Meeting Mr.D.

The morning weather, I remember, was particularly pleasant that day. I was walking down the side street, picking up lilies and lilacs from the shoreline of my fantasies, heading towards the City Hall for a public engagement when it happened. I tripped and fell. Face down.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Is that really you, Mr. D?” I hear a delicate feminine voice exclaim in my ears. “Is that really YOU?!” She repeats before I lift myself up from the ground with the dignity found in gentlemen of certain social standing after falling flat on their faces in public places.

“Oh My God! I must be dreaming!” The delicate voice coos again. I try to focus on the origin of the sound while brushing off dust and invisible particles of embarrassment from my clothes. Discreetly, of course. A knee-length black skirt comes into view followed by a black top without collar or sleeves. Two tiny eyes sparkle at me from a rather demure young face. I am reminded of a cat that has spotted a rodent on a hungry day.

 She gushes forth, bringing in an intoxicating aroma which I deem is how money smells when it transforms into little bottles of perfume. “Oh, but it IS you! I can’t believe this, Mr. D. I’m a big fan of your work.” My right palm is grabbed at, and finds itself tucked neatly between her two tiny hands. Tiny they might be but they sure were strong if one can judge such things simply by the vigorous shaking my right arm was being subjected to. I admire her pale green nail polish for a moment before the shaking gets more enthusiastic and breaks the spell. What was that she just said?

 ”A big fan?!” It is my time to exclaim.

 ”Oh, C’mon, Mr. D. I’ve seen your pictures! Hundreds of them. And I know it’s you. But if you are going to pretend it’s not you just to discourage this meeting I can understand. I’d be heartbroken though.” She’s still pumping my hand – with the kind of generous vitality ‘big fans’ display on bumping in to the object of their adoration on pleasant mornings. I like her face. It’s quite symmetrical and all. But her child-like enthusiasm and girlish charm fascinate me more. And, of course, the look in her eyes — Ah! The kind that makes toils of the worst sort seem worthwhile.

 ”I want you to know this.” Her quaint voice, trembling with ricocheting emotions reaches out again and beats against my ear drums while they are still buzzing from the headlong fall. “You are a genius, Mr. D. A genius! I have read all your books. Every one of them! “

 I remain silent. Not because I want to discourage her or dampen her enthusiasm. When your brain feels like it has been sandbagged out of its secure place and little bells are ceaselessly ringing in your ears and you have just found yourself in a horizontal position on the road while vertical is what decent folks must strive for, it isn’t quite right to expect instant or sane answers. Upstanding citizenry finds a surreptitious silence befalling their very beings on such occasions.

 ”Where are you off to, Mr. D? Would you please, please have a cup of coffee with me? I mean, this is pure destiny. Or how could I have just bumped into you on a side street? Please, Mr. D. Spare five minutes for me. For destiny!”

 I figure sitting down is definitely a good idea. A coffee is sure to help me regain my composure and feel myself again. And five minutes is something I can definitely spare. “Of course, Miss…? Mrs.?” I fumble with grace.

 ”Oh, I’m so sorry I forgot to introduce myself. I’m so clumsy, Mr. D. It’s Miss. Miss Be.” Suddenly as if waking up from a trance she lets go of my hand, takes a step back leaving a civilized distance between us and offers me a shy smile. “If possible I’d like to get a picture taken with you. If you will allow me, that is.”

 I smile reassuringly at the thought of a chair and coffee. My body and soul badly need immediate life support like a patient suffering from serious malnutrition needs IV fluids. “Shall we go and get coffee then?” The question is more in the manner of a pleasantry for I am already leading her into a small cafeteria nearby.

 ”You are such a gentleman, Mr. D. Such a wonderful human being. Is it true what the newspapers say, Mr. D? About all those barbaric things they did to you while being a war prisoner? Did they really hang you by your thumbs? But, hell, what is more important. You fought for our country. Were you writing back then too? When you were a soldier? Will you show me the bullet wound on your legs? I mean, it’s OK if you don’t want to. I’m so sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m just so excited, Mr. D. To actually see you in flesh and blood.”

 ”Here we are, Miss. Be! It’s coffee time.” I hold the door open for her as we enter the cafeteria. I can sense her excitement breaking the usual banks of her feminine reserve and flooding the five minutes now before us like an avalanche. Between drinking coffee and her excitement, will I get time to regain composure, I wonder.

 We take our seats near the glass panel overlooking the street and ask for coffee. My legs are relieved as my body weight finds firm ground on my hind-side.

 ”How did it feel to spend six years in a Tibetan monastery, Mr. D? I mean, cut off from the rest of the world. Away from everything you have grown up with and have known? Family, friends… I can’t think of being away from my home for more than a week. Not even on a holiday, Mr. D. That was when you climbed Mount Everest, isn’t it? While in the monastery? Was it the war that made you choose to become a monk? All the blood and gore, killing and dying? Is that it? It is understandable, you know. War can really scar the human soul. Especially a sensitive soul like your’s. It is understandable.”

