Wishes of a dreamer

I wish to dance in the bejewelled night

Where my dreams sparkle as they take flight

I wish to let my thoughts sprinkle

On the waves of the sea as they rise and mingle

I wish to gaze at the open vales

Caressing the wind as it laughs in gales

And carries away those raging storms

Leading my ship into waters calm

I wish to walk on the sands of time

With a song on my lips and a ready rhyme

And take my heart to those tranquil shores

Where it's at peace...away...far away from where the tempest roars.  

The other side of the smile

She peered out of her solitary confinement into the hallway. A quick glance both ways confirmed that it was deserted. The guard had finished his beat for the night and was slumped in the chair by the door. She tiptoed out of the French window into the garden surrounding the castle. The clear night sky was ablaze with a multitude of stars as if celebrating a festival of lights. She lay on the grass looking at the sky, hypnotised. Humming to herself, she connected the little dots in the sky into shapes of her own, naming them one by one. A sudden rustle from the rose bushes near her startled her. Had someone heard her? She held her breath, afraid of being discovered. A little rat shot across the ground foraging for leftovers from last evening’s garden party. She sat up, sighing in relief. Dreamily, she strolled towards her preferred part of the garden where it overlooked the countryside. The valley looked like an extension of the night sky with small glittering lights marking the numerous homes where the ‘commoners’ lived.

A faint sound of music, carried by the breeze, reached her ears. She wondered how life would be in the countryside. The humble homes seemed decidedly deprived of the opulence of the castle. Still they fascinated her. Throughout the day, people walking up and down the hallway, would talk of life beyond the castle. She would listen intently trying to pick pieces of conversations, and what she heard always intrigued her. She wanted to see what transpired behind those mud walls. She yearned to be part of the colourful festivals, the dancing, the singing and the road trips that passersby in the hallway talked of. She created images of people going about their daily chores: a father teaching his son how to ride a bicycle, a group of dancers preparing for their performance, a farmer going to his fields, a shoemaker setting up shop, a mother bidding goodbye to her children as they went to school. Every day, she would create countless images from the bits she collected throughout the day. Every night, she would project them onto the households in the countryside. Her favourite image was that of a little girl lying in a valley of flowers while her shepherd friend ran about gathering his herd. She would amuse herself by imagining the antics of the goats and the comic faces that the shepherd made as he would follow them, coaxing them, shouting at them, behaving like a goat himself.

This was as close as she could get to the world. She knew she could never live her imagery; she had not been created for that purpose. She could not complain of her position. She was held in awe by everyone. People all over the world – artists and literary experts, noblemen and commoners – marvelled at her. Yet it was her nightly expeditions that she was living on. Nothing else could give her the bliss that she experienced when she would be in the garden vicariously living a normal human life.

The twitter of the early bird broke her trance. Soon it would be daylight. She needed to go back before the break of the day. She hurried inside gathering her gown around her, and entered the picture frame that was her abode during the day. She was ready for the visitors, ready to flash that mysterious smile which had been the source of relentless debate and discussion throughout centuries. And only she, Mona Lisa, knew the reason for it.

A new dawn

Old Raghu woke up at the break of dawn to the sound of birds. He looked out of the window of his shack. The sky was a sheet of resplendent orange with shades of blue here and there. A perfect day with no hint of rain, he thought. As usual, he finished his morning chores very quietly making sure that his wife was not disturbed. However, like every day, she woke up before he was ready to begin his day. ‘How does she manage to do this irrespective of all the hard work she does?’ he wondered. He smiled at her as she handed him his lunchbox and rode his rickety cycle to work. This is how he had begun each day of his life for the last 40 years.

As the cool morning breeze struck against his ageing frame, he realized was growing old. At 55, he knew he didn’t have the same energy as that of a 35 year old, and soon he would be out of work. He liked to work and remain useful. His was a life of content and he knew he made a difference to a lot of people every single day of his life. He saw himself not as a mere postman but as an individual who had the power to connect people with their loved ones. Although he didn’t make much of a living out of it, it was enough for him and his wife to lead a decent life. Had he had children, it would have been hard to take care of them. Whenever he would pass through the narrow lanes on his cycle, the characteristic ring of his cycle bell announcing his arrival, the children playing on the streets would run to him with the same question in their eyes: did anyone send a letter to their family today? They would follow him like little ducklings, jumping around as he made his way to some of their houses. They would look in wonderment as he would dig into his dirty satchel anticipating something really extraordinary to come out of it as if by magic. If no letter had come for them, disappointment would mark their eyes as they returned with hung heads. So he would always carry candy bars in his satchel for those who didn’t get letters.

He always had a special corner for the kids. If only he had a child he would raise him or her with so much love and care and give him/her the best education he could afford. And, despite the presence of a loving wife, he felt he returned to a soulless home every evening. He could not bear to see the perpetual cloud of sadness in her eyes. Whenever his wife would see children playing in the street, she would look at them wistfully, but she never said anything to her husband. She knew how he felt and he understood her.

