Where Beauty is a Myth.

This post won the runner-up prize in the said contest.

The beaming astrologer had recommended green this time. Her mother, whom she lovingly called Ma, beseeched her to drape a green saree with a heavily embellished pallu. Its embroidery was more detailed than the last one. Ma could read through her glassy eyes, she always could, the pain, the humiliation of feeling like a rejected piece of clothing waiting to get lucky. She lifted up her chin and gave her a reassuring smile as though there was no evil left in this world for good to accomplish. She faked her faith in her smile.

Her heart was not pumping any more blood than it was supposed to today. The flutter refused to return and even after making every possible effort, she couldn't bring back the excitement she once felt. Her expectations had died a silent death several years ago. She was doing this for her parents, after all they had loved her, unconditionally. It was almost like a debt that was crushing her shoulders.

Didi put on some green eye-liner over her eyes that matched the color of the saree beyond belief, it was immaculate. A nail was tied to one end of the saree in an attempt to ensure prophetic significance. The lipstick was being applied with a lip brush this time as if this was the curse that went wrong all these years. Nonetheless, she very well knew this show had to be perfect and she was everybody's favorite puppet, she had to live up to their expectations unlike all the past failures. Mistakes weren't affordable anymore. Time was running swiftly and she had to catch up.

The delicacies were served in silver traditional thaalis, only if their beauty could overpower the truth. The sweets were prepared in pure desi ghee and their smell left no room for any other discussion. She entered with a tray and served her special cardamom tea to her audience. The saucers were left untouched. She saw their grin turn into a meek hint of a smile from the corner of her over-burdened eye, she could hardly lift it up. She wore a constant expression throughout the evening and spoke only when she was spoken to, the instructions were clear. The man who was supposed to decide whether she was beautiful enough to deserve the honor of marrying him kept nudging his mother with his elbow at regular intervals. He looked bored but his mother's stern expression kept him glued to the sofa.

An hour later, when everything from corruption to cocktail had got the privilege of becoming the center of discussion, the guests rose from their seats and began to leave. Her father joined his hands gesturing his debt to them for taking the trouble to grace them with their presence. He accompanied them to the entrance. She stood from her chair and waited in anticipation. A few minutes later, her father walked back in. Without uttering a word he left for his evening walk. She read the disappointment sprawled across his wrinkles.

It had happened. And it had happened again.

She was rejected by another family.

Not because she was illiterate,

Not because she didn't deserve it,

But because of the color that her skin reflected.

You might want to deny it but modern India is living on a land where beauty is a bubble waiting to be pricked by every other trespasser. Everybody holds an opinion but none so true. When Surf Excel Matic asked me to ponder over what occupies my mind when I hear the words 'Soak no More', I couldn't help but focus on how distorted our idea of beauty has become. This is not a preachy post asking you to reflect upon your concept of whos beautiful and whos not, its a silhouette, of a path that has led us to where we are and is constantly prompting us to overlook our conscience.

The market these days is flooded with fairness products that promise to make you more appealing to your partner. To be blunt, would you really want to be with a partner whose love is this shallow ? Crossing all lines, the latest addition to the list is a lotion that would make your private parts fairer and more attractive, as if the current happenings weren't enough to gather the level at which today's man has stooped. This massive obsession has grown beyond recognition, and all we do is soak, and then, soak some more of it.

I say, we 'Soak No More'.

Although the story depicted in this post talks about one particular stigma, the palette is filled with a riot of such stories.

It might take us a while to accept, but we're all a little fragile. A small dose of criticism can manage to do unimaginable harm to our self-esteem, and building a shield around us so that it wouldn't reach us is as hard as finding a needle in a haystack. Being considerate doesn't take much, the only requirement is purity of heart, and if you have that, you'll look at the world with a different, more subtle pair of eyes, ones that would cherish the goodness around them. I trust JK Rowling when she says, 

'It is important to remember that we all have magic inside us'.

Sometimes people are beautiful,

Not in looks,

Not in what they say,

Just in what they are.

This post is an official entry to the Surf Excel Matic 'Soak No More' Contest hosted by IndiBlogger.

My best wishes to all the participants.

Visit the Facebook Page to know more.

When The Red Light Goes Out.

When the red light goes out, a parallel world gets in. The kind that is well guarded and well measured, except to the customers that pay. There exists a story of great mystery and intrigue, for this is the world that trades lust for money.

They come,
They go,
leaving behind some debris,
some pain,
some money.

Looking every bit like a desperate Indian bride, she battled her self-esteem and walked into the room. It smelt foul; like a chemical; like sex. The fear, the turmoil, the storm inside her heart that used to resurface whenever she climbed the staircase to this room had settled. The tasteless decor of red velvet was sprawled across the tainted bed. The walls were a nude yellow and the paint was fresh. She missed the old chapped landscape of the room. It recognized her and she didn't bore any shame in baring all in front of them. They seemed to absorb what was left of the excruciating pain she once felt. At first, the burns on her face seemed to repel him but still he unhooked her bra and got down to business. He knew his pocket allowed him only 200 an hour and this was the the only brothel in town that was eager to serve his needs at this price. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth were vaguely visible. She wondered if he had any kids or if he was married at all. Apart from all those lustful glares, she thought she saw a glimpse of a clumsy kind man who pitied her condition, but very well knew that he couldn't do much about it. She liked the ones who pitied her, a tear or two made sure they were back within a week. He paid to spend an hour of desperation with her, and to her he would always remain a capable client who could afford her rate and whom she had to please in every possible manner so that he frequently comes back asking for more.

