Anaahat

After the events of the 3 terrorising days, a sheet of anxiety hung in the air. Not like being in a war; in a war you know the enemy is, he is identifiable. Here he was faceless. Someone standing next to me? “Let us start something. A non-cooperation movement. Something to show we are not taking this lying down. Something that can tell the leaders and politicians that we want our safety. A nameless, leaderless movement. Lets show them how many we are and how angry and tired and frustrated we are. Let us all come togehter at the gateway of india - on Wednesday, Dec 3 rd @ 6pm. Please spread the word if you agree it's time we send a message too!” This message blinked on various cell phones, emails, networking groups in the days that followed. Quite rightly catching on the general mood: anger, the feeling to do something, to voice out confused voices, somewhere. And, hoping someone hears them: politicians, terrorists or perhaps “we – the people”. I was ticked too and

Thinking I feel disheartened, disappointed, let down, helpless as I watch this political game unfold. Do they really think I am dumb or blind? Do they think resignations are a solution? I want to scream: take responsibility of what happened promise and work for change. Travelling I travelled in the city today, as many others Each and every face was shadowed with fear and apprehension. Eyes were widened at every person carrying a rucksack No security at the stations, three days after the massacre The security at the entrance of a building checks my bag not knowing what to look-out for. And, While my peace is far away, news channels are busy locating Dawood and they aide in sacking a few ministers. Do they have the agenda for change right? Should the change begin from killing Dawood Or Should we look at our security? Analysing Perhaps, I feel so strongly because I bore the brunt of the attack this time I watched horrified as my familiar places turned into a battleground. Perhaps I feel s

It is day 3. Two days since the city and the country has been seized by terror from a bunch of kids - heartless, trained to kill and murder anything and everything in front of them - to achieve an in-comprehendible goal. Like all terror attacks hundreds have lost their lives, hundreds are wounded and many many lives have changed forever. The sound of real bullets and ammunition echoe in every corner of the city - live or reported live. And rightly, the three affected areas are no lesser than a battleground. The security forces and the media are doing a commendable job, and our politicians hurl accusations at each other, offer money for the dead ‘heroes’ while we, the citizens simply watch and wait. As the night falls, the media reports that the ‘war is almost over’. A special program is aired called – this-is-what-we-think-and-so-should-you. It reports jubilation of survivors, accounts of smaller battles fought by common people, remorse of the victims, tears for the 150-odd d

Dear Sir, It is a sad day today, as I am going to talk about leaving. About closing one chapter and turning a new leaf of leaving and searching for a new beginning. I know you don't take people leaving well. Maybe you will feel I am ditching you as you thought some others have Perhaps you feel there is no justifiable reason for people leaving However, I have no choice but to bid adieu. I have no choice but to satiate my dreams which change every changing day, And I believe I can realise those dreams. So, I do bid adieu. I have come to know of you as a person I admire in many ways. I long to be passionate about my work as you are of yours. I long to own something so completely that I want to even work when I am not working I have also come to know and understand myself better, I have come to be honest to myself at whatever cost The very reason that brought me here. But, now I feel I am stagnating. It was great working with you, Though there were times I wanted

Talking the local language should be a marketing strategy to reach a wider audience. Rather the major strategy is to reach the high-class-educated-English-speaking-and-reading audience. And most of the shops have names in English. With foreign brands making it big and making big money, the local language is in the recesses of our consciousness. Honestly, it is rather weird to have foreign names in Marathi. That said it is no excuse for demeaning the Marathi manoos, as many of Marathi-lovers would say. The Marathi manoos is, after all, the all prevailing part of the cosmopolitan city of Amchi Mumbai. I too am Marathi and I am proud of my language, my culture, my Gods and my land. I am also proud of being a part of the biggest democracy in the world where I can exercise my rights – to freedom of speech, freedom of talking in a language I choose to, of existence, of earning a livelihood, of living where I fancy. Being a Marathi, I happy when my friends from other states speak some words i

New dreams behind my eyelids, new eras, new things to look forward to new places, new people, new days and new evenings. As exciting as it may sound, change always brings a glimmer of fear fear of faltering, of not working out. It also brings that sweet anticipation, butterflies in my stomach, pulses racing, and a blanket of illusions on my eyes...