 The coffee arrives. I eye it longingly before succumbing to gentlemanly behavior and address my companion, “Well, Miss Be…” Before I can say any more a large, well-clad young man comes rushing through the cafeteria door, a searching glance running across the length and breadth of the place, and finds what it was looking for in the person sitting across me.

 ”Be!” The stranger exclaims and comes across to our table in short, swift strides. “There you are, my dear! I have been looking all over for you. You got me worried, you know.” The look of pure relief on his face changes to straying suspicion as his consciousness finally divines my physical presence at the table. “Who are YOU?” His voice changes from the gentle to the guttural in seconds. I sense the menace behind it but thankfully it is well harnessed for the time being. Or so I tell myself.

 ”This is Mr. D, Pi! Mr. D! The war veteran, a true patriot, a monk, the conqueror of Mount Everest, and the greatest writer in the world today!  Not to say, a perfect gentleman too!” She looks at me demurely. I gulp hard a generous dollop of saliva. The man Miss Be was referring to as Pi looks at me for a long moment, then looks at Miss Be. “Will you excuse us for a moment, my dear? I and Mr. D need to have a short talk. You stay right here and finish your coffee. I’ll be back to get you real quick. OK, honey?” She nods in affirmative, and then giggling a bit adds, “While at it you can ask for his autograph, Pi!” Pi motions me to follow him and walks towards the counter – that’s as far one can go from the table I was sitting at while still being inside the cafeteria.

 ”Who are you?” He asks facing me. He is taller than me, I notice, at least by a couple of inches. “Well, I’m…” I fumble again, this time without much grace. A rather big man towering over you with his hands on his hips – a particularly aggressive posture – is not a conducive sight for quick thinking in sedate souls.

 “Anyway it doesn’t matter. I am just glad I found Be.” He gives a quick sideways glance at the girl sipping coffee and a loving smile spreads over his rather non-genial face. “I am just so glad she is safe. You know, she is not quite right in her head. Persistent flights of fantasy, the doctor says. She imagines things, you know. We don’t let her out alone usually. But once in a while she gives us – me and my mom – the slip. I hope she wasn’t any trouble to you. Once again, thank you very much. Now I will take her home.” His voice is gentle again. I find great comfort in that.

 “Mmm… by the way, about Mr. D…” I bring myself to speak but Pi is already at the coffee table helping his sister up.

 ”How was it to walk on the Moon, Mr. D?! Did the President give you medal for that?” Miss Be asks as they pass me by the counter. Pi gently but firmly guides her out of the cafeteria. “Mr. D? Will you write to me sometime?” She stands at the door for a hesitant second then walks out with Pi into their private world. There is a faint trace of mockery in her voice. Or is it amusement? Or maybe I am just imagining things. I stand at the counter undecided between the untouched coffee and a compulsively growing thought – Where can I find Mr. D?

Monuments of Mine

From the bleakness of a frayed page-
a beckoning
frailties strung on a twine-
memories
laughter silenced in matte-
framed longings
time deformed by vanity
pointers of what could
have been,
sensations sterilized
in two-dimensional reality
a scrapbook summation
to transitory life,
me
drifting away
from me
an iceberg
breaking off
from the Arctic,
a crack
a crash
an upheaval out of sight
a sucking in of air
gurgling asymmetry
fading in
the timelessness
of the sea.

Sigh Of Life

In the shadow of a retreating night,
amidst the spreading red,
orange and the silver of twilight,
I see a surprised sight.

Flushed sky, wet earth, heavens
weeping in joy, singing birds
on dancing tree tops,
perspiring grass blades standing
in naked relief, the intoxicating scent
of sex, hypnotizing, over and around me.

The air, electric, bursts and crackles
over my tired skin, waking me up
from a dream, a deep sigh of release
rises through me; the sun beams coyly,
then yawns, from behind a golden veil,
deprived of sleep he seems,
the day breaks into a graceful smile,
remembering her benevolent lover’s antics.

Oh! it belongs to most beautiful a bride
the virgin who resides in paradise.
Sheathed in the misty light, my world
looks like a gardener’s delight in spring,
crossing over from dark into bright
blushing with a divine energy within.

The stars wink at me one last time
before they wave their goodbyes,
my vision is filled with bleeding colors
as if a rainbow has leaked
into my soul, through my very eyes.

Unable to deny her defeat, darkness
relinquishes her post, takes refuge
in the dream of someone about to sleep,
the nightmares for him will soon begin
for she is an immortal, obstinate disease.

