Of Irreverence, Writing, and New Beginnings

It is 4:45 in the morning and after many, many weeks I have been able to wake up at this hour without feeling giddy with exhaustion only to fall in my bed again. After many weeks I feel like spending some time with my thoughts on this blog. But what do I write about?

Earlier today -- rather yesterday -- I shared a piece with my friends that I had written three years ago. I had shared it because I still agreed with what I had said back then, but more so because I was pleasantly surprised by the irreverence in my writing. Unlike many other posts, I had many reactions to this, mostly of people who agreed with the point. Friends and acquaintances from whom I had not heard in a while wrote to me; some of them called too. I also had many, many (over 200)  others reading it without saying much. Seems like everyone else liked the irreverence too.

When I had written that post, being read by 200 people was not something I had ever expected or imagined would happen. At that time, at the most, 2 people read my posts: one, the husband; two, a friend. Anything extra was a bonus to be celebrated. 

Perhaps that is why I could write so uninhibitedly.

I could put on paper -- or on the screen -- what I had not been able to say all those years. Sometimes what came out after a night long tryst with my thoughts surprised others, mostly it surprised me: was I even capable of saying all this?  Where had I been hiding so much? I am not sure about others but I really liked the woman who spoke in New Beginning. It was a indeed new beginning for her.

Today, three years later, the same woman is totally lost. The beginning that had been made has been going rather well. The dream of writing and being read has been fulfilled but the irreverence is lost. It has since been replaced by 'what will they say' syndrome. I seem to be going the way most writers do. 

"What will they say' syndrome is not new to me though. If that is what keeps me from writing blasphemous things now, it prevented me from sharing what I wrote. I was unsure of the reactions and judgements people might make after reading all that I wrote. And I, the dutiful wife, the doting mother, the daughter, the sister, the friend, could not risk my image, could I? And so, even though the pages of this blog are full of things I wanted to say, and did say, they were never shared with people I know, or who know me.

My writing, when it started, was not only a result of what I hadn't said until then. It was a direct reflection of what I read and how much I read. It was also fueled by unhappiness with the system. A friend had once commented on how angry my posts were. Nobody likes to read angry writing, he added, people have enough anger of their own. Even though I did not agree with what he said then, subconsciously it seems to have affected me. My posts started becoming more and more tepid. Not something I want or like. 

And so, today, three years after it all began, and months since I wrote for myself, I promise myself another new beginning, in which I will go back to being who I truly am. I only hope I am still capable of doing that. 

A Date with the Goddess

A large replica of the Meenakshi Temple stands quietly at a crossing, towering over apartment complexes and palatial bungalows of the posh neighbourhood. Painted in shades of red, yellow, green and pink, adorned with intricately carved idols, it looks every inch the original temple it is supposed to be. A few lanes away, the famous Ambaji temple from Gujrat has come to life in white and gold spires. Its perfect torans welcome you at the gate even as celestial nymphs dance on the layered white ceiling inside; a fluttering red flag on top completes the picture. At a little distance, the Sun God can be seen riding his chariot pulled by seven golden horses. The chariot is decorated with miniature paintings, peacock motifs, arched doorways and marble lanterns. There is also Pegasus, the flying horse, created with terracotta beads guarding a beetle-nut plantation, a large Burmese pagoda standing majestically on a busy intersection, a studio with angels and demons hanging from its rooftop, a tribal village set up in the middle of the city, and much, much more.

It is humanly impossible to describe all the Puja Pandals in Calcutta, it is perhaps not possible to see all 2000 of them either, but it is surely worth your while to spend a few days experiencing one of the world’s greatest art festivals that comes to life in Calcutta during the Durga Puja.

