"Zoya" called her mom hurriedly to check if she was ready to leave to meet the Khannas for their monthly dinner meets. As Zoya reluctantly combed her hair, she sulked at the thought of meeting them, mainly because she never really liked visiting "family friends" with her parents. For one, they weren’t really her friends so it was quite boring listening to her parents catching up with one another in rather high-pitched excited voices. Sometimes, she would get company of her age and even though they wouldn’t get along really well, she would still manage playing in a new neighbourhood, passing the time decently well rather than listening to her parent's talk. But then, that wasnt the case this time. The Khanna’s offsprings were way too older than her and had migrated to different cities for their studies. The only attraction in the house was their computer, but then she had a terrible experience last time around when she had asked curiously if she could play on it and was instead made to see hundreds of photos of their son and his wife and some unknown relatives of theirs.
More than anything else, she disliked how there was always that proud moment of boasting from all the elder ones about their kids and as a result, she, along with other kids, was made to dance or sing or exhibit one of their talents. Throughout the drive, she prepared herself to be suddenly made to dance on mera piya ghar aaya, the famous Madhuri Dixit song she had danced on her annual day. The day she had performed the dance for the first time in front of her mother, she knew, she would be doing it countless number of times in the time to come. But this time luck favoured her heart’s wish and before she could’ve been forced to dance, the power went off. In that moment of darkness, she excused herself for an escape outside to get her favourite Uncle Chipps.
While climbing back the stairs with her packet of Uncle Chipps in hand, she ran into another Uncle. She didnt really know him, but following the Indian tradition guidelines of what a person with a particular age gap was to be called by the younger one, he fell into the category of Uncle. As she passed him, he turned to her and asked inquisitively, “Beta, does Pooja study in your class?” knowing well that there might surely be a Pooja in every class, its being such a common name. Being just seven, she was not really alert to beware of such traps and so she nodded. The trick worked for him once again. Moving closer he said, “Tell her that Satish Uncle has shifted to Alok Nagar now. I’ve lost her number and am not able to contact her or her parents and inform them about the change.”
Thinking there was nothing to lose in passing on the information she nodded and was about to go when she was startled by the realisation that the uncle had blocked the way and to her discomfort was laying his hands in places he shouldnt have, stroking her in a nasty way which felt very unpleasant. She was too shaken to even realise what was happening. When the partial understanding occurred to her, she tried pushing him away but the more she tried, the closer he seemed to get. Years later, she was reminded of this incident when she first read Newton's Law of Motion that stated every action had an equal and opposite reaction. After a bit of Zoya's struggle and fulfillment of the man's lecherous pedophilic desires, he released her and disappeared, leaving her cluelessly sore and embittered. She didnt know what exactly she felt against the stranger, about whom she know nothing more than that his name was Satish Uncle. She was unable to place a target where she could direct her hatred, her contempt. She contemplated telling her parents about it but then was clueless what she had to complain if at all she resorted to speaking out the issue to them. What good can they do, what action can they take against a certain Satish Uncle. She bitterly wanted to punish him for reasons unknown to her for she still didnt have a complete understanding of what had happened. All she knew was that she felt humiliated and insecure. Her defenseless susceptibility pushed the incident into a silent corner which noone knew of. She resolved that the only way she could harm Satish Uncle was by not telling Pooja his changed address. She pacified her agony by gauging it similar to letting him feel the desperate need to do something too and not find ways of doing so. But she still felt incomplete in her defence by targetting a stranger tagged by the name of Satish Uncle because she knew it didnt really make much of a difference to him. Very soon, she found a way of venting out her disdainful odium. When asked guilelessly, unaware of the severity of the question, by her friends whom did she hate the most, she knew the answer right away. With conviction she vehemently replied, “Pooja Sinha.” Ever since, she never talked to Pooja, ever.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Warm Wintry Walk
Two months ago, I could have given anything to have had proper cold winters in exchange for the perennial summers of Mumbai. But now that I was facing the harsh cold winds of Chandigarh, I longed the humid summers back. It was an everyday battle for me against my hibernal tendencies to get my feet out of the warm quilt, which warmed up only after hours of snuggling tight inside. Everyday, I felt my feet becoming numb as soon as it touched the astonishingly chilled floor-tiles which managed to penetrate the cold inside my toes even through a layer of warm woolen socks. It was a heartless assault by the cold as it invaded into the unwelcomed territories of warmth and spread its dread throughout, making me as stiff as a robot. Of the many sacrifices in order to get accustomed to the ruthlessness of the winter, I had even given up my daily routine of taking baths to only twice a week for my convenience’s sake. I had even shifted to using mustard oil for my hair as I realized that the coconut oil I usually applied used to get “frozen” into tiny white dandruff-like looking particles on my head; an ugly site that it was, it gave tough competition to the gloomy derelict streets of my locality.
