THE WAR OF LOVE

Silver castles,

Bloody battles;

The slash of swords,

Breaking of bones.

They both fought right in  there.

With all his might,

For kingdom, for pride,

He braved her troops by the side.

He conquered most, 

Piercing through their ghosts, until

He dared to look into her eyes,

A war won, paying a heavy price.

Her eyes that glowed

Brighter than the blood that flowed;

As her soldiers fell to dust.

She quietly had won the war of lust,

And had stolen the most precious ruby

On his chest!

FAIRER THAN THEE..

Fairer than thee, beloved,
Fairer than thee
There is one thing, beloved
Fairer than thee.
Not the yellow sun, beloved,
Bright though it beams,
Not the green earth, beloved,
Silver with streams.
Not the blue sky, beloved
Clear with light,
Not fairer still, beloved,
Star crowned night.
Not the gay birds, beloved,
Happy and free,
Yet there is one thing beloved,
Fairer than thee.
Truth in her eyes, beloved,
Grand in her sway;
Truth with her eyes, beloved,
Clearer than day.
Is the one thing beloved,
Fairer than thee.
Then shall I deem beloved,
Thou art she,
And there shall be naught, beloved,
Fairer than thee!

TWICE WRITTEN-I

“In another life, in another dream, let me belong to them, forever” , she whispered to the angels who lifted her gentle spirit into the world she deserved better.

                                                                   *********                                                 

Paaras waited outside the doors of the Operation Theatre, the bulb still indicated a red, he was not tensed. He knew everything would be fine, and very soon it would be celebration time. He went back to the unfinished level of his ‘Angry Birds’ on his I-Phone He was addicted to the game more than anything else. .It was his mission in life to clear the maximum levels.

“One day while I am dying and the angels are taking me away, you will still be hooked to the game!”, she had taunted at his addiction. She had looked cute saying that, like the yellow bird in his phone!

The bulb turned transparent. Like lava that cools after the most violent volcano, he quickly put his phone inside and rushed towards the door. The same nurse who had rushed his wife into the OT came out, she looked like an angel this time with her perfect white uniform. All she lacked was the halo above her head. Paaras waited like a little kid, who waits for his gift from Santa during Christmas. As the nurse came closer, his  legs were shivering with excitement. His gift was with her, wrapped in the finest cotton and he could not but wait for it to be unwrapped.

‘Congratulations Sir!! You have been blessed with a girl!’, the nurse said as she handed Paaras his possession. He felt elated. He always wanted a daughter, from the very time he knew he held the power of creation, he had dreamt of this very moment from the time he knew his wife was pregnant. He wanted the moment to freeze, like the snow flakes on the Christmas trees, as he melted away into the joy of turning into a father to this bundle of joy!

The baby felt like pink candy floss, dipped in the charms of infinite innocence. Her rose lips, her tiny fingers, her little toes , her lashes ; everything so beautiful, he could not but admire Him for such a wonderful creation.

He went into the ward his wife was shifted to. The doctors said, she was exhausted after a tedious labour trial for a normal delivery, which she had failed, followed by a caesarean. She looked at peace now, with a soft smile painted across her lips that put even Mona Lisa to shame. He was proud of her. He would wait for her to wake up and live her dream. She too wanted a daughter, a complete family they were now! He carefully placed his daughter beside her in the cradle and went outside. He would loot all the sweet shops today, it was celebration time after all!

He quickly remembered he had to make a call, he pulled out his I-Phone and started dialing the number. If there was one person in the whole wide world, he wanted to share the happiness with; it would be the person on the very end of the line.

“The number you have called is currently out of reach”, the lady with the faked honey dipped voice chimed. At many occasions, he had hated the fake lady with the irritating extra dose of sweetness; but today he wanted to stuff in a few Motichoor Ladoos even in her mouth. ‘Maybe she is busy; or on top of some hill writing away to glory’ , he said to himself and walked out of the hospital to buy a truck of Motichoor Ladoos.

It was the twelfth day since  Paaras was hit with the tornado. It had come with the twirls of both unexplainable happiness and sorrow. He wondered how in one moment, life could bring both the emotions together that it became difficult to choose which of them had a profound impact. On one side, was his little princess who was born into his world, bringing with her incomparable joy and satisfaction and on the other side was her; whom he had lost to the dunes of death.  She was all he had ever had, she was all that he thought he will ever have. Those beautiful shimmering eyes, like stars swimming in the foams of the milky way, that serenity on her face that silenced the storms in him, now to be found only as darkened embers that had dissolved into the holy waters that morning.