My numerous visits to Calcutta have taught me quite a few things about the city and its people. Being prepared for the Puja frenzy and spending hours on the road – either stuck in traffic or standing in queues in front of the pandals – is one of them. But it has also taught me some shortcuts. To avoid the very first traffic jam – the perpetual one on the Howrah Bridge – I decide to take the ferry across the river. It is not only a time-tested method to beat the taxi queues and the traffic at the railway station, but also provides a spectacular view of the Calcutta sky. In less than fifteen minutes of de-boarding the train on a busy shashti morning, I am already on the other side of the Hoogly, standing in the shadow of colonial Calcutta.

The city seems to have just had a shower and every inch of it is now glistening in mild autumn sun. The mild fragrance of orange-stemmed Shiuli hangs heavy in the forever moist air of the city. Blooming of the Shiuli flower, incidentally, is also considered the onset of autumn, and in Calcutta, it means only one thing: Durga is on her way home with her children. In this part of the city though there is no sign of the mother or the children so I hail a taxi and head to where all the action is.

Your experience of Durga Puja largely depends on which part of the city you decide to go to: the elite South-Calcutta or the rustic North-Calcutta. I chose to head south for it is during my stay here that I started appreciating the festival and what it stands for. Until then, the non-Bengali in me could never appreciate the madness around the festival.

In hop off the taxi at the junction close to my erstwhile home and walk.

Like always, the pandal outside my apartment complex in Hindustan Park is small but based on a contemporary theme – the recent surgical strikes – but the showstopper here, like always, is the idol. Dressed in a thick cotton sari, sans any jewellery, or weapons, the goddess looks like the everyday woman of Bengal. I thank her for getting me here and walk towards some of the most famous pandals in town – Ekdalia Evergreen Club, Singhi Park, and Ballygunj Cultural Association.

It is barely noon now but the neighbourhood is already bursting with colour and bustling with people. The roads are lined with colourful banners and advertisements: on one hand you have Vidya Balan selling jewellery and Boroline, on another you have Saina Nehwal telling you the benefits of an anti allergy powder. Here you have Ajay Devgan riding a horse; there you have Saurav Ganguly holding a bottle of Coke. There are many others too who my non-Bengali eyes cannot recognize. The people meanwhile are out in full force despite the rain and humidity, dressed in their Puja best.

Outside the largest pandal, a replica of the Meenakshi temple of Madurai, an army of hawkers has already set shop. They are selling everything from puchkas to jhalmuri, from pizzas to burgers, from ice creams to mishti doi, and are doing brisk business too. Looking at people devouring puchka after puchka, I am tempted to try my hand at a few too when the sky opens up and I have to run for cover.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You must take the cab from under the flyover, it is the closest and the cleanest way to reach Shobhabazar. I always use that road. But then the road may be closed. What about the next signal? Why don’t you take a right from there? I saw some taxis going that way. Oh ho! Why did you not turn? Now we will have to stand here for another half an hour. You should have turned right from the last intersection only.”

I sit sandwiched between my friend and her mother in the backseat of a taxi as they try to decide on the best route to get to our destination. It is only 5:00 PM but the road ahead is jam-packed, so is the road on the right and the pavement on the left. The driver, an elderly Sikh gentleman who speaks Bangla, has been trying to explain to them that most roads have either been closed down or have been converted into one-ways, but the mother-daughter duo is not ready to believe him. “He’s trying to make money out of us,” they tell me in English. After an hour and a half on the road, and listening to my friend and her mother’s high-pitched conversation about almost everything related to the Puja, we finally get off the cab in the heart of North Calcutta.

Unlike its posh counterpart, North Calcutta does not boast of many large-scale pujas. The pandals here are more artsy and less commercial and mostly hidden in narrow lanes and by lanes. The food isn’t fancy either. Unlike the burgers and pizzas of the South, huge pots of Biryani and Korma line the wide avenue. There are large stalls selling Chinese food, kathi rolls and hand churned ice cream too.