While I struggled to keep up with the pace of Mumbai, running for the trains and fighting with autowallas, the famed spirit-of-Mumbai was slowly growing on an ‘outsider’ like me. Reaching my workplace at Mahalakshmi took me on streets lined with shaky two-storey huts where people would cook, bathe, play with children, fight, live (and die) on the extended footpath. The words ‘local’, ‘fast’, ‘slow’, ‘east’ and ‘west’ brought new meanings in my life. And without my knowing, I began a self-discovery of becoming a Mumbaikar like thousands become every day. The discovery happened on that fateful day, when the bombs ripped through Mumbai’s overcrowded local trains. I was stuck at work in Mahalakshmi when the news of the seven blasts came in. I walked down the deserted E Moses Road looking for a cab. With the networks jammed and not a single taxi willing to take me, my frustration knew no bounds. Thankfully, some guys bullied a cabbie and I got in with a couple of other panic-stricken women

What do u wait for everyday? Everyday you open the inbox expecting some new mail. Who is going to mail you? Who do u expect? No one is going to mail you. The replies you get are merely that – replies. A mail because you sent. Something that is conditional. If you do, so do I. And if you fail to do, I care less. Everything in this world is conditional. Everything with a price tag to it. Everything because of something. Why do you want something unconditional? Why do you desire it? Why can’t you live like everybody else? Maybe they stifle these desires too. Who knows? Who knows what they want? Who knows why these wants are there? Who knows why you are reading this? Why am I writing this? Why are you intrigued? Why do you want to read the end? Is it because somewhere what I say strikes a chord inside you? Something I ask, you wish you had asked. And that you would have found the answer too? Or is it because I am telling you to read? And then long after you finish reading this, your mind

I will leave the key with you Someday I will leave myself with you For you Someday I will leave all that I meant and all that meant to me Like, unlike anything, When the breath catches in my throat And leaves through the pores of my skin, When I won't realise the end or the last glance When I breathe once, The last time, I will leave my heart for you. Something I never gave while I was alive For the fear of fears, for something I will lose Someday I will leave it all for you. One day. I took your words and I took your glances Your touch and your feelings Today I leave it all for you.

Maushi's husband passed away. So, I went to visit her. Her small room was 8ftx8ft. A kholi as they call in Mumbai. A small kholi in the middle of one of Mumbai's slum. A kholi I reached after tracing a narrow path running parallel to a small gutter. A maze of small such rooms made of tin and cardboard sheets stood supporting each other in this huge throbbing city. I entered the kholi and saw her sitting on the only bed. Maushi is tiny, perhaps 4 feet tall. And says she is 69-years-old. She looked shattered. She hadn’t eaten for days. Her son looked heartbroken to see his mother broken. Seeing them struggling with pain brought tears to my eyes too. The pain of death that each one of us know and suffer at some point in our lives. I sat with her for a few minutes as other mourners vied for her attention. Before leaving, I hugged her. She held me tight as if she wanted to breathe no more. I stroked her hair that day and wished her pain would wash over her soon. While leaving I tr

I know a cool lady working in an air-conditioned office taking home a fat pay: Harini. She is 28 years old with a 4-year-old child. Her husband is very supportive. He brings in groceries, takes care of their child when this cool-lady-working-in-an-air-conditioned-office-taking-home-a-fat-pay comes home late. He even feeds the child and puts him to sleep. Talk about modern-day-women’s-liberation. There is another cooler lady, Swati. She is 40-years-old and is a Managing Director of a big company. She has two grown up daughters who fend for themselves. When she had daughters she took time off work and devoted 5 years for them. After all a mother has a very important role to play. And she found a mid-way to satiate her want of a career and also to give time to her children in the important years of their life. Again, talk about modern-day-women’s-liberation. We women feel good when we hear of such motivating stories of modern day women. Don’t we? We feel good that we are born in this

They all disappeared. The people, faith, relationships. Booom! Reduced to rubble, they were gone. Things which I thought can never happen to me, stood at my door and grinned. Waiting to shatter me into a thousand pieces And more. Just like that. Who would have thought this would happen to me? The smooth sailing would be stormed? The happiness, intimacy, money, and all necessities and extensions of necessities Who would’ve thought, this would happen to me... But it happened. And just happened like that. A hand which pressed delete, A virus that ate your system And I just watched waited, hoped, that the damage was not all that bad.

There is chaos all around. Noise of cars and scooters. Of rickshaws and of buses. Of railways and of people. There is complete chaos. Chaos so much so that no one is heard and no one has the time to speak. And then there are those untouched souls with a clear purpose of touching the noisy hearts with an innocence and words and confusion difficult to describe.

I look at you to clam my nerves. I look at you when they all turn their backs. I look at you when I do not make sense, even to myself. I look at you for faith and for a little bit of understanding. I look at you to guide me and to mis-guide me. To be with me and to let me be. I look at you at all times of my life. But especially when there is disquiet And when I do not make sense, even to myself.

A series of are incidents, related, unrelated Which just fall in a sequence trying to make sense. Surprising events, shocking, happy, sad, tearful and all other adjectives you can think of - leaving you to suffer. Alone. One such program, Which makes us rise from ashes like a phoenix. When someone dies with our love and emotions, We rise up again and are ready to love someone else. The lost person, just reduced to pictures in old photographs, drunken remembrances, anecdotes and leftover laughs. Yet, we live on like a phoenix. Even if life is an illusion that we dream up. And as in dreams, we still fear death. We still fear that snake, that tiger, that man with a knife. And yet, as always, we live on. Still scared to die. And waiting to rise like a phoenix. A prelude.