The evening was adorned with festivity. It was his princess’s Naamkarna after all.

She was dressed in the tiniest silk frock he had ever seen. She looked beautiful, like a butterfly out of the silken cocoon, out to explore the world on her own. After all the rituals, the priest asked him to whisper the name into her ears. As he took a step forward, his wife, Siya pushed him aside and went to her angel.

“Chavvi”, she whispered as the baby smiled for the first time in twelve days.

Paaras had tried calling Chavvi quite a number of times that day. And every time he did, the same faked lady had answered. He wondered if the faked lady would have had diabetes by then, guessing the number of Motichoors he had virtually stuffed in her mouth. He was worried by night, and so was Siya. Siya had woken up to her dream transformed into reality and both she and Paaras had celebrated it together. What they now missed was Chavvi. Siya longed to see the gush of happiness on her face, it had soothed her on many occasions, she longed to hug her and bask in the warmth of her optimism. Where had she disappeared?

Late the same night, Paaras had received a call from her number. He had been animatedly playing ‘Angry Birds’ again He had excitedly picked up the call and had marched into the excitement of the day and was silenced by the news from the other end.

“She was run over by a truck this morning on her way to the hospital. Nothing of her remains but for a mess of blood and bones’, her distant relative had wailed.

The storm had come, Paaras had cried, cried for the loss he once owned. Siya had cried too. All the hospital staff was left wondering what had gone wrong.

Paaras and Chavvi were best friends. From the day their memories could trace back, they were the best of buddies ever.  From the time of nursery days to the times of Paaras’s marriage; from the times of punishments in the corridors to the times of rifts between Paaras and his wife; from the times of walking out of the college gates as graduates to the times Paaras walked into the gates of fatherhood. They were inseparable, with the understanding of timeless comrades. For the last twenty six years, they had lived every emotion together. They were united in the extremes of the worst and the best. It was not love; as others around them thought. It was certainly something above friendship but less than love, and in such relations you could never mount any higher falling lower!

                                                                                                                  

Siya was never offended about what they both had for each other. In fact, she was drawn to Chavvi’s aura. The first time Paaras had introduced her to Chavvi, both of them had instantaneously gelled into a bondage of sisterhood. Paaras cursed the man who had once said that two women can never get along!  What followed were innumerable memories of the three together. Paaras and Chavvi effortlessly dragged Siya into their world, telling tales of childhood and youth, as all three laughed and cried at the same time. Chavvi always gave them both their personal space, never intruding into their problems and only had something to say when they sought her help.  Though Siya had tied the knots with Paaras, she often wondered if she was married to them both!  Paaras often lovingly looked at the two women, without whom his life was much more than incomplete.

                                                         *************     

                                              

It was a month now. That morning Paaras had received a courier. And inside lay Chavvi’s most priced possessions. Her writings, Her poems. Her diary. He had the first right on them, more than anybody else. And her family understood that well. She was an amazing writer, the one who captured everything beautiful in the whims of her pen. It was her passion, her way to escape from the miseries of life. She never believed in revolting against the unfairness she was thrown into . She simply believed in accepting it all, taking refuge under the realm of her writings. She never even shared her writings with anyone, except for a few dear ones. All her works had the potential of being published, she had never bothered. It was never her dream.

‘I  live in my stories. One day, I’ll live my story’ she often said.

Paaras opened the books that lay infront of him, as Siya pulled over a chair and joined him. Chavvi loved writing with a fountain pen, she had said her blue ink had a deeper tinge with the nib. From class five till the day she had penned her last story, everything was in blue ink; from a fountain pen. Paaras could feel the scent of the rose she always wore on her in the pages. He missed her. He missed her terrible. He missed her in the spaces between the words in her sentences, in her undotted I’s and J’s, in her undoodled margins, in her complete signature. She always signed backwards, with the C of her name starting from the right corner and the I at the left with a strike of a line throughout her name.

‘Urdu main sign kar rahi hai kya?’, Paaras had asked her once.