His hesitant polite manner told her that he was not one of those demanding customers who extracted worth out of every minute that they were paying for. As soon as he climaxed, he slid off her chest. It had only been twenty minutes but he started dressing himself. 'Naam kya hai tera ? Agle hafte fir aaunga' (What is your name ?, I'll come again next week). His voice caught her off guard and he was no more the shy stranger. She muttered her name under her breath. With an awkward demeanor he kept the two folded hundreds on the edge of the bed and turned to leave. 'Agar use pata chala ki maine tumse paisa liya hai to mujhe maar daalega' (He would tear me into pieces if word of my ever touching a cent of that money got to his ears). Now she knew, he was a novice.

He looked at her with an almost guilty expression and picked up the money. Apart from the faded moaning, this was the first of what she had ever spoken to a client, she never wanted to; she never had to. Their ignorance towards her feelings had made her strong and she intended on carrying on this strength within her forever. People had been calling her profession dirty and shameless, the irony was that the ones who paid for having sex with her had no dirt on their collar, all of it was served on her platter. She got off the bed, changed the bed sheet and prepared herself all over again looking like an Indian bride for another 200 an hour companion.

She felt sleepy and thought she would call it a night after this one. It had been six long months but still she was never able to entertain more than three men in one night. She knew this was her weakness and that it cost her a lot of money when compared to all the other ladies. Her employer called in after a couple minutes informing her that there weren't any more men asking for her that night.

She fed her baby, ate her dinner and slept a dreamless quiet night.

Government of India has listed prostitution under its list of victimless crimes. Is it really a victimless crime ? If no, who is the real victim?

Sweet Oblivion.

She woke up to an unrealized dream untangling itself in her sub-conscience. She decided to give it some more time and lied there for another hour, drowning herself in her furry bed covers. The alarm snoozed with a shrill noise and she lazily searched for her phone under the pillow. She called office, two long impatient rings, a silent click and she left a message informing about her sick leave.

Her purple brazierre peeked through her over-sized t-shirt, and revealed all her flaws and scars screaming in the submissive morning light, but she couldn't care any less today. She wore them with an indifferent pride. Her eyebrows looked like little sleeping worms and she woke them up in one fine sweep. The air was filled thick with such delirium; she could cut it with a knife. She looked at herself in the mirror and touched her left cheek, 'My God, I'm so fucking beautiful'. Her ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Her modest alter-ego never let her believe this but today was a new day. She twitched her nose and licked her dry lips. She swore she wouldn't tell anybody, but that smile in the mirror told her that it knew what she was upto. She stared at herself smiling a good long while before waking her laptop up and logging into her blog.

I’m not sick, I’m almost never sick, I don’t know why I’ve taken this leave but I have a feeling in my chest that says it’s going to be a beautiful day. Fingers crossed.

(Saved to Drafts).

She pulled her hair back and secured them in a bun, she hadn’t tied her hair this way in years. It gave her such silly joy, she could hardly contain it. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it like they do it in  the movies. The very taste of it burnt the inside of her mouth but that made her gulp another sip. And then another one. She put on a green maxi dotted by little flowers at the hem and walked over to the book-store. Every profile on blogosphere said they’d read and loved ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’, it made her feel like a clown in a ballroom filled with sophisticated people. She bought the book and happily smiled at every stranger who as much as glanced at her on her way back.  

She spent the day devouring the scent of the pages and rummaging through the contents of the book. Her phone was switched off and she promised herself she wouldn’t switch it to life, no matter what happens today. She googled the recipe and baked herself little coconut cupcakes. She did not put on any slippers for the rest of the day and her dirty feet had never felt so good.

I was right. Today was such a joyful day. Niyati says I hardly return a smile to the ones I know, but today I spread it amongst sweet strangers. It was sheer pleasure. That beautiful maxi adorned my legs with such uncalled beauty, I couldn't recognize myself. The wine tasted sour but I drank some more because the real me would’ve gagged. 

I’ve been myself for too long.

I read, smiled, drank, baked, walked bare foot and called myself beautiful today.

I feel liberated.

She titled it ‘The bitter-sweet agony of being me’ and published it.

The next day fell into routine but it too felt special under the shadow of yesterday.

Sculpting a Shadow.

There are times, when you fall for somebody's talent, so deeply and so intensely, that you're never sure what to say when asked 'Why do you like them so much ?'

Sameera at Life in a Jiffy is one such person for me. She is a balanced writer and a beautiful human being. She is getting married to a lovely young man on 28th July 2012. Shower her with all your best wishes and lots of love. Just like me, Sam too was a little skeptical about guest posts, but I'm so glad that my first one is from her pen.

Thank You Sam :)

The air was still. The floor polishers, hammers, saws and drills that groaned throughout the day rested silently like tired young children who had played longer than what they could endure. The wooden support structure that served the purpose of enabling movement up and down the partially constructed building creaked as I bent forward. About three storeys high, I was inclined at an impossible angle.  Achieving it by resting my hands alternatively on the wall each time I scraped out the extra cement on the wall. My eyes squinted in the flickering light to observe the protruding portions of the wall. My hand followed the vision and a subconscious nod titled my head as my fingers felt the asymmetry of the surface. With a tiny metal piece that was strapped with sand paper on either side I started my chore. Blowing away the chipped off excess cement in a practiced manner after every screeching stoke made on the wall- yes that was my job.

