Anaahat

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...