Of love and beyond..

She ran her fingers through the pages. The words were smudged, like trying to hide an age old secret. The waters of the Yamuna had seeped through every page of the book Kaahini was trying hard to decipher. She aimlessly blew hot breaths over the moist pages, waiting for the black ink to rephrase themselves into meaningful words. She waited like a child waiting for the blob of ice cream he had just gulped to refill in the cone in his hand. She grew restless, the mess on the ochre pages looked like a string of black pearls lying astray on the golden sands, the value of which could be known only when they could be stringed together. She took off her blue dupatta covering her bare neck. She always wore a dupatta to cover the unexplained black scar on the right side of her neck. She gently wrapped the brown book in it. She held to it tightly, like a mother guarding her wounded child and took her new found treasure home.

He was the Poet. The best in the kingdom. He captured the moon beams in his pages and reflected the sun rays in his words. He could see the wind and talked to mountains. Lifeless words danced with splendor in his poems. The Maharaja adorned him with the rarest of jewels known to man kind each time The Poet wrote a new piece of priceless poetry. He was a master in the war of words and his praises were sung beyond the boundaries of a hundred kingdoms away from the city of Mathura. He always sat on the banks of Yamuna and looked into her calm spirit. The thoughts in the blue waters of the Yamuna were transformed into magical verses of love and hate, of struggle and fight, of kindness and virtue, of divine and evil, of war and victory with the black ink he always loved writing with.

Kaahini had found the book buried in the rusty sands on the banks of the Yamuna. That morning when she had come to fetch water from the lifeline of her village, she was mystically drawn to the brown lump of what looked like the finest leather of times. She instantly had dropped the pot she was carrying and had picked up the book. She hurriedly turned the pages, not knowing what she was looking for. She could make nothing out of the black lines that seemed to be filled in the book. She simply took it home, but her greenish charcoal eyes always seemed to gaze on the table where she had kept it.

The first thing he noticed about her was her eyes. They were a charcoal green. There was a mystery in them he longed to discover. He watched her from a distance. On the banks of the divine Yamuna, he watched her dance to the rhythm of the silver waves. She was Jwala, the daughter of the new milk man of the village. Like fire, her passion for dance burnt in her every move. On the banks of the river, with the moon and the stars as her spectators, she danced. She was unaware of the human eyes that had fallen in love with her every stance, with her every move. The poet quickly had taken out a brown book, the cover made of the finest leather. This book would be his soul. The saga of his love. Blue dolphins emerged from the glistening waters of the river. Jwala looked at them and laughed in delight. The sound of the ringing bells of the Shiv Mandir seemed to echo her laughter. She turned in that direction and saw the Poet. Even in the dim of the raw evening, one could see the pink of the rose rush into her cheeks. She ran away in the direction of the Mandir.

In the evening Kaahini went to the banks of Yamuna with the book. She gently placed it on a boulder. Today, along with the moon and the stars, she had a new spectator. She quickly started dancing. Like a peacock dances on arrival of the grey cloud over the horizon, she danced. Being the daughter of a milk man she could not afford to go to dance classes that most of the girls went to. Three dolphins dived out of the waters of the river as if to catch a glimpse of her. She laughed in delight. The bells from the Shiv Mandir started ringing. The evening Aarthi had just begun.

The next day, the Poet and the Dancer had finally met. When one form of art meets another, love is bound to happen. Over the next few months, they met each evening at the same place. While her body took forms of invariable poses of grace and divinity, he furiously wrote verses of unquestionable essence of love and art in his book. They appreciated what each of them had for another; art had united them in the universe they had created for themselves. One evening when in a moment of pleasure, her fingers had intertwined with his; she had felt the power of creation that they had held. He had felt the poignancy of love she had for him. When her breath had become his, he had come to know that all these days he had just breathed, but had never lived. When his heart pound with hers, she had discovered that all these days she was just a lamp. Today she had been lit.

