All through my teens, when I look back, if there was one person who I held responsible for all my woes it was my father.
He was just from another planet. He was so unlike everyone’s dad. My kid brother also thought so. One day when some asked him at school, what does your father do, without a moment’s hesitation he said. “My dad reads the papers and smokes”
Actually that’s all we saw dad do. Read papers and books and write furiously all the time. Ma went to office and we had strict instructions not to disturb him if we were home. So we tip toed around him.
Of course he was fun when he was in the mood. Cooked the most yummy food. Took us on nature walks. And to see plays which were mostly boring.
Yet there were too many restrictions. We weren’t allowed to see hindi films or hear filmi music. We didn’t have a tv at home. We didn’t have a car. We never went out for dinners or vacations.
Yet my mother was always smiling and looking at him lovingly when he read something out to her every night. I found that strange and asked her one day when I was fourteen that didn’t she wish she was married to a normal man. She looked angry and hurt. Said I was too young to understand but my dad was special. At that point special sounded like spastic to me...
When he was occasionally in a talkative mood, he spoke to us a lot. About things we didn’t understand. About marxisim and che guvera. About urdu poetry. About the naxalite movement. About the acute poverty in the villages. In my mind I wondered if people could be worse off than us.
Then dad got an award and the media came home to interview him. I was so thrilled and dressed up and hovered around the room. Baba pulled me close and looking into the tv camera said “This young lady is my inspiration, her smile is what keeps me going” I felt like a princess.
My brother and I thought we were the award winners and preened in school and in the colony. We spoke about how soon dad would be writing tv serials and films and we would have Mercedes. Nothing of the sort happened.
Instead some tribals came home one day and dad was so thrilled. They were scared of the flush in the bathroom and wouldn’t take the lift. Dad wanted to know how they made chutney with red ants. Uggh. My dad was really strange. When they were leaving I saw baba give them money. Our money, the money he had won. I cried so much that night. There was no point telling mom, I knew I just had to get to college and soon move out of this mad house.
Both my brother and I started spending more time away from home. Of course we rebelled and the fights increased. When I was eating a burger at home my dad one day started lecturing me on how a vada pav tasted as good. I retorted that he wouldn’t know and he was welcome to his poverty, let me enjoy myself. Mom slapped me and said dad cried because of what I said.
I was so glad when I got admission in a college in delhi. I missed lucknow, my kid brother and mom but never dad. I was great at academics and gradually got involved in theatre. I loved it and excelled in it. I devoured the classics in Hindi literature and drama like they were going out of fashion. My professor was very pleased. He got me some more plays to read from his home and said they were deeper but thought I would understand them.
In the stack was one of my dad’s books. I didn’t tell anyone but stayed up all night reading the play. Over and over again. I cried for hours. It was about their love story. My parents.
I called at the crack of dawn. Woke up my neighbours and asked them to call ma. Baba came on the line and was so concerned, since this was an out of turn call. I said sorry to him. Sorry for not realising how special and precious he was...
I went on to become a theatre actress and activist and the daughter of this year’s sahitya academy award winner!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
starting anew
It’s very difficult to build a real relationship with someone you have known all your life. Someone who has actually created you...
Of course I adore my dad and known that I have been, am and will always be the apple of his eye. When people say that the father daughter bond is special I whole heartedly agree.
It’s just that there always is something distant in the relationship...till you bridge the gap. That’s because we are all conditioned to behave a certain way. You know the love is unconditional yet the way we share with our moms is just so different. Maybe because we saw more of her and dad was always at work. My father also has a loud booming voice and through my childhood I feared him the days he lost his cool. Or saw my brother getting an occasional slap. With me, it was different; I could ask him for anything and get it...well almost. If he didn’t want me to do something, it was my mom who relied the message. With a warning that I must not bring it up again. So whether it was the school trip to manali or the short skirts in college that were a no no, it was always mom who said it. as I grew up and disliked mom’s autocratic ways I rebelled, told her it wasn’t dad, she was using him as an excuse to have her way. Am sure that hurt so one day she told me to go ask dad myself.
I was twenty one and wanted to apply for a job in another city. I went to dad and for the first time i saw him at a loss for words. “talk to your mother” was his terse reply. Thankfully, my mom didn’t have a I-told-you-so look on her face. I don’t know if I lost respect for him that day but didn’t ask for anything after that. Made peace with my mom playing the go between. Soon I flew the next. Career, cars, crying, cursing, caressing, cajoling and coping was one hell off a roller coaster. Suddenly I was 35 and my mother had died. My brother was happily settled overseas and dad was alone. I moved back home and we were virtual strangers.
For the first couple of months both of us tried to come to terms with the fulcrum of our life gone. At some point I realised that besides the perfunctionary duties that I was performing, there was little companionship that I was offering dad. I made the effort of getting to know him as a person.
I always knew he had strong views on politics but for the first time I got to know why. Got to know what he felt about growing up in a family that had lost everything to partition. I could almost feel what he must have gone through. That era took on another meaning for me. Soon the ice melted and I realised that he really had no issues if I had a drink with him. Many evenings were spent on the terrace, talking and laughing. So much better than two people watching television in their respective rooms.
Our chats also helped me learn so much about myself, how I had assumed so many things about my dad coloured by my mom’s perceptions. His immense knowledge of urdu poetry, the couplets he taught me and how popular they made me at work. He learnt to appreciate my cooking and realised that he loved salads the way I made them.
Today am so glad to rush home and spend quality time with the one man in my life who can truly offer unconditional love.
Of course I adore my dad and known that I have been, am and will always be the apple of his eye. When people say that the father daughter bond is special I whole heartedly agree.
It’s just that there always is something distant in the relationship...till you bridge the gap. That’s because we are all conditioned to behave a certain way. You know the love is unconditional yet the way we share with our moms is just so different. Maybe because we saw more of her and dad was always at work. My father also has a loud booming voice and through my childhood I feared him the days he lost his cool. Or saw my brother getting an occasional slap. With me, it was different; I could ask him for anything and get it...well almost. If he didn’t want me to do something, it was my mom who relied the message. With a warning that I must not bring it up again. So whether it was the school trip to manali or the short skirts in college that were a no no, it was always mom who said it. as I grew up and disliked mom’s autocratic ways I rebelled, told her it wasn’t dad, she was using him as an excuse to have her way. Am sure that hurt so one day she told me to go ask dad myself.
I was twenty one and wanted to apply for a job in another city. I went to dad and for the first time i saw him at a loss for words. “talk to your mother” was his terse reply. Thankfully, my mom didn’t have a I-told-you-so look on her face. I don’t know if I lost respect for him that day but didn’t ask for anything after that. Made peace with my mom playing the go between. Soon I flew the next. Career, cars, crying, cursing, caressing, cajoling and coping was one hell off a roller coaster. Suddenly I was 35 and my mother had died. My brother was happily settled overseas and dad was alone. I moved back home and we were virtual strangers.
For the first couple of months both of us tried to come to terms with the fulcrum of our life gone. At some point I realised that besides the perfunctionary duties that I was performing, there was little companionship that I was offering dad. I made the effort of getting to know him as a person.
I always knew he had strong views on politics but for the first time I got to know why. Got to know what he felt about growing up in a family that had lost everything to partition. I could almost feel what he must have gone through. That era took on another meaning for me. Soon the ice melted and I realised that he really had no issues if I had a drink with him. Many evenings were spent on the terrace, talking and laughing. So much better than two people watching television in their respective rooms.
Our chats also helped me learn so much about myself, how I had assumed so many things about my dad coloured by my mom’s perceptions. His immense knowledge of urdu poetry, the couplets he taught me and how popular they made me at work. He learnt to appreciate my cooking and realised that he loved salads the way I made them.
Today am so glad to rush home and spend quality time with the one man in my life who can truly offer unconditional love.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
THE LITTLE GIRL’S TOWN
It was a whim and driving to the airport, besides being amused I was a little intrigued. Off the top of my head I had picked the place and here I was off on my own adventure- my first solo holiday.
Sure people do that all the time yet for me it was a first. A coming of age in many ways. If I could do this I could do anything! Taking a break from work was tough enough and when I got time off, suddenly planning a break was stressful. I knew I needed time off to be by myself and take stock off where I was headed. Part of me was tempted to stay home and do that. Better sense prevailed when I had a sneak peek of the kilos of pending chores that I would have to look into at home.
Goa seemed like the most obvious choice. It was literally in the backyard and I knew the place like the back of my hand. I had 48 hours to plan and decide where I would go and this seemed simple and uncomplicated. I did ask a few pals if they wanted to join in. Then came the options of other places. Some places were on my to do list and some came heavily recommended. Yet there was a voice telling me that I needed to do this by myself and go some place that just sounded exotic and like it was calling me.
A friend recommended I try a new company that tailor made holidays in Karnataka. They are called The Bucket List and that had me hooked. Seemed like they had already got what I was looking for. So when I was sent pictures of a gorgeous resort in a coffee plantation, with a great spa, I instantly said yes.
I didn’t realise it was six hours away from Bangalore and when I began the drive I was wondering what I had gone into. That’s when I realised that sometimes going with the flow and trusting the universe is the only choice you have. Solo time is what I had yearned for and here it was all mine...so I gingerly trod ahead into this not so familiar territory.
Of course calls and messaging with family and friends didn’t help. Some called me mad and asked me to come back. Others said the peace and quiet would drive me mad. That egged me on. Surely I couldn’t me such a slave to the bad life?!!!
Mr Srinivas, my guide and driver set the tone for the next four days. Tough but interesting if I made the effort. He looked like a bank manager and spoke like a doctor. We both didn’t know what to make of each other honestly. I got to know that Chikmagalur, my destination, actually meant the little girl’s town in Kannadiga. It was to be gifted by a rich merchant to his little daughter as part of her dowry. Seemed ironical that I had chosen a town thus named when I needed to feel that I wasn’t the little girl any longer, who needed to be chaperoned even on a break!