‘Nahin Nahin. It has a deep meaning . What begins with me, should end with me know!’ she had told, admiring the silliness of her own philosophy

He felt the void of her absence in the presence of her words that echoed her thoughts. As he read more and more and flipped through the pages, he could trace the stains of wisped tears on a few pages. Siya noticed them too, both of them knew the answer. It was better some answers remain unquestioned.

Paaras had decided then, her writings would be published. The world had to know that there was solace in pain, beauty in  injustice, hope in the dark, soul in the dead. He knew of the outcome: a best-seller without the autograph by its author!

The Candle Light Dinner

With a bouquet of orchids and a ring,

He saw her smiling in her sleep

He lovingly in his masculine voice began to sing,

As the alarm clock began to beep.

On her birthday, a day so special,

Every year he had made it unique

Diamonds, roses, emerald,pearl,

Had always surprised her, unable to speak.

Still, on every birthday she longed for something,

A young woman's desire, an unfulfilled wish.

Every birthday, she would wait for her husband to bring,

An evening with a candle light dinner to cherish!

As years went by, every birthday came,

With cars, apartments, earrings and clothes bright.

Love and romance that put other couples to shame,

But not a dinner with candles alight.

With silver hair, a stick in his hand,

He saw her smiling in her sleep.

He lovingly tried to sing at his grand,

As the alarm clock began to beep.

He held her hand, took her out of the room,

Cunningly he had made her skip dinner that night.

Out into the world of the stars and moon,

Where her craziest dream came into sight.

A satin table , where light from a thousand candles flowed,

With silver cutlery filled with food to feast,

At seventy two, her weak eyes glowed,

Living the dream she longed to cherish.

With melodies of love, he took her there,

The magical table with the finest wine,

Love and romance still in the air

As the old couple began to dine!!

Old Love

Suraj returned to his silent home. Being the CEO of one of the largest company of the nation was a tough job. He still enjoyed it. The reputation, the wealth, the respect, he enjoyed it all. Even though it meant, no

friends and no family, no informal parties, no simple joys of life, no laughter….It was a life of fake relations, plastered smiles, formal gatherings.  After all money mattered. After all years of study, hard work, sacrifices and struggles; achievements, had to pay their price someday. He missed the old times: the jokes, the love, the magic. It somehow did not seem to matter now.

He freshened up for a silent night. He sat back on his maple bed wondering how life could have been different if he had made a different choice ten years ago. Would he still have woken up to a breakfast from the next door five star hotel? Would he still have dressed in the navy Armani suits? Would he still mingle with the elite? Would he still go to sleep in a room adorned with ivory mantle pieces? Would he still travel day in and day out to luxurious countries of the world? Would he sometimes regret and then forget?

As he was still examining his chain of introspections, his eyes fell on the box made out of the finest rosewood in the universe. It lay there for quite a few years now. The maid dusted it from the outside, never bothering about its contents. The shimmer from the outside never faded. Suraj had carefully hidden her there. Though there was no place for her in his life now, he wanted her to be a part of his life. And she remained in the box, a part of his life, as a secret of the misty past, as a reminder of a world of ‘could have been’ to Suraj.

There were many occasions when Suraj was tempted to open his well hidden past. But he was scared, scared to feel her olive skin against his, scared to rekindle the love, to reunite the passion, to lose himself into her undesirable spell. He would never let anyone, even his old love ruin his wonderful life of monopoly. He would never let anyone snatch him from the clutches of precious time that he devoted for master minding ways to amass treasures.

He moved towards the box, each stride reminded him of mesmerizing moments of oneness he had enjoyed with her. With her, it was a different world, a world unknown to the known, a world where spirits danced to the glory of cheerful melodies, a world where he used to get lost and find himself. A longing for a companion on that solitary night of a new beginning made him open the box. There, she lay, the way he had left her eons ago.

She seemed alive. Even in the grave reserved for the dead. She looked alluring. His heart pounded with an unreserved pace.

Suraj was fifteen years old when he had first fallen in love. On the sunny afternoon of his birthday, his father had brought her home. She was wrapped in the golden flames of gift paper and had brought a glow to Suraj’s face when he opened his gift box. He had a flair for music from a very young age, and had expressed his desire to learn violin. His parents had catered to his wish and gifted him with a violin on his fifteenth birthday. For the next few years, Suraj spent most of his free time with his new found love. He played beautifully, the melancholy of his soothing union with his violin created a world of cheer around him. He loved playing his violin when he was sad, when he was happy, when he was angry, when he was lonely. She seemed inseparable from the very existence of his soul. Everyone around him thought, he would be a violinist, a terrific one that is, but the future had other plans.