A new born wind holds my face
above the raging sea of tears,
I drift towards life, I breathe,
death is mercy only for the weak.
Somewhere in a faraway land
I hear a reed quiver, then come alive,
it whispers to me the secret of sighs
I hear nothing but realize,
Love has survived another night,
it fills my eyes, my world, my life,
so I smile at the sight that beholds me
I smile at life, all it is and can be,
the will to live is born from a love defined,
under the starlit night, on the wet grass,
as the heavens wept, I laughed.

I laughed.

People, We Burn Only 68 Brides A Day Now!

In the last couple of years, I have developed a deep-seated apathy and resigned repulsion towards TV news channels and other news agencies. Some of you may identify with me here. Maybe those of you who do are even more than I am willing to imagine. That feeling of irritable discontentment, its cause and shape unidentified and unattended, remained like a dormant yet real pain within me. Till last week, that is. Thanks to two fellow bloggers, today I know why news channels that dominate our nation’s airwaves no longer have my trust or respect, and remain relegated between vicious propaganda and incoherent tribal cries in my mind.

The help offered by the two bloggers, let’s call them Blogger A and Blogger B, has been unwitting but genuine. I am most grateful for what they said in the comments section of my last blog. It helped me seek and understand the world I live in a little better.

In a rather recent post titled, ‘You Sanctioned 26/11, My Grieving Friend!’ I put forth the idea that an act of terror shares its fundamental operating principle, i.e., use of fear by physical coercion as a valid negotiating tool, with equally lethal consequences, but on a much smaller scale, with certain domestic atrocities that happen right inside our homes and neighborhoods.

In order to demonstrate the idea presented, I cited four examples of violent crimes, all based on reports in our leading national dailies, that shared their core idea with the act of terror. One, incidentally, was a case of dowry death.

While misunderstanding of my standpoint was expected, and hence further discussion and debate anticipated, what I did not fancy at the time was the birth of a whole new blog idea from it. But that is what has happened.

Mistaking (!) my post for a treatise on dowry and dowry deaths, Blogger A said:

“I thought the dowry problem has come down with the women going out and earning. an earning wife is like a blank cheque. They can be drawn, they can be over drawn. If she wants she can save her dowry and spend for her own marriage. So the dowry problem is not as much as it used to be when women got married with no education, no employment and as total dependents on their husbands.

U won’t see the old breed any more.”

I read it twice to make sure I understood what was being said. This is what I understand. Blogger A’s whole argument rests on her assumption or belief that dowry deaths exist or existed because women were not gainfully employed and hence marriage was not a financially profitable proposition to the bridegroom and his family. But now since women are working, the husband and his family can enjoy the fruits of her labour and will not or should not torture, maim or kill her. This will and has resulted in reduction of dowry deaths. Well, sounds like a reasonable argument till you look deeper. The most critical aspect of this argument is what has NOT been said – as always, it is the unspoken value system or belief which gives rise to her opinion. In this case, Blogger A’s rationalization that with women being money earners today, the incidences of dowry deaths should come down is based on a belief that marriage as a financial transaction is acceptable. She believes dowry is not only valid but its existence is unquestionable. Did she consciously choose to believe in such a monstrosity or did the idea take root in her consciousness as a social, cultural or religious dogma, is secondary. The very fact that as a rational human being the real nature of her core belief on the subject is telling of our conditioning. Does she herself know it? I have no answers nor I will not try to assume. But I know, this unspoken belief is what the NGOs and other organisations/individuals against dowry have to fight and eradicate to prevent dowry deaths.

Blogger B categorically holds the victim (the girl who gets burnt) responsible for her own torture and subsequent burning in dowry deaths(!) In his comment, he says: (The highlighted italics are mine)

“…Terrorism is a one-sided affair.. but on the other side Dowry or social evil the victim has time to react.. Depending on the situation!! A girl who is harassed for dowry by her in-laws has time to decide what is important to her (her life or her husband or given to in-laws demands). Let me give you an example “When you were a toddler how many times did you try to put your finger in the power socket?? I think if you did ever get a shock you would have learnt it that if I finger this socket then I am asking for trouble” same way when a newly married girl gets beaten up by her in-laws or husband for the first time and doesn’t learn the lesson… then I think it not worth it….(?) On the other side terrorism where 200 innocent people get killed unaware.. I hope you see the difference.. If women want to get burnt or stabbed by knife.. its for them to decide.. as far as I understand within 2-3 months of marriage a women knows for sure what kind of family she is married too, and if she is sensible enough she can always take decision on her favor.. India is still democratic country…”

On the surface this argument too may seem reasonable if you stretch the meaning of reasonable to the extreme. Yes, if you are a girl and find yourself in such a horrific situation, run! I agree, that’s the most common-sensical thing to do. Self-preservation demands it. But, if you take a moment to really understand his argument, you will be shocked by the partial blindness with which he approaches the problem. What about the barbaric practise of burning a helpless woman to death for money itself? What about the husband and his parents who commit such a heinous act? The fact that he blanks all this out and holds the girl’s ‘non-sensible enough to save herself’ attitude responsible points to his tacit agreement to an unspoken yet pre-dominant belief – in a patriarchal society, women are mere possessions and creatures of re-production to be disposed of by men at will. Blogger B may not know what his deep-seated convictions are on the subject. I can only guess. He must be an educated, urban young man who treats women as equals and with respect. But, if you are woman, how safe will you feel if you are to marry him? The answer is for anyone to guess.