Meandering through the lanes of the humble neighbourhood we spot many innovative pandals. One of them made up entirely of scrap, another just with washing machine pipes. Next comes a colourful Eiffel tower followed by a jungle and a cave. My favourite is the one with a mammoth Mahishasur pinned to the ground by Durga’s trident. The most famous puja of North Calcutta however happens to be at the potter’s colony called Kumhartuli. This is also the place where all the idols for the festival are created. Owning to its popularity, the pandal is often crowded and queues run into miles. Today is no different. The queue can be seen from over a kilometer away. In no mood to jostle the crowd I promptly turn back.

If there is one place in Calcutta, where you can expect some peace and quiet even during Puja frenzy, it is Park Street. Having spent the entire day pandal-hopping, all I can think of now is a place to sit and something to drink. After much deliberation my friend and I settle for Trincas, an institution best known for supplying office goers with their daily dose of alcohol. It seems like a safe bet for hiding from the Puja crowd: who would spend the shashti evening cooped up in a bar? What I seemed to have forgotten is that no place can escape the puja frenzy in Calcutta.

The bar turns out to be noisy and overflowing with people. My first instinct is to return from the door itself but chances of finding a table anywhere else are bleak, so we take on the only vacant table in a corner. Next to us is a group of middle aged women drinking and singing along the band that is dishing out bollywood numbers, to my left is a young couple with a child, gorging on chilli chicken, in front of me is a family of four laughing and swaying to the music. As I settle down with my drink, I find myself enjoying too. What is Durga Puja without some noise and crowd after all.

This post first appeared in The Hindu

In The Kingdom Of The Sun

This piece first appeared in The Hindu.

Sixty-five kilometres from the capital city of Bhubaneshwar, and thirty-five kilometres from Jagannath Puri, with even the last hamlet a few miles away, the Sun Temple in Konark gives ‘in the middle of nowhere’ an all-new meaning. Built in the 13th Century by King Narasimhadeva of the Ganga dynasty, by the now-vanished Chandrabhaga River, this UNESCO World Heritage site is often compared with Khajuraho for its form and feature, especially erotica.

Having been to Khajuraho recently, I had a similar picture of Konark in mind. I expected clean wide roads, quaint cafés, foreign tourists, and fluent English-speaking guides, but what I find here is the opposite: the road is wide but dusty, and instead of quaint cafés, it is dotted with small tea stalls and pushcarts. The tea stalls are selling tepid tea and the pushcarts are stocked with limp vadas — made of semolina, not lentils — and a watery curry of dried peas. There are some shops too, trading in coconut water, fresh cucumber, and sugarcane juice. The only remotely foreign-looking tourist in the crowd of locals and villagers happens to be me; and my guide can barely string together a sentence in English.

A long walk along the dusty road leads me to a large iron gate. I am allowed to pass through it without any checks onto a long, sandy walkway lined with stalls selling cheap handicrafts. On either side are large lawns, a standard feature of all World Heritage Sites; only here, they are unkempt and littered all over. As I reluctantly walk towards the complex, wondering if I have wasted my time, energy, and money in coming to Konark, I begin to realise how enormous the scale of the temple is.

Also known as the Black Pagoda, the temple in its original form is supposed to have contained a 52-tonne magnet in its main spire. So strong was the force of the magnet that ships often lost their way along this part of the Bay of Bengal, and therefore, the spire was brought down by merchants. This, however, is only one of the many theories related to the damage of the mammoth 229-feet-high main tower of the temple. The other stories consist of curses, lack of proper support, Muslim invasions, and natural calamities.

What I see currently is the second-largest tower of the temple, soaring a grand 128 feet against a perfectly blue sky, and a large platform with pillars but no roof. Even from a distance, the structure looks colossal, and the people around it look like colourful confetti strewn all over. Built in the form of a chariot driven by seven horses and supported by twelve pairs of wheels, the temple depicts the journey of the Sun on his chariot across the sky. The horses signify the seven days of the week, while the elaborately-carved wheels denote the 12 months of the year. Just like the Khajuraho temples, the walls here are richly adorned with gods and goddesses, nymphs and humans, animals and plants. There is erotica too, but much more subtle than what I have seen elsewhere.

