Aaji

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What comes to your mind when someone says Aaji? (Daadi/Grandma)
I immediately think of the real Masterchef from our childhood. I remember the one who used to cook delicious sabudana khichdi and thalipeeth for me. The one who would tell my mother “I know exactly what he will like. Let me cook it for him” with a sense of love and pride beaming on her face.

The one who narrated stories of Mahabharata to me and my sister. And also the same person who would scold my mother not to fast because ‘Gods would never want their children to stay on an empty stomach’.
I have far too many fond memories of her. Of course, I have seen her fight with my parents too. But the good parts outweigh those times far too easily.

I remember few funny incidences from my childhood. I had an aunt who lived downstairs, and the one who never got married. As a kid, I have asked my aaji at least a thousand times ‘Why does she not have children like other people?’. Aaji would burst into a laughter every single time I said that and instead of answering me, let someone else know what I had just said. I would just find it hilarious the way she’d try to control her laughter. Interestingly, she never told me anything else just to kill my curiosity. She’d rather say, “You’re a kid. When you grow up, you’ll know why.”

And I’d just add that to the list of things I was supposed to know automatically once I grow up. My next unanswered question in childhood was about sanitary napkins. As soon as the TV commercial would start, I’d demand everyone in the room to tell me what exactly was it. I had to wait all the way to my teen age to figure out why lady in the commercial was jumping around and later throwing blue ink on the Huggies-like diapers.

I think my aaji along with others cared for my innocence knowing well that that’s exactly the beauty of childhood years. I’m glad they did.

Recently, I went to meet my aging aaji. She has not been keeping well. She is bedridden and can barely stand on her own. It hurts to know that I would never see her cooking sabudana khichdi in the kitchen again like old times. I doubt she has accepted that though. I think she still thinks that she can do that one day.

When I sat next to her, she started asking me about what’s happening in my life. I told her everything was good, and asked her how she was doing.

“This lady is waiting for her daughter-in-law to cook her jalebis.”

“Who lady?” I was confused.

“This one. The one in green saari.” She pointed a finger at the television screen playing a series that she was so fond of.

She then went on to narrate the entire story plot that she remembered quite well.

In my mind, I thanked the makers of the series for keeping my aaji busy and entertained during her illness.
Thankfully, they make content for everyone. Funny how I never thought this way before.

While I was lost in my thoughts with my eyes staring at the TV, she told me to stay alert.

“What for?” I asked her with amusement.

“See, now a butterfly will come. It only listens to the little girl. This girl…Her name is Nanda. Keep watching…,” she spoke without moving her eyes off the screen.

I looked at her and the TV in turns with a smile on my face.

She was right. In the TV series, the girl whose name was Nanda then called the butterfly and an animated butterfly fluttered its wings only to come and land right on Nanda’s shoulder.

“How do they do that no?” Aaji asked with her eyebrows raised and the chin resting on the palm of her hand.

I had not seen her that curious for a long time.

Of course, I could see and knew that it was simply a computer-generated image of a butterfly. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give that as an explanation to her.

“How they must be guiding the butterfly to fly when they want and sit on her shoulder like that no?” Aaji smiled with joy as she asked me that. Her eyes were still glued onto the television set.

“You will know how. Once you watch the entire series, I think you will come to know,” I looked at her and smiled.

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Children of God

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By the time my niece was two and a half years old, we had bonded quite well. So, I decided to take her out on a walk one day. My niece – an adorable tiny creature walking alongside me and clutching onto my two fingers. As we walked, she looked at the world with her beaming face. Probably there was even a tinier person sitting inside her brain and recording all that she was seeing. On the other hand, I thought of how much this place had changed since my childhood. I had not been to this part of the town lately, the not-so-wide streets and the old house where I grew up.

With the town overflowing with population and creating chaos with its blaring vehicles & busy stalls, where do you take the two-year old?  The only place that I could think of was a temple of Hanuman nearby. It was the place that I used to visit when I was around her age. The temple was not really a popular one despite being very old. Probably that was the reason why I enjoyed visiting it back in the days. It was located in one of the side-lanes, little far from the main street. One had to walk down the kachha road to reach there. So I walked, marched, and matched my footsteps with those little feet. On our way over there, I showed her things that she might find amusing – a puppy, a kitten, a tall tree and a man with a long beard. When we finally entered the temple through its black-coloured gates, I imagined how my family back home would react to this, knowing only too well my relationship (?) with God.