Kaahini had felt a deep bonding with the book. All these years, she longed for love, for warmth, for a companion All this she felt in the warmth of the pages that were more than two hundred years old. She was drawn to it like flies to a celestial flame. When she ran her fingers through the pages, she felt like her fingers had intertwined with the Creator. When she brought the book close to feel the fragrance of an ageless memoir, she could feel a passionate breath mingling with hers, when she held the book close to her heart, she felt her heart pounding in rhythm with another, like dance to music, like ink to poetry…She felt an united passion that transported her through eons, her soul drawn to the invisible life in the book. It was like a known secret being unfolded in different ways, a known maze winding towards multiple destinations, a known love reigniting the passion…

It was the time of war. The treasures were looted, women were raped, children were killed, men were taken captive. None were at the mercy of the foreign invasion. The soldiers eyed Jwala on that young night. When the Poet and the Dancer were in their own world, unaware of the real world they lived in, the soldier had dragged her from behind.  He had harshly held her face down to his. The poet could win only a battle of words. The pen was no match for the swords at that time. He knew his time had come. With the last stroke of his black pen, he quickly wrote in his brown book and threw it into the waters of Yamuna. The river swallowed it in an instance; a treasure more precious then the pearls of the Mahasagar of Bengal. Jwala was in tears. Her eyes shown like lamps on water. Unable to succumb to the pleasure of another man, she snatched the sword from the soldier and slit her throat on the right side. The poet ran to her withering body. The sword glistened with her pure blood. He kissed the sharp blade and pierced it through his heart. As two human bodies fell on the banks of Yamuna, blood filled the chaste waters. Silver had turned into molten iron. Life had danced for the last time on the verses of love. It was however not the end.

Kaahini was feeling the last page of the brown book. The scar on the right side of her throat hurt badly. After a minute her eyes fell on the last few lines of the book. The black ink was mysteriously in red. She made no sense of it at all, but the line had moved every bit of her body.

“Beyond the world of right and wrong, beyond the world of love and peace, beyond the world of life and death, there exists a world. Someday we’ll meet each other there”

She lifted her eyes and looked at the stars, where it all had been written.

Through her eyes...

She closed her eyes for a moment of undisturbed serenity. She was satisfied. With each passing moment, the picture became clearer, more complete. She could feel the vivid colours run through her veins; they were the elixir of her life. From the garden green to the blemish grey, each colour flowed from her heart to her brain, until they tickled the very cells of her sensory nerves and stood behind the curtains of her retina, all set to splash the white canvas in front of her with life!

She slowly opened her eyes, her lashes moist with the splendor of the navy blue from the skies that she had just flown from. Like waking up from a dream, into the bruise cracks of reality, she picked up her palette, where she had placed blots of every shade of blue that made up the universe. She dipped her brush into the thick plod of cloud blue, and frantically started painting on the ivory canvas that lay before her. With each stroke, she could feel the heights of freedom, she had experienced minutes before. She added a splash of bright blue, for the glory of an independent life. Here and there, she painted clouds made of soft cotton; she could feel the comfort of independence in them, where she had woven dreams of comforting warmth and pleasure. Her happiness of flying in the void skies glinted in the shades of golden yellow she had just painted. When she was done, she simply put away her piece of creation in a dark corner of her room and went to bed.

Naina, from the past twenty years, lived her life through her paintings. She simply had to close her eyes and envisage a world she adored, and created the same on sheets of white canvas. If emotions could speak, it was through her paintings. When at four, she had felt the warmth of her mother’s hug, she had painted a sun. A sun, bright orange, spitting out flames of soothing gold to create a blanket of protection around the earth. Her earth was created using the blue and green of her wax crayons, carelessly floating in the warmth of her creator.

When at eight, she had felt her friend’s kindness in helping her out with a subject alien to her, she had painted a lonely night. While the whole canvas was splattered with pitch black oil point, she felt lost; wandering through a maze of dim hopelessness. When she remembered her friend, she had painted a round moon on the layer of black moss on her canvas; a pure milky white, a precious jewel of hope in the heap of coal. When she had felt her hope returning, tiny stars made of sparkling silver started appearing on her canvas. They twinkled like real, they reflected in the waters of her eyes.

When at ten, she had heard about the cruelty of poverty, hunger, disease of the world, she had cried for the whole evening. Her helplessness was outlined in the pencil sketches of the chained iron gates she had created on a sheet of paper. On one side of the gate, were tiny human figures, men, women and children with their arms outstretched towards the heavens for help. On the other side were the same human figures, drowned in the heaps of joys and wealth, who were looking at the other side of the gate and smiling. The evil of their sarcastic smiles were etched in her sketch with such precision that everyone could conclude the extinct traces of human spirit on the planet. Her piece of art this time emerged without any colours.

