Anaahat

Is it necessary that you have something to say when you write? Can you write just utter nonsense - catching the words in your fingers as they erupt in your mind? Just like that. Leaving the critique on your shoulder. Locked in the bathroom. Locked away. With ear phones in your ears to block out all the noise. So that all you hear is your own. Not the audible one. But the one which sees, hears and notes down things in everyday life to re-visit once you want to say something. Say something. Anything. Don’t look at the white of the screen or of the paper. Just let your fingers run with a life of their own. Let them be the only cord connecting your heart with words. Say everything. What you didn’t want to say. What you never will say. What you will work on, to get rid of. Say everything. All those days of pain. All those days of laughter. And the momentary life of all those things. Say how stupid you have been. Say how you will work on that longing, until it washes away. Until o...

There is this weight on my heart. And it is not the heavy neckpiece. It is something which weighs and weighs your spirit down. It is something which weights you down. Something which makes a bit shorter, adds some grey hair in your dark blak mane, etches some dark circles under your beautiful eyes. Something which stains you. Which dirties the soul, which makes you a more thinking soul, and you start seeing things. Finding meaning in meaningless things. Searching for something more. Something philosophical. And there she was, walking with her own weight of abject poverty. Where a christmas doesnt make her days brighter nor a Diwali. She walks alone on the wet streets. An unbrella clutched in her arms, her saree tied tightly showing a little of her ankles, and a desolation in her step. Fighthing and wading through the rain water flowing on the cobbled street. I dont know her. I know the railing of my balcony I stand on. I know the two-storeyed parking in the opposite building. But t...

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 ...

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...

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.

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...