Googledeva threw in more surprises. This was the place from where coffee, my constant companion, first entered India. It was also Indira Gandhi’s constituency before Amethi. A friend’s anecdote about how her brother called the lady chikmagalur as a kid, I thought was adorable. With my camera suddenly the landscape begun coming to life. It was a festival of sorts and all the women in their finery lined the streets, at times blocking traffic. Mr Srinivas showed some mock anger which was totally endearing. En route we stopped for south Indian filter coffee and steaming hot idlis. I was liking this...got into the groove listening to cheesy tamil songs and discussing the phenomenon called Rajni Sir.
My phone and computer were allowed to take a break as well. There was a coffee aroma in the air as we drove uphill. It isn’t at too much of a height yet chikmagalur has a hill station vibe. Old british structures with green roundabouts. A colonial air where if you saw Mr Brown, riding past you would be tempted to tap your hat. Then there was The Serai. Calling it just a resort would be unfair, it honestly is something else.
Luxury takes on another meaning at this place. What is amazing is the understated elegance with which it unobtrusively spoils you. It takes a couple of hours getting used to a private villa with a diving pool, a jaccuzzi and an outdoor shower...
Early morning walks in the coffee plantation is what I picked. Well trained staff, showed me around and let me wander when I felt like. The place is set in the cafe coffee day plantation. Felt like I was home. Maybe I was a coloumbian coffee planter in a previous birth? From green to red to brown saw coffee seeds in different stages. Also got to know how coffee and pepper grow together in these parts. Both need each other to flourish. Set me thinking. Peace and chaos in the right proportions?
Hot stone massages. Meditating in the forest clearing. Sampling local cuisine in the finest china. I knew I had made the right choice. What for me, was a first and a great beginning, was the fact that I did not miss my phone, tv or social networks. It was a revelation and an achievement.
I was sleeping by eleven and was up at seven am. The best part is that the routine continues even now that I am back to real life. If I can keep that and my no smoking stance, this has been the clincher for me. The life changing holiday. Got some amount of writing, a fair amount of reading and lots of thinking done. Rid of toxic people and situations in my mind. The sheer joy of not having to second guess what your partner is thinking is inexplicable.
The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that I had to go to chikamagalur since I was the little girl of the little girl’s town! Solo holidays are hugely recommended
Sure people do that all the time yet for me it was a first. A coming of age in many ways. If I could do this I could do anything! Taking a break from work was tough enough and when I got time off, suddenly planning a break was stressful. I knew I needed time off to be by myself and take stock off where I was headed. Part of me was tempted to stay home and do that. Better sense prevailed when I had a sneak peek of the kilos of pending chores that I would have to look into at home.
Goa seemed like the most obvious choice. It was literally in the backyard and I knew the place like the back of my hand. I had 48 hours to plan and decide where I would go and this seemed simple and uncomplicated. I did ask a few pals if they wanted to join in. Then came the options of other places. Some places were on my to do list and some came heavily recommended. Yet there was a voice telling me that I needed to do this by myself and go some place that just sounded exotic and like it was calling me.
A friend recommended I try a new company that tailor made holidays in Karnataka. They are called The Bucket List and that had me hooked. Seemed like they had already got what I was looking for. So when I was sent pictures of a gorgeous resort in a coffee plantation, with a great spa, I instantly said yes.
I didn’t realise it was six hours away from Bangalore and when I began the drive I was wondering what I had gone into. That’s when I realised that sometimes going with the flow and trusting the universe is the only choice you have. Solo time is what I had yearned for and here it was all mine...so I gingerly trod ahead into this not so familiar territory.
Of course calls and messaging with family and friends didn’t help. Some called me mad and asked me to come back. Others said the peace and quiet would drive me mad. That egged me on. Surely I couldn’t me such a slave to the bad life?!!!
Mr Srinivas, my guide and driver set the tone for the next four days. Tough but interesting if I made the effort. He looked like a bank manager and spoke like a doctor. We both didn’t know what to make of each other honestly. I got to know that Chikmagalur, my destination, actually meant the little girl’s town in Kannadiga. It was to be gifted by a rich merchant to his little daughter as part of her dowry. Seemed ironical that I had chosen a town thus named when I needed to feel that I wasn’t the little girl any longer, who needed to be chaperoned even on a break!
Googledeva threw in more surprises. This was the place from where coffee, my constant companion, first entered India. It was also Indira Gandhi’s constituency before Amethi. A friend’s anecdote about how her brother called the lady chikmagalur as a kid, I thought was adorable. With my camera suddenly the landscape begun coming to life. It was a festival of sorts and all the women in their finery lined the streets, at times blocking traffic. Mr Srinivas showed some mock anger which was totally endearing. En route we stopped for south Indian filter coffee and steaming hot idlis. I was liking this...got into the groove listening to cheesy tamil songs and discussing the phenomenon called Rajni Sir.
My phone and computer were allowed to take a break as well. There was a coffee aroma in the air as we drove uphill. It isn’t at too much of a height yet chikmagalur has a hill station vibe. Old british structures with green roundabouts. A colonial air where if you saw Mr Brown, riding past you would be tempted to tap your hat. Then there was The Serai. Calling it just a resort would be unfair, it honestly is something else.
Luxury takes on another meaning at this place. What is amazing is the understated elegance with which it unobtrusively spoils you. It takes a couple of hours getting used to a private villa with a diving pool, a jaccuzzi and an outdoor shower...
Early morning walks in the coffee plantation is what I picked. Well trained staff, showed me around and let me wander when I felt like. The place is set in the cafe coffee day plantation. Felt like I was home. Maybe I was a coloumbian coffee planter in a previous birth? From green to red to brown saw coffee seeds in different stages. Also got to know how coffee and pepper grow together in these parts. Both need each other to flourish. Set me thinking. Peace and chaos in the right proportions?
Hot stone massages. Meditating in the forest clearing. Sampling local cuisine in the finest china. I knew I had made the right choice. What for me, was a first and a great beginning, was the fact that I did not miss my phone, tv or social networks. It was a revelation and an achievement.
I was sleeping by eleven and was up at seven am. The best part is that the routine continues even now that I am back to real life. If I can keep that and my no smoking stance, this has been the clincher for me. The life changing holiday. Got some amount of writing, a fair amount of reading and lots of thinking done. Rid of toxic people and situations in my mind. The sheer joy of not having to second guess what your partner is thinking is inexplicable.
The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that I had to go to chikamagalur since I was the little girl of the little girl’s town! Solo holidays are hugely recommended
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The man with the blue suitcase
I saw him sitting on the park bench every evening. Well dressed, looked educated. Someone who must have been well to do and good looking a couple of years ago. I was intrigued. He always had this blue weather beaten, solid VIPs suitcase close to him every day. The kind that everyone had before soft luggage was discovered. He also strangely seemed to belong to that era…
He never spoke to anyone or smiled. He stared into space and sometimes was writing feverishly into a notebook. Always keeping an eye on his suitcase. He was there every evening. If I went for a walk at 5 in the evening or 10 at night. I tried smiling at him once and was met with a stony silence. He had about 3 shirts I guessed, all a little frayed but always well ironed. Shoes polished. Like he could walk into some place important instantly if summoned. I always wondered who he was, where he lived, what he did, what did his bag contain?
Then the furious Bombay monsoons descended on us. I stopped going to the park and felt caged in my little one bedroom apartment. Sometimes I thought about the man and wondered where he went in this weather. Then one day, I was really down and felt like a brisk walk would help. It wasn’t raining and I was walking preoccupied in my thoughts. Soon it was pouring and I was grateful. I could cry unnoticed. Like the Charlie Chaplin poster…
That’s when I noticed him. Sitting in the rain and staring at me. He smiled when I crossed him again. This time I ignored him.
I was tired and the rain was relentless. I walked into the shelter at the kerb and there he was. Our eyes met and there was an empathy that was disconcerting. We got talking and I heard his fascinating tale. He was Gurinder Tangdi from Nakodar in Punjab. Had been in Bombay for the last 15 years and was still a struggling lyricist. He had a lovely wife, two children and aging parents back home. They believed he was a success in bollywood and went by a pen name. So every time the so called “pen name” had a hit, they celebrated. They understood when he said he was too busy and could only see them once a year. What his wife didn’t understand was why she could never come see him, even though she believed him when he said he was faithful to her.
Very tentatively I asked what he did all day? How did he survive? He just smiled and looked away. It was clearly the end of the conversation. I thought about how I could help him for the next twenty four hours. Being a banker didn’t make things easier and yet..
For the next couple of days I got busy and yet when I went the next time, there he was writing feverishly. Wasn’t sure if he would acknowledge me. He didn’t. Gestured that he was busy. Who was he writing for? Had he got an assignment?
I looked forward to my walks and chats with Guri. He was writing songs that he could pitch to the new superstar, since stars called the shots these days. And shekhar looked the kind who would recognise talent. He didn’t know him but at the cybercafé where he worked as an assistant there was a customer who knew his driver. So he was sure that his time was coming. I felt sorry for this delusional man.
Often we chatted, I asked him to join me for a coffee or a dosa but he always declined. Despite penury, the male ego was intact. He never asked about my life or for any help. Just said he liked that I seemed to understand his worth. Told me about three hit songs that were actually his. They were robbed from him. One he put up on his blog, the other he read out to a stranger in a seedy bar and the third he wrote with chalk on a wall outside a music director’s office, along with his phone number. I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth or his version of the truth.
He said writing in the park was what he loved. Now he was careful so he carried all his creations with him wherever he went. In the blue suitcase. His optimism was scary. He also wrote here because in his home, there were seven other people and a lot of noise.
I once asked why he didn’t go back to Punjab. He looked hurt and said he was an “artiste” and stay in the “industry”, how could he go back. He would rust there. He actually believed he was just biding time for his big break here. Some day someone would spot the genius in him. He had decided who he would thank in his filmfare award speech and I was in the list.
After a month he read out some of his creations. They were awful and clichéd. I told him that and Guri stopped talking to me. I was irritated with myself for letting this weirdo affect me so much. Yet I felt sorry for this earnest idealist…
Through some friends I got to know that a new music director was looking for a writer who understood the Punjabi sensibility. I rushed to the park and ran up to Guri to tell him. He stared at me while I gushed excited and he nodded his head saying no. didn’t want to get slotted as a Punjabi writer. I could have slapped the guy. Why couldn’t he get it? He thanked me and said he needed no help.