The gloom had made me such a crybaby who whined all day long about how big a pain it was. But all my troubles and strife seemed insignificant when I saw the glowing magic that Rhea was, the one who made facing all the ruthlessness worth staying in Chandigarh, the only respite. And I particularly thanked the winters for at least one thing: making her all-the-more cuter and cuddlier as she hopped around in what seemed like innumerable layers of clothing, her inflated version giving an impression of a stuffed toy brought to life! It was even more heart-warming to see a slight shade of pink gush round her cheeks as soon as she saw me. Everyday she would rush to me and touch my cheeks with her extra-cold hands which could run shivers down my body even on a summery day.
Today, it was after the office got over I started with my usual complaints about this weather making me slow and lethargic, Rhea suddenly gave an idea of going for a long and taxing night stroll that could generate some amount of heat. I didn’t come as a surprise to me as I was used to such spontaneous ideas of insanity from her. To take her mind off the thought as lightly as possible I passed it off as a joke and commented, “Are we not already exercising on auto-mode by shivering 24X7? It doesn’t seem to generate energy.”
Persistent as she always is, she was difficult to be deferred. She insisted by saying, “Oh come on you lazy-loner! How ridiculous an idea that is. If we walk fast enough, we might be breathless and sweaty even in this temperature. It is still better to exercise rigorously for an hour and be warm than exercising, as you say, by shivering 24X7! Plus, we get to spend more time with each other that way.”
That was a caution-alert. By experience, I now knew enough that if I refused the walk now, it could stir up a quarrel with her saying that I never like spending time with her. So I was left with no option but go for a walk with her on the streets which people had deserted and declared too harsh to be acclimatized to.
And there I was, two hours later, as promised walking down those streets with a someone whose presence made the empty streets full of life and made me wish for no one else. After walking for more than 40minutes, I became comfortable with the dropping temperature and actually started enjoying the rather delightful walk with her because otherwise I was never really comfortable walking on crowded streets with this eye-catching person. It felt as if the whole street, whole city was ours and that winters had wonderfully given us the ownership and privacy from distant onlookers as the brume set in and made visibility unclear. The night drew its curtains for us from unwanted viewers sitting cozily within warm walls and covered their windows with frost.
With no-one in sight, she came close to me and let out a small breath which immediately became a small envelope of white fog between us. As soon as the haze disappeared, she whispered, “Catch my breath” and slowly breathed out a crispy layer of fog. I was puzzled for a moment and it took me a while to understand what she meant. I quickly tried inhaling the white layer of air which was slowly disappearing. She smiled and said softly, “See, you took my breath away!” I was amazed at how beautifully she had turned a simple phenomenon of condensation of moisture into something so unexpectedly romantic. I held my breath for as long as possible, letting it mingle with the warmth of her breath and letting the beautiful feeling sink in. I think she was holding her breath too and waiting for my reaction but I was too befuddled to say anything. I hurriedly managed to say, "Love is in the air". She smiled. We were so close that I felt like kissing her right away but for some reason was hesitant and millions of excuses ran in my mind. The lamest and yet the strongest one was that my lips were so chapped, she may feel that her lips had brushed against an old bark of a tree. And as if she had read my mind, she said, “Your lips seem so chapped and dry. You know whenever my lips crack, I tend to peel off the dry skin. Don’t you ever do it?”
I was amazed at how she was able to come up with such a platonic topic of conversation when we were so close that my adrenaline had no control. I felt embarrassed for thinking on those lines while she was so innocently suggesting me home-remedies for dry lips. I also entertained the thought that maybe I was too late in reacting to her previous attempt of affection that she got embarrassed and switched to this topic. I was too lost in such trifling thoughts that I didn’t notice that she now stood tip-toed and had pushed my shoulder down. Gently her lips touched mine and before I could kiss her back, she peeled the dry skin off my lips. I felt like a warm gauze of acceptance was put over a neglected wound of insecurity as her moist lips gave a new life to the chapped ones. The night didn’t seem cold anymore, there was warmth of love flowing within me. As I walked back, the same abandoned streets with mist-covered window panes seemed to have a reason for the desertion. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this harsh appearance of cold was just a cover for something far more loving. I guess nature answered my question right away, the night seemed to be celebrating the love for there were snowflakes all along the way.
