She's neither

She knew that it didn't matter how many pages, drafts or posts she wrote, she could never be a memorable writer. Or even a writer.

But then again, she had never aspired to be either.

Like the consolation prizes given to the other children in the numerous talent contests where she had collected her trophies and ribbon wrapped first prizes.

But those trophies have been lost, misplaced or forgotten in some carton in the basement. A few sit dusty in a higher corner of her closet. And she'd done what she should have.

She had stepped down a few years ago, like an aged local beauty queen who knew it was time to hand over the crown.

And now she humbly stands in line to take away her consolation prize for her 'writing'.

A peace of mind.

Mehendi Memories- Part 4

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3


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- Play music to go along with this post. Preferably wait until the vocals begin-


Story so far: In the backdrop of a wedding ceremony, a young woman becomes immersed in the memories of the man she had fallen in love with and had met as a 7 year old girl in her courtyard as her family prepared for the wedding of her Mama.

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The leaves swirled gently to the ground where a girl eyes had shone with delight as her love had twirled her. Where they had learnt ballroom dancing as the 2-in-1 played cassettes from a time that had been forgotten.

In the silence of being 6 corn fields away from civilization.

Where they met up during holidays- the long summer break, the Navratri-Diwali long break. When he'd return from the City where he studied engineering- only to join the army after his graduation.

It was his duty he'd said after he'd returned from the banks of Ganga. And his mother had agreed. For the Rajput blood ran strongly in her blood too as it had in her husband's.

She hadn't protested. She hadn't known he'd head to the border. Along the lines of those mountains with their unforgiving weather and warm people. Where his father had died as he had led his unit courageously.

And it was from the border, he'd written to her. Lajjo, her naoon*, had told her that she had seen his mother prepare the Shagun** two sunsets before. She knew he was coming to ask for her hand.

So it was there, where the leaves spun gently through the air, to meet their Fate gracefully, as they kissed the ground, under the tree where they'd danced, and she'd smiled shyly each time he'd read out his passionate poems to her.

Where she had boldly, without a thought, pulled his hands to her waist and taught him to dance and since spent many evenings dancing slowly to the soft music.

Where he'd untie her long silky brown hair and watch it cascade around her shoulders down way below her waist.

Where she'd looked into his eyes and said she wasn't going to wait for him to do it .And then had kissed him.

Under this tree, 6 corn fields away from their havelis, where they had laughed, cried, studied,read,danced and sang. Dreamt,kissed and loved.

It was here where she had sat waiting. For him.


*naoon= a term used in parts of Uttar Pradesh to refer to ladies employed to wash the hair of ladies from affluent families. Naoons, until 2 generations ago, worked mostly for Zamindari families where long hair were the pride of the ladies of the house and are rarely found in big cities today but you might find one in the smaller, less Westernized affluent parts of the state.

**Shagun= Jewellery and bridal sarees [ for the Bride], sweets, five types of fruits and presents for the family of the Bride presented by the Groom's family before or on the day of the engagement. Exact ritual may vary in Hindu families and is usually practiced by Hindus of North Indian origin. The equivalent of this for the Groom is the shagun from the bride's family during the Tilak ceremoney with presents etc. for the groom's family and groom of course.

Shagun can be summarized as token presents exchanged by the two families once the alliance has been decided upon.

Ek the Hum........

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Tumne poochna nahin jaan, humara reading week kaisa raha?

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Naz and Rimi dragged her to the party. “Just put on anything in black, it’ll do”, they said to her protests of not having anything to wear.

She sighed as the car swerved into the driveway of a swanky glittering party. This really wasn’t her kind of place.

Loud, noisy and crowded. Oh the crowds, she thought and winced inwardly. Something about crowds made her wish she had a burqa to cloak herself in and fade into the crowd.

What a shame she wasn’t born with a shell- she could certainly use one now. Ah well.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy music or dancing. She did- dancing gave her a certain thrill.

A high.

