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 

A Junction

There is this particular junction I cross everyday on the way back from college. One of the main roads in the city which is now a huge mix of one-ways,complicated yet simple routes that has been changed from its main course ever since the construction and all the digging began for the Metro Rail project.Envisaged by the traffic policemen in white and fluorescent overall-ed workers regulating the traffic with red flags, I am like the flock of sheep they push towards a certain direction every single day,to and fro the same route.

By now, after years of riding, I am more or less mechanical, with the music playing through my player and regular checks on the rear-view mirror, I am good to go at any point in time. But something struck me of late. I have been using this route for a long time before the construction process (with huge cranes) ever began and never noticed anything extraordinary. Just the same old schools and colleges in the locality, the buses and the ever impeding vehicular traffic. I guess that's the thing about two-ways. When you have the option to look and you don't? Or is it just that a whole lot of obstacles have been removed from the view for us to appreciate the possible beauty?

 

 I get a couple of seconds to admire the sky and the overall setting everyday while waiting for the traffic to move. Sometimes I wish it was more because everything looks so beautiful. The way the cranes' load stands in mid-air and the steel containers lie still- it's almost poetic, that I could keep staring at it for hours.  Sometimes, the sun is out in the open blinding me and at the other times, dark, rolling cottony-clouds set the perfect background for all the cranes and the tiny people in small helmets. A natural hierarchy exists there. Colourful hemets, little people, the containers, the cranes and the sky. What's more astonishing is the ability for the setting to change everyday yet appear similarly enthralling and beautiful. Some days, the crane is moving and some days its still, but for the sly wind to brush against it, different sky settings... but it's lovely, every single day. In the entire half hour ride back home, that's a scene I neither look forward to nor avoid, but enjoy just as it comes. In that singular couple of moments.

 I wonder if the junction is in new light or if I am perceiving it to be.Am I supplied with a new choice or have I trained myself to look around? Whatever it is, it is beautiful. Maybe, I could apply it to my life and move on as and when the signal turns green.

Do you have a similar story? Finding something utterly peaceful in the midst of chaos and loudness?
Please do share it with me here. I would love to know what I am missing out on. Cheers and much love! :)

~Hemu 

Drunk Ink Lines

Image Source- Google images 

The countdown has begun and I have a clock
and a calender with circled dates of separation
looming away in all radiance of anxiety.
I stare and wonder how this is going to pan
amidst the stealthy looks and poetry filled
books,
neither one the other is aware of.
If understanding is the key to love,
he's never perceived one.
I blame it all on him and
drown myself in alcohol and ink
hoping to feel better but
truth is all that it spills in righteous luminescence.

~Hemu

I'm Not Impressed

      Indian marriages along with their intriguing ways of working out has also brought along some jerks out into open who use women like testing fields for their own self and family. My friend was engaged to one such man before he called off the wedding after the wedding cards and invites were printed. His reason was rather simple- 'You didn't impress me.'
  So, it didn't strike him when he probably read up her profile or heard about her through his associates that she might not be able to impress him? After several meetings before coming to a decision, he didn't apply his mind? Must have been my fault. I thought he was a mind reader alongside being a brilliant man who decided that the girl must forsake her ongoing doctorate studies from the most reputed institution in the city after the wedding but not anytime sooner because merely telling his friends that his fiancee is pursuing the same gives him a sense of cheap pride in his friends circle of poorly-educated-wives.

      It was decided that she couldn't pursue her higher studies abroad after they got married because he's done the same. Where would that put him? A rung lower in his male chauvinistic society and thus that idea was turned down. In my world, you fell right down into the deepest pit, buddy. (And then punctured the earth and fell right through it)

 I guess he must have thought one fine day after half a year that he needed some fun in life. It's just that who he decided to inflict it upon turned out to be a great lady. He wasn't impressed with her because she didn't dress according to his likes and didn't express farce concern over a pretending son's depression to her future mother-in-law. He wasn't impressed because she didn't do her hair the way he wanted to and what not.What doesn't impress him next? The name? My date of birth? How about a permanent change in the colour of the eyes because you can't stare into the independence and strength of it, oh great one?

  These sort of men and women sicken me. Starting from my gut, it pours out completely in a nauseating way. She didn't impress you? What is she, a machine that has no mind of its own but that which abides by whatever you say? I'm plainly appalled at the way certain people can consider a prospective partner let alone a woman.