It is thrilling to know that a slight imbalance could cause my body to be converted into mashed red lump on the ground way below and liberate my soul? I carefully shift my feet to the next portion of the wall.  I pass a window in between. Too early for its glass to be fit, but I see a faint reflection on it. My black hair appears grey with dust and rough carelessly grown stubble gives me a rather grotesque look. Big white eyes bulge out of skull as I stare at my own reflection.  I think that’s what happens to most of the boys when they become men, built bit by bit into a figure which is an accumulation of fragments of dying hope and rumble of dreams.

I dare not think of the dream with which I had left my village, my home and my people at fifteen. Three Rupees tucked in the inner pocket of my underwear; I had the world to take over. I starved, I crumbled, I stole…I regretted and corrected. But, I never cried. It was the dreams and the hope that kept me from weeping. You know that hop in my walk and belief in my mind that tomorrow I will be big man?  That was that tender age when I had the fate in the grip of my fist and hope in my heart.  I smile and brush away those memories and gaze back at my reflection one last time before I slide ahead.  I start grinding the sandpaper on the wall. I don’t realise my movements are faster and the pressure of the rub is greater till my hand aches. I don’t want to pause. I don’t want to think.

But my mind walks through a boulevard of dreams abandoned dreams. “Amma I opened a small puncture repair shop today.” That was the first call I had made home in the two years that I had been away. No response was received from the other end just faint sobs of joy and sadness - joy for having heard from me and sadness because, perhaps she knew what I didn’t know back then. I never called her back apart from a drunken call in which I just wet my eyes but didn’t speak a word. It was the day my shop was rolled over so that the road could be widened. Not a word of warning or hint was given. I just came one early morning to find my assets broken. Worse I had to pay for customer’s cycle that got damaged in the event. My little margins accumulated over time vanished into thin air leaving me with nothing but just three rupees like three years ago.

Failures followed chipping off my zeal to fulfil my dreams little by little and I stood near the labour market as the last resort to earn money. Pick me up for any work I’ll do it. I just didn’t want to go back home to the faces that would mock me, “Didn’t we tell you, it will be a waste. City Boy eh? Big man…? You should have tilled fields here, married a girl and taken care of your parents.”  I wanted more than that and when I chased it, it left me with nothing? Life is unfair. “Will you work in construction, Rs.100 per day?” I nodded, my head had jumped into a truck occupied by many men, women and children.  Over the years I shifted from cement mixing, laying bricks, and painting walls to anything and everything that makes a building.  I have lost the track of time three, four I can’t tell how many years have passed.

Phoo, phoo, I blow of the scraped cement and bring my mind to the present. I catch my own shadow on the wall I sculpt to make it smooth. Shadow-a black contour of man, a faceless, unidentified man.  I continue to grind on the surface, slowly – meticulous, smoothing my hard memories with the action and fading away into the night sculpting the dreams of what that man in the shadow could be. Hope, I guess it still resides in me somewhere.

The End

Written as a part of Captured Writings.

Happy Valentine's Day

The scent of the sandal incense sticks left no corner of their house untouched by its warmth. It made them feel at home. It made home smell like home. Anushree's elder daughter was dressing up for school while reciting a poem for an inter-school competition, determined to win this time. She packed three loaves of bread and butter for lunch and kissed her good luck. Her husband, no matter how early he woke up, was always late for work. Half eating his breakfast, he rushed to catch the last bus just in time. She waved him a quick goodbye. She always postulated, if a person leaves home with a smile, he comes back with a wider one. Her mother never let her father leave home without a hug which matured into a formal one over the years, yet never was the ritual broken.

Her younger daughter was still in bed. She hugged her in her sleep and tried to cuddle off her morning weariness. Surprisingly enough, she hugged her back. She had named her daughter after her grandmother. She wished her a happy morning in a singsong voice. A couple of minutes later, her little girl got out of bed and switched on the TV. Watching Uncle Scrooge dive into his ocean of coins elated her. Anushree folded her quilt and shouted 'Do I have to tell you to brush your teeth everyday ?'. She scorned her way to the bathroom and lazily scrubbed her teeth. She cleaned herself up and a splash of water removed the last traces of sleep and pillow marks from her face.

Browsing through the channels now and eagerly waiting for her chocolate milk, she came across the new Vodafone ad that claimed to have special caller tunes and greetings for some day that started with a V and had an unexpectedly long spelling. She couldn't pronounce it and blamed the ad for being too small for her to grasp the pronunciation properly. She changed the channel and found the same mention there too. And  then, another one. She baby-stepped into the kitchen and asked Ma about this special day that was supposed to be occurring tomorrow. She wanted to make all the necessary arrangements before her friends, if the said day was so important.

Anushree was bewildered. She hadn't practiced an answer to this question of her influential 9 year old. She wanted to keep her girls away from this day, as far away as possible. She picked her up, made her sit on the kitchen slab and went back to chopping carrots for the mix-vegetables she was cooking for lunch. After a lot of probing and stubborn insistence, Anushree struggled to pick up the right words. 'You know I love your Father, right ?' She nodded in happy approval and smiled. Anushree could spot her missing milk-tooth. 'Well, it is a special day where I let him know that in words'. Her daughter mouthed Ohhh and slid back to the floor. Her frock frolicked with every step she took, apparently in amusement of this newly found special information about tomorrow.