I yelled at him and he sat there benign, in a Buddha like state. Said something
I gave up on Guri. I also stopped going to the park because my building got a gym. I didn’t want to see him. It pained me to see someone ruining themselves because of some silly ideas they had in their head.
I often wonder what it is about this drug that the damn film industry is. Normal sane people losing it and still hoping…
He never spoke to anyone or smiled. He stared into space and sometimes was writing feverishly into a notebook. Always keeping an eye on his suitcase. He was there every evening. If I went for a walk at 5 in the evening or 10 at night. I tried smiling at him once and was met with a stony silence. He had about 3 shirts I guessed, all a little frayed but always well ironed. Shoes polished. Like he could walk into some place important instantly if summoned. I always wondered who he was, where he lived, what he did, what did his bag contain?
Then the furious Bombay monsoons descended on us. I stopped going to the park and felt caged in my little one bedroom apartment. Sometimes I thought about the man and wondered where he went in this weather. Then one day, I was really down and felt like a brisk walk would help. It wasn’t raining and I was walking preoccupied in my thoughts. Soon it was pouring and I was grateful. I could cry unnoticed. Like the Charlie Chaplin poster…
That’s when I noticed him. Sitting in the rain and staring at me. He smiled when I crossed him again. This time I ignored him.
I was tired and the rain was relentless. I walked into the shelter at the kerb and there he was. Our eyes met and there was an empathy that was disconcerting. We got talking and I heard his fascinating tale. He was Gurinder Tangdi from Nakodar in Punjab. Had been in Bombay for the last 15 years and was still a struggling lyricist. He had a lovely wife, two children and aging parents back home. They believed he was a success in bollywood and went by a pen name. So every time the so called “pen name” had a hit, they celebrated. They understood when he said he was too busy and could only see them once a year. What his wife didn’t understand was why she could never come see him, even though she believed him when he said he was faithful to her.
Very tentatively I asked what he did all day? How did he survive? He just smiled and looked away. It was clearly the end of the conversation. I thought about how I could help him for the next twenty four hours. Being a banker didn’t make things easier and yet..
For the next couple of days I got busy and yet when I went the next time, there he was writing feverishly. Wasn’t sure if he would acknowledge me. He didn’t. Gestured that he was busy. Who was he writing for? Had he got an assignment?
I looked forward to my walks and chats with Guri. He was writing songs that he could pitch to the new superstar, since stars called the shots these days. And shekhar looked the kind who would recognise talent. He didn’t know him but at the cybercafé where he worked as an assistant there was a customer who knew his driver. So he was sure that his time was coming. I felt sorry for this delusional man.
Often we chatted, I asked him to join me for a coffee or a dosa but he always declined. Despite penury, the male ego was intact. He never asked about my life or for any help. Just said he liked that I seemed to understand his worth. Told me about three hit songs that were actually his. They were robbed from him. One he put up on his blog, the other he read out to a stranger in a seedy bar and the third he wrote with chalk on a wall outside a music director’s office, along with his phone number. I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth or his version of the truth.
He said writing in the park was what he loved. Now he was careful so he carried all his creations with him wherever he went. In the blue suitcase. His optimism was scary. He also wrote here because in his home, there were seven other people and a lot of noise.
I once asked why he didn’t go back to Punjab. He looked hurt and said he was an “artiste” and stay in the “industry”, how could he go back. He would rust there. He actually believed he was just biding time for his big break here. Some day someone would spot the genius in him. He had decided who he would thank in his filmfare award speech and I was in the list.
After a month he read out some of his creations. They were awful and clichéd. I told him that and Guri stopped talking to me. I was irritated with myself for letting this weirdo affect me so much. Yet I felt sorry for this earnest idealist…
Through some friends I got to know that a new music director was looking for a writer who understood the Punjabi sensibility. I rushed to the park and ran up to Guri to tell him. He stared at me while I gushed excited and he nodded his head saying no. didn’t want to get slotted as a Punjabi writer. I could have slapped the guy. Why couldn’t he get it? He thanked me and said he needed no help.
I yelled at him and he sat there benign, in a Buddha like state. Said something
I gave up on Guri. I also stopped going to the park because my building got a gym. I didn’t want to see him. It pained me to see someone ruining themselves because of some silly ideas they had in their head.
I often wonder what it is about this drug that the damn film industry is. Normal sane people losing it and still hoping…
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
HAQUEEQAT
Dard ka naap tol mujhe nahi aata
Ho sakta hai aapka gham ho zyaada
Par mujhe dikhta hai vo ghav jo nahi jaata...
Apne dard ka yeh sauda karna mujhe nahi aata
Le sako to bhai le lo, saara nahi to le jaao aadha
Maine bhi koshish ki par yeh baanta nahi jaata...
Baton mein baat bhoolana mujhe nahi aata
Har baat bataiye nahi jaati, jitna bhi ho iradaa
Waqt ke saath kam hota hai par dard kabhi poora nahi jaata...
Ho sakta hai aapka gham ho zyaada
Par mujhe dikhta hai vo ghav jo nahi jaata...
Apne dard ka yeh sauda karna mujhe nahi aata
Le sako to bhai le lo, saara nahi to le jaao aadha
Maine bhi koshish ki par yeh baanta nahi jaata...
Baton mein baat bhoolana mujhe nahi aata
Har baat bataiye nahi jaati, jitna bhi ho iradaa
Waqt ke saath kam hota hai par dard kabhi poora nahi jaata...
Thursday, September 16, 2010
sixwordstories
Reality bit me. Ouch that hurt!
~
Making love. Faking love. Aching love.
~
Been there, done that, what next?
~
Many options, unlimited choices, still yours
~
Playing mind games. Assured heart break.
~
Making love. Faking love. Aching love.
~
Been there, done that, what next?
~
Many options, unlimited choices, still yours
~
Playing mind games. Assured heart break.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
someone to talk to
Today my husband took me out shopping, after months of my asking. We got back tired after having bought half the mall and dinner at the fancy new place. Both of us were glad the evening had ended. I was dying to get to my lap top but he looked like he wanted to talk. It’s actually a pain to know someone so well that you can know what they want without their having to ask. “Who is rahul?” he asked casually. I could feel the colour rise to my cheeks.
“Just someone I met online”, I tried to make it sound casual. He shrugged and smiled the smile that I once used to love. “Well, he certainly creeps into your conversations a lot these days”
I looked away but actually wanted to tell him that he is the one who kept me going for the last eight months. While you were always too busy.
Rahul and I met on a social networking site. It was uncanny that we liked exactly the same things. His views on most things were exactly mine. We got chatting.
It seemed ok since we lived in different parts of the country. Till date we have not exchanged phone numbers but what we have exchanged is an integral part of our lives.
Rahul is special. There is no attraction or love. Any desire to meet either. Just a bond between two lonely strangers. We both know everything about each other. Maybe the anonymity makes it easier to open up. Maybe the fact that we are not in any relationship makes the expectations and the baggage that comes with it, vanish.
Maybe if we did meet and discovered flaws in each other we would be devastated.
What my always absent husband does not know is that part of my patience with him comes from the fact that I have someone to talk to. Someone who cares to listen, despite having a high profile job himself. Maybe rahul’s wife complains of the same neglect but like I have learnt from her husband, a little bit of selfishness is needed to survive. So I am not complaining.
In fact I am grateful that this stranger has come into my life.
Sure we fight, sulk and call each other names sometimes. Like normal friends do.
We also care a lot. Yet neither of us has voiced the need to be there for each other in the physical sense. Even if you are ill and alone or hurting after a bitter fight with the spouse.
Will this last? I honestly don’t know. I am practical enough to know that it may not.
I can’t afford to lose what we have worrying over what will happen in the future.
Maybe he is part of my life for a reason. A lesson I need to learn. When I learn it he may just vanish. Without a trace.
Today is what I have. And today seeing him pop up on my friends list makes me happy.
“Just someone I met online”, I tried to make it sound casual. He shrugged and smiled the smile that I once used to love. “Well, he certainly creeps into your conversations a lot these days”
I looked away but actually wanted to tell him that he is the one who kept me going for the last eight months. While you were always too busy.
Rahul and I met on a social networking site. It was uncanny that we liked exactly the same things. His views on most things were exactly mine. We got chatting.
It seemed ok since we lived in different parts of the country. Till date we have not exchanged phone numbers but what we have exchanged is an integral part of our lives.
Rahul is special. There is no attraction or love. Any desire to meet either. Just a bond between two lonely strangers. We both know everything about each other. Maybe the anonymity makes it easier to open up. Maybe the fact that we are not in any relationship makes the expectations and the baggage that comes with it, vanish.
Maybe if we did meet and discovered flaws in each other we would be devastated.
What my always absent husband does not know is that part of my patience with him comes from the fact that I have someone to talk to. Someone who cares to listen, despite having a high profile job himself. Maybe rahul’s wife complains of the same neglect but like I have learnt from her husband, a little bit of selfishness is needed to survive. So I am not complaining.
In fact I am grateful that this stranger has come into my life.
Sure we fight, sulk and call each other names sometimes. Like normal friends do.
We also care a lot. Yet neither of us has voiced the need to be there for each other in the physical sense. Even if you are ill and alone or hurting after a bitter fight with the spouse.
Will this last? I honestly don’t know. I am practical enough to know that it may not.
I can’t afford to lose what we have worrying over what will happen in the future.
Maybe he is part of my life for a reason. A lesson I need to learn. When I learn it he may just vanish. Without a trace.
Today is what I have. And today seeing him pop up on my friends list makes me happy.
Adjustments
The first person I wanted to call when I felt my world crumbling around me, was my mom. I had a great career which I had lost interest in. I had a super marriage and had today discovered that my husband had been cheating on me for the last two years. And who did I want to call? Mrs Alka Shrivastav. The woman, I had hated most of my adult life. Who I hadn’t spoken to for the last two years. It just didn’t make sense. This wasn’t even a situation I could blame her for, or could I?
When I was a teenager, like most of my friends I hated parental control. I rebelled against every rule, I had brilliant grades in school so dad had no issues. Yet mom found fault with me all the time. If bhaiyya and I made the same mistake, I would be yelled at and he’d be forgiven. Her double standards got to me. What made things worse was that my best friend’s mom was so cool and went dancing with us. All my mom did was look sad and scared.