I almost felt awkward. The way you feel when you stumble upon your ex at an event or a ceremony and immediately resort to an explanation. “I’m just here for the event, you know. What’s up, God! How have you been?”  But today was not the time to introduce atheism to my niece. As we moved inside the temple, I could see that she was already well versed with the dos and don’t s of the religious place. Where to take off your footwear, how to fold hands in front of the deity, etc. As we sat down in front of the deity, she looked up and asked me, “Why don’t you fold your hands?”  It had to be replied with a smile and me asking her, “I don’t know how to. You show me.” “Like this. See. Like this,” she gestured.

Afterwards, I showed her around the temple. I suddenly remembered that one of my schoolmates used to stay inside the temple premises as he happened to be the son of a priest working there. I looked up with a false hope as if he would still be around. His house was shut and wore a deserted look. Meanwhile, my niece was running around a tree in circles and pausing intermittently as if to check if I’m noticing her new achievement or not. It was reminiscent of the time when I use to run around this place with my sister. I loved chasing kittens and yes, also looking at this giant tree standing right in the center. My sister and I would try to guess its age. We could never reach consensus on the number but we did agree that it must have been older than any of our grandparents. I stood next to the tree and touched its bark. It was still standing strong. The wrinkles on its branches did give away its age but rather gracefully, like strands of grey hair shining on an old man’s beard. It was still holding a promise to touch the sky with its leaves on top. As a child, I always related it with a popular story of a young man who climbs the tree to enter the world of dreams.

I touched the tree with my palm and wondered if it still remembers me. I had learned in school that trees are living beings just like us and I had always wondered since then whether they too have memory. I wondered if the tree silently acknowledged its old friend.  I would like to think that it did. Maybe that’s the kind of solace every believer seeks. Hoping for a positive outcome and negating the doubts in their head about whether God really did hear the prayer. Maybe, it is all about hope in the end.  Maybe that’s why we don’t tell children that magic isn’t real, that Santa is simply their mom or dad tucking gifts under their pillow or that some things just cannot be afforded. Maybe God is another name for hope, and adults are his children who need to sleep well at night. They need not always know everything in its naked reality.

Interstellar

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Let’s pick a black hole to plunge into,
Let’s tumble down into the black velvet sky.
Let’s spin around the planets as tiny specks,
Until we transcend the dimensions of space and time.
Inject sunsets into my arm,
Let me feel your rush.
Let me love you violently in the privacy of my heart.
Your rib cage holds an ocean,
It’s the night we drain this sea
And plant flowers on its floor.
I think you’ve become a planet yourself,
Which is why I keep orbiting you like a dead satellite.
Turn the stars back on,
Let the moonlight slice the years gone by.
A taste of the universe sits on your tongue,
Show me how many galaxies you hold in your mouth.
Pour me a thunderstorm or two on the rocks,
Let us riot against the time.
Let’s tumble down, down, and down into the black velvet sky.
It’s the night we become one with the cosmic sublime.

Kintsugi

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Spinning little stars in a cracked marble universe.
It was the first time he wrote a story in his head.
He was five.
A kid with a glass marble held between tiny fingers.
He moved it close to his right eye,
and his left eyelid drew the curtain down.
The right eye watched the imagination unfold.
Planets spun around and their moons followed them,
like he’d follow his mother from one room to the next.
He twisted the round thing over,
and felt the crushed part with his thumb.
Imperfection. The first time he was drawn to it.
Maybe that’s what made rest of the piece so intriguing.
A world near-perfect with a slight flaw that hid a secret.
He wondered what must have caused it.
Each time he played the marbles, he could tell this piece apart.
From its beautiful imperfection.
It was the first time he cared more for the ‘broken’,
for he felt it needed a healing touch.

writing

Poetry

Poetry. She is a woman.
He ressurects her on nights that keep him awake.
She is his favourite garden dressed in black.
She drags him through the storm where the pretty things bloom.
She is made of all the sunsets he tried to evade.
She is an overdose of wildflowers stuffed in his chest.
She is his bruised knees and a pair of broken wings.
She tastes like his desires with a hint of bourbon .
They meet under the twinkle lights & he presses her against the bricks.
He caresses her like she’s his lifeline inscribed on a parchment.
She likes the way he calls her name with his hands around her neck.
She tells him things that petals confide to the Sun.
He can’t remember the first time her soul whispered to his. He knows she woke it.
But it hasn’t slept since.
Poetry. She is a woman.
A sunset chaser, star gazer.
A wide-eyed pretty little mess.