'Where are my oil pastels Ma ?' She demanded with urgent patience. They were kept in the third drawer of her cupboard and Anushree found them for her.

The next morning, Anushree found a red-bordered page peeking out from under her daughter's pillow. It looked like a page from her maths notebook because of the tiny translucent grey squares all over it. She picked it up, it looked like a card with little flowers and leaves sprinkled unevenly all over it. She opened it and her face broke into a million smiles. Very carefully, she shoved it back in and waited for the precious moment when her daughter would give it to her.

The card read -

Happy Special Day, Ma.
I want to let you know in words that I love you very much.


It was the most beautiful Valentine's gift she had anticipated in years.

Closure

She could not operate machines. Not then. Not now. She always alleged Technology eats away the little joys that make me happy. Squinting into the wide screen with eye brows meeting in the middle and typing around the haphazard arrangement of alphabets gave her liquid pain across her cheeks and an acute sting in her skull.  She preferred pens, ink pens, for their sheer simplicity and beauty. She loved filling them with ink when they ran out of it.

She took out her aged diary, dotted with tiny speckles of her daughter's mischief, picked up her pen and started doodling little hearts in red ink at the torn corners of the page. It brought back memories. Memories of happier times. Memories of innocent smiles. Memories of him, and them. One abstract thought, and she tore the page off. That painting hung in her living room for a very long time now but ironically it was a metaphor today. The sky had stopped pouring. The dew drops wanted to fall off the frail stem, demanded closure, but something kept them desperately dangling.

A tear fell, hot as acid, and scarred the flimsy white.

Nostalgia won. Again.

She wrote. And then, some more.

She could not find it in her heart to forgive him for dying on her. She felt cheated. He promised to grow old with her and watch bad TV throughout the day's length. Why did he have to break it ? Time moved too fast for her to keep up with its pace. They said it'll be painful for a few months and then her life would adapt itself to this subtle change. Why hadn't her pain subsided ? Four long, wistful years had rolled by. Hadn't she suffered enough ? These questions itched her fate and she couldn't scratch it. Once again, there were no answers. She didn't know what to feel anymore. It was a tiring task. Right and wrong agreed with each other. Her face broke into infrequent tremors of grief, pain and wishful longing.

She too needed closure and somehow it hid itself well.

A sudden squeak of wood against the floorboards and a barely audible thud. Her husband was home. She could hear him hang his trench coat behind the door. She had been a faithful, loving wife to her husband all these years yet somehow she cursed herself for betrayal, a part of her cried for a different destiny, mourned the irreparable loss, everyday.

She got up and hid the brown diary back into its place.  

Dilapidated

His sleep had probably become the only time peace and calm visited him. His wife gently ran her thin, pale hand through his hair. Those translucent veins evidently tried to run through the gaps between her fingers. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes. This was a beautiful customary routine. She would wake him up with the same teasing ruffle of his hair and even if he was awake, he waited for her gesture, it assured him of her love in a complacent way. She spoke a million words in that little soothing moment.

Another day full of hopeful prayers. Another day of an incessant struggle.

He bathed, got dressed, a crisp blue shirt paired with semi-black trousers that miserably failed to hide the bloat he was carrying around himself. His hair were parted on the same side his mother used to do them, carefully disguising the grey strands and the bald spot on the top. He dabbed a few drops of coconut oil to keep them in place. His shoes shone in an egotistical middling manner like they didn't have a care in this world. His wife nudged him with a quick breakfast and he rode on his quest.

The guard at the door greeted him with a refreshing smile, but then, smiling and bowing down to the people rushing through these glass doors defined his job description. An uncalled whoosh of air wheezed into his shirt from the ceiling airway, making the hair on his chest rise. He could barely cease the inappropriate act of rubbing his chest publicly in a hurried fashion, eyeing every corner of the well-lit hall for cameras ensnaring his manners like a vulture. He placed himself on the velvety sofa, admiring its comfort in a secluded indifferent corner of his brain.

"Registration Number 1509 ?'

'Yes, yes, that'd be me, M Sreesaran'

'You may go inside.'

A breathed in paunch, synchronized documents, neat laces, toes struggling to stay in place, and he felt as ready as he'll ever be. His interviewer looked as a sybarite at first, but the proceedings were smooth. After 3 uneasy hours of anticipation, wanting to grab every hint of hope that flew in the air, he was informed that this job wasn't made for him.

He took the same bus back home. At the dinner table, his daughter grunted 'Are we having yellow dal again ? Why is this never up for debate daddy ?'

There lay merely one string on his monochrome bow, unemployment, and life played it in different yet, recurrent monotonous tunes every single day.

Disguised Repercussions

Another monotonous dutiful day. The bed was meticulously made, with neat edges. The tiled floor shone with brilliance. Lunch was cooked. She lay on her back, staring into thin air, the sheets felt cold, and vivid thoughts began to flow in once again. A kaleidoscope of memories and decisions that led her here. It seldom rains in January, but today it poured heavily. The clock ticked out loud, like a hammer, she could hear it mingling and playing with the sound of the rain. Her breath danced in pronounced rhythm. 3 years ago, she was a proud graduate. An engineer with phenomenal skills. And now, her identity merely boasted of a doting wife and a loving mother. What went wrong ? This had become a pattern in her daily routine. An ugly, abominable pattern. She would send her husband off to work with a gentle kiss, finish off with her house chores, put her daughter up for a nap, cook the mid-day meal and then get down for some rest. She loved them with all her heart and soul. They weren't at fault here. But then who was ?