When she made feeble attempts at speaking in English or cooking Chinese food I cringed in embarrassment. I didn’t go out with her any longer and didn’t get friends home. They drooled over her cooking so I made her cook and took food to my friend’s homes.
When I started working I did feel awful about the way I had behaved and for a short while I did work on our fractured relationship. It helped that she was so proud of my achievements as a journalist. She kept every newspaper article I wrote, told everyone about the sarees I got her. I noticed that the only time she smiled in the day was when she opened the morning papers and saw my byline. In a rare moment of togetherness she confessed that it had been her dream to be a journalist. To her credit, she never pushed me to take to writing, it was something I wanted to do.
Yet once I got promoted and busier, we started having problems again. She didn’t approve of my timings, friends, haircut, clothes and the fact that I was now openly smoking. The same oft repeated lectures of how women have to know their limits and adjust. It made my blood boil. Finally I one day asked her what she had achieved by adjusting so much? I knew my father had not been loyal to her, I knew that we kids weren’t exactly proud of her and that she had no time or resources to do what she felt like. For heaven’s sake she couldn’t even go to see her sister whenever she felt like.
The fact that I was a splitting image of my mother, made matters worst. I dreaded inheriting her personality too. I refused to do anything she wanted me to, even if it was good for me. Till date, I don’t eat fruits because she used to insist I eat them. She started showing me pictures of prospective boys and I would tear each one without looking. The same drone about adjustment would come up. The more I read, the more I was convinced that she was jealous of me.
When I met Ronak and we fell in love, I told papa and bhaiyya, not her. When we decided to get married she still got excited and ensured I had a picture perfect wedding. Yet when she again suggested I live with my in-laws and adjust, rather than rent our own place, I lost it. I yelled and said awful things. I refused to speak to her again. We moved to Bombay so I didn’t need to meet her.
Yet today when I was at my lowest I yearned for my mother’s lap and hesitatingly I called her. She sensed that something was amiss before I said a word. I broke down and told her what Ronak had done. She was silent when I wanted her to talk. After what seemed like eternity she only said, “Sunaina, please don’t adjust this time. Don’t make the mistake I did....”
When I was a teenager, like most of my friends I hated parental control. I rebelled against every rule, I had brilliant grades in school so dad had no issues. Yet mom found fault with me all the time. If bhaiyya and I made the same mistake, I would be yelled at and he’d be forgiven. Her double standards got to me. What made things worse was that my best friend’s mom was so cool and went dancing with us. All my mom did was look sad and scared.
When she made feeble attempts at speaking in English or cooking Chinese food I cringed in embarrassment. I didn’t go out with her any longer and didn’t get friends home. They drooled over her cooking so I made her cook and took food to my friend’s homes.
When I started working I did feel awful about the way I had behaved and for a short while I did work on our fractured relationship. It helped that she was so proud of my achievements as a journalist. She kept every newspaper article I wrote, told everyone about the sarees I got her. I noticed that the only time she smiled in the day was when she opened the morning papers and saw my byline. In a rare moment of togetherness she confessed that it had been her dream to be a journalist. To her credit, she never pushed me to take to writing, it was something I wanted to do.
Yet once I got promoted and busier, we started having problems again. She didn’t approve of my timings, friends, haircut, clothes and the fact that I was now openly smoking. The same oft repeated lectures of how women have to know their limits and adjust. It made my blood boil. Finally I one day asked her what she had achieved by adjusting so much? I knew my father had not been loyal to her, I knew that we kids weren’t exactly proud of her and that she had no time or resources to do what she felt like. For heaven’s sake she couldn’t even go to see her sister whenever she felt like.
The fact that I was a splitting image of my mother, made matters worst. I dreaded inheriting her personality too. I refused to do anything she wanted me to, even if it was good for me. Till date, I don’t eat fruits because she used to insist I eat them. She started showing me pictures of prospective boys and I would tear each one without looking. The same drone about adjustment would come up. The more I read, the more I was convinced that she was jealous of me.
When I met Ronak and we fell in love, I told papa and bhaiyya, not her. When we decided to get married she still got excited and ensured I had a picture perfect wedding. Yet when she again suggested I live with my in-laws and adjust, rather than rent our own place, I lost it. I yelled and said awful things. I refused to speak to her again. We moved to Bombay so I didn’t need to meet her.
Yet today when I was at my lowest I yearned for my mother’s lap and hesitatingly I called her. She sensed that something was amiss before I said a word. I broke down and told her what Ronak had done. She was silent when I wanted her to talk. After what seemed like eternity she only said, “Sunaina, please don’t adjust this time. Don’t make the mistake I did....”
outlaws
Kusum and I were really the best of buddies. And as we flopped onto the sofa in the restaurant, with tons of shopping bags we must have looked like some silly school girls. Well, we were anything but that! Kusum was a 62 year old successful surgeon and I, Kamna am a 30 year old investment banker. She lived in delhi, I in Bombay and we were currently catching up in Bangalore.
We couldn’t stand each other’s guts the first day we set eyes on each other. Yet we knew we couldn’t wish each other way since we loved the same man. Her son and my to-be husband, Sankalp. The concept of a mother in law scared the daylights out of me. Kusum was also sceptical of me, since I was from a different city, came from another part of the country and above all, she would have to share her son with me.
Post the wedding we made an effort, both of us did. Neither of us wanted sankalp to feel like he had to take sides. To kusum’s credit she never said anything to my husband to colour his perception about me. I can’t confess to the same, I did crib to him at times that she didn’t like me. Once she was with us in delhi and sankalp had to suddenly travel abroad, it was just the two of us for a weekend. We bonded and how! We loved the same books and movies. We had such fun singing songs! I taught her a couple of Punjabi dishes, she bought me gorgeous handlooms sarees. I got tips on how to handle a man, she got advise on safe investments.
After that sankalp said he felt left out whenever the three of us were together! I turned to her and not my mom when I had a miscarriage. She told me about an interesting man she had met and asked me not to tell her son.
We spoke pretty often but as I took on more responsibilities at work, time was a huge constraint. Sankalp was rising fast at work too. We barely saw each other. The time we decided to take a break and go to see mom, she told us to go to goa instead and spend some time with each other.
When I got to know about sankalp’s affair, the first person I confided in was Kusum. It was the ugliest time in my life. For four months I was begging and pleading with my husband to not walk out. Finally kusum asked me to let go and not demean myself any more.
I was devastated and so was she. She tried very hard to make her son see sense but he was too smitten to care. Before leaving he accused me of turning his mom against him. I felt sorry for him. Work was a great help. My family of course blamed me in their ignorance. Kusum was the only one who stood rock solid by me.
We met and never spoke about sankalp or his new love. Our relationship made it through the storm that wrecked my marriage.
It’s been two years now. Of course she and sankalp have made peace. She can’t stand his lover but only mentions it in passing. She keeps me persuading me to find love again. I tell her I will be fine by myself, just like she has been.
At the restaurant, after yet another giggle fit, we realised how loud we had been and immediately got sheepish. A lady, who had been observing us, walked up and said she wished she had a daughter like me. Kusum held my hand and said “Not everyone is as blessed”
We couldn’t stand each other’s guts the first day we set eyes on each other. Yet we knew we couldn’t wish each other way since we loved the same man. Her son and my to-be husband, Sankalp. The concept of a mother in law scared the daylights out of me. Kusum was also sceptical of me, since I was from a different city, came from another part of the country and above all, she would have to share her son with me.
Post the wedding we made an effort, both of us did. Neither of us wanted sankalp to feel like he had to take sides. To kusum’s credit she never said anything to my husband to colour his perception about me. I can’t confess to the same, I did crib to him at times that she didn’t like me. Once she was with us in delhi and sankalp had to suddenly travel abroad, it was just the two of us for a weekend. We bonded and how! We loved the same books and movies. We had such fun singing songs! I taught her a couple of Punjabi dishes, she bought me gorgeous handlooms sarees. I got tips on how to handle a man, she got advise on safe investments.
After that sankalp said he felt left out whenever the three of us were together! I turned to her and not my mom when I had a miscarriage. She told me about an interesting man she had met and asked me not to tell her son.
We spoke pretty often but as I took on more responsibilities at work, time was a huge constraint. Sankalp was rising fast at work too. We barely saw each other. The time we decided to take a break and go to see mom, she told us to go to goa instead and spend some time with each other.
When I got to know about sankalp’s affair, the first person I confided in was Kusum. It was the ugliest time in my life. For four months I was begging and pleading with my husband to not walk out. Finally kusum asked me to let go and not demean myself any more.
I was devastated and so was she. She tried very hard to make her son see sense but he was too smitten to care. Before leaving he accused me of turning his mom against him. I felt sorry for him. Work was a great help. My family of course blamed me in their ignorance. Kusum was the only one who stood rock solid by me.
We met and never spoke about sankalp or his new love. Our relationship made it through the storm that wrecked my marriage.
It’s been two years now. Of course she and sankalp have made peace. She can’t stand his lover but only mentions it in passing. She keeps me persuading me to find love again. I tell her I will be fine by myself, just like she has been.
At the restaurant, after yet another giggle fit, we realised how loud we had been and immediately got sheepish. A lady, who had been observing us, walked up and said she wished she had a daughter like me. Kusum held my hand and said “Not everyone is as blessed”
not just a mother
Fixing myself a cup of chamomile tea, my favourite singer serenading me on the stereo and a blank canvas becokining...this was life. As I stared out of the french windows I couldn’t help smiling. The simple joys of life were so attainable, why did it take me 60 years to realise that?
Till 3 years ago I was just Mrs Sharma and Bindi, Bela and Bhupesh’s mother. I was very happy and content. I had been a great wife and a wonderful mother and I knew that. Life was a roller coaster and I didn’t have the controls. My husband was rising fast in his career and was soon a prominent lawyer. Bringing up the kids was something I did almost singlehandedly. From pta meetings to illnesses. Birthday parties to keeping a check on their reading material, I didn’t have a moment to spare. It was only when they fared well in academics or won accolades in other spheres did I feel like it was all worth it.