Renascence

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I remember drowning in the sea with a rock tied to my legs.
Though it was a mammoth ocean trying to claim me, I felt like a lost kite wandering off in an azure sky.
I was gasping for breath until a mermaid came to rescue me.
I opened my eyes to her face studying mine. Looking at the typewriter next to me, she grinned.
Write a tale which speaks of a white ship. The day you finish it, a giant wave will help you find your way back” the mermaid whispered into my right ear.
I was looking for the right words to say. But like all beautiful things, the creature was an ephemeral one.
With one flip of her tail, she disappeared into the dark sea.
It has been twenty-seven days since she left me here. Alas, marooned yet alive.
Sitting with my weary feet dug into the white sand & my eyes staring at the papers flying around in a frenzy.
Ready to prophesise with my words and undo the curse from the past.
I would like to believe that I have somehow made it already in the parallel universe.
The crumpled papers in the sand have slowly begun to unfold. They are asking me to breathe life into them.
But I’m busy pondering over the stale thoughts in my head.
It is insane how we let these voices in our head devour us. The things we need to purge, we let them feed on our brains like ravenous parasites.
But I have had enough of it now. I have stared far too long at the sand beneath my feet.
It is time to howl back at the Moon. Howl back at the ghosts of our ‘what ifs’ looking down on me.
I had buried your soul in my typewriter long after you left. And I see it burn out into the tiny sparks as I hit the keys.
Like a firefly, it hovers around my head. It’s been the only light on this godforsaken island.
I sometimes wonder if you’re keeping me company or waiting for me to wither & die.
Your love had grown like wildflowers in my ribs. I couldn’t pluck it, so it spread further to crush my lungs.
Much to your displeasure, I do feel a rush now.
There is a sparkle in my veins. It travels down my spine & kindles my senses.
I sit by the sea every day where sunlight breathes warmth through the singing trees.
This is where I shall conjure angels and create magic.
I could move through the time with waves. My words will shatter distances and defy the ocean’s depths.
You know, I keep thinking over what the mermaid said.
I have been writing for twenty-seven days straight. But the story never ends.
I’m stuck in a riddle that keeps me dying and alive at the same time.
There are days it rains & I hide under the tree. I have seen how the peace exists there in a daydream.
The rain drops fall over the pages, and I silently hope the ink will find its way to the egress.
If you read the poem well, you’ll even see the silhouette of a raven on the pages. It was sent by the Poseidon to keep an eye on me.
I have finally learned that the magic is concealed in one’s belief.
Why else would the mermaid choose me? When the sea is littered with lifelines, and she won’t touch a single one. That creature is in love with the dying.
Or maybe the resurrection is her task to summon all poets & writers and bring back the magic. I will never know.
Today, I’m standing at the spot beside the river where the willow branches touch the water. I can hear the waves singing paeans on my behalf.
I have now learned to hold hands with the wind and let the words become infinite.
I can see that the crumpled pages have joined into a giant paper boat.
The quest is at last complete. It is time to sail once again and say hello to the roaring breeze.

“The End”

The Social Network

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“Made for each other” and several other hashtags shone brightly on their photo.

Akruti and Siddharth.

Akruti. We have known her for three years now. Akruti and Vineet. That’s how we have known her for three years.

Akruti and Vineet. Not Akruti and Siddharth.

Who is Siddharth? Who cares? Apparently some guy with spectacles from New Delhi.

Who cares?

But Akruti has her hands wrapped around him.

Who cares? She has 248 likes on the photo already.

Vineet is not one of those 248 likes. But his best friend, 2nd best friend, and  3rd best friend are.

Anyway, Akruti just uploaded the 2nd photo now.

Life event. A symbol of the ring on top.

Social Media.

Us being social. As much as required or more than we need to. Vineet would agree for the later one.

Vineet clicked on ‘unfriend’ tab two weeks back. Three bottles of beer somehow managed to convince him. Friends were of help too.

But Facebook ridicules him. He scrolls down and reads 300 comments on a photo.

Akruti is smiling in the picture. We have seen her smiling in the photos earlier too. With Vineet.

This time, it is with a tagline ‘made for each other’.

Once again she says she believes in Love.