The love for money overshadows the love for everything else. A corporate career brought home a new love for Suraj. Tempted luxuries tampered his love for his violin. With time, he got so busy that the tunes of cheer dissolved themselves into the ocean of green cherish. One fine day, he put her away in the box made from the finest  rosewood, and there she lay, forgotten, unloved, separated.

He picked her up, like a gentleman lifting his lady love for a moment of desire. As the night stroll to a new beginning, the magic was rekindled. He felt happy, he felt satisfied, and he felt himself. He let the moment transcend for the whole night, the dark night had given his life a new direction, pointing towards the old ways.  As he reunited with the love of his life, he  wondered how many cameras, pens, books, palettes lay hidden is the rusts of ‘old love’ all over the world….

The Seven Vows

Kaadambari’s dream had finally come true. In the last seven years, there were innumerable times that this scene had been envisaged in a simple girl’s heart that was so crazily in love. She looked at him, and he at her. Glances froze, lips dwindled into broken smiles, a rush of red filled her cheeks, love was in the air.

Kaadambari was clad in the most expensive bridal attire in town, the blush of the bride complimented the extravaganza of sparkling diamonds and rubies on her sleek body.

 Jeevan  looked like Manhmatta. 
Amidst the sacredness of a ritual revered for ages, Kaadambari and Jeevan were set to take the ‘saptapadi’ or the ‘seven vows’

The seven strides were to start from the direction of ‘Dhruva’ or the pole star, indicating steadiness and  stability in the new journey of life. Jeeven held her hand, to make the first three vows around the holy pyre. The flames burnt as passionately as their seven                                                                                      year old relationship.

““Om esha ekapadi bhava iti prathaman”.

I will love, cherish and provide for you and our children. You will support me and offer me food.

It was a year ago when Kaadambari had fallen dangerously sick. No medicines, no assurances had been able to cure her. Her parents were on a foreign tour, unaware of the situation. There were none to look after her, and she was drawing into the verge of depression and hopelessness. Jeevan made sure he was with her at every given chance. For all these years, he had seen her as an independent woman who was capable of taking care of herself; irrespective of circumstances. What he saw now, was a woman who cried out for tenderness, for love, for a support. The vulnerability of  a heart frail in life can be understood only by the heart that it has been given to!
He had cooked for the first time. She loved soups. Endless hours of browsing on the net for the most delicious and nutritious soups, he had somehow managed. The vegetables were half cooked, there was excess of water, and spice was non existent. But the ingredient of love had made it up for all. She had peacefully eaten her lunch that afternoon, and had fallen into an effortless sleep in his arms as he was continuing to spoon feed her.

“Om oorje jara dastayaha”

Together we will defend our family and home.

It was two years ago, when both of them had realized that the final destination of their love would be the start of a new journey called ‘marriage’. There were hurdles. Religion was the prominent of them all. Kaadambari had vowed to learn all about Jeevan’s religion, to be accustomed to his customs, to devour her soul into the soul of his scriptures. She had resolved to marry only when she was ready, for him, for his family, for her family. She had lived up to her resolution. Two years, despite of her busy career, her compassionate hobby, she had devoted time to be the perfect daughter-in-law , to carry forward the prestige and pride of Jeevan’s  family legacy. When her mother-in law had seen her, questioned her, she was impressed! She knew more than any girl of their community. She had nothing to complain about.

“Om rayas Santu joradastayaha”

We will be faithful to each other and lead a spiritual life.

Jeevan had never believed in the Supreme. Whereas, Kaadambari was a staunch follower of any spiritual element that crossed her path. She meditated, she worshipped, she followed all fasts and festivities. She slowly had made him a part of her spiritual life. Jeevan had simply succumbed. He loved her pure heart, her spotless divinity, her innocent pleas before the Almighty.

  

“Om mayo bhavyas jaradastaya ha”

I declare my good fortune in marrying my wife. We pray for a happy life and good children filled with all health and wealth.

Jeevan and Kaadambari were from the same academic backgrounds. Both of them were toppers from childhood and had the most intelligent of brains. From the time their corporate careers had blossomed, they swam in wealth and fortune. The way they amassed their treasures were different.