Before I knew it they had grown up and didn’t need me too much. Of course I was still involved in their lives but to the extent they allowed. Bhupesh came to America for higher studies, Bindi got busy with her banking career and Bela was stuck to the computer and excelling in graphic design. I did set the rules at home but there wasn’t really much to do. Till it was time to get them married, first Bindi got a good match and then Bela married the neighbour’s son.
What happened next was painful. Opportunities and dreams led them all one by one to America and soon it was just the two of us. How much could you talk on the phone? I got net savvy so I could chat with the children but it really wasn’t the same. I kept telling Kapil to slow down and plan a holiday to see the kids but you know how husbands can be. We just kept postponing our retirement and peaceful holiday plans. Then one day he was gone...just like that. The first heart attack proved fatal. I was devastated and despite the kids insisting I stayed back in Bombay.
In a couple of months I realised how utterly lonely I was. Other than my family, I had nothing, no career, no friends, no hobbies. I was too old to start again and soon I found myself watching trite television soaps and hated myself for doing that.
A year later, I gave in to the kids and agreed to move to Philadelphia. Bhupesh was marrying Clara and it was my first real exposure to a foreigner. She was a lovely child and spoilt me silly. Her mother Karen and I became friends. We were the same age but so utterly different. I honestly didn’t like her smoking, drinking friends who used cuss words so calmly. Yet something she said made me think. She said “Vidya, why don’t you just get a life? The kids don’t need us any longer”
So I stopped badgering my children and their spouses to make me grand children. Instead I started doing things that I had always wanted to but never had the time for. I went for walks, visited art galleries and museums and realised I loved it. Soon I was taking the tube and going by myself. It was such a high to do that. Thankfully none of my kids laughed when I told them that. Instead they set up a studio for me in the basement of Bhupesh’s house.
Finally I could spend time doing what I felt like, without feeling guilty. For practical reasons I took to wearing jeans...and that was so so liberating. Like becoming another person. The first time I applied for an art competition online and was called in, it felt almost as good as it did when Bela topped in college.
I was now at art workshops every wednseday and I was known as Vidya there. Just plain Vidya. Karen came to visit and said she had never seen anyone transform so much in six months. When I sold my first painting and got paid for it, I could have danced on the streets. I took the kids out to dinner and on Sunday I organised lunch for children at the orphanage.
My kids are so proud of me and I suspect they are also relieved that they don’t need to baby sit me any longer. Sixty and single is not such a scary space you know...
Till 3 years ago I was just Mrs Sharma and Bindi, Bela and Bhupesh’s mother. I was very happy and content. I had been a great wife and a wonderful mother and I knew that. Life was a roller coaster and I didn’t have the controls. My husband was rising fast in his career and was soon a prominent lawyer. Bringing up the kids was something I did almost singlehandedly. From pta meetings to illnesses. Birthday parties to keeping a check on their reading material, I didn’t have a moment to spare. It was only when they fared well in academics or won accolades in other spheres did I feel like it was all worth it.
Before I knew it they had grown up and didn’t need me too much. Of course I was still involved in their lives but to the extent they allowed. Bhupesh came to America for higher studies, Bindi got busy with her banking career and Bela was stuck to the computer and excelling in graphic design. I did set the rules at home but there wasn’t really much to do. Till it was time to get them married, first Bindi got a good match and then Bela married the neighbour’s son.
What happened next was painful. Opportunities and dreams led them all one by one to America and soon it was just the two of us. How much could you talk on the phone? I got net savvy so I could chat with the children but it really wasn’t the same. I kept telling Kapil to slow down and plan a holiday to see the kids but you know how husbands can be. We just kept postponing our retirement and peaceful holiday plans. Then one day he was gone...just like that. The first heart attack proved fatal. I was devastated and despite the kids insisting I stayed back in Bombay.
In a couple of months I realised how utterly lonely I was. Other than my family, I had nothing, no career, no friends, no hobbies. I was too old to start again and soon I found myself watching trite television soaps and hated myself for doing that.
A year later, I gave in to the kids and agreed to move to Philadelphia. Bhupesh was marrying Clara and it was my first real exposure to a foreigner. She was a lovely child and spoilt me silly. Her mother Karen and I became friends. We were the same age but so utterly different. I honestly didn’t like her smoking, drinking friends who used cuss words so calmly. Yet something she said made me think. She said “Vidya, why don’t you just get a life? The kids don’t need us any longer”
So I stopped badgering my children and their spouses to make me grand children. Instead I started doing things that I had always wanted to but never had the time for. I went for walks, visited art galleries and museums and realised I loved it. Soon I was taking the tube and going by myself. It was such a high to do that. Thankfully none of my kids laughed when I told them that. Instead they set up a studio for me in the basement of Bhupesh’s house.
Finally I could spend time doing what I felt like, without feeling guilty. For practical reasons I took to wearing jeans...and that was so so liberating. Like becoming another person. The first time I applied for an art competition online and was called in, it felt almost as good as it did when Bela topped in college.
I was now at art workshops every wednseday and I was known as Vidya there. Just plain Vidya. Karen came to visit and said she had never seen anyone transform so much in six months. When I sold my first painting and got paid for it, I could have danced on the streets. I took the kids out to dinner and on Sunday I organised lunch for children at the orphanage.
My kids are so proud of me and I suspect they are also relieved that they don’t need to baby sit me any longer. Sixty and single is not such a scary space you know...
Saturday, July 3, 2010
इतेफाक से
The first time I saw her she was leaning against a bench and laughing at me. Ok, I agree I was overreacting to a situation that nobody could do anything about. I was mad at a local in the scenic hill station because I had not been warned that it could start raining on a perfectly sunny day.
I had come to chail, a couple of days ago, to clear my head. Didn’t want to meet anyone I knew or anyone who remotely had led a city bread life. No plu’s- people like us. Yet this woman who was an epitome of grace and beauty even at her age, was clearly someone who was moneyed, classy and well educated. I was intrigued.
I followed her and she walked quite a distance before she turned into a cottage with a white wooden gate. She looked back at me and gestured that I come in. I was embarrassed and awkward but she waited for me smiling. I went in, the house was cozy and classy. Wooden flooring, a fireplace, plush rugs, antique silver, comfortable sofas and overlooking a beautifully tended garden. Without asking she walked into the kitchen and came back with mugs of steaming hot chocolate. It was divine and I felt a sense of peace that I hadn’t experienced in years. Riya Ghosh, is what she offered as an introduction. Bookcases lined with books intrigued me and as if reading my thoughts she said that both she and her husband loved to read. They had different tastes so hence she had an eclectic mix.
Over the next couple of hours and four rounds of coffee riya knew all about my life. I couldn’t believe how much I had shared with a rank stranger. She smiled and said perhaps it was easier because I didn’t know her. But it wasn’t that. She had a peace that was rare. Now i needed to know her views on my life. I had ranted and told her all about how I was about to call off my wedding with Ronak who I had been dating for the last four years. I loved him immensely yet his irritating family, his lack of ambition and his laid back attitude was driving me up the wall. I wanted more out of life and I wasn’t willing to compromise.
She asked me to forgive him and forgive myself and build a wonderful life together. I looked at her angry and she asked me to go back to the hotel and come the next day. I mumbled something and walked away, sure that I wouldn’t be coming back.
Yet all night I thought about her forgiving myself stance that I did not get and wanted to meet her again to know more. I also needed to more about her life. So I went back. She had a picnic basket ready, like she was expecting me. We went to a brook nearby and sat there for hours, she had an awesome voice and we sang to the birds. It was so wonderful and healing. When I got back to my room I realised I hadn’t asked her a thing. It was so magical just being with her.
I went to see her everyday for the next two weeks. Always after eleven because before that she taught local children and looked into her correspondence. Soon I got to know that included mentoring phd students who were studying comparative world religions. A subject she was an expert on. Each time asked about her life, she would smile and say she would tell me some day.
And one day she did. Told me what had happened over the last 70 summers of her life. She told me about her childhood and youth in Amritsar where she lived in a progressive Punjabi family. She grew up with her grandparents since her father was in the army and her parents kept getting posted to places that didn’t have good schools. How she met and fell in love with Inder, who was from a huge land owning family. How they dreamt of a future together, how they met on the terrace, how they wrote poetry for each other. How he had decided to rebel against the family and marry her as soon as she turned eighteen. How his family would disown him but they had already found a piece of land they would till and live on. She came to chail for the first time with him and they decided to live here when they were old...
Inder got killed by terrorists one evening. Just like that, to prove a point to rich families that were not coughing up money to support their cause. Riya didn’t know who she could cry in front of. Other than the two of them no one knew of their wonderful love and future planned out.
Riya moved to delhi and did brilliantly in academics. Her parents fretted over her wedding and she always said no. Till Major ranjan ghosh was decided upon by her father. He had known him since he first joined the army and was a liberal, understanding man. He would let riya work and she had no reason to say no. She married Ranjan and was the dutiful wife who never felt any love for her husband. Ranjan sensed that and gradually over the years, the mundane humdrum of marriage made her get used to Ranjan. He was a wonderful patient man, a solider with an artistic temperament. A writer who only let his wife read what he wrote. She fell in love with him but unlike Inder this was a mature, deep, calm love. They never had children and after a point never missed them. They were just so happy together, cooking, reading, gardening, listening to music. She still celebrated Inder’s birthday every year and Ranjan never objected.
Post retirement ranjan wanted a quiet place in the hills and chail beckoned. They bought a plot and hoped to leave the nomadic life at some point. But ranjan had a sudden heart attack and passed away. Riya was alone but not bereft. That was Riya. The memories of having been loved so completely by two wonderful men had given her a lifetime of memories to live by. That is what she was doing. Happily, grateful for what she got and not resentful of what she didn’t have.
I felt so small compared to her and yet she never told me what I should do in my life. She was just who she was and if someone could get inspired by her, so be it. She never went out of chail so she didn’t attend our wedding but every summer ronak and I come and spend some time with her in chail. We would always go back rejuvenated and when she kissed me on the forehead before we left and blessed me, I felt truly blessed.
I had come to chail, a couple of days ago, to clear my head. Didn’t want to meet anyone I knew or anyone who remotely had led a city bread life. No plu’s- people like us. Yet this woman who was an epitome of grace and beauty even at her age, was clearly someone who was moneyed, classy and well educated. I was intrigued.