And does not his argument of holding the victim responsible for the atrocities committed on her, strangely and ominously reverberate with Delhi Chief Minister Sheila Dixit’s remark, “Women should not be adventurous.”(?) on the murder of the young, female journalist, Soumya Viswanathan three months back. Soumya was driving back from work in the early hours of a Tuesday morning when she was shot in the head. The case remains unsolved.

Does not Blogger B’s idea of holding the victim responsible for the crime find a sympathetic chorus in the insane voices that scream ‘rape happens because women wear short, revealing clothes!’(?) Do not turn away or conveniently fail to see the dangerous parallels here. These are the scattered images of our educated, urban, liberated, modernized society – the telling pieces of a scary jigsaw puzzle. These are incidents that you and I, the common man, sees as unrelated and random incidents that require no more from us than a passive indignation and at best a slogan contest. Stop, pick up those random pieces and complete the jigsaw! What you will see is an ugly monster staring at you – the monster that is eating us from inside while we soak in the warmth of globalisation, proudly parading our Gucci glasses, Bali Shoes and million dollar homes. It is the monster that is slowly but surely turning back the hands of time ensuring that our backyards become breeding grounds for the practises of Dark Ages while we look ahead indifferently at a digitised future through our rose-tinted glasses. The monster winks at the heart of our nation, whispering conspiratorially, mockingly into our collective conscious, “Women are lesser beings.”

The unspoken yet loud social message has been made ominously clear by the male tribe,“Wear a small skirt and we will rape you, work late nights and we will kill you, marry and we will burn you. We have the right to dispose of you in any which way we want. If you want to live in our world, live by our rules. Or else.”

In spirit we proclaim to our wives, daughters, sisters and mothers this: “Women of India, you have no right to your life!” Let’s accept it.

Right to one’s own life is the most basic Right of all. It is what gives birth to every other Right. An individual without a right to his or her life is a non-entity, a non-existent. And that is what we, the enlightened, emancipated, globalised, liberated citizens of India tell our women folk. Not in words, but in cold-blooded action.

Every single criminal act against women (except Sati) that can be booked under the Indian Penal Code, right from Rape, Kidnapping and Abduction for specified purposes, Homicide for Dowry, Dowry Deaths or their attempts, Torture – both mental and physical, Molestation, Physical Harassment, Importation of Girls (upto 21 years of age), Immoral Traffic (Prevention), Child Marriage, and Indecent Representation of Women has increased systematically over the years. Statistics are available from the National Crime Records Bureau.

What makes us turn an indifferent eye, quickly and compulsively, when we see the reports of such atrocities flashed on our TV screens and written in newspapers. Why are we in such a hurry to construe them as ‘just another incident’ and dismiss them from our memory? Because it is easier on our conscience that way. We all want to believe that we are emancipated and civilized in our outlook. We wish it, even if the facts paint a different picture. Somehow we want to be liberated from the shadows of the savage that our great, great forefathers were. But no amount of wishing is going to change a thing, my friend.

Let me offer you some facts and figures on dowry and dowry deaths in India. These are available to any one of you on the Internet. Not surprisingly, what I found were contrary to what Blogger A or Blogger B had said or implied. And if they had felt it necessary to base their opinion or world view on facts, they definitely would have not said what they did. [All italics, bold and underlines are added by me for emphasis.]

[1] Official statistics indicate that dowry death – intentional, deliberate and pre-meditated murder of a bride – happens at least 17 times per day, every single day of the year. However, unofficial numbers stand at a mind-boggling 68 murders per day. That is, 24, 820 dowry deaths per year. And this does not include the women left maimed and scarred as a result of attempt on their lives. (Obviously, ‘brides who earn’ have not solved the problem!)

[2] In 1995, 4648 dowry deaths were reported. It rose to 8093 in 2007. Reported cases of ‘Cruelty by husband/his relatives’ were 28579 in 1995. It stood at 75930 in 2007. (Blogger A, are you listening?)

[3] According to an article in Time magazine, deaths in India related to dowry demands have increased 15-fold since the mid-1980s to the middle of the 1990s. In 1995, the National Crime Bureau of the Government of India reported about 6,000 dowry deaths every year. A more recent police report stated that dowry deaths had risen by 170 percent in the decade to 1997.

[4] A recent survey of 10,000 Indian women conducted by India’s Health Ministry found that more than half of those interviewed considered violence to be a normal part of married life—the most common cause being the failure to perform domestic duties up to the expectations of their husband’s family. (What else can they believe in a society where they are told to have no rights!)