I remember the first time I read the novel. During my summer holiday with no studies. All I did that year was read. Among the memorable books that I read was "The God of Small Things." I read while the sun shimmered outside my room and while the silence of the night enveloped around, me pushing me more in the world where ‘the God’ lived. Carefree and secluded from the my world and its worries, I read and rejoiced in Rahel and Estha’s imaginary and real worlds. I read of Ayemenem and of pickles. Even now, I remember details from the book as though I lived through everything depicted there. As though I was the optimistic Rahel, the lovelorn Ammu, the touchy-untouchable Velutha, the quiet Estha, the drowned Sophie Mol, the angry Kochamma, the dreamer Chacko and the servant Kochu Maria all at once. Or perhaps have been each of them at some stage in my life. I'am awed by the writer. How did the story come to be this? Was Rahel sitting in Ms Roy’s head and compelling her to wri

Hey there, I want to talk, And someone to listen to with undivided attention, some human touch with some compassion. I know I am always wrong, And I maybe leading towards self-destruction but I still have a story to tell Do you have the secret of my peace? Hey there, yes you, Will you just listen to me please? I have lots to say... I sure do.

Freedom. There is a free falling to the word itself. Tasting like mountain air. Like the cool sea breeze. Like the salty majestic waves at the coast. A feeling of being empowered. For your own life. To take your own decisions. Of faltering and of finding your own ground. Of living with freedom...

I will not do as you see right, I will not live as per your rules. Neither for harmony, Nor for peace. I will pay the price of believing in And wanting my right. I will sacrifice, Compromise, For something I believe in Not for what you think is right, Not for what you think is right...

I am the daughter. I am the sister. I am the wife, they say. Am I no one else than all that? Am I someone who is none of them? Where is the ‘I’ in my life? In my existence...?

A laptop is lost. In the train. Mumbai’s Local train. During the rush hour. All factors compounding the outcome - the loss of the laptop. Panic. Run to the police station. Run to the Railway Police. Write an FIR. File a complaint. Maska marofy the constable. Watch him make calls to various police stations. See him nod and shake his head. And hear him sigh. “What are the chances?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Cant say” “Has someone ever found their laptop before?” He looks at me for a second and then looks away disinterestedly. “No Madam. We havent found any till date. I wont lie to you.” Thank you for being honest Mister Policeman. But I didnt want honesty. I wanted reassurance. Something which can calm my nerves. Something which a policeman should do. And find my laptop too. But he does not. He is not interested in calming my nerves. It is 8:30pm. Perhaps he is wondering what is in his tiffin. Or when can he have his dinner. Or when can he go home. The least he is thinking of is my lap

My dearest Ajoba It’s been a long time since you’ve gone Your touch has become a ghost, your smile a memory Aji misses you, Your ashtray and your chair misses you too It’s been years Ajoba Since the doctors asked you to stop smoking cigarettes And you started smoking beedees instead Years since I visited your death. I look at your picture with Aji You are somewhere in the South of India Your face devoid of smile, the steel watch glimmering in the sun Aji standing behind you, shyness concealing her smile. I tell you so that you know. I hope your pain doesn’t eat you as it used to Ajoba I hope you are happy Though Aji is not She cooks and she reads She laughs and she smiles And then at an unexpected moment Her eyes become moist When she hugs me, she holds on a bit longer. I tell you so that you know. She has grown a little older than you remember With much grey hair and wrinkles under her eyes She still sways when she walks But she walks a little straighter Her knees pain but she doesn’t

Secretly, I think of his fingers, his shoulders, his smile, as I see his name printed on the envelope in my hand The curves of the letters taking shape of his eyes and that smile I so adore I secretly look at him when he isn't the way his frown meets at his brows, the way his shirt is crumpled at the back, the way his hair meet at his nape the way a tear lies stranded at the corner of his eye I purposely cross his path One day I'm sure he will notice me So sure that I am And everyday I see his smile, I hear his laugh and, when his phone rings, I wonder who has called...

The morning news, News at 10, Newsreaders read of blood spread across many arms and eyes. Like fish in water, eating each other swimming in this sea of time. Were we like this all along? From Darwin's theory of the fittest to survive to the wars which killed millions galore sowing revenge for the future  near or far. Is it difficult to digest now? Why can't we live when someone else is orphaned? Why do we carry their bruises? Why do we nurse them more? Why does it stun us when someone kills reasons his own? Reasons we don't comprehend. Can we justify any killings? Even the ones in the name of laws created by us alone? Even the ones which have reasons in our eyes? Yet, we can still carry on. Not to stop for any. Yet, somewhere in the midst of the thickest forest, Somewhere in a temple on a high mountain, in a monastery prayers are offered and Gods are called, for peace and silence and children and rains for floods to subside, for people to find the threads of th