Vineet checks in at the famous lounge in town.

Three people like it. His school friend, his 35-year-old office colleague and someone he doesn’t know but is on his friend list.

Two more beers.

Akruti and Siddharth’s photo has grabbed a top position on everyone’s timeline by now.

Congratulations on the picture and gossip on the phones have started to flow in.

Vineet is somewhere between trying to distance himself from the life event and the life – which they both had famously sworn to spend together.

Vineet is failing to keep himself away from clicking the Facebook icon on his phone.

Social media has brought people together finally.

People. Lovers. Ex-lovers. Haters.

No more do they have to wonder, what others are up to?

Social Media.

Vineet forgot to read terms and conditions.

Sanskrit – a sacred murder

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(Amongst all the languages, the language of Gods (Sanskrit) is the sweetest, in that the poetry and further in that Subhashitas)

I cannot agree more to this subhashit.
I was born in a religious family in the heart of Pune. With an idol of Ganpati at our ancestral place and me being the only boy on my paternal side of the family meant – that it was me who was supposed to perform all the religious customs on behalf of my family. A mediator between the God and me obviously was a Hindu priest belonging to an upper caste. Being born with a curious bent of mind, I wasn’t much comfortable with this barrier of communication between the holy God and my naïve yet inquisitive mind. And the only apparent solution was learning the sacred language itself. The priest wasn’t much happy with the outcome. Over the years, he got further irritated with me reciting the shlokas before he could even begin chanting and further, more with me suggesting that we can skip one or two this time. And as I grew up, I read more on the language and fell more in love with it, with subhashitas and with the works of Kalidas. But all this was possible because I was living in the 21st century (Kaliyug as people ironically call it)

The origin of Sanskrit goes back to 1500 BC in Rigvedas. In fact, its roots lie all the way into Syria, Iran – the lands from where it later reached India along with the migrating tribes in the form of Vedic Sanskrit. Panini was the first one to standardize the grammar and vocabulary for the language. Interestingly Sanskrit went on to become a language of Gods or Dev community.
Sanskrit the so-called sacred language became restricted only to upper castes in Hindus. So sacred that the lower castes (more than 75% of modern Hindus) weren’t even allowed to listen to it being recited. This was the first horrendous mistake by then Sanskrit speakers which led to it eventually getting lost in the sands of time.

Prakrit languages – Maharashtri, Magadhi, Shourseni and Paishachi also developed around the same time. The prakrit languages were further developed into modern languages known as Marathi (from Maharashtri), Oriya, Bangla, Assamese (from Magadhi), Western Hindi (Shourseni), Kashmiri (from Paishachi), etc. Both Sanskrit and Prakrit languages had the influence on one another. No doubt that a Marathi, Bangla or Hindi speaker will find it easier to learn Sanskrit compared others. The important thing to note here is that the majority of southern languages had more or less nothing to do with Sanskrit, as claimed by many. Sanskrit was never the official language of all Hindus (except for few). Not a surprising fact that today it is spoken by less than 1% of the Indian population and mostly Hindu priests during religious ceremonies.

Any guesses why Sanskrit did not spread to the other parts of the world? Because according to Hindu priests back then, crossing the sea was a sin. That not only did kill the language but also made overly-dependent Kshatriya kings more vulnerable to foreign attacks and being conquered. Oxford dictionary, on the contrary, adds new words from other languages to official English language every year. It isn’t a surprise that English was established as a global language. Imagine if Sanskrit was also taught to people belonging to other castes and religions back then. Imagine if the masses were able to learn and recite Sanskrit shlokas the way few privileged ones were able to. Imagine the kind of literature that would have been created by writers and artists from rest of the Hindu classes which formed the majority of Hindu population. Such as Dnyaneshwar (13th century Marathi poet) who wrote Bhavarth Deepika (Dnyaneshwari) in Marathi for the masses who could not understand Sanskrit. Nothing killed the Sanskrit language (and other ancient arts) more than the devilish tradition of restricting it to only a few classes did.

Anyway that being the prime cause of the disease, what further killed the language? The ego and the self-proclaimed superiority of religious fanatics. For example, let us imagine a hypothetical situation where the current Government does succeed in promoting the Sanskrit language to masses. Let’s imagine a situation ten years from now, where few Hindu priests are performing a religious ceremony in a room full of Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaishyas and Shudras all of whom can perfectly understand and speak Sanskrit. Will the priests be pleased with everyone becoming proficient in Sanskrit and catching them uttering gibberish and charging fees for it? If you know the answer, you’ve got my point.