[5] Dowry deaths are not isolated to particular groups, social strata, geographical regions or even religions. As of now, they are an all-pervasive monstrosity gobbling up innocent female lives.

[6] According to the Institute of Development and Communication, “The quantum of dowry exchange may still be greater among the middle classes, but 85 percent of dowry death and 80 percent of dowry harassment occurs in the middle and lower stratas.”

[7] The other side of the dowry equation is that daughters are inevitably regarded as an unwelcome burden, compounding the already oppressed position of women in Indian society. There is a high incidence of gender-based abortions—almost two million female babies a year. (One article noted the particularly crass billboard advertisements in Bombay encouraging pregnant women to spend 500 rupees on a gender test to “save” a potential 50,000 rupees on dowry in the future.)

[8] The cruelest aspect of this menace is the role that brides’ parents play in perpetuating it. The Dowry Cell of New Delhi Police Department reveals that most of the parents of the bride do not want to take their daughters back. There is considerable social stigma in India against those parents who shelter a married daughter back in their family. In most of the cases, parents persuade the daughter to go back to her husband’s home, that is considered to be the highest form of behavior one can learn from the old scriptures. (Blogger B, are you listening?)

[9] Most dowry deaths have occurred in the upper strata of Hindu communities, i.e., the Brahmins (the caste of priests cum the Kings’ policy-makers), Kshatriyas (the caste of warriors now-turned politicians), and Vaishyas (the traders now-transformed sponsors of conservative parties). Most killing of women for non-payment of “promised” dowry have so far occurred in the urban affluent upper-caste Hindu communities.

[10] The epicenter of the problem of bride burning and other forms of dowry-related violence on women is Delhi (the Indian capital), western and central Uttar Pradesh (cities such as Kanpur, Lucknow and Agra have witnessed the highest number of deaths), and places adjoining Delhi (Haryana, northeastern Rajasthan, northern Madhya Pradesh, and southern Punjab), and the problem has largely been concentrated among the upper caste above-average Hindu communities.

[11] It may be pointed out here that it is CHEAPER for an Indian man to kill his spouse and obtain a new one with another dowry than to divorce his wife and pay her maintenance.

[12] Incredible as it may sound, in some cases, the convicted husband will be requested by the parents of his previous bride to marry her sister. (!!!!) The latter is an example of the severity of the problem. The sister and her parents have no place else to go but the abuser/killer man. The death of the woman has left a permanent mark of misfortune on her family resulting outcasting/abhorrence by other prospective bridegrooms. The surviving sister can’t remain unmarried: the patriarch society and the upper caste rulers would not permit that. But the incidence of the “untimely death” of her older sister prevents her parents to find a “clean” groom for her. Now, here comes the widower willing to remarry with a batch of dowry probably a little less than the first time. And, he will now probably be more “forgiving” to the bride’s family he already so much knows. So, who should the family turn to but the “closely related”?

[13] The widespread, statistical impact of brideburning and dowry-related deaths is a systematic, intentional gendercide of young women, unborn as well as those born to a fate they cannot control. Twelve million girls are born every year in India. Of this number, 1.5 million will never reach their first birthday. Another 850,000 will never see their fifth birthday. By the age of fifteen, only nine million will have survived childhood. At the same time, there will have been an excess of twenty-three million males in the country.

In the highlighted lines of the last paragraph culminates the murderous rampage of of a barbaric belief. That is the practical consequence of the idea that you and I never speak of – “women have no right to their life.”

To see it for what it is, without its usual cover-up of ostentatious explanation, rationalizations and justifications, you need to patiently, objectively observe the ‘symptoms’ around you – the molestation of two young women outside a star hotel by a mob, Ms. Sheila Dixit’s comment on the death of Soumya Vishwanathan, molestation and attack on two women call centre employees by their landlord and his goons in their house, Blogger A’s implicit agreement to dowry even in this day, Blogger B’s accusation of the bride in her own dowry death. Watch them carefully. These are the often missed, mostly unacknowledged and never linked incidents that in their own way point to and affirm the same deadly principle that dominates our society today.

Finally, this brings me to the point I started this post with – the instinctual aversion for media channels and agencies that I couldn’t define. When a human being speaks without ‘thinking,’ i.e., without taking into consideration the facts of reality, we term that act irresponsible. That is what Blogger A and B did. By letting wishful thinking obliterate objective truth, they prove words no longer represent reality, but instead strive to create it. With a callous indifference that would make even the most seasoned politician cringe, you can see people everywhere make statements that substitute hearsay for facts, and opinion for demonstrable truth. The consequence is a world where nothing is right or wrong, everything a matter of opinion and opinion itself a matter of whim. When a news agency does the same thing, it is not only irresponsible but plain criminal.

