Anaahat

On that temple on the faraway hills, wise mountains  wait in peace, worn-out staircases ache   for footfalls, with that endless supply of nothingness. Run away to that temple  on the faraway hills,  beyond the, airwaves, radiowaves, microwaves. Leave the busy streets with chaotic, stress crammed bodies. Shrug away those high hopes, extraordinary expectations, those aspirations, guidelines and rulebooks. Now drop your pen, wear your running shoes, leave your plastic cards and, plastic smiles ting-a-ling-a-ling for the faraway hills, with that endless supply of nothingness.

The colours faded, and the peace gone, an empty echo remains, a blank space, where once, a throbbing town resided. Aftereffects of sedation, of busy dreams and quiet screams. of fake sleep and wakeful slumber. of visting blank spaces, where once throbbing places existed.

This is my third day for a course in the Mumbai University. PG Diploma in Philosophy of Communal Harmony and Social Peace. And I have a story to tell. It’s unpleasant and disappointing. I came across this course on the University website. The modules were very interesting. My aim was to gather knowledge, to broaden my horizons, to do something productive with my time and along with it all get the  Post-Graduate Diploma. I spoke to the course coordinator much in advance before the deadline, checked with her the requirements and planned my date for admission. Day 0:  I reached the department of Philosophy. I got lost since the course coordinator couldn’t explain the directions to the building. I somehow managed to reach by a round-about route (when a gentleman agreed to show me the way) by traversing small streams of gutter water, dingy unkempt corridors. Finally reached a small room (cannot call it the office) of the Course Coordinator....

"Why is there so much pain in your writing? Why are you obsessed with death? What is wrong with you?" I have been bombarded with these questions for time immemorial from my friends and acquaintances. Some of my very close friends have vowed never to read my stories because of this involvement of death. :) So, this is a sort of explanation to you all. I am not a person who lives a sad life or someone who broods and cries all the time. I do have those days when I scream "Why me.."! But, don't we all? And that's all the place of sadness in my life. I have had my shares of "so-called-life-experiences". So, I believe a lot in smiling and laughing. I love laughing loudly (sometimes it scares people away), and I love listening to jokes and seeing funny, mindless movies at times - just for the laughs. I love being happy, and I believe in "finding" my happiness. But somehow all the pain comes out in my writing. Very rarely do I write somethi...

It’s been a long time since you’ve gone Your touch has become a ghost, your smile a memory Your chair misses you and your ashtray does too. I tell you so that you know. It's been years Ajoba Since I visited your death Since the doctors asked you to stop smoking cigarettes And you started smoking beedees instead. Your face stares at me from the faded picture You are somewhere in the south Your face restraining a smile, the steel watch glimmering in the sun Ajoba, I hope your pain doesn’t eat you as it used to I hope you are happy Aji too has found her happiness 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. Now she has lot many grey hair more wrinkles under her eyes She still sways when she walks Her knees pain but she doesn’t moan at night She still talks in her sleep and she draws better than ever She lived Ajoba, while y...

It was 2am. she stood at the window, with a cigarette between her lips, puffing, in Life’s face. Puff-puff Listen you, she said 'I am not quitting yet' With the first puff - there was a light-headed freedom, and a certain tingling in her nerves The second puff - the world moved in a motionless animation, the leaves swayed minus the breeze Third puff - the sky exploded above her head, the tall buiding far away, threatened to walk her way. Puff-puff, 'I am not quitting yet' There was darkness, with the fourth puff, smoke in her lungs, nostrils and clouds in her head, her ears rang, with magnifying sounds. Silence. It was ten past two, she hung on the window, her hair in the wind, hands dangled lit by the streetlights. The in-between of life and death.

Shyam That winter on the top floor of a hotel in the beautiful valley of Panchgani, Shyam decided he was born for happiness. Sanskriti was pregnant. Shyam’s around her, the stood watching the hills and the off-peak silence around them. The sun was painting hues of orange and yellow in the sky. Their hands clubbed together, they stood dreaming of the promising future. Shyam could almost see their simple life arrive here, to a holiday time in the beautiful valley. Sanskriti Six years from that day, Sanskriti watched the lonely stars twinkling in space from the balcony of their house in Pune. She could still visualize the ecstasy on Shyam’s face when he had said that aloud. His voice kept ringing in her head, magnified as they now spoke only in monosyllables. Sanskriti walked to the railing and looked down at the empty streets. It was deserted save for the lone motorcycles zooming on the shinny streets. She looked at her watch. It was 3am. The night was starry and cool. She loved to w...