The gloom had made me such a crybaby who whined all day long about how big a pain it was. But all my troubles and strife seemed insignificant when I saw the glowing magic that Rhea was, the one who made facing all the ruthlessness worth staying in Chandigarh, the only respite. And I particularly thanked the winters for at least one thing: making her all-the-more cuter and cuddlier as she hopped around in what seemed like innumerable layers of clothing, her inflated version giving an impression of a stuffed toy brought to life! It was even more heart-warming to see a slight shade of pink gush round her cheeks as soon as she saw me. Everyday she would rush to me and touch my cheeks with her extra-cold hands which could run shivers down my body even on a summery day.
Today, it was after the office got over I started with my usual complaints about this weather making me slow and lethargic, Rhea suddenly gave an idea of going for a long and taxing night stroll that could generate some amount of heat. I didn’t come as a surprise to me as I was used to such spontaneous ideas of insanity from her. To take her mind off the thought as lightly as possible I passed it off as a joke and commented, “Are we not already exercising on auto-mode by shivering 24X7? It doesn’t seem to generate energy.”
Persistent as she always is, she was difficult to be deferred. She insisted by saying, “Oh come on you lazy-loner! How ridiculous an idea that is. If we walk fast enough, we might be breathless and sweaty even in this temperature. It is still better to exercise rigorously for an hour and be warm than exercising, as you say, by shivering 24X7! Plus, we get to spend more time with each other that way.”
That was a caution-alert. By experience, I now knew enough that if I refused the walk now, it could stir up a quarrel with her saying that I never like spending time with her. So I was left with no option but go for a walk with her on the streets which people had deserted and declared too harsh to be acclimatized to.
And there I was, two hours later, as promised walking down those streets with a someone whose presence made the empty streets full of life and made me wish for no one else. After walking for more than 40minutes, I became comfortable with the dropping temperature and actually started enjoying the rather delightful walk with her because otherwise I was never really comfortable walking on crowded streets with this eye-catching person. It felt as if the whole street, whole city was ours and that winters had wonderfully given us the ownership and privacy from distant onlookers as the brume set in and made visibility unclear. The night drew its curtains for us from unwanted viewers sitting cozily within warm walls and covered their windows with frost.
With no-one in sight, she came close to me and let out a small breath which immediately became a small envelope of white fog between us. As soon as the haze disappeared, she whispered, “Catch my breath” and slowly breathed out a crispy layer of fog. I was puzzled for a moment and it took me a while to understand what she meant. I quickly tried inhaling the white layer of air which was slowly disappearing. She smiled and said softly, “See, you took my breath away!” I was amazed at how beautifully she had turned a simple phenomenon of condensation of moisture into something so unexpectedly romantic. I held my breath for as long as possible, letting it mingle with the warmth of her breath and letting the beautiful feeling sink in. I think she was holding her breath too and waiting for my reaction but I was too befuddled to say anything. I hurriedly managed to say, "Love is in the air". She smiled. We were so close that I felt like kissing her right away but for some reason was hesitant and millions of excuses ran in my mind. The lamest and yet the strongest one was that my lips were so chapped, she may feel that her lips had brushed against an old bark of a tree. And as if she had read my mind, she said, “Your lips seem so chapped and dry. You know whenever my lips crack, I tend to peel off the dry skin. Don’t you ever do it?”
I was amazed at how she was able to come up with such a platonic topic of conversation when we were so close that my adrenaline had no control. I felt embarrassed for thinking on those lines while she was so innocently suggesting me home-remedies for dry lips. I also entertained the thought that maybe I was too late in reacting to her previous attempt of affection that she got embarrassed and switched to this topic. I was too lost in such trifling thoughts that I didn’t notice that she now stood tip-toed and had pushed my shoulder down. Gently her lips touched mine and before I could kiss her back, she peeled the dry skin off my lips. I felt like a warm gauze of acceptance was put over a neglected wound of insecurity as her moist lips gave a new life to the chapped ones. The night didn’t seem cold anymore, there was warmth of love flowing within me. As I walked back, the same abandoned streets with mist-covered window panes seemed to have a reason for the desertion. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this harsh appearance of cold was just a cover for something far more loving. I guess nature answered my question right away, the night seemed to be celebrating the love for there were snowflakes all along the way.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The denial of pain
She said she had moved on, but I doubted that she did,
She put up a brave smile and acted as if all was splendid.