News is not holding camera at a burning building or rioting public. It is not showcasing a molested girl or a kid who fell in to a ditch. That is ‘reality tv.’ A News Agency’s fundamental responsibility is to help its audience make sense of an issue or event reported. We read news papers or watch TV news channels to understand our world better, not to witness in blind terror the mindlessness of our times running amuck on our streets. Only a sick, perverted mind would entertain himself with such a notion of news. Not everyone in this country can be that depraved. I certainly am not.

—————————————————————————————–

*sources

http://indiatogether.org/2007/jul/ksh-pooja.htm

http://ncrb.nic.in/cii2007/home.htm

http://www.escapefromindia.wordpress.com

http://www.hindunet.org/srh_home/1996_2/msg00193.html

http://www.indiatogether.org/wehost/nodowri/stats.htm#continue

http://www.wsws.org/articles/2001/jul2001/ind-j04.shtml

Bride Burning – The Elephant In The Room Is Out Of Control by Avnita Lakhani

Curtain Call

It’s time for curtain call.

The show is over. The stage is empty. So is the hall. It was wonderful while it lasted; now
I must move on.

My heart needs a moment with itself now. It needs to leave behind a silent farewell before it is ready to go home. Home, finally, is where we must all go.

Like every true performer, I too came on this stage with a secret hope. Something that I hold to myself like a little child clutches her favorite doll. Every time I have stepped on this stage, every time I have stepped under these arc lights, I have carried that secret hope inside of me. It is impossible to be a performer and not to do so.

Secretly, within me, I’ve hoped to weave magic on this stage. I have sought a performance that would grant my love immortality. I have hoped to create moments that lasted with you, within you… even long after I’m gone.

I have hoped to sweep you off your feet and carry you to the world that I own. That is mine alone.

To take you there and walk you through the streets and alleys that make for my heart and my soul. To show you the angels and fairies, the dragons, the druids and the beautiful people with whom I share my moments alone. So that when I am here no more, you will still carry within you a part of my wonderful world. And in doing so, you will carry a part of me within your soul. And long after my footsteps have stopped to echo on this stage, I would go on living in a million minds, in a million shapes.

Every time I stood here I have secretly hoped to conquer Death. And in doing so, transcend Time with my love.

So, under these stage lights, under your attentive eyes, I have died, again and again. I have died to give birth to characters that were worthy of living. I have dissolved and disappeared into thin air, so that the emptiness could be filled with the magic of our fantasies. On this stage, I have become nothing so that you could live through me – and be him – King of all that he sees, Master of his destiny, Lord of time, space and reality. I’ve died here so that we could live that impossible dream.

But now, the dream is over. The spell is broken. The magic is gone. You have left. Soon so will I. We will go back to the world where we came from. A world without dreams. Where druids and winged dragons will only be a part of children’s fairy tale. Where magic is a paid ticket show reserved for weekends. Where you will be you and I will be I, and everything I have to show will look meaningless and trifle even to your mind’s eye. But that is where we have to go. The world that we call our home. You and I.

Before I leave, for one last time, I will cast my eyes on the seat that you adorned. You were here, with me, just a while ago. My heart will ache for a moment, flutter in anticipation, but then let go. I know. Just like the vacant seat, now I too must stand alone. Without your petite form to hold, I see the chair lose it’s reason to exist. It’s now wood without meaning, waiting to fulfill a purpose; incomplete. In my dream, I see it accept the loss and kneel down to mourn. Empty and bare in your absence, now I too must learn to go on.

Farewell to you, my friend. You are loved. Know this even if we are forever lost in this lost as two drops in the vast ocean.

Let Us Be Human

I don’t dream anymore,
something else is what
I need to live for.
In a world
where hunger thrives,
sleep is a privilege
and I’m deprived.

God’s children
we must all be,
though my empty stomach,
tells a different story.
A man passes me by
on his shiny wheels,
offers me nothing
but his indifferent curiosity.

While a million messiah’s
in golden robes,
smile, feed me religion,
standing in a row.
‘Believers’ are saved,
for they shall inherit the Earth,
A morsel of faith’s
better than a platter of food,’
So I’m told as I’m sold,
ideologies that extinguish life,
not just my soul.

Now I haunt the streets,
in the company of whores,
they offer no sympathy,
life’s taught them so.
Were they religious before;
they decided to save
their marrow not our mores?

I’ve have a question,
answer me this, before I go,
let us be honest
for once if you know
there was no God,
and no place called Heaven,
what would you have
done with me different
than now or before?

The Death Knell Of My Dream


“Hello.”

How I dread that word. In one single, swift motion it can destroy my world.

Every time it threatens to sneak out of my mouth, I almost die keeping it inside. I wrestle with it like a man fighting for his life. But I know one day I will fail me. One day I will be overpowered by the passion to self destruct. I am, for all good reasons, just delaying this eventuality. Today once again I postpone saying it.