I followed her and she walked quite a distance before she turned into a cottage with a white wooden gate. She looked back at me and gestured that I come in. I was embarrassed and awkward but she waited for me smiling. I went in, the house was cozy and classy. Wooden flooring, a fireplace, plush rugs, antique silver, comfortable sofas and overlooking a beautifully tended garden. Without asking she walked into the kitchen and came back with mugs of steaming hot chocolate. It was divine and I felt a sense of peace that I hadn’t experienced in years. Riya Ghosh, is what she offered as an introduction. Bookcases lined with books intrigued me and as if reading my thoughts she said that both she and her husband loved to read. They had different tastes so hence she had an eclectic mix.
Over the next couple of hours and four rounds of coffee riya knew all about my life. I couldn’t believe how much I had shared with a rank stranger. She smiled and said perhaps it was easier because I didn’t know her. But it wasn’t that. She had a peace that was rare. Now i needed to know her views on my life. I had ranted and told her all about how I was about to call off my wedding with Ronak who I had been dating for the last four years. I loved him immensely yet his irritating family, his lack of ambition and his laid back attitude was driving me up the wall. I wanted more out of life and I wasn’t willing to compromise.
She asked me to forgive him and forgive myself and build a wonderful life together. I looked at her angry and she asked me to go back to the hotel and come the next day. I mumbled something and walked away, sure that I wouldn’t be coming back.
Yet all night I thought about her forgiving myself stance that I did not get and wanted to meet her again to know more. I also needed to more about her life. So I went back. She had a picnic basket ready, like she was expecting me. We went to a brook nearby and sat there for hours, she had an awesome voice and we sang to the birds. It was so wonderful and healing. When I got back to my room I realised I hadn’t asked her a thing. It was so magical just being with her.
I went to see her everyday for the next two weeks. Always after eleven because before that she taught local children and looked into her correspondence. Soon I got to know that included mentoring phd students who were studying comparative world religions. A subject she was an expert on. Each time asked about her life, she would smile and say she would tell me some day.
And one day she did. Told me what had happened over the last 70 summers of her life. She told me about her childhood and youth in Amritsar where she lived in a progressive Punjabi family. She grew up with her grandparents since her father was in the army and her parents kept getting posted to places that didn’t have good schools. How she met and fell in love with Inder, who was from a huge land owning family. How they dreamt of a future together, how they met on the terrace, how they wrote poetry for each other. How he had decided to rebel against the family and marry her as soon as she turned eighteen. How his family would disown him but they had already found a piece of land they would till and live on. She came to chail for the first time with him and they decided to live here when they were old...
Inder got killed by terrorists one evening. Just like that, to prove a point to rich families that were not coughing up money to support their cause. Riya didn’t know who she could cry in front of. Other than the two of them no one knew of their wonderful love and future planned out.
Riya moved to delhi and did brilliantly in academics. Her parents fretted over her wedding and she always said no. Till Major ranjan ghosh was decided upon by her father. He had known him since he first joined the army and was a liberal, understanding man. He would let riya work and she had no reason to say no. She married Ranjan and was the dutiful wife who never felt any love for her husband. Ranjan sensed that and gradually over the years, the mundane humdrum of marriage made her get used to Ranjan. He was a wonderful patient man, a solider with an artistic temperament. A writer who only let his wife read what he wrote. She fell in love with him but unlike Inder this was a mature, deep, calm love. They never had children and after a point never missed them. They were just so happy together, cooking, reading, gardening, listening to music. She still celebrated Inder’s birthday every year and Ranjan never objected.
Post retirement ranjan wanted a quiet place in the hills and chail beckoned. They bought a plot and hoped to leave the nomadic life at some point. But ranjan had a sudden heart attack and passed away. Riya was alone but not bereft. That was Riya. The memories of having been loved so completely by two wonderful men had given her a lifetime of memories to live by. That is what she was doing. Happily, grateful for what she got and not resentful of what she didn’t have.
I felt so small compared to her and yet she never told me what I should do in my life. She was just who she was and if someone could get inspired by her, so be it. She never went out of chail so she didn’t attend our wedding but every summer ronak and I come and spend some time with her in chail. We would always go back rejuvenated and when she kissed me on the forehead before we left and blessed me, I felt truly blessed.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
ONE AMAZING THING
I changed my clothes thrice and checked myself in the mirror a hundred times. All this to meet someone over coffee. Hadn’t done that in ages and was actually amused. Probably the last time I did actually do that was years ago for a coffee with the same man!
We had been on and off for the longest time, till I called it off and moved on. Another city, another country and finally another man... Now that I was back home for good, someone mentioned him and I was curious. Thought it was ok to meet up again once...for old times’ sake.
I thought I had reached early but the truth is I didn’t recognise him. He had aged so much. Some stilted polite conversation. His same brusque manner getting under my skin.
The one amazing thing is that I could cut my losses and move again!
We had been on and off for the longest time, till I called it off and moved on. Another city, another country and finally another man... Now that I was back home for good, someone mentioned him and I was curious. Thought it was ok to meet up again once...for old times’ sake.
I thought I had reached early but the truth is I didn’t recognise him. He had aged so much. Some stilted polite conversation. His same brusque manner getting under my skin.
The one amazing thing is that I could cut my losses and move again!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Airport
Shweta looked sad
She never thought she would reach this point
Waiting for a flight to get back home scared her
The same stony silence from people she had to call family
The same having to weigh each word before uttering it
Living like your walking on eggshells is so tough
And sudhir’s indifference made it worse
Was this the guy she had fought with her family and friends to marry
4 months into the marriage and all she felt was regret
How she wished she was on a flight to anywhere other than Bombay
Saira had eyes that spoke
And right now they screamed in pain
She felt like such a failure
She was such a nerd at the interview she had waited so long for
She sounded like a bumbling idiot even to herself
She would now go back a failure
Her friends would try to console her while sniggering
Her mother will get another chance to point out how dumb she was
And she would go back to the job she detested
She wondered if by wishing she could make her plane crash
But knowing her luck she doubted she could even manage that
I don’t know if she was called shweta or saira
But the girl sitting across me at the airport lounge had very sad brown eyes….
She never thought she would reach this point
Waiting for a flight to get back home scared her
The same stony silence from people she had to call family
The same having to weigh each word before uttering it
Living like your walking on eggshells is so tough
And sudhir’s indifference made it worse
Was this the guy she had fought with her family and friends to marry
4 months into the marriage and all she felt was regret
How she wished she was on a flight to anywhere other than Bombay
Saira had eyes that spoke
And right now they screamed in pain
She felt like such a failure
She was such a nerd at the interview she had waited so long for
She sounded like a bumbling idiot even to herself
She would now go back a failure
Her friends would try to console her while sniggering
Her mother will get another chance to point out how dumb she was
And she would go back to the job she detested
She wondered if by wishing she could make her plane crash
But knowing her luck she doubted she could even manage that
I don’t know if she was called shweta or saira
But the girl sitting across me at the airport lounge had very sad brown eyes….
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
My dad, My hero
All through my teens, when I look back, if there was one person who I held responsible for all my woes it was my father.
He was just from another planet. He was so unlike everyone’s dad. My kid brother also thought so. One day when some asked him at school, what does your father do, without a moment’s hesitation he said. “My dad reads the papers and smokes”
Actually that’s all we saw dad do. Read papers and books and write furiously all the time. Ma went to office and we had strict instructions not to disturb him if we were home. So we tip toed around him.
Of course he was fun when he was in the mood. Cooked the most yummy food. Took us on nature walks. And to see plays which were mostly boring.
Yet there were too many restrictions. We weren’t allowed to see hindi films or hear filmi music. We didn’t have a tv at home. We didn’t have a car. We never went out for dinners or vacations.
Yet my mother was always smiling and looking at him lovingly when he read something out to her every night. I found that strange and asked her one day when I was fourteen that didn’t she wish she was married to a normal man. She looked angry and hurt. Said I was too young to understand but my dad was special. At that point special sounded like spastic to me...
When he was occasionally in a talkative mood, he spoke to us a lot. About things we didn’t understand. About marxisim and che guvera. About urdu poetry. About the naxalite movement. About the acute poverty in the villages. In my mind I wondered if people could be worse off than us.
Then dad got an award and the media came home to interview him. I was so thrilled and dressed up and hovered around the room. Baba pulled me close and looking into the tv camera said “This young lady is my inspiration, her smile is what keeps me going” I felt like a princess.
My brother and I thought we were the award winners and preened in school and in the colony. We spoke about how soon dad would be writing tv serials and films and we would have Mercedes. Nothing of the sort happened.
Instead some tribals came home one day and dad was so thrilled. They were scared of the flush in the bathroom and wouldn’t take the lift. Dad wanted to know how they made chutney with red ants. Uggh. My dad was really strange. When they were leaving I saw baba give them money. Our money, the money he had won. I cried so much that night. There was no point telling mom, I knew I just had to get to college and soon move out of this mad house.
Both my brother and I started spending more time away from home. Of course we rebelled and the fights increased. When I was eating a burger at home my dad one day started lecturing me on how a vada pav tasted as good. I retorted that he wouldn’t know and he was welcome to his poverty, let me enjoy myself. Mom slapped me and said dad cried because of what I said.
I was so glad when I got admission in a college in delhi. I missed lucknow, my kid brother and mom but never dad. I was great at academics and gradually got involved in theatre. I loved it and excelled in it. I devoured the classics in Hindi literature and drama like they were going out of fashion. My professor was very pleased. He got me some more plays to read from his home and said they were deeper but thought I would understand them.
In the stack was one of my dad’s books. I didn’t tell anyone but stayed up all night reading the play. Over and over again. I cried for hours. It was about their love story. My parents.
I called at the crack of dawn. Woke up my neighbours and asked them to call ma. Baba came on the line and was so concerned. I said sorry to him. Sorry for not realising how special and precious he was...
I went on to become a theatre actress and activist and the daughter of this year’s sahitya academy award winner!