As she grew up, all she felt, all she heard, all she spoke came alive in her paintings. Strangely, she never liked sharing her world, she threw the pieces of powerful pieces of existence she had created into a dark corner of her room and had cried. The next morning, she was back to her routine life.

The hall was lit up with the lights of an undying spirit. All the corners of the room were adorned with Naina’s world. Hundreds of paintings were the talk of the town. People gathered each painting, inferring what they could mean. Each stroke had a hidden meaning. Each colour reflected a part of her life. Men well versed in the field were in awe looking at Naina’s works. They not only admired her for the honesty and spirit the paintings brought out, but also praised her for the bravery in her battle in the war she had lost when she was born.

That evening, when Naina came on stage to speak, to acknowledge the stardom her new found fans had given her, the entire crowd in the hall was drowned in the sea of surprise and awe. Young Naina used a walking stick to make her way to the podium; the eyes that had seen the light of world were hidden behind curtains of black glasses. Anyone could infer she was visually impaired by looking at her. It was hard to believe, to believe that the darkness she had lived had coloured a different world! They were still in awe when she spoke:

‘…….. I was born without a vision. But the people around me helped me see what I could not. The children of nature helped me see what I could not. I have never seen the green of the grass or the purple of the lotus; I have never seen how wide a smile is or the brightness of victory on people’s faces; I have never seen the rainbow or the rain drops; my heart was my vision. What my soul felt was how I thought the world looked like, and I want you people to see what I can!...”, she walked away to create the hall of people  she had just seen with her eyes on the canvas.

BONDING...

Mr and Mrs Vardhan saw those eyes near the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital that day. They were the same shade of sapphire blue. But then, the spark in them had disappeared. What they could see now were only the wisps of tear drops, like the skies after a heavy down pour. They looked tired, they looked helpless, they looked unhappy.

Mr and Mrs Vardhan had come for their routine health check up. At the age of 86 and 81, where else would you find an elderly couple on a Saturday morning? It had been their routine for years now. Every 3^rd Saturday of the month, they would come to the hospital and spend a day with the doctors and nurses. Fortunately, they were in the pink of their health except for meager signs of old age! The couple had a son and a daughter. Both of them in some wretched corner of the globe. With their respective families. Twenty years ago, on their anniversary, Mr and Mrs Vardhan were gifted with the most beautiful gift by their children: the papers of a life- time bond with the Old Age Home!

From then on, they had a new family. The inmates of Ashraya Old Age Home were all beings of a cruel world. The fingers they held firmly when their children were about to fall, had ruthlessly signed on papers that freed them from their responsibilities. Love and kindness that had been showered, now were returned through money orders and online transfers. A seedling planted with the hope of support in times of fragility now bore thorns. Homes that were built with bricks of sacrifices and love were shattered with the swords of selfishness. Life had to go on somehow. The members of Ashraya had succeeded in giving a purpose to the rest of their living. They ate together, they spoke about happier times together, they cried at the unfairness together, they lived together. In the mornings, after a healthy breakfast they indulged themselves in activities they liked. Activities they had sacrificed for their children. While Mr. Rao shoveled for his new jasmine garden, Mrs. Wadeyar baked cookies for the festive season. While some weaved, some solved crosswords in the newspapers, others simply sat and watched innumerable television shows. They were happy, in the world they had to live in now to survive. What they missed were the eyes where they once upon a time had seen the whole world, the smile that lighted up their lives in the hardest of times, the love that was shared. They silently cried to Him for some answers. It was better some answers remain unquestioned.