These unwanted disturbing thoughts visited her everyday.

A 6 figure job-of-her-dreams at a leading MNC fell into her lap as soon as she finished with her degree and it literally killed her when she was told she cannot avail the opportunity. Her confidence was bruised. Her faith in family and its values was cicatrized, scarred for life, impaled with the pain of never getting a chance to prove what shes worth doing. Within 7 months, she was married off to the perfect guy of a perfect family who preferred dying over sending their daughter-in-law to work. She felt guilty about wishing that she was born to a different set of parents, the ones who would've cared more about her independence than her marriage at the vulnerable age of 21. She condemned this traditional hypocrisy on the inside but revolting against it now would make her unacceptable to her loved ones. And then all of this sacrifice would be for nothing, she pondered. Would she have loved them any less if she had a career and a life of her own ? She was stuck. For life. And did it really matter ?

At times, she wants it to be a mirage, a nightmare, but then regrets it the next instant, because if it is an illusion, then she would have to come back to reality and go through all of it again.

Everything seemed distant. The woman who stared at her in the mirror this morning seemed alien, and yet, somehow familiar. Ageing and maturing with each passing day, but not deciphering a moment of it. The insistent buzz of her phone broke the trance. Her husband had called to tell her that he had reached office and that he loved her.

She waited a long moment, smiled sans humor and said,

' I love you too, Infact that's all I do '.

The Lambent Afternoon

"That hardly qualifies as consolation" She whined some more.

"Let somebody love you for who you are, not who they want you to be" He spoke with great fervor and the gleaming sun scandalized by throwing in the perfect ambience upon the busy street.

"Maybe its me, maybe I'm a little weird at times." A humorless chuckle decided to punctuate Kate's words.

"No, BECAUSE you're a little weird at times" He pulled her to himself in one quick motion and planted the sweetest kiss on her lips.

Have a Merry Christmas and A Merrier New Year :)

Frozen Fate

He stroked her beautiful brown tresses with his fidgety fingers. A tremor went through his body but she did not move. The whining fan squeaked to a halt and the only voice in the room died with it. He always knew, silence had more to itself than what met the blinking eye. His throat felt parched, but he was too afraid to leave her side. Something inside him told him she would leave him forever if he so much as moved an inch. He did not want to lose what was left of her. The floor felt frigid and frosty, so did her limp body. He kissed her on her left cheek, kept his empty bottle of misery aside and cradled her to his chest like a new born, petrified that his touch would scar her flawless skin.

Her hair were wet, his hand could feel it, but it didn't feel like water, it felt dark, thick and ugly. He never adored the color red and always thought it signified death, but suddenly, it seemed to have filled his vision. It was blood. Her blood. His stained hand started to tremble. He hurriedly wiped it off her black dress. This is her favorite dress, she will be furious with me when she wakes up. The dizziness was making it hard to keep it together, his head felt unusually heavy, the room was spinning at an alarming rate. The alcohol and coke in his system were waiting to swallow him up like hungry demons. A quick flashback ran inside his head. It came back in bits.

Did...drink today...also...don't you understand...marriage.....no job... future....is the..... limit..cannot...creep...stay anymore...my father was...right......

In broken little steps, he reached his phone, dropped the pistol and dialled 911. "I..I...umm I think, I.....just.....shot my...my..wife"

Yes, I'm trying to send out a message and I expect you to pass it on further. A certain news in today's newspaper itched my scratch to write about people sealing their fates giving in to alcohol and drugs. As they say 'When the wine is in, the wit is out', and the decisions thereafter become synonymous to lifetime regrets.

Of the hand that held hers

Ridhima was dead. Sarah had overheard some doctors discuss over how should they break this news to her. She was not able to move any part of her bruised body below her neck. Was the accident so bad ? The grief was too big to acknowledge. She knew she will be alone for the rest of her life. Was it only a few weeks ago when I broke the news to them ? Everything came flooding back to her.

She remembered that day.

***

It was the day. It was finally the day. It was the day Sarah was going to remember for the rest of her life. She had put on her blue pullover because somebody had once told her shades of blue represent peace and calm.

'No, I should probably change into my safe pair of denims' Sarah thought.

A brawl over her short skirt was the last thing Sarah wanted to happen that day.

Her panic was rising with each passing microsecond. She could almost taste bile in her throat. She picked up her phone and called Ridhima for the 50th time. Her network switched to voicemail.

'Where on earth are you R ? You better be on your way to my place. I'm on my way to panic-death here. This isn't just about us now. I need you to grow up and take some responsibility.'

and Sarah disconnected the call. She hadn't realized, her forehead was dripping with sweat. She opened her closet, picked out her white towel that came as a thank you gift from her spa, wiped off all the sweat from her face and took the longest breath of her life, muttering

'They are my parents, they brought me to life, they have to love me, no matter what, its their duty to love me, this isn't a crime, its just the way I'm made, they have to broaden their horizons and grasp what I have to offer this time. its all going to be okay'

and she exhaled from her mouth.