Yes, certainly a high. Where the crowds blur, the people became a background painting and the music becomes her blood.
The rhythms to which her heart pumps.

No it wasn’t that , she loved dancing. Just not with a mansion full of people.

But she didn’t feel like protesting- any further. Naz could be like that and with Rimi, she became their favourite victim. She let them- childhood friendship tends to bring soft corners like that.

So there she stood, anxious for the night to be over. They just didn’t understand, girls like her didn’t end up getting hooked at places like these.

Coffeeshops, bookstores [Amidst musty books collecting dust. Such a romantic setting. We could even have dust blow into our faces for added drama, she thought not very seriously in case dear readers mistake our protagonist for a cheesy book-loving nerd], heck even weddings [But only at those that didn’t involve nosey uncles, matchmaker-wannabe aunties and the groom’s geeky friends. Ok so maybe weddings were only good for new lehengas, mehendi, tones of good Indian food, sangeet and of course, the fun picking on true bhaiyya log*]. But here? Naz was being very optimistic. Very.

“Madam do you want to hurry up? I can’t have Sunny holding the door for us forever you know?”, said Naz blowing a kiss to the handsome [and freshly showered, mmm Adidas] and of course, tall [We can't ditch cliches completely now can we? Outgoing, beautiful girl must land up with the tall handsome man]young man and incidentally, boyfriend.

*bhaiyya log = affectionate term for UPite men. But the writer also thinks of said bhaiyya log as not brothers [unless she ties a rakhi for them, of course] but as your simpleton soft spoken, usually shy but smart men. You do not have to agree, that is how the writer sees fit for this story, so that is how it’ll be .

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To be continued…………….. [if readers express a desire in reading what could be many many parts to this story].

Ok I really should study, I’ve spent 8 minutes and 47 seconds writing this as it is and I have an exam in 11 hours .

Beware

I feel my mind contort, as my lungs let this seep into my blood. I feel my histamines kick in and I search franctically for my inhalers. I gasp for O2 that can't seem to penetrate this envelope of what you have spread, while my body convulses inwardly at this silent attack.

You speak, unaware of how your words diffuse into the air, thicken it with irrationality and cloud out the light of reason.

Like second-hand smoke, it sickens me the longer I inhale it without ever having converted to your blinded cult. This filthy smoke of which your words reek of. That my body fights against as my mind protests as you spread it recklessly around me.

As you morph into a preaching fool, I think to myself, "Beware of the zeal of a fresh convert".

And I slowly walk away from my friend.

Varshgaanth- Sit =D

Chemistry 140 tutorial
Mein huyi thi apni mulakaat
TA ke bhaashan ke beech
Hua humare beech vartalap

Unhe dekh kar
Hota humari gardan mein dard
Theen itni lambi
Heels aur 5’9 tha unka kadd

Bhure se shwet
jacket unhone badla
har jagah dikhteen woh
liye huye kandhon par basta

summer school liya humne
socha tha hoga humara manoranjan
class toh rahi bore par
aazmaye humne downtown ke anek vyanjan

garmi mein liye firte
hum bag basta aur apna tandrust bojha
is vyayaam se honge hum ‘saiksy’
aisa humne socha

jab aa pahunchi woh humare ghar
padne ka iraada tha
par aangan mein gayeen woh bheegne
aisa saawan ka mahina tha

liya tha humne nirnay
jald hi chhodenge maas
bitaya lecture ‘chicken list’ banakar
fir bhaage Mc ke paas

hai sitto rani!
Ka hoga Tuhaar bin
Eehaan humar hindi ka satyanaas
Huyi raha hai din ba din

Reshmi zulfen
Hansi jaise kishmish
Battwa* hilaati huyeen
Aisi hain humari yeh chashmish

Happy 21st Sit! l

kuch yaadein aur (kaafi bakwaas si) kavita bhentt kar sakte hain.Hope you have a memorable day- keep smiling and swinging that handbag of yours.I know we don't talk as much now thanks to the opposite ends of the country but you know we Are AwAiting your return to 'sAuga. teehehehehe =D

*battwa for lack of a better word for handbag unless someone knows an alternative. yes?