I genuinely hope that Sanskrit survives and future generations get to savor the beauty of its literature and rich history. But the fact remains that the preachers of Sanskrit are the original murderers of this language. And these desperate attempts to impose the language on everyone are nothing but an epitome of hypocrisy and embarrassment.

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(It is essential to speak the truth, but it is more important to speak out things that matter to the masses. According to me, the thing which is beneficial to the community as whole is the truth)

Hatred & Love

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“Romance after the fight is the best romance in the world” is a pretty mashed up line now. And I do agree with it for starters. But what they don’t tell you is ‘why’. I think you have to look for the reasons in the fight. Hatred. Anger. The words themselves are so strong and the feelings so intense. I think it is the intensity of the fights that resides in our hearts, lurking like a molten lava challenging to be calmed down. You cannot. You could only channelize it. And what is the best stop apart from romance to get down at?

Call me crazy. Call me a lunatic. But I feel I am equally in love with her while she is screaming at the top of her voice and am trying to subdue it with my husky (clears throat) one. I think I’m oddly drawn to her flushed cheeks and her fuming eyes. I do not think I love her any less even when we are fighting. And the secret is neither does she. The anger burning in her tone only  tells me how much she believes that she owns me and cannot settle down to agree with any disagreement that may happen between us. The little things that she does not shy away from, tell me that it is the version of us belonging to this moment or the period of time we are battling and not us – whole ourselves. She inherently acknowledges this far superior worth of our bonding and knowingly or unknowingly she is careful about the fragile nature of it even when we are fighting. That knowing and yet not knowing part is what builds our castle of cards, our cloud of dreams. And each time we have an intense fight, we only prick away the least important clouds that we made together. We do have to sacrifice a cloud or two, though, each time we quarrel. That’s the rule of the game.

But hey, we have only been talking about the before romance – the fight part. Once you clear this stage of the multiplayer game, romance awaits you to rekindle few dying sparks and ignite the new ones. The fire that was set up by hatred, jealousy, possessiveness and all other motherfucking siblings of them, is now waiting to draw you close. Fucking close. It starts with her pushing you away. That is the first stage of it. Then there are more attempts from your end, marinated with sweet words of affection. The names you call her, you know. She says, Do not call me that! You then call her ‘that’ again. Next stage is your ego making an intermittent appearance questioning your pursuance of her. You ignore it at first and swallow it down at second. She then surrenders. Not completely. But you see the glimmering hope in her eyes with a reflection of yours. That hope is what we live for and die for. The hope in her eyes. Yes, that is the end. It starts with once upon a time and ends with hope and grace. Not ‘they happily lived ever after’. That is your job asshole. You write, edit, proofread that. Good fucking luck.

 

 

The Last of 90’s Girls

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She doesn’t pout when someone clicks her photograph.

She looks almost the same as she does on her Facebook profile.

She is not a #Hashtag girl, she tucks complications inside.

The only time she puts a make-up on, is on a wedding time.

She is a rage. She is passion. She is the last of 90’s girls.

She checks out a guy, but doesn’t think it’s old fashioned to feel shy.

She knows how to use Photoshop, but

She is not a master of putting filters on Instagram.

She’s still got a mixed tape cassette in her collection.

The one she doesn’t play yet hums the songs of her favorite Boy-band.

She feels nostalgic every time someone mentions Yahoo messenger.

She says Watsapp killed what once used to be ‘hey, are you there?’

She loves early morning texts. She enjoys late night chats.

But Handwritten letters are what she loves the most, she doesn’t tell you that.

From Blank calls on landline to Missed calls on first mobile phone.

From writing crush’s name in scrapbooks to his first scrap on her Orkut wall.

From Café Coffee Day dates to Hallmark greeting cards.

She is evanescent. She is endangered. She is the last of 90’s girls.

She asks him for what they dreamt of. She hopes. She demands.

She stomps the ground and Love pours from the clouds.

Her smile is a gateway drug to, everything you ever lost;

Moonwalking slowly back into your life.

She’s fallen in love. She’s been heartbroken.

She is heading into extinction now.

Find her. Treasure her. Make her feel special.

Not because she wants you to. Because she is.

Because she is the last of 90’s girls.