At that second, the doorbell rang. Her heart picked up pace. This better be her. It was her. Sarah's ears picked up traces of warm greetings from the ground floor, her parents seemed to be in the best of their moods. Ridhima climbed up the stairs in a hurry, almost tripped once and finally reached Sarah's room. As soon as she entered, Sarah hugged her. They held each other for a long one and a half minutes, as though trying to dissolve their worries into each other.


My decision is correct, its all worth it, SHES all worth it, I love her, and it is time to stand up for what I believe in.

Sarah's mother's voice broke the embrace, but they were still holding each other. 'Let's do it Sarah' Ridhima said and smiled her disturbingly beautiful smile.

Downstairs, Sarah's father was reading his daily morning newspaper and cribbing about the presence of everything but news in the newspaper, and her mother was busy in the kitchen. Sarah nudged her elbow into Ridhima's ribs and whispered I love them, I don't want to be abandoned, she was close to tears. Even her whisper was hoarse and husky. Ridhima knitted her fingers with hers and squeezed her hand gently. They love you way too much to abandon you. Stop panicking Sarah, I love you, don't ever forget that. Its now or never.


S - Good Morning Dad.
Dad - Good Morning my angels.
S - I want to talk to you Dad.


He folded his newspaper, put down his specs and looked at her daughter. The seriousness in her daughter's voice was alien.

Dad - Sure beta, whatever it is.
R - No uncle, We want to talk to both of you together. Lets wait for aunty to finish with her toasts.


In a minute, Sarah's mom appeared out of kitchen with a dish full of yummy-looking toasts.

Dad - Okay kids, let's eat first, and then I'm all yours, he smiled.
Ridhima - No uncle, it's important.
He looked at them with curious analyzing eyes, his eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead, and said Okay.

Sarah - Okay. Dad, I know this is going to come as a shock to you at first but I very desperately need you to understand what I'm about to say now. I am 23 and I don't want you to assume that I'm immature. It isn't a choice. Its what I am. Its how I'm made. I'm happy with life but I cannot survive without your consent. Okay ?
Mom - You're scaring us now. Just tell us. What is it ?
Sarah - Mom, Me and R, we love each other.


Her dad laughed hearing that.


Dad - We know that baby, We know you both are less of friends and more of sisters. And we love you too. Where is the news in this ?
Ridhima - Uncle, you don't understand. Its not the sister-love, its the lover-love. We want to get married.
S's mom ignored the hint, smiled and said 'Oh, Is this about marriage ? Hari, our daughters are grown up ladies now'

Sarah - No mom, You really don't get it or are you just pretending not to acknowledge it ? I love Ridhima and I want to marry her. I'm a lesbian mom. Deep down somewhere, you've always known this. I could sense it.


Silence took over. Sarah's parents stared into thin air. Nobody said another word for the next minute. Finally Ridhima said 'We love each other aunty. It doesn't make us any different. It just makes us brave enough to accept it. We are made this way. Please try to understand'

They both left the room and did not talk to Sarah for 2 days. After 2 days of misery, her dad came to her room and tried to talk her out of it. He wanted Sarah to meet a shrink for a purification ritual and this proposition broke her completely. Her mom wanted her to start with therapy. A week passed, and their house was still filled with an unknown awkward air. After months of endless arguments and discussions, Sarah finally had to leave her parent's house to start a new life with Ridhima. They did not want the society to know about her.

3 days after moving out, Sarah and Ridhima's car met with an accident.

***

The soft blue walls of the hospital filled Sarah's vision. All she knew was that Ridhima was dead. Warm tears flowed down her cheeks and she could not even wipe them off on her own. An eager nurse sprang to help her and asked 'Oh great, you're awake ma'am, do you want me to call anybody ? your family ? you will need their support through all this' 

'No, I'm alone, I don't have a family.'

5 days after the accident, Sarah also joined Ridhima in heaven. Her parents never tried to find out how their daughter was.

I wish people had better understanding of human nature and braced it with open arms. 

Painful Escape

This is the diary entry of a 41 year old woman who wants to walk out of her marriage of 20 years, away from Tanuj, the man who never loved her, and into the arms of Akash, the man who acquainted her with true love. Her twin daughters have made it clear that if she does so, she will be a childless woman for the rest of her life.


Dear Diary,

I haven't written you in a long while now. and I've truly missed you. Its time, its time for me to make a decision. My stomach is clenching even as I am writing this, its like somebody is rolling a dough inside it. Its a hard dough. My girls, they are merely 19. Would it be the right thing to do at this time ? I can't afford to lose their love, their warmth, if at all they have some for me. It all feels wrong, and right, both at the same time. I have never been this confused in my entire life. And if I don't make a choice now, my heart will grieve till eternity. Akash has given me all the support and love I was expecting from Tanuj, I had rented my heart and soul to this marriage, but it just isn't working. You are such a patient listener. I wish you could drop a word of advice in desperate times like these.

Silence is engulfing me from all sides, its making me nauseous, its becoming hrad hard to write. See there, I made my first spelling mistake in you. Is this pen trying to humor me ? But I can't stop. It all has to escape my system and pouring it down into the depths of your diaphanous pools of white paper is my only rescue plan.


Last night Tanuj came to my bedroom around 1am. I was wide awake. I sat upright and he sat next to me cupping my hands in his. I thought he was going to lure me into staying or beat me into the argument 'How did you even think of such a thing' but his words were the last things I was expecting out of him at that hour.