Holi hai!

Surya ke ujjale par
Jaage sab parivar
chalo purane kapdon mein
hon sab taiyyar

Ghanti baje Ma bhaagen
Layen who thali mein anek rang
Gulaal se swagat Karen aur kahen
“Aao khelo holi humare sang!”

Aayen sab
bua phupa tauji taiji didi aur dada
aayen mama mami mausi mausa
Aur bacchen jinka ka kadd hai aadha

Pichkariyon ke naye packet
kholen hum jaldi jaldi
fir har jann ko dekh humne
vaar kiya bharke paani

shaitaan ka bhes liye
phenke rangon se bhare gubbare
pakden jaayen toh
humein pahunchaya baigani paani mein

Bandar lagen hum sab
Rangon se puta huya chaupta
Khaayen hum mathri, khasta
Aur Garam garam gujiya

Samachar patra, chhitthi
Kaagaz aur puraani lakdi
Liye sab ka dhher
Jali humari holi

Puraanas kabhi hum paden nahin
Katha sunayen Dadima Nanima
Hiranyakashyap aur uska bhakt beta
Bach gaya jo par jal gayi holika

Chhut gaye woh din humse kaise
Na saath hain baba dadi aur nani.
Rang, mithai, parivaar aur khushi,
Yaad aati hai humein aisi Holi.

Happy Holi Everyone

p.s. i know i can't write kavitas but well i felt like it. If it helps, I won't be writing them a lot so good for you all!

p.p.s. Desipundit linked me! :O- For all those who came here via their link, ermm please do scroll onto other works. This is not something I am very proud of really. And please try to overlook my inability to write well in my own language

*embarrassed look*

The luxury of procrastination

Sometimes luxury feels like doing something not because you have to but because you want to ,no?
To me luxury right now is to not complete something since I'm not and haven't been in the mood to do so for the past 2 months.

Like this

Spin

We spin and lead our lives in pursuit of more and excess. This greed which is our gravity which keeps us pinned against these walls of the world .

Our artificial gravity for our feet no longer touch the ground.

But its going too fast, don't you see?
I feel it press me harder. It's too fast. Too hard. Make it go slower Ma, I can't see. I can't feel.

I can't breathe.

For the greed which lies at the core of this world is going too fast for us to withstand it.

For greed is the new centripetal acceleration.

And it's spinning the world out of control.

Note: Picture artificial gravity from your grade 11-12 Physics text.

55- Cemetery

I live in a cemetery.

Many here died slowly, painfully as they saw life. A few died of heartache. Still others were shot dead- just like that one fine day, they met their ends as they weren't meant to be anymore.

I live in a cemetery that is my mind.

Where thoughts lie in graves.

Bound

Sometimes, those memories you thought you had banished to the far corners of your mind, run out like escaped convicts.

And they remind you of your prison. My prison. Which extends all around my body. Custom made to fit me as I grow, to imprison every bit of me, my every breath.

I feel that today as I read the post below this- my refusal to write personal testimonies. Because it reminds me of how much I can hate myself for being a woman.

Because sometimes, I just wonder, what it is to be like priviliged. To have history written from your perspective , glorifying your victories. To have religions interpreted in your favour. To have laws enforce these, to have courts pass rulings on these. To have every problem's cause deferred onto the other sex, the weaker one. The one prone to vice and immoral. The one I can blame all my problems on. The one I can beat up and dominate when I can't win over others of my sex.

Because sometimes, I just wonder, what it is to be like a man.

I'd like to be in that cushy spot. Because from where I stand, from where I have stood, from where my sisters stand, being a male is easier.

Because then, I am the rational, I am the scientific, I am the worker, I am the brains.

Because then I am also, the God.