How long have I been doing this? I don’t know. I should remember. Ever since I saw you, I guess. Yes, that is it. I have said it a million times to you in my mind. I have said it in a million ways. I think of all the places I could say it to you. I think of all the ways you would react to it. I have run through that moment a million times. But I never say it to you.

Why, you would ask me if you knew. I took a long time to discover the answer. Hmm… that is not completely true. I did not discover the answer. Rather, it dawned upon me.

Have you ever sat outside on a cold winter evening all alone only to lose all sense of time? On a park bench? Under a solitary tree? By a desolate wayside? Have you ever sat there and watched with amused immobility the snow starting to cling on to the tip of your hair, the open end of your muffler, eyelashes, the edge of your boots, your shoulders…

Have you felt your mind wander to faraway lands while the body stays chained to its seat?

Finally, did you wake up from that trance in spite of not wanting to, to realise with an alarming suddenness that you are cold, and wet! The awareness stings you like an hard, unexpected slap. Tugging you back to reality.

That is exactly how I felt when the answer came to me. It came, not like gushing water, but as feather-light snowflakes, gently falling over me until I woke up to realize I was shivering! And very close to falling ill.

That day I realised more than why I will never day, ‘Hello’ to you. That day I realised who I was.

All mysteries lose their magic once they are discovered, isn’t it? A mystery is attractive cause it allows your imagination to travel unchained. A mystery is attractive as long it remains a chimera of endless possibilities. When I was 5, I used to search my backyard for diamonds left behind by gnomes who played there the night before as the world lay fast asleep. Then I grew up and lost those diamonds forever. ‘Refraction of sunlight on dew drops’ is an explainable phenomenon, you see. Still, there is a little boy inside me who instinctively smiles, even today, as the sun light touches a dew drop and it glows on the tip of a blade of grass. For a brief moment, I glimpse my diamonds again.

Such is the case with people. With slightly different results though. You catch the glimpse of greatness, a shimmer of a vision, the dignity of existence… momentarily… in the raise of a brow, in a smile, in a look.. in an act, or thought… For a brief moment, you actually get a glimpse of that divine possibility of who they are. But almost always, when the light falls on the nakedness of their spirit, the shine wanes, the glitter fades and the diamonds disappears into the dark that leaves you cold and longing as before. Then turn back to being just another drop in a sea once again. And it kills me. Cause you see, I want to see the shining, exquisite, beautiful diamonds. I believe they exist.

And now, everyday I see you. I watch you glide past the shop windows. I watch you wait for your cab. I walk behind you. Beside you. I see you smile. I walk the same streets that you pass by. I visit the same coffee shop that you love. I sit in the same seat that you use. Yesterday I even picked up a hankie that fell out of your hands.

Before I could give it to you, you have disappeared with your friends. The soft silk cloth left a divine smell in my hands. I closed my eyes and felt like I was standing in the centre of a garden I will never share with anyone. Afraid they will destroy it’s beauty with their vulgar eyes. I wish I knew what perfume you use.

I don’t know if this story will continue. Or if it will die before you even know about it. Will this dew drop catch the sun light and shine or will it just die before waking up to the day?

Will everything end if I walk up to you and just say , ‘Hello!” Does it have to? Oh! How I dread that word – “Hello!”


God Was In A Park Last Night

Late last night, I was sitting on a park bench close to my house and enjoying a smoke. It was fairly dark except for a dusty halogen lamp hanging at the entrance. A tired yellow light shone over the gate in flickered hesitation. It seemed to hate its work. I was lost in thought. I always am. Weighty thoughts. Thoughts that are really, truly essential to life. Like why the hell is the middle of my torso starting to shape up like a turnip. Or why coloring my hair doesn’t seem to be having any influence on the opposite sex. Getting old isn’t a wonderful phenomenon like some people make it out to be. It is screwed.

I was wondering if they were selling any wonder pill up there in the west? In the US, specifically. US always has wonder pills for everything. Right from orgasms to obesity to hair loss, they have every damn pill people like me need to live happily ever after. Anyway, as I was meditating on these weighty matters, I felt a presence beside me. I am not used to that. Unless it is a pimp, drug dealer, whore, or beggar, at this time of the night, I am not expecting company in this isolated part of the colony. The only other option is not at all appealing. It could be a thief who wants to rob me at knife point. I immediately feel myself tense up. The whole freaking joy of the cigarette vanishes in thin air instantly.

The human silhouette clears its throat.

“Hi, mind if I sit here beside you?”

“No. Suit yourself. It is not my bench. By the way, there are plenty of others to sit on, if you haven’t noticed. They are all empty. You can even lie down on them at this point in time.”

“No. I would like to sit here. By the way, I’m God.”

“That is good to know. I’m Elvis Presley. Wait. Sometimes I think I am John Lennon.”