He said 'When you first told me about Akash, I was writhing with pure rage. The man in me felt defeated, as if his manhood was being raped off and he could do nothing about it. My wife was falling for another man and I was just a spectator watching the proceedings. But I've been thinking about it since past one week and your facts still hold their truth firmly in place. Why did we never realize that we were falling out of love ? When did it happen ? We have been sleeping in different bedrooms since a decade now. I dismissed this earlier using the excuse 'Everybody needs their own space'. I was such a fool. Anyway, I came today to tell you that you shouldn't stay because of the fear of this society or our girls. They seem to have taken more from me, they will live. I have never given you the love,the care and the support a woman deserves from her better half. I've failed you miserably but now, when somebody else is making you happy, I will support your decision. I owe you that much.'


He said the last words slowly, meaning every syllable of it. He didn't wait for my reply and strode out of the room. I was left dazed. These words were as close as Tanuj had ever got to my heart in these 20 years of our marriage.


But as I'm writing you right now, Tanuj's words are making more and more sense. Why should I worry about this hypocrite society when they don't care one bit for me ? They don't know what I've been through. I dare them to walk a mile in my shoes and then return to have a balanced argument. I have lived 20 years succumbing to my parent's will and 21 years to the man who never loved me. If I have to make a decision it has to be now. Or never.


I'm leaving you unfinished today. The next time I write you, I will be a happy woman.
And by the way, my first wrinkle started to surface today.


Love.

Barren

The cursor winks innocently at me, patient and giving, appearing and disappearing. It seems to follow the rhythm of my heart, waiting for me to knit something on the clear white screen, but there are no words, none to scribble across it. My gaze is held transfixed by the moving traffic,

why is it so smooth today ?

It is one of those moments when you stare at something without actually sinking it in. It is a mesh, a mesh of varied colors. A yellow taxi, a white Mercedes, a toddler dressed in bright green, Oh, her pram, what is it, deep blue or electric blue ? and the brown exteriors of the mexican restaurant across the road.

My screen-saver comes to life. The waiter brings in my third Lattè, I peel my gaze off the haze, Had I forgot to tell him to put in less milk this time ?, What is wrong with him ? Has mom coaxed him into shoving some milk into my milk-starved system ? The stupid thought took flight as soon as it had landed into the company of the voices in my head.

The voices are growing, maturing with each passing minute. All budding new thoughts are ragged and limped away like lifeless dolls. They're not whispering to each other anymore. They want my attention, each one of them, they're fighting for it, I should really join those power-yoga classes Aunt Maggie suggested to Lenny.

I could feel ice in the air I was inhaling, It was going to snow soon. 

Finishing my coffee, I fold my laptop, gather my thick-rimmed over-sized glasses from the top of my head, give my eyes a little cover, hug my neck with my peach silk scarf, straighten my dress, run a finger through my curls and head towards home.

There are days in every writer's cave when words are just not ready to fall in place, with their pen poised in the air, mind set into motion, no thought overcome those dominant voices and succeed in materializing themselves into ink.

This is one of those days for an amateur like me and I'm not liking it.

Can't I be in love with both of you?

***

02 September 2011


That question, those words, rang in his head like a church bell for days. Loud. Demanding. His heart was cicatrized, she'd bruised it with scars for the rest of his meaningless life.

He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he first saw that same tenderness in her eyes, but for another man. She had shone like the brightest star in the galaxy at the mere mention of his name. Their brilliance back then hurt his liquid eyes now. He should have got the hint right there. How could he be so ignorant ? How could he do this to himself ? How could he do this to them ?

NO.

  

how could she do this to them ?


27 December 2009

She had those perfect amber eyes, eyes so deep, only a thick band of amber around the pupils, he'd wanted to fall into them and then keep falling forever. Hair so lustrous he'd wanted to entangle his fingers in them. Those swells of feminism across her breasts, her hour glass sculpted waistline always made him wonder 'Is she for real ?'. He held her like a gorgeous fragile creation of an artist, like a painter's muse, as if he might break her in his arms.

Her melodic voice brought him back to the surface.

She'd said ' where are you lost Arin, the movie is about to start, Let's hurry up'.

And all he could manage to mumble was 'Aria, tell me something, Did you bribe God into customizing those gems for your eyes ?'.

She gave a low seductive chuckle and hurried them into the movie theatre.
Aria had dug her nails into his flesh, he'd warned her about the ghost part of the movie but she was determined to watch it. And just when the squeaky door started to open on its own, Aria stood up and screamed at the highest pitch of her voice.

02 September 2011

That scream brought Arin back to the present. His ears could hear the sound of a glass shattering somewhere in the near vicinity and for an instant he thought he'd imagined it. His family was waiting for him downstairs but he could not make his legs cover the distance.

How could it be so easy for her to send a question like that across my face ? Arin asked himself. And what was my answer supposed to be ?.

It was 13 months since he'd last seen her but her memories were still haunting him, occupying a large room in his head. Even that little black mole on the nape of her neck hadn't escaped his thoughts. Grief threatened to overcome. Tears began to swell in his eyes but he fought to send them back to where they came from. He threw a humorless laugh around his room as he remembered what his dad had told him when he was six and was crying because he had a wounded knee 'Big boys don't cry my boy'.

He wanted the time spent with her to become a tale from his distant childhood, something he could scarcely remember even if he wanted to. No matter how hard he tried, he only wanted to catch glimpses, and if possible, not even them.

