Worldview through a tinted glass -2

On that unusually chilly winter afternoon, he was standing in the shade of the huge concrete wall, in the way of hundreds of pedestrians who were in utmost hurry to enter the buzzing shopping mall. The winter sale in India can have that effect on people. The colourful hoardings behind him screeched of offers in contrast with his discoloured but clean off white clothes. His turban, neatly tied around his ears & his long moustache made him look fairly out of place midst the shopping-festival gaiety.

There was also this small brown dog; sitting with utmost discipline in front of the man, right under his nose behind the basket where he balanced cut onions, tomatoes, coriander chillies along with beaten chana. Between wooing passersby to buy his knick knacks, the man occasionally peeped behind the basket to check if the dog was still there. The dog did not bark or plead or disrupt his balance. He just sat there, facing the man, and looking at him in a long unbroken gaze.

The man looked around, calling out to advertise his wares with no luck. He peeped once again & with a slightly hesitating hand, removed a fistful & gave it to the dog.

Someone nudged me from the back, the queue to enter the building had moved on further. So, so did I.

Worldview through a tinted glass -1

Its a lazy Saturday mid-afternoon. As I sit on my window sill, in part sunlight in an unusual Mumbai chilliness, strain of a melancholy flute playing nearby draws me towards itself. I look earnestly through the trees that line the road downstairs to the tiny patch of roach visible. The security guard at the gate is looking to one side of the road - maybe that is where the sound is coming from.

I listen on, concentrating, midst the sounds of fluttering pigeons, chirping birds, construction trucks & someone coaxing the auto ignition of their scooter to work. There he is - his frail person barely visible under the loads of flutes he is trying to sell. Suddenly, the sound is more melancholy - it tears through the static city hustle & transports my mind to a tiny playground decades ago, where we looked in awe at the flute wallahs churning melodies off wooden pipes - coaxing our grannies to buy us one, but never quite managing to play it. I wonder if the ones they sell are the ones they play!

The sound had since become distant. Now, as if awaken from a slumber, I hear it drawing closer. The frail form of the vendor has come to sight again as he retraces his path out the same road. India has so much talent, hidden in all its nooks & crevices - like the last crumbs of delicious plum cake one can scrape from the baking dish. I think of the street vendors selling hand-made stuffed toys. So much skill...

My cell phones vibrates on the study table nearby. I hurry to pick it up; and then, I stop thinking...

Questions to Self...

Is life what we make of it?

Is it what we take of it?

I wonder sometimes in wake of it

If not we live just for sake of it…

Ishu's Tales-C

Ishu was perched atop the boundary wall of the house when she saw a bright yellow blob come down the approach road to their house. She squealed with delight & leapt towards the tiny iron gate. The bright yellow autorickhaw - even brighter in the overcast weather - halted lightly just then & before Mahesh could get out of it, Ishu was inside!

Two minutes later, she entered the house in her father's arms. She could smell the aroma of soft warm idlis from the kitchen. With a grin firmly pasted on her face, she alighted & ran in to get her 'class' drawing book & maths test-copy.

"3 stars!", exclaimed Mahesh, "what a lovely scenery you have made! Come here!" Mahesh was proud of Ishu's love for colours - yellow skies, red grass, blue houses, black people...

Ishu's Tales-B

Mahesh had been away for a week now.

Meeta made Ishu sit up in bed & moved to open the curtains. "Chalo get up now, its 9 AM!" Ishu opened half an eye, grumbled & toppled back in another direction.

"Have your Bournvita", Ishu was motionless. Meeta smiled. A little while later, Ishu could hear her voice at a distance, "Daddy will be here any moment..."

Ishu jumped up...hair all disheveled, carefully placed her two tiny feet on the cold metal window grill & peered out towards the gate. The road had the usual fruit-walah selling bright green guavas. She jumped down & ran to her mother who was sitting on the verandah cutting vegetables & humming an old song.

The garden was brimming with flowers...

Curtains.

It is so tough to write on a blank sheet of paper. Sometimes, especially when you are unhappy, especially when you hide within yourself things you do not want to discuss with yourself. Sometimes, when that happy curtain of un-acceptance wears from hanging in there untouched for decades, it does not feel good. Thick curtains should hang in right there where they belong – they should not move, they should be still.

It is good to have someone in life who knows all about you - Someone who keeps you from running away the moment the curtains part in the wind, someone with whom you are not afraid to walk through to the other side, someone to share all of life with – with all it’s lived past, living present & coming future.

Sometimes, I feel blessed.