But inside she was broken and wanted a tender shoulder,
In defence, she acted strong and somewhat colder.
She felt like wearing black, but against her heart wore red,
Wanted to listen to sad songs but played loud metal ones instead.
She was adamantly in denial of her own pain, her grief,
Acceptance and liberation: she rebuffed herself the basic relief.
And all so suddenly she was grateful to those who, for her, were there,
Hoping it would substitute for the missing love and unrequited care.
She hugged her friends recurrently and thanked them for random stuff,
And kept assuring herself that for her their love was sufficiently enough.
But in her heart, she still couldn’t repudiate the feelings for him,
It kept coming back to her and made her condition grim,
And as strongly as it would come, she would as obstinately ignore
But then it would make it worse and more miserable than before.
Irrepressible spurt emotions when difficult for her to conceal,
Helplessly she would have spasms of bad temper piecemeal,
Which would leave her well-wishers befuddled and confused,
For a little while ago she was thankful and all over them with gratitude.
All the while, she would be hoping for somebody to understand her mood-swings,
And ask her what is actually wrong and if at all they could fix things,
Only then would she be able to admit her vulnerability and weep,
And take off her chest the thoughts which for days hadn’t let her sleep.
She put up a brave smile and acted as if all was splendid.
But inside she was broken and wanted a tender shoulder,
In defence, she acted strong and somewhat colder.
She felt like wearing black, but against her heart wore red,
Wanted to listen to sad songs but played loud metal ones instead.
She was adamantly in denial of her own pain, her grief,
Acceptance and liberation: she rebuffed herself the basic relief.
And all so suddenly she was grateful to those who, for her, were there,
Hoping it would substitute for the missing love and unrequited care.
She hugged her friends recurrently and thanked them for random stuff,
And kept assuring herself that for her their love was sufficiently enough.
But in her heart, she still couldn’t repudiate the feelings for him,
It kept coming back to her and made her condition grim,
And as strongly as it would come, she would as obstinately ignore
But then it would make it worse and more miserable than before.
Irrepressible spurt emotions when difficult for her to conceal,
Helplessly she would have spasms of bad temper piecemeal,
Which would leave her well-wishers befuddled and confused,
For a little while ago she was thankful and all over them with gratitude.
All the while, she would be hoping for somebody to understand her mood-swings,
And ask her what is actually wrong and if at all they could fix things,
Only then would she be able to admit her vulnerability and weep,
And take off her chest the thoughts which for days hadn’t let her sleep.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Kaleidoscopic love!
For some love is like a wonderful kaleidoscope,
Filled with colours of ardor, delight and hope.
Together they make beautiful patterns,
Unique and different at each of its turns.
When you switch to a new motif
You know you can never get back the old.
But you move on curiously to the next as if,
It will be better than the design you currently hold.
But you never seem to find a difference,
For you have never attached yourself to any pattern for long,
You try finding the reason but nothing makes sense,
And you don’t realize what exactly could be wrong.
You restlessly try to figure out the best,
But get frustrated that you cant chose one from the rest,
Because now all the patterns seem more or less the same,
And throw it away, saying Kaleidoscopes are pretty lame!
Filled with colours of ardor, delight and hope.
Together they make beautiful patterns,
Unique and different at each of its turns.
When you switch to a new motif
You know you can never get back the old.
But you move on curiously to the next as if,
It will be better than the design you currently hold.
But you never seem to find a difference,
For you have never attached yourself to any pattern for long,
You try finding the reason but nothing makes sense,
And you don’t realize what exactly could be wrong.
You restlessly try to figure out the best,
But get frustrated that you cant chose one from the rest,
Because now all the patterns seem more or less the same,
And throw it away, saying Kaleidoscopes are pretty lame!
Monday, April 26, 2010
Can I be jealous again?!?!
Just a silly little funny poem:
I have no doubt that he is mine,
But when she came and caught his eye,
I could no longer feel fine,
For she had the looks for which one could die!