 

What stand out most, however, are the lessons these sculptures teach, like the imposing sculpture at the stairway that has a lion crushing an elephant and the elephant a man. The elephant here depicts strength; the lion, pride. True, a man who cannot keep his ego and power under control is bound to be crushed by them.

“How do you think the kings checked time, madam,” my elderly guide suddenly asks, breaking my chain of thought. His Oriya-infested English and witty remarks have kept me entertained for over an hour now, and he has gone to the extent of declaring me a form of goddess Lakshmi since I, like her, apparently have a slightly misaligned eye.

“Do you see the wheels, madam?” the guide goes on to ask. “These are not wheels but timepieces, which were used by the kings to know the time even before watches were invented,” he adds in his lilting tone. Divided by spokes into sixteen equal parts, and further by smaller bead-like carvings into units that equal three minutes each, the wheels, with the help of the shadow of your finger, can tell you the accurate time, down to the last minute. Not only that, the ornate sections of the dials also depict the season and the time of the day: flowers for spring, mating macaques for winter; a lady dressing up in front of the mirror in the morning, stretching in the evening, and indulging in procreational activities at night. It is evident that the art here also has logic behind it.

The sprawling complex is now inundated with people out to make the most of their weekend. There are groups in every corner of the temple, some taking selfies, some hastily capturing the erotica, some gazing at the sundial in amazement. The largest congregation, however, can be seen in and around the Natya Mandap. From where I am, the high platform of the dance hall looks like a large chessboard with richly-carved columns of various kinds precariously placed like pawns. Just like the main temple tower, the rooftop of the Natya Mandap is also believed to have been damaged, but the lack of a roof-top has only enhanced its appeal.

Konark, after all, is all about imperfection.

Lingering Flavours of Coorg

This piece first appeared in The Hindu

I have come to Coorg looking for two things: white coffee flowers and dark pandi curry.
The coffee flowers have evaded me. I have not bothered to crosscheck the information I have about the time of their bloom and have reached Coorg only to be greeted by torrential rains. So I pin my hopes on the other thing: Pandi curry.

I have heard many stories, watched numerous food shows, and read reams about the rich, flavourful treat from the region and, even though Pork is not my first choice of meat, I am eager to experience the phenomena called Pandi Curry.

Going by the stories I have heard, I already have a flavour of the dish in my mind: I have imagined it to be hot & spicy, with thick gravy, which tastes somewhat like the spicy mutton preparations of Andhra or the peppery chicken of Kerala. I could not be more wrong. The curry is spicy and yet bland (yes, such a combination does exist), I find it too high on spice and too low on flavor, and it does nothing for my taste buds. I make do with the beautiful rice chapattis called Akki Otti and some bland chicken.

With both my motives of travelling 2500 kilometers from home having been defeated, to say that I am now dejected will not be an exaggeration.

“What is a broken heart that cannot be mended by good food?” Says my host Kaveri when I share my disappointment with her. In a matter of minutes, I have a plateful of the most crispy onion and potato bhajjis accompanied by cups of strong coffee. I am not even done with it when her cook, the ever-smiling Lakshmi, asks what would I like for dinner. I ask for basics and eat my dinner of the perfect poriyal and parathas a few hours later in candlelight. A steady stream of rain falling on the asbestos rooftop of the cottage accompanies me for my meal.

What began with the bhajjis in the evening continues in the morning with perfectly steamed rava idlis, hand ground coconut chutney, and endless bowls of tomato Sambar (with baby potatoes). The idlis are soft as cotton, the sambar full of flavour – hot, spicy, tangy, sour all at once – and the chutney ground to perfection. I spend close to an hour sitting by myself in the brick walled verandah enjoying every bite of the food and listening to Laksmi sing a melancholic tune in Kannada.

As I get ready to pack, I realize Kaveri was indeed correct. The steaming idlis, the spicy sambar, the velvety chutney, and Lakshmi’s melancholic song have more than made up for my disappointment. I promise to come back only for them.

