#3

You left memories

Like bread crumbs

on a path,

That would never lead

Me to you.

Lessons I brought back from the Monastery

Sometimes the tunnel is so long and dark, that you slowly begin to enjoy the darkness and stop worrying about the light promised in the end. It can well be called as numbing boredom when pain and fear don't pinch and joy is a fable that only speaks through other's stories.
Of late, was tired of the confounding conundrum of emotions that often used to rig through my soul. My five senses worked like an army but every win or loss in life wasn't a celebration or grievance, it was just another moment in passing. Mom had attended the residential retreat at the monastery a fortnight ago that inspired me to pack my bags. More so walking in the dark with closed eyes wasn't an adventure I was enjoying.
I took a call on thursday and reached the monastery with a red bag stuffed with clothes and a soul stifled with silence. This sound of silence was deafening that had to be put to rest.
We were asked to stay away from the vagaries of the world. Phones were strictly banished which meant that for the next four days 'the facebook wall' won't be the writing I would be forced to read. Sometimes it seems that spending time on facebook fools me into believing that I too have a social life. Although most of the very few people I could befriend happened because I was eager to crawl across the wobbly web of social networking, being honestly vocal. And that means not using social networking was closing the box of my mind from which thoughts popped out like the bubbles in a bath tub, always ready to burst.
I decided to find answers in the spirit that people had given names and atheists had refuted. A few of the lessons I bought back from the monastery shall stay with me until the last nail on my coffin is not hammered. I am amused that it took me eons to realize that this was the person I had always wanted to be.
So here goes that list I had scribbled on a sheet of paper on the metro back home.

24th October 2013

On days like these I feel boorishly burdened in this business of womanhood. So here goes the tale. Today was the third day that our maid gave us a cold shoulder. Having done the dishes for two days, had been grinding and a third day for a row was never in anticipation. To thank the male members of the family, who have been roped in for the outdoor responsibilities of the house, like fetching milk and groceries, the rut of the dirtier duties befalls on me. Laundry and cooking are practices that do not soil your hands much, but when it comes to doing the dishes all hell breaks loose.
Since all the members in my family are meat eaters, and that too crazed compulsive ones on days when fish curry or roasted meat is served, the sight of a plate that counted its calories is not so pleasing. Fish flints that look like fossils to egg shells broken and discarded into twos to the beefy bones of some animal dead and consumed by now can be the greatest, greatest punishment ever for a staunch vegetarian. But then in my case, there are not much choices left at my will. I got to do the dishes, when the maid goes absconding in the alibi, of having fallen ill. It seems to be one of the many conditions of the the "peaceful co-existence pact" that I signed with other members of the family. In my absence, it becomes mom's call of duty, which I avoid giving her. For most of the times she is fatigued and the guillotine of guilt stabs me so badly, that I am left with no options to pull myself out.
Today was one such day when I thought that I was on an excavation exercise in an old civilization which had gorged on its animals. Having held my breath as if out on an underwater mission, I did the dishes, with all the dead tissues from yesterday's dinner and today's lunch molesting my patience. The silent prayer that went out was for a brighter day tomorrow. 

#2

But I shall miss me too
More than I miss you
will miss what you made of me
I shall miss the first song
that I sang for you
im a careless act of charity
the first gift I shall miss
that I gave away, for clutter was choking my cupboard
The first poem I wrote with a word that meant 'hope'
will miss that evening my hard heart
broke like biscuit crumbs
and I had tea with sugar.
If only I knew you would
feed my heart to dogs
and walk away
tossing the yesterday
like a garbage pile
that stinks of sorrow
I would have never got used
to the taste of sugar
Only if I knew.

A Note for House no.519

Today will be the last day in this house. House no. 519 that we stepped into, two and half years ago. Although it takes a lot of time for me to accept a house as my home, this time around it happened with a drop of a hat.
The nostalgia is picking my pieces and strewing them all over like "goodbye" notes I want to leave for this space I fell in love with, without second thoughts. 

Rapes in India--A Social Evil or a Cultural Endemic?

Rape is not just an epidemic but a culture in a country like India. When a mishap like a rape happens, this school of thought bares it claws. From the laymen to defence lawyers to the police, no one spares a thought for a woman, with whom a very personal crime has happened. No one tries to help her or bring the culprits to book, except casting aspersions on her.

The rape of a 23 years old woman on December 16 th shook the country with a thunderbolt attracting even the international media’s attention. The books of law called it the "rarest of rare" cases because the act was inhuman and beastly that ultimately led to the death of the victim. While the juvenile victim who was four months short of becoming a major, was spared the gallows, the other three men got capital punishment. One of the culprits had already committed suicide soon after the incident, which again was deemed as a murder to cover up the case which had shaken the prospects of the ruling party. Since this rape was an exception which led to the death of the victim, the punishment given was the highest but that strengthened the notion that to bring a rapist to the gallows one has to be raped in the most brutal of circumstances. If not you might never ever get justice, leave alone justice perhaps your case might never even get heard. 

A.P.J Abdul Kalam:My Journey

Title: My Journey- Transforming Dreams into Actions
Author : A.P.J Abdul Kalam
Publisher : Rupa Publications
Genre : Non-fiction
ISBN : 9788129124913
Number of Pages: 146
Price : Rs. 195

Our Eleventh President can never get it wrong, it seems. From having designed missiles, to having devised strategic development plans for the country to having written books that share honest anecdotes from his life, he has done everything with excellence and elan. I particularly liked the book for his accounts of the scientific life and the challenges that didn't cow him down. How each failure only shaped his sight and made him a better human. His humility and spiritual connect to the Almighty God doesn't make you wonder, why he always gets it right. 

The first story My Father's Morning Walk talks of his father Jainulabdeen and his connect with nature and divinity. His calmness and composure made him a favourite person in the small town of Rameshwaram where people always used to turn upto him with their woes and wails. His spirituality was a healer to people battered by loneliness and worries and he had answers to souls scavenged by sorrows. 
The Boat inspires us to not force our ambitions and plans on paper and leave them in the care of the greater force called nature which has already charted a path for us. It communicates to us that surviving is gathering those pieces and moving on, just like his father did everytime a natural disaster failed him and his business.