I knew he wouldn’t be thinking about her,
But even then, it was obvious that she deserved more than a glance,
And the second time his eyes followed her after,
I just wanted to pull her hair tightly, if only I could’ve had a chance!
After stealing a glimpse, he turned back smiling,
Hoping that I hadn’t noticed,
And I immediately tried (and failed) hiding,
The frown that had come which couldn’t be missed!
For a brief moment he enjoyed the effect
Of being special enough to be jealous for,
Then with all the sweetness he could inject,
He tried changing my mood which had turned sour!
The extra attention he gave to compensate for his deviation,
Though unexpected was quite a refreshing delight
So I just let myself enjoy all the new-found attention,
For now, he wasn’t at all taking me out of his sight!
With contentment unable to contain,
I still had one thought lingering in my mind
That can I be jealous once again
For your way of assuring me back was one of a kind!
I have no doubt that he is mine,
But when she came and caught his eye,
I could no longer feel fine,
For she had the looks for which one could die!
I knew he wouldn’t be thinking about her,
But even then, it was obvious that she deserved more than a glance,
And the second time his eyes followed her after,
I just wanted to pull her hair tightly, if only I could’ve had a chance!
After stealing a glimpse, he turned back smiling,
Hoping that I hadn’t noticed,
And I immediately tried (and failed) hiding,
The frown that had come which couldn’t be missed!
For a brief moment he enjoyed the effect
Of being special enough to be jealous for,
Then with all the sweetness he could inject,
He tried changing my mood which had turned sour!
The extra attention he gave to compensate for his deviation,
Though unexpected was quite a refreshing delight
So I just let myself enjoy all the new-found attention,
For now, he wasn’t at all taking me out of his sight!
With contentment unable to contain,
I still had one thought lingering in my mind
That can I be jealous once again
For your way of assuring me back was one of a kind!
Friday, April 23, 2010
I dont need reasons to love them but you simply cant overlook the sweetness!
Reasons why my parents are the cutest in the world:
• I have yet not encountered an old couple who fight for computer games. The let-me-play, stop-hinting-me-the-next-move, my-score-is-better fights and the reasons they find to make the other move away from the computer are just adorable! Of course they keep me on wait on the phone till they finish their game before they talk to me!
• I have never ever ever seen a more enthusiastic couple when it comes to dancing. Play the music and see them dance away to glory! During navratris I remember asking my mom to stop the dance and come back home and she would say, just one last dance! It is going to get over after that! They are truly the dancing queen and king!
• I haven’t heard any parent complaining to their daughter “amma tithinaa” (your mom scolded me) everyday even if she didn’t.
• Cant imagine any other lady closing retirement taking part in her office’s national level sports meet, going places likes Pune and Allahbad for it and actually winning prizes there. That too, for weird events like long jump and table tennis! Ma, you are just out-of-the-world! Never known of a 39-year old pregnant lady taking part in an athletic race and beating all the 20-year old youth in it.
• Oh! My very passionate mom with that incredible participation spirit. She would take part in all her “hindi-divas pratiyogita” and keep reciting hindi songs and poems all through the day, so much so that even we would know every word by heart. There has been no event she knew of and didn’t participate in. Tiredness and hectic office-work are never excuses.
• So supportive they are for everything you do. All you do is study well and they are in for every little wish of yours.
• Oh my ever-talkative parents. Sometimes, I just sit spell-bound with my mom, not able to believe how innocently and candidly she can talk and talk and talk. And when it comes to my dad, the same old jokes that he cracks every now and then and laughs equally hard each time!!!! And if there is nothing much left to talk, there is the obvious “amma tithina” statement or my dad’s repetitive jokes on which he laughs as hard everytime.
• Who-on-earth has a fetish for water, collecting socks, body-splash, Tupperware and random chutka-mutka things but for my mother? Typical Moanisha character! And my dad, he would so excitedly try even female sweat-shirts unwittingly and ask how it looks on him!
• Who would wail at the top of their voice muthai-tiru-something-something while happily riding on the roads, much to the bewildered amusement of other people, especially at traffic signals!
• The very proud but innocent boasting that comes from dad that my daughters have done this and my daughters have done that to every person he can catch hold of who can be forced to listen to it. For the very reason, his insistence on asking us to keep uploading our photos online, so that he has visual proofs to his bragging big talks. And not just that, suddenly receiving 200mails in your inbox notifying you that “Venkataraman Iyer” has tagged a photo of yours! (And yes, his two-second come-on-skype calls!) Not to forget, the very embarrassing add requests from my dad on facebook, orkut and the other thousand webpages he has registered into.