While Jeevan led a life in the international corporate circles, Kaadambari had  devoted her high ranked qualifications for one of the most renowned organizations for the betterment of the society.
Both of them had won many hearts in their respective fields. Even without each other, there was a streak of enchantment in their souls.
All of their friends, well-wishers and family had gathered. All of them had their own personal moments with each of them. It was a shower of blessings from heavenly hearts!

“Om prajabhyaha Santu jaradastayaha”

We for the happiness and wellbeing of our family. May we have righteous and obedient children.

She had looked unhappy that day. It was the same day her dearest friend had fallen prey to a zooming truck. She had cried Every time she had tried to make her friend happy by doing something foolishly funny. This time, she was helpless. Jeevan could not bear her astral face with the gloom of the violet nights. He knew what would make her happy. They had gone to the children’s park in the neighbour hood.
She had played with the toddlers. She had held little babies in her delicate arms and had crooned to them. She had meticulously hair styled pig tails of young girls. She had laughed, a laugh that reflects the brightness of a cradle of stars. He had decided then, his progeny would be the fruits from her soulful garden.
When she had seen him helping a young lad to peddle on his new bicycle, she had blushed. Her womanhood had pierced through his soul.

 “Yajne home shashthe vacho vadet”

I will always be by your side in your endeavors.

It was Kaadambari’s 25^th birthday. She was a simple girl and unlike the others of her age and maturity, she did not long for candle light dinners or diamond rings. It was this simplicity of hers that had stolen Jeevan’s heart. But then, even Maata Sita had desired for the  Maayamruga when she was with Lord Rama in exile. It was one this fairy tale desires of Kaadambari that Jeevan wanted to fulfill. 

 He had taken her to the park situated in the outskirts of the city. He had dwindled his whole month’s salary to make all the arrangements. There it was. It was one of the most splendid swings ever made. Decorated with the world’s most fragrant roses and lilies. She had squealed in delight and and had run towards the swing like a four year old girl. For half the day she merrily had sat on the swing and had sung the most melodious songs. He had sat with her for sometime and had spoken about life, it was a moment they would cherish forever. She had asked  him where he had got this romantic idea from. He had sheepishly mentioned the internet, which held the formula for the most of the love potions. Kaadambari was so in love with his imperfections.

“Om sakhi jaradastayahga.”

With this last Phera we forever belong to each other and will remain friends forever…

A very wise person had once said friendship is the first and last step of love. What lies in between is the path of marriage. It was on the same lines that their lives were outlined. When at eighteen, they both had met in their academic pursuits; they had become fast friends in a short span of time. They had for hours talked about their future, their dreams, their aspirations. Love had somewhere blossomed unknowingly. Cupid had conspired their mutual existence. They were intelligent, independent and a delight. Together they were inseparable. In what seemed liked years of undisputable friendship and love, they had found each other. She was the story of his life, and he was the life of her story!

RESURRECTED!

“Have you ever really had a teacher? The one who saw you as a raw but precious thing, a jewel that, with wisdom, could be polished to a proud shine? If you are lucky enough to find your way to such teachers, you will always find your way back. Sometimes it’s only in your head. Sometimes it is right alongside their bed.”

-Tuesdays With Morrie

I had woken up last night with my head spinning with memories.  My dream had left me restless. Even in the world of the unknown I could sense it was her. The warmth I felt last night could have emerged only from an aura like hers. It had been ten long years since I had seen her serene face.  But the threads of time had forever bound me to her: through her thoughts, her values, her ways, and her morals.

I was six years old when I had met her. The class bully had thrown away my lunch into the dustbin and I had been helplessly crying out of hunger and anger. She had fondly taken me to the room reserved for the teachers and had treated me to a feast of crispy pooris and spicy chole. The taste still lingered in my heart, and so did our first meeting. That day, I had run out of the staff room shouting out that I would ask the class bully to throw away my lunch everyday!!