As he was returning home after the day’s work, he noticed little Radha sitting under the Banyan tree in front of their house, bent over something, deep in thought. He was almost going to go to her when he saw his wife Meera doing the same. Meera gently placed her hand on Radha’s shoulder. Radha looked up at her with troubled eyes. “What is the matter Radha?” she asked. “I cannot solve this maths problem Meera kaki and no one is helping me. Amma and baba cannot read and no one else would tell me. I have a test tomorrow and if I don’t study I will fail. I want to become a doctor kaki”. In these words the little girl poured out all her troubles and dreams to the old woman. “Oh! And you are worried so much for this! Let me see what you have got”. Little Radha’s face lit up as Meera sat beside her and helped her solve the problem. Radha laughed, did an impromptu dance, and giving Meera a hug, ran away trotting like a happy goat. Meera just sat there and stared. Her face was radiating with absolute bliss. Raghu had been looking at their little enactment with amusement. He could see the excitement on the faces of the two as they discussed, thought, argued and laughed. Sudden realization dawned on him. This was it! This is how he and Meera could fill the void in their life! He advanced towards his wife and spoke to her. Her eyes brightened as she nodded at him.

The next morning, Raghu woke up as usual, at the crack of dawn. Even as he tried hard not to wake his wife, she was up and handed him his lunch. He cycled his way to the village streets but today he neither carried letters nor candy. Today he was going to the get the kids back home with him to teach them. And this is how he now began each day of his life.

Rain-washed

It had been an exceptionally exhausting day. It seemed that everything in the world needed her immediate attention. She stepped out of her office into the pouring rain, her gloom exceeding the darkest shade of grey of the sky. On other occasions, she might have enjoyed her short walk back home, as she used to do when Arun was around. ‘It is amazing how the mind plays tricks. The same weather which used to seem refreshing and exciting seems so cold and ruthless today’, she thought. As she braved the downpour, the events of the day buzzed in her head creating a storm of sorts. Her company was downsizing, her ailing mother-in-law called in persistently to know about the whereabouts of her son, her parents were constantly calling her to tell her about this man who was ready to meet her and see if they could spend their lives together even as she was still collecting the pieces of her shattered life, her best friend was having relationship troubles, her boss needed all the reports at the same time, the house rent for the month was pending, and all through this, she was expected to keep a straight face, be strong and go through with life as if nothing had happened. In the rain, she could see Arun’s dead body being brought from the site of the bomb blast. A shiver ran through her body as Arun’s smiling face appeared right in front of her and then suddenly disappeared giving way to the chaotic noises which buzzed through her head. As she peered through the sheet of rain, she could see a monster rising in front of her, telling her to give up, to listen to her parents, to stop fighting against life. Her miseries seemed to engulf her from all sides and she felt as if she was walking on a path which led nowhere. Why did Arun have to die? They had been married only two years, and those were the best two years of her life. Whom she should blame for her loss, she did not know. Why was it so difficult for a single woman to live an independent life? Why didn’t every one mind their business and let her be?

By the time she reached home, she was drained. The rain had died down to a slight drizzle. She made herself a steaming cup of coffee, settled into Arun’s favourite arm chair by the window and looked out. The cool damp wind hit against her cheek and her hair captured the tiny droplets of water that strayed in with the wind. She became aware of the nostalgia-evoking smell of wet mud. On the street, rain water had collected in puddles here and there and infrequent passers-by carefully jumped over them. Birds chirped excitedly as they flew against the clearing evening sky. Four-five little rag pickers dashed out of the dilapidated shed across the street with paper boats to sail in the puddles. They shivered as the wind blew through the holes in their clothes which they wrapped tighter around their bodies. Rain water dripped from their entangled hair and meagre clothes. Their faces shone with glee, their eyes sparkled in delight as they sang incoherent merry songs, laughed and fought over whose boat was the best, all at the same time. The friendly street dog followed them out of the shed, surveyed the whole scene with approval and directed his curiosity at the activities of the kids.

A small smile inadvertently played on her lips. Life crept into the listless stone eyes that had been mocking the world for almost six months now. The diffused evening sunlight hit her face as colour returned to it. In the small insignificant part of the world, which she called her home, everything was rain-washed.

एक अदना सा शख्स

धुली धुली सी चांदनी में, बैठा है चुप सा कोई
हवा छू के गुज़र जाती है, है अन्जान सा कोई
मन की उलझनो में उलझा हुआ सा कोई
एहसास ज़िन्दगी का बैठा है दबा हुआ सा कहीं
सोचता है बैठ के दिल के कोने में
शायद उसे भी कभी आवाज़ देगा कोई ।

सोचता है क्या ख़ता की, सोचता है क्या दुआ की
कि मिले हवा और चांदनी सुनने को उसकी कहानी
सुनते हैं, सुन के चल देते हैं
एक अन्जान सवाल के पीछे भागते हुए
एक अदने से शख्स की कहानी ।

Prologue

Each piece of text that has ever been written reflects a small facet of the author's 'self'. This self exhibits itself often blatantly, often peeking through wraps of resplendent articulation, enticing the reader to engage with it. Thus, each piece of work, no matter how insignificant, is close to the author's heart, it being a piece of him/her self. In an interesting process of meaning creation, as the reader moves through the text trying to decipher the author's mind he/she starts giving the text, a meaning of his/her own such that it resonates with him/her. The text now carries a part of the reader as well. This mingling of meanings and inferences enriches the text as it comes across multiple readers and develops into a phenomenon much greater than what the author could have ever imagined.

This quality of text, to live forever, emerging and re-emerging in new forms, providing inspiration, enjoyment, or a simple idea to its readers amazes me to no end. In a small selfish attempt to become a more integral part of this vibrant world, I invite the reader to criticize and relish the manifestations of my imagination.