• What a brilliant memory my mom seems to have. She would remember the names and specific memories of every single person I would have mentioned to her. Oh! Priyal, the girl who draws well, Oh! Shardul, the one who came home to get your Scooby-doo tazos! Oh, this guy and that girl, she just knows everybody!!!! And very contrastingly, my dad seems to forget the very friend he would have met yesterday! (Sometimes, comes to my aid, he forgets the friends he is annoyed of!)
• The couple who would just attend every bhajan-function they would know of and then on the same day go out to celebrate Valentine’s Day at SICA! And yes! Also wish their daughter valentine’s day and ask her for her plans! (Not that they would want her to have any!)
• Getting a mail which ends saying “truck full of love, Iyers” might sound cute but I also have greeting cards for my birthdays where it is signed only saying, best wishes, IYER! Not much sentiment expressed, one cannot consider it a card lovingly from a father… Pendulum of swaying sentiments or awkwardness, I guess!
Well, my emotions are always on the expressive side and so this note! TOUCHWOOD
• I have yet not encountered an old couple who fight for computer games. The let-me-play, stop-hinting-me-the-next-move, my-score-is-better fights and the reasons they find to make the other move away from the computer are just adorable! Of course they keep me on wait on the phone till they finish their game before they talk to me!
• I have never ever ever seen a more enthusiastic couple when it comes to dancing. Play the music and see them dance away to glory! During navratris I remember asking my mom to stop the dance and come back home and she would say, just one last dance! It is going to get over after that! They are truly the dancing queen and king!
• I haven’t heard any parent complaining to their daughter “amma tithinaa” (your mom scolded me) everyday even if she didn’t.
• Cant imagine any other lady closing retirement taking part in her office’s national level sports meet, going places likes Pune and Allahbad for it and actually winning prizes there. That too, for weird events like long jump and table tennis! Ma, you are just out-of-the-world! Never known of a 39-year old pregnant lady taking part in an athletic race and beating all the 20-year old youth in it.
• Oh! My very passionate mom with that incredible participation spirit. She would take part in all her “hindi-divas pratiyogita” and keep reciting hindi songs and poems all through the day, so much so that even we would know every word by heart. There has been no event she knew of and didn’t participate in. Tiredness and hectic office-work are never excuses.
• So supportive they are for everything you do. All you do is study well and they are in for every little wish of yours.
• Oh my ever-talkative parents. Sometimes, I just sit spell-bound with my mom, not able to believe how innocently and candidly she can talk and talk and talk. And when it comes to my dad, the same old jokes that he cracks every now and then and laughs equally hard each time!!!! And if there is nothing much left to talk, there is the obvious “amma tithina” statement or my dad’s repetitive jokes on which he laughs as hard everytime.
• Who-on-earth has a fetish for water, collecting socks, body-splash, Tupperware and random chutka-mutka things but for my mother? Typical Moanisha character! And my dad, he would so excitedly try even female sweat-shirts unwittingly and ask how it looks on him!
• Who would wail at the top of their voice muthai-tiru-something-something while happily riding on the roads, much to the bewildered amusement of other people, especially at traffic signals!
• The very proud but innocent boasting that comes from dad that my daughters have done this and my daughters have done that to every person he can catch hold of who can be forced to listen to it. For the very reason, his insistence on asking us to keep uploading our photos online, so that he has visual proofs to his bragging big talks. And not just that, suddenly receiving 200mails in your inbox notifying you that “Venkataraman Iyer” has tagged a photo of yours! (And yes, his two-second come-on-skype calls!) Not to forget, the very embarrassing add requests from my dad on facebook, orkut and the other thousand webpages he has registered into.
• What a brilliant memory my mom seems to have. She would remember the names and specific memories of every single person I would have mentioned to her. Oh! Priyal, the girl who draws well, Oh! Shardul, the one who came home to get your Scooby-doo tazos! Oh, this guy and that girl, she just knows everybody!!!! And very contrastingly, my dad seems to forget the very friend he would have met yesterday! (Sometimes, comes to my aid, he forgets the friends he is annoyed of!)