Discovering the Real Rasgulla

This post first appeared in The Hindu. 

Legend has it that once, upset with Krishna for not taking her along for the rath-yatra, Laxmi decides not to let him into the Jagannath temple. Upon his return, when Krishna discovers the doors to his home shut, he pleads with Laxmi to let him enter. Having had enough of the Lord’s hide and seek, she refuses to budge. Krishna tries every trick possible, but fails. Helpless, he leaves the temple, only to return in a jiffy with a pot full of soft, fluffy rasgullas. The trick works and Laxmi opens the temple doors in no time.

The story happens to be one of the many legends prevalent about the origin of the rasgulla in Odisha. Not only the legends, but the documented history of the Jagannath Temple also has mentions of the syrupy sweet. It is believed to have existed in the land of Lord Jagannath since the beginning of time.

The rasgulla has, therefore, always been a bone of contention between the Bengalis and the Oriyas. While the Bengalis believe that it was ‘invented’ in their backyard by a certain Mr. Das in the 19th Century, Oriyas laugh the claim off: How can you invent something that has always existed?

Bengali or Oriya, I have forever been in love with rasgulla and I have had my share of good and not-so-good ones too. The best so far has been the warm, nolen gur rasgullas from a non-descript shop in a bylane of South Calcutta’s Hindustan Park. The worst I prefer not to remember.

But all of these have been the Bengali version. In the land of Lord Jagannath now, I cannot wait to lay my hands — or spoon — on the legendary Oriya version.

My quest for the sweet begins as soon as I step into the temple town on a fragrant autumn evening, but as luck would have it, I get to sample it only on my third day there. In a sweet shop, after completing my pilgrimage to the Jagannath temple, and all associated places of worship, I have finally earned my share on a pattal (leaf bowl), which is handed to me by the gentleman behind the counter of the shop.

The rasgullas are large, off-white to the extent of being beige, and look deliciously different from their posh, gleaming-white cousins in big cities. I try to cut through one of them but fail. Fresh off the kadai, they are too spongy to be cut by a flimsy wooden spoon, so I choose the easiest way out. I pick up an entire piece and put it in my mouth.

It causes an explosion in my mouth. But it is not that of overwhelming sweetness or artificial sponginess; it is strong, slightly chewy, and not too sweet. 

In a matter of seconds, it dissolves in my mouth, leaving behind a lingering caramelly flavour. As I reach for the other, and another, I know why Laxmi let Krishna in. A pot full of these rasgullas is worth so much more than one’s pride.

The Pran of Indian Toons

This piece first appeared in The Hindu. 

Long before I set foot in Delhi — a city I now call home — I had seen it through the strokes of his brush. Not only Delhi, I had also seen Jupiter, an alien and a computer much before I had actually seen any of them, and I was not the only one, there was an entire generation of children who did.

As a young girl of six, who had just learnt to read, my motivation to visit my uncle’s place in Allahabad would be the many books that I got to read there. I would often ride pillion on his assistant’s bicycle and go to Civil Lines to pick colourful comics, which kept me entertained and engaged for hours. All these comics — Billoo, Pinki and Chacha Chaudhary — bore a similar signature on them, which, at that time, I read as Prap (I was too young to understand arty fonts). It was much later that I realised that the man was called Pran, a name well-suited for someone who infused life into mundane, everyday incidents and characters, and made them immortal. 

Pran Kumar Sharma, fondly known as cartoonist Pran, can easily be called the pioneer of comics in India. In the 1960s, when he started drawing Daabu for a Delhi-based newspaper, there were hardly any comic strips around. Most comics available at the time were reprints or imported versions of Phantom, Mandrake and Superman. In 1969, he created Chacha Chaudhary for a magazine called Lotpot. A character that later became his trademark, and found itself a permanent place in the International Museum of Cartoon Art, USA.