He was just from another planet. He was so unlike everyone’s dad. My kid brother also thought so. One day when some asked him at school, what does your father do, without a moment’s hesitation he said. “My dad reads the papers and smokes”
Actually that’s all we saw dad do. Read papers and books and write furiously all the time. Ma went to office and we had strict instructions not to disturb him if we were home. So we tip toed around him.
Of course he was fun when he was in the mood. Cooked the most yummy food. Took us on nature walks. And to see plays which were mostly boring.
Yet there were too many restrictions. We weren’t allowed to see hindi films or hear filmi music. We didn’t have a tv at home. We didn’t have a car. We never went out for dinners or vacations.
Yet my mother was always smiling and looking at him lovingly when he read something out to her every night. I found that strange and asked her one day when I was fourteen that didn’t she wish she was married to a normal man. She looked angry and hurt. Said I was too young to understand but my dad was special. At that point special sounded like spastic to me...
When he was occasionally in a talkative mood, he spoke to us a lot. About things we didn’t understand. About marxisim and che guvera. About urdu poetry. About the naxalite movement. About the acute poverty in the villages. In my mind I wondered if people could be worse off than us.
Then dad got an award and the media came home to interview him. I was so thrilled and dressed up and hovered around the room. Baba pulled me close and looking into the tv camera said “This young lady is my inspiration, her smile is what keeps me going” I felt like a princess.
My brother and I thought we were the award winners and preened in school and in the colony. We spoke about how soon dad would be writing tv serials and films and we would have Mercedes. Nothing of the sort happened.
Instead some tribals came home one day and dad was so thrilled. They were scared of the flush in the bathroom and wouldn’t take the lift. Dad wanted to know how they made chutney with red ants. Uggh. My dad was really strange. When they were leaving I saw baba give them money. Our money, the money he had won. I cried so much that night. There was no point telling mom, I knew I just had to get to college and soon move out of this mad house.
Both my brother and I started spending more time away from home. Of course we rebelled and the fights increased. When I was eating a burger at home my dad one day started lecturing me on how a vada pav tasted as good. I retorted that he wouldn’t know and he was welcome to his poverty, let me enjoy myself. Mom slapped me and said dad cried because of what I said.
I was so glad when I got admission in a college in delhi. I missed lucknow, my kid brother and mom but never dad. I was great at academics and gradually got involved in theatre. I loved it and excelled in it. I devoured the classics in Hindi literature and drama like they were going out of fashion. My professor was very pleased. He got me some more plays to read from his home and said they were deeper but thought I would understand them.
In the stack was one of my dad’s books. I didn’t tell anyone but stayed up all night reading the play. Over and over again. I cried for hours. It was about their love story. My parents.
I called at the crack of dawn. Woke up my neighbours and asked them to call ma. Baba came on the line and was so concerned. I said sorry to him. Sorry for not realising how special and precious he was...
I went on to become a theatre actress and activist and the daughter of this year’s sahitya academy award winner!
Sunday, March 14, 2010
दोस्ती...
She: you know what, I don’t think we should work together
He: even if I promise not to be such a brat?!!!
She: that’s not the point, it will ruin our friendship
He: think of how wonderful it will be to kiss and make up. Besides I’d like to see you crack the whip
She: don’t you ever get it?
A month later
He: who the hell do you think you are? What were trying to prove????
She: I was doing my job and I was well within my rights to question you
He: ya right! In front of ten people? And don’t you dare start the “I told you so” number
She: and why am I supposed to make concessions for you?
He: coz we are friends, or at least I thought we were…
Two months later
She: I don’t want another coffee, can we please go home
He: ok babe, just that I want you to know that am really sorry, I screwed up
She: I have heard that before and honestly I am tired, I need to sleep
He: My wonderful back massage is what you need. Come on lets go home
She: I am going home, alone. Am sorry I don’t feel like company tonight
Four months later
He: come on, admit it. My idea was super and you still thought the jerk had a better idea. Are you doing him?
She: will you stop it. And don’t you dare to talk to me like this
He: aww, drop the boss act babe. Remember I am your best buddy who has a right to know what’s happening in your life?
She: so that I can be discussed at the lunch table tomorrow?
He: if you stepped out of your ivory tower and joined us for lunch, you’d know we have more interesting things to talk about
Six months later
She: ok so it’s done. Honest to god, I tried. But I am not the sole decision maker around here
He: you really are enjoying this, aren’t you? Telling the world that I am a jerk and you know it all
She: where did that come from? And why would I want to do that?
He: coz I treat you like a human being and not a demi goddess. And reality bites honey!!!!
She: it does? So maybe it’s time you got real. And faced the truth. You are mediocre and not because you lack talent. Only due to the fact that you are lazy
He: Gosh! And I actually thought you were a friend?
He: even if I promise not to be such a brat?!!!
She: that’s not the point, it will ruin our friendship
He: think of how wonderful it will be to kiss and make up. Besides I’d like to see you crack the whip
She: don’t you ever get it?
A month later
He: who the hell do you think you are? What were trying to prove????
She: I was doing my job and I was well within my rights to question you
He: ya right! In front of ten people? And don’t you dare start the “I told you so” number
She: and why am I supposed to make concessions for you?
He: coz we are friends, or at least I thought we were…
Two months later
She: I don’t want another coffee, can we please go home
He: ok babe, just that I want you to know that am really sorry, I screwed up
She: I have heard that before and honestly I am tired, I need to sleep
He: My wonderful back massage is what you need. Come on lets go home
She: I am going home, alone. Am sorry I don’t feel like company tonight
Four months later
He: come on, admit it. My idea was super and you still thought the jerk had a better idea. Are you doing him?
She: will you stop it. And don’t you dare to talk to me like this
He: aww, drop the boss act babe. Remember I am your best buddy who has a right to know what’s happening in your life?
She: so that I can be discussed at the lunch table tomorrow?
He: if you stepped out of your ivory tower and joined us for lunch, you’d know we have more interesting things to talk about
Six months later
She: ok so it’s done. Honest to god, I tried. But I am not the sole decision maker around here
He: you really are enjoying this, aren’t you? Telling the world that I am a jerk and you know it all
She: where did that come from? And why would I want to do that?
He: coz I treat you like a human being and not a demi goddess. And reality bites honey!!!!
She: it does? So maybe it’s time you got real. And faced the truth. You are mediocre and not because you lack talent. Only due to the fact that you are lazy
He: Gosh! And I actually thought you were a friend?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
That warm space.
That warm space.
It’s actually never a space, it’s a person. Like you never quit a job, you quit a boss, similarly with moms, it’s never about where they live, it’s about what they have in their being that just makes every place better.
I realised that when I lost my mother. A year ago. We were all devastated and all the focus was on dad who was alone now. Technically, the rest of us were all “settled” and busy in our careers and lives. How wrong we could be to think that.
Home didn’t feel like home. Doesn’t even now. And that’s when I realised that we were all lost and floundering. Not just immediate family but younger cousins, my friends, the help at home. Everyone whose lives she touched regularly. We spoke a lot to each other and yet we only ended up hurting each other or mouthing things that sounded so fake.
Unconsciously and probably unintentionally as well, I felt people gravitating towards me and expecting that warm space that my mother exuded. It was too daunting a task and my first reaction was to flee. Yet I couldn’t see people I love being so helpless. I also realised that how glad I was that I seemed to have inherited from my mother the ability to make people comfortable.
She never had all the answers. Just the ability to listen without being judgemental. This is rare. How easily we judge and slot people, right? Sometimes all people need is someone to listen and offer unconditional love. My mother, most mothers, give us that. And that’s what gives us the strength to take on the world. Knowing that there is a lap that I can come back to and that space will love me despite who I am.
My mom passed on that legacy, and made me a mother to people much older than me...
It’s actually never a space, it’s a person. Like you never quit a job, you quit a boss, similarly with moms, it’s never about where they live, it’s about what they have in their being that just makes every place better.
I realised that when I lost my mother. A year ago. We were all devastated and all the focus was on dad who was alone now. Technically, the rest of us were all “settled” and busy in our careers and lives. How wrong we could be to think that.
Home didn’t feel like home. Doesn’t even now. And that’s when I realised that we were all lost and floundering. Not just immediate family but younger cousins, my friends, the help at home. Everyone whose lives she touched regularly. We spoke a lot to each other and yet we only ended up hurting each other or mouthing things that sounded so fake.
Unconsciously and probably unintentionally as well, I felt people gravitating towards me and expecting that warm space that my mother exuded. It was too daunting a task and my first reaction was to flee. Yet I couldn’t see people I love being so helpless. I also realised that how glad I was that I seemed to have inherited from my mother the ability to make people comfortable.
She never had all the answers. Just the ability to listen without being judgemental. This is rare. How easily we judge and slot people, right? Sometimes all people need is someone to listen and offer unconditional love. My mother, most mothers, give us that. And that’s what gives us the strength to take on the world. Knowing that there is a lap that I can come back to and that space will love me despite who I am.
My mom passed on that legacy, and made me a mother to people much older than me...
Kabhi kasoorvar tum the
Kabhi kasoorvar tum the
kabhi ham
ilzaam badhtien rahien
sehne ki taqaat kam
main aur tum mein kahin kho gaye hum,
iraadien to the dooriyan mitane ke,
sirf kahin hauslein padh gaye kam…
kabhi ham
ilzaam badhtien rahien
sehne ki taqaat kam
main aur tum mein kahin kho gaye hum,
iraadien to the dooriyan mitane ke,
sirf kahin hauslein padh gaye kam…
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Ladhte bhidte
Ladhte bhidte
Darrte darate
Mann ko behlate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Chipte chipate
Jhoot ko sach banate
Karte karate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Safai dete
Roothte manate
Dosh ginatien
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Rote rulate
Himmat jutate
Waqt gavaate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Darrte darate
Mann ko behlate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Chipte chipate
Jhoot ko sach banate
Karte karate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Safai dete
Roothte manate
Dosh ginatien
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Rote rulate
Himmat jutate
Waqt gavaate
Kat jaati hai rishton ki umr
Monday, January 25, 2010
Adjustments
The first person I wanted to call when I felt my world crumbling around me, was my mom. I had a great career which I had lost interest in. I had a super marriage and had today discovered that my husband had been cheating on me for the last two years. And who did I want to call? Mrs Alka Shrivastav. The woman, I had hated most of my adult life. Who I hadn’t spoken to for the last two years. It just didn’t make sense. This wasn’t even a situation I could blame her for, or could I?