Thank You…

Ishu's tales-A

"Here..", said Meeta as she thrust the phone on little Ishu's ear, "talk to daddy!"

Ishu looked puzzled as she questioningly held the cold receiver against her warm cheek. "Say Hello!" squealed her mom. A voice from the other end said, "Hello Beta!"

Ishu pulled the receiver away from her ear & looked at it...Nothing...she looked under the phone set...Nothing...she gave a knowing chuckle & dived under the table...Nothing! She put the receiver right back on her ear & complainingly remarked, "Daddy! Where are you hiding??!"

*image picked from the internet

A Rainy Mumbai Evening...

It was a rainy Mumbai evening. As the local train laboured itself into the station, a whole lot of people, in varying stages of being dunked by the Almighty lunged themselves towards it, in full faith that the one before & the one after them in the melee would ensure that they get in. As the train started to move away from the platform the tensed muscles eased a little & the ‘inmates’ started to settle in.


Understandably, the doors & windows were fastened lest the rain water gets in. It was very hot & musty as the drenched brushed against those who were lucky enough to save themselves from getting wet in the rain.


I looked up as a drop of cold water plopped on my hand from a bystander’s umbrella. She smiled to me & I smiled back – it will get better at the next major station.


The in-train announcement confirmed that we were approaching & the heavy iron doors were pushed open to a welcoming gush of breeze & a mass exodus of people. The breeze brought along with itself, a shower of tiny droplets & 3 little street urchins – 2 little boys & a little girl.


One of the co passengers was quick to ask them to alight – but to no avail. One of the boys, only marginally elder to the other two, dangled on the pole at the compartment door for a few seconds, & the train was moving again. He made the two little ones perch safely at the door itself & placed a huge poly-bag between them and the exit steps. A little while hence, the two were fighting over a snakes & ladders board they had fished out of the bag.


The erstwhile co-passenger, who was intent on shooing the kids away, stood smiling as they asked the elder kid to arbitrate which snake was bigger in length. To my surprise, they were comparing the difference in the numbers at the head & tail of the snake instead of the visible length. Maybe, something in the free education scheme was actually going right.


Oblivious to us all, the kids in their tattered clothes & shoeless feet sat counting numbers from 1 to 100 on the metal board. I sat there & wondered at their gleeful innocence even as the winds lashed in with fistfuls of mirth.

Moonlight

I had written this in 2007, 4 years before & I found it tucked in a folder today. Time flies & with it, so do we !!!

The moonlight takes a peek within
With me alone in this tiny room
It shines through fresh into the night
Engulfs in life, the biting gloom.

With it it brings the shadows too
That flicker as flames with the moving leaf;
That moves with the wind-the gentle breeze
And sneaks in as a tiny thief..

Steals in my thoughts, and as I lose
Myself in the myriad hues it brings
A gush of breeze ripe with the smell
Of mud so wet, just comes right in

I wonder how the moistened winds,
Can bring with them so many things
I wonder how I do recall, so much of life
When thunder rings…

I wonder why the thunder bolts
Remind me of the morning sun
I wonder why the pelting rains
Steal all my sleep (and away they run!)

I wonder just what makes me write
If it is Him in his wondrous ways
Or is it me, my Life itself
That quizzes me more, the more I gaze…

I think of life in the middle of the night
In a strange place, I do not wish to call
My own; is not here that I belong
It is not this, which I call home…

I think of life, as life unfolds
To me, and as it brings to the fore
The myriad hues I have to live
The varied roles I have to play…

I do not wish to lose my self
In this pseudo glee and just revel
In the garb they gave me…
I wish to fly…

I wish to wish this time away…
I wish to stay at my hearth and home
Pray I do not seek to flee
I seek to have my fill of the mirth…

Of which I call my own, my home
I wish to come back, to that ground one day
Where I began in my mother’s womb
I wish to sleep…



Komal Vashist
May 2, 2007

|| एक आम आदमी ||

मैं एक आम आदमी हूँ
मेरी कुछ इच्छाएं हैं और कुछ आशाएं भी

मैं दिन भर पल पल कल के लिए जीता हूँ
वो कल जो अब तक नहीं आया , शायद आएगा भी नहीं

आज पिसता हूँ की कल एक नयी सुबह मुझे जगाएगी
फिर उस सुबह को अनदेखा कर के , एक नए कल की कल्पना में रह जाता हूँ

मैं ही सड़क के किनारे भीख मांगता हूँ ,
और मैं ही उन हाथों में आठ आने दबा कर अपने रस्ते चला जाता हूँ