Ravi and Richa were the children from the house that was homed right in front of Ashraya Old Age Home. The mansion was secluded in layers of Gulmohar and Mango trees. With the serenity of a crystal pond beside, where ivory swans swam, the mansion was a reflection of the Edens and the fortunes Ravi and Richa were brought up in. Ravi was 15 years of age and his younger sister was 10. The children often visited the old age home. They came as a splash of happiness on a gloomy day to the old couples. The entire day was spent in showing unbiased loved to the two kids. They played games, they ate ice creams, they sang, they cracked jokes, they laughed, they smiled at the innocence of the kids, and they had no regrets for a day. The children reminded them of their own children, their happier times with them; they reminded them of their grand children with whom they could be sharing the same moments, if only…

The children were more than happy to spend their time in the Old Age Home. Both of them had lost their grand parents and had found a way to replace their existence in Ashraya. Richa’s blue eyes glowed like sapphires when with them. Ravi was delighted when his sister was happy. They had learnt from their parents that love was not underlined with the ties of blood or relations. It was something that held the world together, firmly, like the dawn holds to the sun with the promise of a new morning, the river to the sea with the faith of a successful journey. The more you gave, the more you would receive, maybe not from the same person, but from a heart that danced freely in the glory of the true human spirit. With the same thoughts, they had continued for a few years. Just as the rule of the world goes, the happy family was shredded on one Sunday morning when the car they were traveling in was hit by a truck. Richa was the lone survivor to endure more merciless acts of the cruel world.

More mercies followed. Relatives unfairly lay hands on the property that legally belonged to Richa. From the abode of heaven she was thrown into an orphanage of the city. Her journeys to the Old Age home stopped. She disappeared from their lives like the morning mist from a mountain. The couples had cried again, this time for a different reason though. They had once again lost someone they had loved. Life still had to move on like before.

Richa had grown up in the orphanage with the dreams and aspirations of any woman of this world. She had forced herself to forget the life she had once led, and had grown accustomed to her new world. After the age of 18, she had moved out to a her world of independence. Her intelligence had earned her a job and a life. She had fallen in love, married and lived a normal life. The financial deficiency of her husband was nothing to her. They could afford a simple meal of rice and curry thrice a day. That was more than enough for her until that dreadful 3^rd Saturday of the month.

Her husband was run over by a truck from the way back from work. While he was battling with death for a life, Richa was battling with people she knew for money to pay for the hospital bills. Hard times became harder with refusals from all ends. She simply sat on the iron bench of Intensive Care Unit of the hospital, with those sad sapphire eyes, with the floods of hopelessness emerging from them.

Mr and Mrs Vardhan had seen her then. They had recognized her. The old couple had immediately sold the only property they were the owners of, for her. They were left with nothing now, except for the gratitude of Richa and her husband who now come to the Old Age Home every Sundays with their 6 month old son.

Richa now quietly sings in her son’s ears:
’It’s my blood that flows in your veins,

 It is the same blood that some day will give us pain.

 Let this blood be replaced with love,

 Love that will bond us together forever!!’

SHRIEKING SILENCE....

She woke up to a new sun,

With last night’s scars still burning.

She had to move on, she was the ‘woman’

Unnoticed, uncared, yearning…

When at eight, she had quietly watched,

Her brother being sent to school;

She only learnt to cook and wash,

‘Education deprived’ – was then a  rule.

She grew up to be the family’s pride,

Lustrous eyes, seducing smile.

While one day, the precious jewel was bought

For  a shameless dowry by her husband’s side.

Shackled by customs and traditions in her new cage,

She remained a prisoner of her ‘brand’

Her dreams, her desires, her burning rage,

All buried deep underneath the masculine strand.

She raised her kids alone, she dutifully swept the floors.

While the society willfully refuses to adore:

The ‘woman’ in her who struggles and strives,

For respect, for freedom, for a better life.

She still tries to justify her existence,

She still tries to escape the unfair violence,

But she only hears herself,

Suffering in this shrieking silence!

BROKEN WINGS

She flew freely in the sapphire skies,

Looking at the spread of turquoise below,

Everything seemed so small from such a height,                  

Everything seemed to move so slow.

She felt happy basking in the warmth of the sun,

She felt thrilled glowing in the glaze of the moon.

Her friends, her family all in the fun,

Satisfied, she would silently coon.

She taught others to fly like her own,

For those who failed, she taught to try.

With each flight, she had grown.

Dreams in the air, success in the sky,

Her wings scarred, her dreams shattered.

Rising one day she fell straight down,

No friends, no family gathered,

Smiles vanished, remained only a frown.

She lived in the bushes,

Instead of the trees.

She drank from puddles,

Instead of the seas.

She courageously tried to fly in pain,

An attempt all in vain.

With an undeterred hope she still tries,

‘I will not give up’, she silently cries.

Day and night, she beautifully sings,

‘I’ll learn to fly with broken wings!’