• The couple who would just attend every bhajan-function they would know of and then on the same day go out to celebrate Valentine’s Day at SICA! And yes! Also wish their daughter valentine’s day and ask her for her plans! (Not that they would want her to have any!)
• Getting a mail which ends saying “truck full of love, Iyers” might sound cute but I also have greeting cards for my birthdays where it is signed only saying, best wishes, IYER! Not much sentiment expressed, one cannot consider it a card lovingly from a father… Pendulum of swaying sentiments or awkwardness, I guess!
Well, my emotions are always on the expressive side and so this note! TOUCHWOOD
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Pseudo Identities of a Writer!
She could have managed alone, like she eventually did. But still, one does expect a sign of care from the person who claims to love her. She had no issues walking back alone through a secluded lane at an odd hour but it mattered to her whether that person would show concern for her safety, for it would have meant he considered her to be his as much as she wanted to be his. She was hardly bothered about her safety, nothing wrong could have possibly happened but it was HIS indifference to it which pricked her as it in a way signified a small defeat: she had failed to get him express concern for her well-being. However hard she may have tried convincing him that she can walk back herself, deep inside her heart she wanted him to care enough to not let her go, to accompany her till the end, if not bragging as a strong protector but maybe just to get more time to spend with her. She was unsuccessful in creating a want in him to be with her. She obviously wouldn’t have voiced it out, for it was something one shouldn’t be told about. Yes! She was just in one of her emotional high and the rush of emotions weren’t helping her be objective. It might appear inconsequential a thing if she would think back about it, but for the moment it made a huge difference what he would say. Finally walking back alone, she did feel a little childish expecting a trifling little thing from him and getting disappointed about such a trivial thing, but disappointment was disappointment.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.
She rushed back home and banged the door behind her. Hurried up to her bed, held her pillow close to her to hide the rolling tears from her eyes, before anybody else sees it. Only that soft delicate roll of cotton knew of her tears, the world has never seen her in her low. She managed to let out a small tear, feeling ridiculously juvenile all the while. She thought of it for a while as at that moment, she was able to sense the feeling she had towards it. A pragmatic that she is, more than just letting the feeling sink it, she started analyzing it, scrutinizing the feeling as to what was it that was making her feel so disheartened. The insignificance of the whole incident made her smile at herself but by then she had experienced too much of the emotion to let go of it. She wanted to make the emotion hers: to possess it in some way.
Her way of owning an emotion was writing about it, making a story of it. She immediately grabbed a pen and a paper (for she liked the conventional style of writing) and passionately started to write. Just as she was about to give a name to the character, she stopped; strangely so, for she had never halted in her flow when she decided to write. This time, she didn’t feel like giving a name to her character. She wanted this story to be in first person, not impersonated by a fictional being. Each emotion that she had strongly felt was always narrated to the world in the camouflage of a different world, a different person and never being her. Sometimes it was rather tedious giving superfluous details to make sure nobody knew the parable was in fact her own story. She loved sharing her experiences but felt awkward admitting them as hers and hated being questioned by people the reason she wrote it and what is it that she is feeling now. Because by the time she starts writing about it, she is already over the feeling, having probed over it for some time. Like mentioned earlier, she deeply believed in objectivity and took sentiments also rather hard-headedly. She was comfortable in her creative let-out by making it sound fictional. On one hand, because she had strongly lived through the feeling the story could be related to by many but then she would be spared of confessing it as her experience. She would usually be speechless when people glorified her writing, pondering how she could have possibly written about something so well, having not gone through it. She would just smile at them, thankful for them liking it and unsuspicious of it being real. But this time, she was tired of making it sound like an imagination, tired of living another incident of her life as an imaginary character. She wanted to face the questions thrown at her, answer them and get over it. After all, everybody experiences what she has/had. Like the funny imprudent expectation she had a little while ago, she was sure everybody had had it at least once however bleakly faint it would have been. What was so awkwardly embarrassing about having emotions? This time the story was going to be different, it would be truly hers, just the way she had lived it. She gave herself a self-assuring smile and began writing. A little later, she was seen dozing off beside the paper. A little closer look at the paper would have told you a story of a character, Samreen. She, the writer had again cowered to give her story away; she kept her identity to herself yet shared it with the whole world. She just could not put all her other stories at stake of revelation by admitting one to be a part of her life. She, again had lived the life of one of her many characters, this time of Samreen’s; ironically helpless because of her own fictioanal characters or more precisely by her own emotions.
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