वो भी मैं हूँ जो कल कचड़े में रोटी ढूँढ रहा था
मैंने ही तो उस टुकड़े को फेंका जो था वहां

ये क़ानून मैंने ही बनाये हैं , ये सरकार मैं ही हूँ ,
और वहां उस कठघरे में सर झुकाए मैं ही तो खड़ा हूँ

मैं ही आज सुबह रेडियो पर खबरें पढ़ रहा था
वो ख़बरें जो गए दिन मैंने ही तो बनायीं थी

ये आज जो मैं इतने हिस्सों में बँट गया हूँ
ये लकीरें मैं ही तो खींचता आया हूँ

मैं एक आम आदमी हूँ , आम भी और ख़ास भी
मैं एक आम आदमी हूँ , और मैंने ही खुद को आम भी बनाया है ...

Untitled

यादों का क्या है?
खुद ही बन जाती हैं ...


मनं के एक कोने में, घर कर जाती हैं
आती नहीं हैं यादें, साथ ही रहती हैं
कहीं खुली नदी जैसे , यूँ ही बेकल बहती हैं


गर बस चलता यादों पर ,
तो चुन चुन कर वो यादों का गुलदस्ता बनाते
उसकी ही खुशबु से हर पल को महकाते


पर यादों का क्या है?
खुद ही बन जाती हैं ...


एकदम साफ़ , एकदम सहज , जैसे ओस की बूँदें
उनमे हमेशा कुछ अच्चा ही होता है
जैसे वो रिश्ते जिन्हें हम खुद नहीं बनाते ...


इन यादों का क्या है ,
खुद ही बन जाती हैं ...

जीवन

ये जीवन कहाँ से कहाँ चला जाता है ||

कभी यूँ ही सन्नाटे में , दूर से कुछ आवाजें आती हैं

जैसे कानों में भर के , यादें ऐसे इठलाती हैं

नन्ही सी धूप किरण जैसे , दूर से एक खुशबू लेकर

मेरे घर में पर्दों से लुका छुपी खेलती ,

यूँ ही बिखर जाती है

कोई आहट , किसी बीते हुए पल की ,

कभी हसाती है , कभी रुलाती है ...

ये जीवन कहाँ से कहाँ चला जाता है ...||

Embers

What good is the glory, I do not bask;

What joy is the joy, I do not revel?

What use is a pain that is not mourned;

What free is the youth that doesn't rebel?

What warm is a memory, not replayed;

What point is the face unremembered;

What use is a smile that isn't returned;

What life is a life, 'un-embered'?

Scribbles post office!

I spent some time walking on shadows of people today…

I looked to the moist tiled floor, even as a cleaner kept pushing water dripping from the AC above into a drain channel. The myriad colors from the white screen behind the live band playing around the corner reflected on the fine crevices of the flooring. The ever changing hues were crisscrossed by dark shadows of passers-by; I too barred a beam or two from reaching the floors.

I looked up then, to the contrasting black skies. Stars, if any, were outshined by their artificial counterparts on the earth below. A stray branch of a tree, green in the light of the halogen bulb shining nearby, somewhat jutted in my view of the dark sky. Swaying (as if) with the music it make a pleasing sight; one of those moments which make one want to have a camera/camera phone handy!

There was a brief silence, quickly torn apart by the strains of flute & I turned to the live performance by the relatively unknown band. I think the flute is a melancholy instrument. It makes the soul stir within so violently that the mortal being can feel the ripples physically.

I gazed blankly for some time. Not so much at the band, but at the rope swings a little distance away in the backdrop of the performance. Tiny kids dangled in the air, harnessed to a rope by their arms. Their guardians seemed to cheer them on & clap. I could hear nothing of it. There is distinctness to life when viewed in mute. The sense of sound can sometimes blind the inner eye.
I looked up at the skies again, only this time, a host of brand-billboards hit the eye. Aside I could see a giant air-ball rolling with hapless children (supposedly) thrilled at the ‘joyride’. Childhood had been a lot simpler when I was a child – happiness lay in small things & the joy was larger than life.

The ball soon rolled out of sight & the billboards stared in my face again. Four years ago, I entered the first big mall in my life & I was overwhelmed…four years hence from then, it doesn’t even register to me.

I stand a ground which is a podium of ‘success’ as some define it. It’s a dais I never wished to own as a child. Still, the stage is all mine, and here I stand, blocking some colorful light beams from falling to to the ground…I carry their colors upon my person. And, so do the people whose shadows I walk on...

Mirror

She peered in the close set cold eyes, a strange gleam seemed to flicker within, reminding her of the musty wick of the oil lantern that they lit in their house, (what seemed like) ages ago.