In all cases, even if the mistake is on the groom's side, the girl is being blamed and called names. She is to put up with all the wrong sides to the situation and her family is visibly upset. The guy, you ask?
He's sitting abroad, stretching his feet on the table and wondering what he shall do next in all his 'open-mindedness' and 'easy going nature' as his profiles might state..Which brings up a question. Are women mere living beings that need to impress men? The reasons men 'reject' women are increasingly galling and so are those men who think themselves to be the epitome of perfection and character. A small slap in the face would be to know that they are nowhere near that that. It disgusts me that some people can be so shallow and without any valid reason for their actions that causes deep pain to another.
What makes men and their families take such crude moves? I am unable to grasp a concept bereft of logic or emotions.
Is it because one is gender-wise a man?
Well, every other way.such people prove not to be. (Humans even)

Source:Google images

Disclaimer : Not all men are jerks,but the one I have mentioned above...Ah, he is indeed one.

She is one of the nice girls I know who is very well educated, well-mannered and holistically a great woman. I may not know her as a very close friend of mine, but she being a close friend of someone else who is very close to me, I know her in decent form. Even our short meetings and phone conversations have always been pleasant and so, when I heard what the person had to go through, it shook me with anger. I thought that I should perhaps touch upon these happenings as it is not the first time that I am seeing it happen on a personal level. Frankly, it's the guy's loss and the girl's good luck. No one has to put up with a 'man' like this with a mind so manipulative and finicky. 

It Lulls Forever After the Storm

The sky has been split and I can see the many pieces
as they wait to be pulled with a gentle tap
and a strong hand.
It is starless tonight with a weathered smile
from dissolving clouds that pour their sorrow atop my
misery already floating over the metre.
I decided to knock one and remove its facade;
made up my mind to see beyond the outside.
My hands were at work and
eyes beyond it
as the frame collapsed and fell on me, face down.
Fragile is what I expected but
unassuming and a whole of the part it was,
of the complete wholesome.
I wish I knew how to explain what I saw beyond
the clothesline that cut the sky.
I really want to tell you how damp the terrace floors
were after appearing dry,
I lack the will to show you the intricate bits gathered
upon my eyelids as I blink
and the ego to let that all go.
Lying back down and looking at the dark bit
I have extracted,
I can only assure you there are more tears in that dark hole
than that has poured;
sucked into the emptiness of no reason.
                                                                                         

Source: Google Images- Wikimedia 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

Croaking Under the Sun

I run around with this paper cup in hand,

handing out smiles in return for cynicism and more laughter. 

I am probably stupid

to bear the misery they have to offer 

Source: Google images 

weighing my pockets down

just so I can be myself,

but it seemed so much easier 

than lunging around much heavier masks 

of happiness and sorrow;

prim and proper. 

Of love and hate colliding 

against the face that perceives. 

So, I chucked them all 

as people taught me to build 

the same

with restraint and probable intelligence,

to immerse myself in blissful nonchalance. 

I won't drown. 

Agony vanishes in water

and nothing else keeps me down

as I fight heavy judgmental

currents 

telling my tale to the fish that leaps 

forth into the air so bereft while full of life 

for brief laps of time,

enjoying the edge but always back to safety,

unlike me.

I don't know how to swim yet.

But croak I shall if I must 

as I am,

but never cloak.*

*It doesn't apply when I am flying around saving people. Just saying. 

My Shorts Are Your Scandal?

Recently, my college authorities had taken our batch on a north India tour which was prescribed as a part of our curriculum. The declaration form signed by our respective parents agreed that their wards would dress decently and in accordance with the dress code. Whenever a dress code is emphasized in any place, it is predominantly of esteem importance and pressed in the case of women. While we did have the 'liberty' to wear tee-shirts or shirts deemed decent and not provoking, (many colleges in the state are extremely close-minded as far as the topic is concerned. Salwars are what God has deemed fit for the average modesty clinging woman in the country) it was noted that if any of us girls had worn shorts or any such clothes during the official part of the tour, we would have definitely been asked to charge alongside derogatory warnings whereas it didn't really matter if the boys wore them. It is not the fact that we weren't encouraged to wear the clothes  of our choice during this particular tour but the premise that decides what we have to wear at any point in time by various authorities like schools, colleges, the moral police etc., that bums me out.
 
   I expressed the unfairness of it to a friend of mine wondering out aloud why girls couldn't wear comfortable shorts or three-fourth pants on the train while the guys could roam around the way wanted to. He only said  that no one would stare at men wearing shorts but they most definitely would stare if a girl does the same, especially on a mode of transport as public as an interstate train.

