titles await patiently to be crossed off an old list on a cupboard old
and yellowing paper
while being stuck with a story for more than a month seems the trend.
More stories waiting to be read dance in sporadic instincts
and the list isn't patient anymore.
The letters dance and jumble among themselves
Tales are getting mixed up.
Good story it might be in itself
or I'm down with dyslexia creeping in at twenty-two.

Thanks Bill Watterson.  

~Hemu