An extraordinarily intelligent old man, Chacha Chaudhary, is always impeccably dressed in a white shirt, black waistcoat and a red turban. Armed with just a charming smile and a small wooden stick, he can, in no time, make the fiercest of dacoits and strongest of villains bite the dust. His mind is faster than a computer and sharper than a needle, which he uses to tackle the toughest of situations with élan, when he needs strength; he has Sabu, an alien from Jupiter and his dog Rocket. The endearing old man, not only overpowers the rogues but also teaches lessons in honesty, goodwill and brotherhood — all this while entertaining you.

While, on the one hand, you have the larger-than-life, fantasy-driven adventures of Chacha Chaudhary and Sabu, on the other, you have the very real boy – and girl – next door in Billoo and Pinki, the other two most famous characters of Pran. 

Billoo is our very own version of Archie Andrews — an average school-going teenager, who loves watching TV and hates studies, he tries hard to woo his classmate Jozi, and is often chased away by her rifle-wielding father, Colonel 3-0-3. He also has his run-ins with the neighbourhood wrestler, Bajrangi Pahalwan, whose windowpanes are often a subjected to the wrath of his cricket ball. 

If Billoo is your average teenager, getting into trouble with his teachers and parents, Pinki is a cute little five-year-old. The apple of everyone’s eyes, she lives with her grandfather called dadaji, an elder sister called didi and a squirrel called tuk-tuk. A hyperactive child, Pinki tries her best to help her family and friends — whether they need it or not — and invariably ends up creating bigger problems for them. Her goofy moments, cute mannerism and disarming smile are not only delightful but also relatable. 

Together they — Chacha Chaudhary, Billoo and Pinki — transport you to a land of fantasy, happiness and joy, a land where I, and many more of my generation, have not been in a long, long time; the land where Pran, the Walt Disney of India, in his passing, seems to have escaped to, to become immortal like his characters.

Men, Women, Sex and Other Bitter Truths

Discovering your old writing is quite interesting. It not only tells you about how you wrote back then, but also reveals who you were and how you have changed since. I happened to discover something I wrote as a comment/response to someone's blog post about women & sex. This was written even before I had started writing here, for this blog. Interesting to see how bold my writing was back then. Maybe because I knew no one was reading it. 

Here's a sneak peek.

What a co-incidence! Just on our way back from Amritsar, my husband & I were discussing the same thing.

Its funny that if a woman goes out wearing modern clothes and much make up, has a drink or puffs a cigarette, talks to men, it is considered as a visible sign of her being fast & immoral. It's the other women who label her so. Perhaps they are just plain jealous that they can not do the same; the men, in all probability, usually silently appreciate her. Some might bed her too. Nothing wrong in that as long as the woman is happy, right ?? But then, the same men, when want to get married, want a virgin for a wife. Why are men not chauvinistic then ? 

A man can go out, have sex, come home & sleep like nothing happened. Even if his wife finds out, there's not much that will happen -- some emotional drama, some false promises and life will get back to normal. 

Now imagine the other situation. The wife goes out, makes love -- I use this term because, I think, women mostly make love and not have sex -- comes home, gets back to normal life. Only this time guilt hounds her, especially, if she's a "good girl". In time the husband gets a whiff hell breaks lose. I needn't explain what all can happen here.

Coming back to women vs women.

In school, I was the only one who wore short skirts and dresses, as most of the other girls had switched to suits by the time they were fifteen; I remember what a scandal it used to be. How all other girls stared at my legs, some even suggested that it was inappropriate way of dressing: what will people think?

Many years later, when I had moved onto suits, a few close friends at work were discussing men & sex when I joined in. I will spare you the details, but, what came out most significantly, was the horror when I readily participated in the conversation -- nine out of ten did not expected me to talk about it. Reason? I wore Indian clothes and looked like a good girl. If you wear indian clothes, don't use makeup, don't look "hot", you can't have or want sex, you see. Quite amusing!