What built over the next ten years from that day at school was beyond a student-teacher relationship. She had become my mother at my second home, a companion with the understanding of a timeless comrade. She secretly had treated me with pooris and chole on many occasions. On Saturday mornings, she undid my hair and plaited them into impeccable plaints. At the age of ten, she introduced me to the world of literature. From Blyton to Wordsworth, she unfolded a world I loved to explore. I simply moved along where she had taken me. At the age of twelve, she had kindled poetry in me. I effortlessly wove magic with words she had taught. She had instilled me with culture and traditions, a quest to intrigue, a thirst for knowledge, a temptation to explore, the unexplored, to rebuild the dome of unquestionable humanity…She did have a son, but she had resurrected her unborn daughter in me. And I had revered this bonding beyond the ties of blood. The first few years of my life were nurtured in the shadows of her warm love and care. And I had grown into a very refined human being!

Even after my school days had ended, I was still in contact with her. Over the years that came over, she predominantly was given an authority to voice her views in the most important decisions of my life. Until my marriage, when I settled down in the United States forever.

There comes a time in life, when you have to let go,

Let go of people, of smiles, of tears, of love.

Like the ship which lets go of the harbour dark,

With a promise to come again some other day!

Marriage had not only distanced me from my homeland but also from my dear ones. It was only on birthdays and anniversaries now, that calls were exchanged. I had created my world over here and I had no regrets. I had often spoken of her, to my husband and daughter while reminiscing olden days. And every time there was a tinge of divine moisture in my eyes.

The whole day I only thought of her. Her words echoed in my ears every moment, every second. There was some kind of invisible force compelling me to see her again. I scampered through old photographs to reinitiate the bonding I had shared with her. That night, I buried myself in my husband’s chest and cried. Cried for the distances I had created, for lost moments, for happier times. He simply had held me tight. It was his way.

After two days, I found three tickets to India on the breakfast table. I was more than surprised. Just last month, when my in laws had called, inviting us for a marriage of a close relative at home, my husband had stubbornly refused to go, giving an excuse of an important meeting. Miraculously, the meeting had been put off the previous day.

“You‘ll find an understanding husband” , she had told me on the day of my marriage.

After a decade or so, I was back in my homeland. My daughter was intrigued with every small thing she saw. She asked us about the dusty streets, the fragrant chamelis, the half clad women, the temples, the richness and the poverty. My husband and I patiently answered all her poignant questions. The marriage we had come to attend was a fortnight away. I had my time.

After making a full  fledged search, contacting old friends and foes,  I finally found her. In fact, I found her son. He immediately recognized me. The ties of satin and silk had not weakened over the years. Rakshabandhan  had been our special day. I remembered how I used to demand the most  crazy gifts and he would buy them without any complaints. He was now married, fathering a son. His wife was a simple woman, clad in a bright yellow sari. Both husband and wife made me feel at home while my daughter played with their son. They told me a miniature version of the events of the bygone decade; I pretended to listen, while my eyes searched for her presence. Her son sensed my impatience. And what he revealed left me shaken.

Like the autumn leaves on a windy day,

I had flown far away from her,

I had come back with the hope of spring

Only to discover, the seasons now stagnate.

She was suffering from Alzheimer, a disease much dreaded and feared. It was a question of now or then for her. Days and nights had lost count and she was dissolving into an ocean of nothingness engulfed by the dimness of confusion and grief. She lay quiet for most of the time and sometimes shrieked in sheer confusion. She called out to strangers and estranged people she knew.

I wasted no time in gong to visit her in the hospital. She was wrapped in a brown blanket and stared at the roof. Guilt and tears stung my eyes at the same instance. I went and sat down beside her, told her things I had planned to tell her when we met. I knew it was of no use. I gave her the book she had gifted me on my eighteen’th birthday, ‘Tuesdays with Morrie’. She gave me her benign smile. After a few hours, I decided to leave. My nightmare had come true. She had forgotten me and I was helplessly crying for a reconnection.

As I turned to leave, I heard my name being called out. The same way she had done on our first meeting, this time with the quivers of a pointless existence. I turned back with all my hope returning. And what I saw brought such a big pang of jealousy and happiness in my heart,  that I stood there in complete silence for the moment to pass.

My nine year old daughter, Aakriti was my shadow. She resembled me in every angle. Except for the dimples she had inherited from her father, her features were bestowed from my genes. Very often she would hold my old photographs in her hand and admire the impeccable resemblance. I often relived my childhood in her. There she was, my daughter, on her lap. She had un-did her hair and was braiding them into the same plaints. For once, I envied my daughter. I wanted to snatch her away and sit there instead. Very soon the envy was replaced with what she had always taught me. I resurrected myself into my daughter. It was the only way for a reconnection!

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!’