He shoved away her thoughts and started looking for the better half of the brown sock he was wearing in his left foot, Why do I always find my socks without their pair ?, opening the last drawer of the wooden rack, he was face to face with a picture, I told Meher not to click this picture, when will she ever learn to listen ? It was Aria leaning over his right shoulder and his palm covering half of the picture signalling Meher not to click it.

16 November 2009

He picked it up and remembered that playful night, It was their common friend Meher's birthday. Aria had never touched alcohol before, but upon insistence she did some shots and they really got the worst of her.

The only good thing about that night was that while Aria was drunk, she clutched onto Arin's shirt like a little baby clutching onto the only piece of clothing within its reach. She hung on to him in a way that said You're all mine and Arin rained back all of his love supporting her, hiding her into his warm embrace.

That was their first affectionate embrace. Arin could never forget that day.

02 September 2011

Arin, Arin, Where are you lost son ? He could suddenly hear the motherly voice of his aunt standing right in front of him, shaking his shoulders. He came back to life, Nothing Umm Nothing, I can't find my right sock, Let me put the black pair on, You will see me downstairs in 5 short minutes. A forced smile punctuated his otherwise lifeless words.

I have to let go of these thoughts, let go of her and her betayal.

I will, I will, soon, I have to.

But how could she ask me a question like 'Can't I be in love with both of you ?'

The question had stung his heart then and it had the power to do it now.


He wiped the warm tears trickling down his eyes and rushed downstairs.

***

I will name my daughter Aria if God ever blesses me with one :) Short melodic names starting with the alphabet 'A' sweep me off my feet :)
This was a different genre I tried, Be nice enough to tell me how it went ? even if it didn't touch your heart :) Your criticism is also welcome :)

Where there are Expectations, there is a Mask

Have you ever wondered why the best things in life are always unexpected, only because there were no expectations to compare them to. People expect you to be brave, sometimes you pretend that you are, even when you are frightened down to your very bones. How, and more importantly, Why does this happen ?

A small intense fight with her mom got her thinking about the E-word. Her mom was open about all her expectations from her and extremely fragile. She got slapped by reality in the face. As soon as her mom left the room, she opened the second drawer in her cupboard and looked at it. It was there. The MASK. Her MASK. Her virtual life savior.

It met her eyes, twisted its lips into a wicked smile and spat 

'So, You need me again ? I had my mind believe that this is my grave, after the way you threw me here the last time'

She managed a sad 'Yes, I need you again'

She grabbed it inhumanly, put it on her face and saw it coming to life, blending in with her, become an inseparable part of her being. She had suddenly become ugly to her own eyes. She strode out of my room, and let the veil take care of all she couldn't.

Later that night, She tore it away from herself, it had it's victory smile on, content as a vampire who had just ripped her throat off, and got a taste of her fresh human blood, fed on her.

She threw it away into it's regular place.

She was broke. She knew she was incomplete without it.

And they both drifted to sleep.

Was it wrong for her to put it on ? Should she have let mom feel bad and not care ? What is the thing with Expectations ? Why are they always touching the skies ? Is it really important to meet them ?

I say 'No, it's not'.
Stop meeting people's wrong expectations and in return they'll someday thank you for it.
Drop the veil and be the real you. You're fearless and brave.

Somebody you don't like, pretends to be a friend, and you have to fake it too.

Somebody will get hurt if you spill the truth, you are expected to zip your lip, and you do it. WHY ?

A wise soul once enlightened me saying

HAPPINESS = REALITY - EXPECTATIONS.

Wish it were all as easy as a mathematical problem.

Blessed are those who never expect, for they shall never get disappointed.


Time to unveil the true you, Expect less and Live more.

Victims of Cupid

***

Enveloped in the strong hold of his arms, letting them protect her from evil, laying in them, and reciprocating, was all she desired. She knew his arms were her Castle and his Heart was her Sky. She was the undisputed queen of his heart. Resting in them, getting drenched in his toxic scent, always took her to a dream-world dotted by little angels, that sprinkled love all over with their magic wand. There was something about the way he slept, so serene, so subtle, so angelic, that gave her an adrenaline rush. She could hear a million words in his little gestures, and they made her feel like a Duchess, irrevocably and hopelessly in love with her Duke. She silently tip-toed her way to the rest room, slid out of her satin night dress and situated herself in her hot bath. A few minutes later, silently walking bare foot into the room,

**It so smells like him everywhere**

leaving behind trails of dripping water droplets along her way to their bed, she planted a sweet motherly kiss on his forehead to wake him up. He opened his eyes, soaked in the exquisite view of his beautiful duchess, gave a child-like mischievous curve to his perfect lips, that made him look disturbingly desirable and held her close to his chest. Ecstasy blanketed them. How they wished, time stopped, and they devour each other's presence and love forever. Few blissful heavenly moments later, he gently pressed his lips to hers and strode out of the bed. The call of the daily chores could not be ignored any more.

She sent a silent prayer to her God 'Gracious, for making him walk into my life'.

***

I have no clue what made my fingers type the above write-up but I thought it was time I made my thoughts see the light of the day. And my future knight in a matt-finish armor (shiny armors are so out of the game), I hope you fill my life with such love one day !

P.S. Cascada's 'Everytime we Touch' tingles every romantic molecule of my being whenever my headphones bring it to my ears. Do check it out, though I'm sure you must have heard it. :)