The naked face devoid of the daily paint was equally hard, holding creases of kohl in the gentle folds of her eyes. The pale red & white beads in her nosering nonchalantly suspended until the very brim of her lip seemed to tease her mouth to part slightly, letting out small clouds of moisture that blotted her vision.

Even as she looked on, the lips quivered silently, the forehead wiched a little between the brows & the cold eyes became cold & damp.

Unable to face herself, she turned away from the mirror...

Senses...

Tripped on a shadow,

Straight in the air...

Oh what a splash it was!

Pity you weren't there;

To see: how green

Sounded the grass;

To see how damp

The memories felt...

The Centuplicate...

When lightening shines, into the night, I miss the time of broad daylight...

Sometimes for those old times' sake, I miss the sounds that silence made,

When I'd lay up, in the night, shaken by some thought up fright,

And when it rains, I miss the thrill, of wiping rains from the iron grill,

Balancing the drops, lest they may fall, tiny drops in hands so small,

I look to the sky and miss the stars, hidden by the blazing lights,

that surround me...

Sometimes when its dark, I miss the night,

Sometimes when I'm brave, I miss the fright...

Afternoon, road & the man - III

Its surprising what a moment of solitude can do to us. Degree after degree and contract after contract, the series of transactions he was so used to calling life was coming back to him, giggling in its innocent ecstacy, and he found himself averting his eye as if to run away from someone, from himself...

.

He had moved way beyond on that road and the walk back that afternoon could not have been harder. Time makes us incapable of spending time with ourselves. It plays coy in its cruelty...and by the time he had realised & turned around, the meandering road he had taken uphill did not seem to originate from the hearth where he had begun ... it went on & ended in an abyss, which from a distance looked like the alluring expanse of the skies & if he went nearer, would transform itself into a dark hollow. He knew that truth and still went on in his yearn to be one with that womb where he had first smiled ...

Afternoon, road & the man - II

The monotony was broken by the hot wind tingling the corner of his eye. He awoke, as if from deep slumber, and looked at the other side of the road, where vapours from the ground below seemed to engulf the living roots of trees. A dragonfly buzzing over twigs drew his attention. Long after the dragonfly was there no more, he sat, smiling & listlessly making patterns in the disturbed air. It was then that those images came back to him...

A few days in a week, she used to pick him post school. Invariably clad in her crumpled off-white cotton saree with a green & gold border & balancing her golden spectacles she had kept for special outings, she used to wait outside his class with a longish umbrella with a tip pointed like a spear's.

He did not like walking back in the heat, even as she prodded him, only to "walk until the next water patch he could see at a distance on the road ahead" It would be that, or home, if that came earlier...invariably, the home came earlier... He had never failed to be awed at how water seemed to dry up so quickly and collect itself in another farther corner so quickly without so much as a damp patch...he could not help the comparison with lotus leaves. He tugged at his granny's knotted pallu, eyes overflowing with a mixed expression of awe & annoyance & she would still prod him on...it was there, she said, just a few steps ahead, could he not still see it?

The spirit of perseverance that human optimism imparts to us is seldom beaten even by truth dancing in front of our eyes. So, he walked on...with a renewed jest in his quest.

Life at that moment had a purpose, beyond the weariness that the school & the heat caused to his physical being...

Afternoon, road & the man - I

He had been walking 3 continuous hours now, the sun beating down hard. His leather shoes, heated up by the boiling concrete of the road seemed to singe his toes within, wriggling them within only increased the discomfort.

He looked at his watch...the metal strap shining amidst the innumerable beads of perspiration formed a sheath over his arm. It was 2 o' clock in the afternoon, 4 hours before he could expect another human form to tread that route. It had been six months since this road had been made. Meandering through the endless carcasses of trees that lined it, it had few visitors all summers except the wood collectors who came for collecting fuel in the evenings & in early mornings.

Inadvertently, he sat down by the road. The smell of tar oozed out from the road below like the reek of blood from an open wound ... he tried to close his eyes & realised that probably keeping them open gave him more comfort. His eyelids seemed to smart in their togetherness & a stray tear drop mingled with the wetness of his face.

Physical hardship & emotional turmoil have strange similarities in their visible manifestations. He cupped his hands over his forehead, an uncanny stillness engulfed him.

A stray dry leaf dragged by in the wind, stirring him to life. His eyes followed it till it rested itself against a stone & rolled no more. The hope that the lifeless kindled in him was rested awhile as he stared ahead at nothing in particular. It was quiet around him & the silence was deafening...