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.