Source: Google images 

  So, why does a little leg hurt men, their hormones and the so-called morale people? (inclusive of all genders) Honestly, I still can't think of my legs being anything more than a part of the anatomy thus into evolution. I wonder why I get cold stares from people I don't know and anxious ones with perspiration from ones I do know.

   I have been a gymnast for several years and used to wear the gymnastics costume that is mandatory at various competitions, both state and national levels. Initially, I used to feel a little odd about wearing a dress as short as that, exposing the thighs and legs completely but got used to with time. I think this is predominantly possible because no one looked at any of us girls there, dressed that way with leering looks or creepy stares. It was not a problem when our shorts reached just inches past our groin during the practice sessions. As an athlete, I have shorts and sleeveless jerseys which are the best in terms of comfort on track. There have been a lot of boys around there, but it was not a problem for any of them. Why is it only okay when it comes to a sport? Is it the rules that align mindsets? Is it the fact that sports-people are a special creation when it comes to hormones and thought?

Source: Google images

  I come to think of it as the fact that they get used to it. It is not thrust upon them that it is a sin to wear clothes so short in case of their women peers. It is told that it is okay. They eventually see women around with their legs exposed who don't think of it to be weird and neither do the people who are exposed to it, eventually. It is the effect of time and the mindset that evolves, that knows that it is comfortable for women to run in shorts and not full length tracksuits.

  On a parallel track, while I do think we are in that transition phase where legs are being revealed;(probably along with hands and cleavage) where it is not a sight uncommon to see a girl wearing clothes of her choice. But it is also the phase where the woman wearing such clothes is being labelled as a slut, whore, immoral and a big-time bitch. During a recent discussion with a few fellow bloggers on an online forum, I was plainly appalled and disgusted by the way some of them chose to see women. I wouldn't even say it was their perspective of women as much as objectifying them.

   I was glad to see the many open-minded men and women on that forum as well but two front-running speakers in opposition to most of our views said that man is still an animal and shouldn't be provoked. That women's dressing is one of the chief reasons for rape. Well, I believe that even if 'revealing' clothes are the ONLY reason for rapes, it isn't justified. Unless the other reasons fall to ashes and this is the only reason that's being pointed out, it isn't even on the table for a debate or arguments because obviously the flaws lie elsewhere.
I am irritated to see the hypocrisy in men I know.. in my friends, brothers and other relatives. While it okay for you to indulge in a drink in a pub, it is immoral if a woman does the same? Of course I have to admit at this juncture that many men are what their mothers made them to be and there is a blame that lies in the upbringing of the child, from the side of the parents as well.

  But we all grow up don't we? We use our rational mind to dissect right from wrong without bias in most issues but this one. Beyond a point, don't you think one has to evolve beyond it all? Beyond whatever ill-ideas are planted in one's upbringing, society and peers' opinions? If that hasn't happened, it means the respective person is shutting down a part of his mind to the obvious truth in front of them and clinging on to the hopeless strings of male chauvinism and ego. And if then, they debate or discuss with that closed-mind on such matters, it only seems like a joke to me.

   Legs are legs, whether they are that of men or women, breasts or chests, cleavage or no cleavage...it makes no difference if you are straight in your head to know that what anyone wears is his/her subjective choice and not be moral-policed. Don't let's make even the basic, comfort of woman scanned under the lights of your male-chauvinistic twisted ideas because frankly, no one gives a damn. Let me walk in peace.

P.S: This post does not in any way promote you running nude on the roads or asking someone to do the same. If you do so on the accounts of a very stupid comeback, I'm not bailing you out because I think the message I tried to convey here is pretty clear.And oh, in case you do get caught, smile for the mugshots. You only get one chance.  

Bereave

Night is when it hits you, in the silence of the skies

and the waning of the moon 

in the peaceful assumption of the living 

that some have already passed the test. 

I'd rather you'd failed for the name not called out 

in months together

is now rolling under my tongue and searing in pain.

Oh, I wish you had failed. 

Source : GOOGLE images

~Hemu

Give

Give me the mountains and hills,
all the nooks and crannies between the bushes and the cracks in the stone.
Give me their void, give me their echoes.
Give me that which gives back a hundred if I send across one.
I'll give them my love,
thus not wasted on many supposedly alive.
Let's forget them, shall we?
Instead replenish it all

on the
mountains alive
and the echoes real.




(Originally written on the road-towards Shimla. With minor changes to keep clear of profanity here)

Hemu