When I was a teenager, like most of my friends I hated parental control. I rebelled against every rule, I had brilliant grades in school so dad had no issues. Yet mom found fault with me all the time. If bhaiyya and I made the same mistake, I would be yelled at and he’d be forgiven. Her double standards got to me. What made things worse was that my best friend’s mom was so cool and went dancing with us. All my mom did was look sad and scared.
When she made feeble attempts at speaking in English or cooking Chinese food I cringed in embarrassment. I didn’t go out with her any longer and didn’t get friends home. They drooled over her cooking so I made her cook and took food to my friend’s homes.
When I started working I did feel awful about the way I had behaved and for a short while I did work on our fractured relationship. It helped that she was so proud of my achievements as a journalist. She kept every newspaper article I wrote, told everyone about the sarees I got her. I noticed that the only time she smiled in the day was when she opened the morning papers and saw my byline. In a rare moment of togetherness she confessed that it had been her dream to be a journalist. To her credit, she never pushed me to take to writing, it was something I wanted to do.
Yet once I got promoted and busier, we started having problems again. She didn’t approve of my timings, friends, haircut, clothes and the fact that I was now openly smoking. The same oft repeated lectures of how women have to know their limits and adjust. It made my blood boil. Finally I one day asked her what she had achieved by adjusting so much? I knew my father had not been loyal to her, I knew that we kids weren’t exactly proud of her and that she had no time or resources to do what she felt like. For heaven’s sake she couldn’t even go to see her sister whenever she felt like.
The fact that I was a splitting image of my mother, made matters worst. I dreaded inheriting her personality too. I refused to do anything she wanted me to, even if it was good for me. Till date, I don’t eat fruits because she used to insist I eat them. She started showing me pictures of prospective boys and I would tear each one without looking. The same drone about adjustment would come up. The more I read, the more I was convinced that she was jealous of me.
When I met Ronak and we fell in love, I told papa and bhaiyya, not her. When we decided to get married she still got excited and ensured I had a picture perfect wedding. Yet when she again suggested I live with my in-laws and adjust, rather than rent our own place, I lost it. I yelled and said awful things. I refused to speak to her again. We moved to Bombay so I didn’t need to meet her.
Yet today when I was at my lowest I yearned for my mother’s lap and hesitatingly I called her. She sensed that something was amiss before I said a word. I broke down and told her what Ronak had done. She was silent when I wanted her to talk. After what seemed like eternity she only said, “Sunaina, please don’t adjust this time. Don’t make the mistake I did....”
When I was a teenager, like most of my friends I hated parental control. I rebelled against every rule, I had brilliant grades in school so dad had no issues. Yet mom found fault with me all the time. If bhaiyya and I made the same mistake, I would be yelled at and he’d be forgiven. Her double standards got to me. What made things worse was that my best friend’s mom was so cool and went dancing with us. All my mom did was look sad and scared.
When she made feeble attempts at speaking in English or cooking Chinese food I cringed in embarrassment. I didn’t go out with her any longer and didn’t get friends home. They drooled over her cooking so I made her cook and took food to my friend’s homes.
When I started working I did feel awful about the way I had behaved and for a short while I did work on our fractured relationship. It helped that she was so proud of my achievements as a journalist. She kept every newspaper article I wrote, told everyone about the sarees I got her. I noticed that the only time she smiled in the day was when she opened the morning papers and saw my byline. In a rare moment of togetherness she confessed that it had been her dream to be a journalist. To her credit, she never pushed me to take to writing, it was something I wanted to do.
Yet once I got promoted and busier, we started having problems again. She didn’t approve of my timings, friends, haircut, clothes and the fact that I was now openly smoking. The same oft repeated lectures of how women have to know their limits and adjust. It made my blood boil. Finally I one day asked her what she had achieved by adjusting so much? I knew my father had not been loyal to her, I knew that we kids weren’t exactly proud of her and that she had no time or resources to do what she felt like. For heaven’s sake she couldn’t even go to see her sister whenever she felt like.
The fact that I was a splitting image of my mother, made matters worst. I dreaded inheriting her personality too. I refused to do anything she wanted me to, even if it was good for me. Till date, I don’t eat fruits because she used to insist I eat them. She started showing me pictures of prospective boys and I would tear each one without looking. The same drone about adjustment would come up. The more I read, the more I was convinced that she was jealous of me.
When I met Ronak and we fell in love, I told papa and bhaiyya, not her. When we decided to get married she still got excited and ensured I had a picture perfect wedding. Yet when she again suggested I live with my in-laws and adjust, rather than rent our own place, I lost it. I yelled and said awful things. I refused to speak to her again. We moved to Bombay so I didn’t need to meet her.
Yet today when I was at my lowest I yearned for my mother’s lap and hesitatingly I called her. She sensed that something was amiss before I said a word. I broke down and told her what Ronak had done. She was silent when I wanted her to talk. After what seemed like eternity she only said, “Sunaina, please don’t adjust this time. Don’t make the mistake I did....”
Sunday, January 24, 2010
आज shaam
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Jaise kisi ajnabi se maine preet lagai
Nayi baatien huyi
purane ghav bhare
Jab suna rahi thi to apni hi kahani lagi parayi
Usne shikayat ki aur main sharmayi
Sach hai iss shaks ke liye waqt hi nahi milta
Bhag daud mein sabse pehle yeh peeche reh jaata hai
Itne saalon ki jaane kaise kar paaongi main bharpayi
Usne bataya kahan kami hai, pyar se har baat samjhayi
Apne liye waqt nikalo
Tabhi auron ke layak banogi
Dheere dheere baat ki gehrayi dekh paayi
Sikhane mein jaldbaazi na hone ki baat sikhayi
Kitna sametogi?
Kya karogi itne shauk palke?
Saath na denge yeh akhbar, chhod jaayega voh sanam harjai
Apne andaz mein usne mujhse meri khamiyan ginvayi
Maine tark pesh kiye
Jo khud hi sunne mein khokle lage
Purse ki tarha usne mujhse mann ki safai karvayi
Apne bahanon ki jab usne mujhe boli sunvayi
Hairani huyi
Gin ginkar maine ateet ke bhoot bhagaye
Apne saamne, anpni madad se yeh guthi suljhai
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Jaise kisi ajnabi se maine preet lagai
Nayi baatien huyi
purane ghav bhare
Jab suna rahi thi to apni hi kahani lagi parayi
Usne shikayat ki aur main sharmayi
Sach hai iss shaks ke liye waqt hi nahi milta
Bhag daud mein sabse pehle yeh peeche reh jaata hai
Itne saalon ki jaane kaise kar paaongi main bharpayi
Usne bataya kahan kami hai, pyar se har baat samjhayi
Apne liye waqt nikalo
Tabhi auron ke layak banogi
Dheere dheere baat ki gehrayi dekh paayi
Sikhane mein jaldbaazi na hone ki baat sikhayi
Kitna sametogi?
Kya karogi itne shauk palke?
Saath na denge yeh akhbar, chhod jaayega voh sanam harjai
Apne andaz mein usne mujhse meri khamiyan ginvayi
Maine tark pesh kiye
Jo khud hi sunne mein khokle lage
Purse ki tarha usne mujhse mann ki safai karvayi
Apne bahanon ki jab usne mujhe boli sunvayi
Hairani huyi
Gin ginkar maine ateet ke bhoot bhagaye
Apne saamne, anpni madad se yeh guthi suljhai
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
आज shaam
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Jaise kisi ajnabi se maine preet lagai
Nayi baatien huyi
purane ghav bhare
Jab suna rahi thi to apni hi kahani lagi parayi
Usne shikayat ki aur main sharmayi
Sach hai iss shaks ke liye waqt hi nahi milta
Bhag daud mein sabse pehle yeh peeche reh jaata hai
Itne saalon ki jaane kaise kar paaongi main bharpayi
Usne bataya kahan kami hai, pyar se har baat samjhayi
Apne liye waqt nikalo
Tabhi auron ke layak banogi
Dheere dheere baat ki gehrayi dekh paayi
Sikhane mein jaldbaazi na hone ki baat sikhayi
Kitna sametogi?
Kya karogi itne shauk palke?
Saath na denge yeh akhbar, chhod jaayega voh sanam harjai
Apne andaz mein usne mujhse meri khamiyan ginvayi
Maine tark pesh kiye
Jo khud hi sunne mein khokle lage
Purse ki tarha usne mujhse mann ki safai karvayi
Apne bahanon ki jab usne mujhe boli sunvayi
Hairani huyi
Gin ginkar maine ateet ke bhoot bhagaye
Apne saamne, anpni madad se yeh guthi suljhai
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
Jaise kisi ajnabi se maine preet lagai
Nayi baatien huyi
purane ghav bhare
Jab suna rahi thi to apni hi kahani lagi parayi
Usne shikayat ki aur main sharmayi
Sach hai iss shaks ke liye waqt hi nahi milta
Bhag daud mein sabse pehle yeh peeche reh jaata hai
Itne saalon ki jaane kaise kar paaongi main bharpayi
Usne bataya kahan kami hai, pyar se har baat samjhayi
Apne liye waqt nikalo
Tabhi auron ke layak banogi
Dheere dheere baat ki gehrayi dekh paayi
Sikhane mein jaldbaazi na hone ki baat sikhayi
Kitna sametogi?
Kya karogi itne shauk palke?
Saath na denge yeh akhbar, chhod jaayega voh sanam harjai
Apne andaz mein usne mujhse meri khamiyan ginvayi
Maine tark pesh kiye
Jo khud hi sunne mein khokle lage
Purse ki tarha usne mujhse mann ki safai karvayi
Apne bahanon ki jab usne mujhe boli sunvayi
Hairani huyi
Gin ginkar maine ateet ke bhoot bhagaye
Apne saamne, anpni madad se yeh guthi suljhai
ek arse baad maine ek shaam apne saath bitayi
Thodi ajeeb, thodi dilchasp
Baton baton mein se na jaane kahan se yeh baat aayi
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