It laughs politely. “ Oh, it can’t be. Both of them are with me right now.”

I find that line of thought interesting. So I speak.

“Who else is with you right now?”

“Mahatma Gandhi, Princess Diana, Jim Morrison, Curt Cobain, Mother Teresa, Winston Churchil, Abe Lincoln, that list is pretty long. And you wouldn’t know all of them by name anyway. Why do you ask?”

“Lately, I am getting this feeling that only dead people are with you. We, the living has nothing whatsoever to do with you, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Your not saying it is not going to change the truth, is it?”

“I would just say that while being alive everyone here is busy trying to live. So they have postponed their matters with me till their death.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“When they are alive they will live. When they are dead they will deal with their after life.”

“You are confusing me now.” I light another cigarette.

“It is ok to be confused.”

“I don’t find it ok to be confused. You care to explain what you meant?”

“Look, I am life. You don’t have to think of me or worry about it. Just live. Rest we can talk in leisure once you die.”

I smile at it. “I really don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you are on to think you are God. But if this is how God is, I like God.”

“I understand. We should leave now. It’s time.”

I am not sure I comprehend. “What?”

“If you have no more questions, we should leave. I have other people to speak with later in the night.”

“What? Where? Where are we going? And why should I come with you? WHO ARE YOU?”

“I told you, I’m God. And when you die, you are ready to deal with me. You see, you have nothing else to do now.”

The Hermit

I sit across the old woman, patiently. Her silence is reassuring. The questions in my heart don’t rush me anymore. I am not fidgety as usual. I once again raise my eyes from the ground to look at her. She smiles at me. Without moving a muscle on her face. Maybe I am imagining things. I haven’t eaten properly for over a week. Extreme fatigue can cause delirium, I hear. I wonder how she manages to live here. What does she get to eat? How does she get it? She’s too frail to travel all the way down to the village. It must be at least 30 kilometers from here.

“Once in a while some kind soul comes to visit me from the village. They leave behind something to eat and drink. I am not particular about food, you know. At my age, human body doesn’t require much sustenance,” she speaks looking into my eyes.

I open my mouth but no words come out. Did she just read my mind? It can’t be. Maybe I was asking her those questions. Not thinking about them. I can’t make the difference anymore. I must be really tired.

She smiles at me again. Why does she do that? It is now making me conscious of myself. I don’t feel like smiling at all. I am angry. Confused. Or I was. I guess now I am just too tired to feel anything.

She brings me a large porcelain cup and a large apple. The cup is filled with warm milk.

“Have it. Your body needs nourishment,” There is a maternal undertone to her voice. I obey.

I feel the milk moisten my dry mouth and slowly travel down body, awakening it to life. I gulp down the entire cup quickly. I almost choke. She smiles again. I don’t care.

“Thank you,” I say, in between wiping my lips and take a large bite off the apple. It is sweet and juicy. I feel good.

“What were you doing in this jungle?” She asks, most casually.

“I am searching for truth,” I say, suddenly aware of the absurdity in that statement.

“What makes you think truth is to be found in a jungle?” She looks into my eyes this time, as if trying to decode my brain. I look away.

“Not the jungle. But in solitude. The jungle was to provide me solitude.”

“Have you found it?”

“What?”

“The truth?”

“No. I lost my back pack and, with it, myself in this jungle.”

“Oh…”

“My food supply and maps were in it. So I have been going around trying to find a way out of this jungle, growing hungry and tired with each passing day. Till you found me.”

“Did it scare you?”

“Getting lost? Yes. I thought I will die in here and nobody will ever even get to see my body.”

“And you forgot all about seeking out truth?” She laughed this time. I felt blood rushing into my head. I can imagine my face turning red instantly.

“Yes. I was more worried about getting out alive,” I admit without hesitating. Strangely, without shame. I don’t defend my action. I offer no explanation. Something makes me want to believe that she won’t judge me. That she will understand. And that, it is important for me to speak the truth here.

“Well, I will say you found your truth, my child,” she says smiling.

“How is that?”

“Well, what do you think your actions prove? You left behind everything else for truth. Then when you realised you were lost in this jungle, you abandoned your search for the truth and started to protect your life instead, isn’t it? You see, Life is the primary truth. The one above everything else. Knowledge is secondary.”

“I do not understand.”

“Son, our life is nothing but a constant struggle to protect the Truth. We seek Knowledge because Knowledge is what helps us do it. Otherwise knowledge would be useless. We would not seek it.”

“But how did I know that?”

“You soul did. Preservation of life is the fundamental act in all living beings. That is the Truth you seek. Negation of life is the basis of all untruths ever propagated.”

Can truth be so simple, I ask myself? Or is my need to complicate things refusing to accept things as they are? She smiles at me. Knowingly. Lovingly. Reassuringly. I am free to fall and rise in my own ignorance today. And I know I will. I smile back at her. In gratitude.