Nobody imagined that someone who's dressed in a suit, hates make-up and is good at her work, can have or even want sex. So sex is a bad thing for bad girls. Maybe that is why, I too used lovemaking rather than sex. Conditioning you see!

That also reminds me, I used this topic in the first ever job interview I gave. I still remember the horror on the face of the interviewer. I think it was more to do with my being a girl, that too from a small town & not so much to do with the topic.

I think, I will write a post on that someday.

Of Muddy Boots & New Beginnings

Best things in life happen by chance. Or maybe they happen by design that seems more like chance. 

I started writing by chance too -- or maybe design that seemed like chance -- some three years ago. It is strange how I had always wanted to write but, until then, had never picked up the pen to actually write. I mean, if you want to do something, you do not take twenty years to do that, do you? Well, I somehow did. 

I began writing for no one in particular. My words at the time were only an expression of my loneliness, and sometimes, frustration. I had no one to talk to, and, if I did have someone to talk to, I did not have anything to talk about. Writing therefore came in handy.

The other thing is that I have always been poor with the spoken word. I fumble and stumble, and often end up putting my foot in my mouth, when I do not do that, I end up putting another persons foot in his mouth. Staying quiet therefore is usually the best thing to do. Writing, the second best.

And so I wrote. Sometimes purposefully, mostly purposelessly.

It was another stroke of chance, (or design?) when I got the opportunity to write for the paper. This was also something I had always wanted to do, but hadn't done anything about it before. Probably the time was now. 

Writing for others gave me confidence. It was reassuring to know that there are people, other than me, who want to read what I write. Like all writers, the obvious next step was to dream of my own book - to travel the world alone, to go where no one else has ever gone, to be where no on else has ever been. And to write about it.

But the bigger the dream is, the longer it takes for it to come true. 

A book therefore may be sometime away. I really need to feel that I am ready for that, or, as a friend puts it, I need to do enough riyaaz before I get on to the stage; but what I am surely working on is the first step towards to book -- my own travel page.

I intent to make That Girl In Muddy Boots my practice ground for all my travel work until I am confident of having enough riyaaz to back me up on the stage.

Although my travel work now moves to That Girl In Muddy Boots, New Beginning remains my first love and the place where I will continue to laugh, cry, rejoice, rant, and love. 

I hope you continue to love both.

If you do not mourn

They say you die everyday, if yo do not mourn those who have gone away
That with every one who leaves you, a part of you is also gone,
That you lend some of your soul to the dead if you do not mourn;

They say you begin to lose your hopes, happiness and joy
That you start living in a world that will never come by
They say never again are you your own, if you decide not to mourn;

But you don't listen to what they say, for you have always been the one to have your way

So you cling on - to the people, the dreams, the relationships - in your heart and in your head
You hold on to the ghosts of the past and expect life to come back from the dead

You hope that your uncle with return someday, and your child will come back from her grave to play
You wait for the relationships to thrive, you look forward to the slightest of reprieve
You live in hope each day, for mourning the dead has never been your way;

And one day you realise, what they said was perhaps the truth and not lies

With every loss you haven't mourn, a large part of yourself you have torn
With all those who have died - people, relationships, dreams and hope, some of you has also gone
So much so that from where you stand today, apart from skeletons you can see no other way.

 

Of Madness & Writing

You know you have finally got off the dry spell when you get off the computer after hours only to realise that your house looks more like a battlefield and less like a home.

You know you are finally coming back to your element when you realise that you have burnt the lunch, left the clothes in the dryer too long, almost forgotten to pick the child, and haven't seen a human in hours, if not days. That you have unanswered call & messages; that your half drunk coffee cup is on the chair since morning; that your children are wandering in the house, wondering what to eat with no sign of dinner on the table or kitchen.

You know you are a force to reckon with when you have spent a large part of the day, or night, messaging friends incessantly with your passages & ideas seeking feedback, not bothered about their work or time.

And if you are a struggling writer, who has been carrying the load of a dry pen for weeks at end, you profusely thank god for the mess you are into.