Letter to Daughter XVIII

Here I am, Mumma, on a sudden rainy afternoon, in the middle of an utter nowhere, comforted in the aesthetics of warm lights and loud paintings, and trying to decode what conversations could probably take place without my presence. But then I thought, writing to you is better, and why don't I do that instead? Tell you that Momie has come here to sell herself as a story-teller, and little love, I cannot tell you how, just how awesome it feels to say aloud, "I am an author."

I have been cheating, cheating on my soul by not writing the tens of stories that unfold each day under my nose. Here I sit, books surrounding me, and animated characters smiling from the covers. It is so nice to know that you could befriend any, or all of them in a while! Remember that book Momie and you had coloured together? That two-coloured book My Tree Book or something? Sweetypie, all around me is a palpable possibility to yield more such pages, for more little people like you, who could colour trees red and the fruits in them, blue.

Today I write to you so that you know, when you eventually do, that Momie is Writing-Panda! Things are never an accident, honeytus. And they will never be with you too. I will prove to you. Remember how unwilling you were to go to Aunty A's house? You even puppy-eyed me to a point where I could have said no, but at that moment your favourite toy fell off your hand and broke to bits? It lingers like a picture in my mind. Before you could cry, I took you up in my arms, and out of the house we stromped, where I bundled you in the small car we then had, and rushed to Aunty A, before another mishap would befall us. 

Who would have known that she had in her pocket kept the best-kept secret, your best friend, Tucker? Tucks would have never happened, love, were it not for him taking to you. And look at where we are now -- a complete family between Tucks, you and me. The toy had to break, for a real-life one to make its way. When other people buy Momie's books, sweetheart, you will be able to say, "My Momie, Booker!" (if only awards came that easy), and then they will ask you if you write too.

This letter attempts to teach you to say "No". Clearly, if not aloud. From the beginning, and the bottom of your gut. Do not allow anyone's doubts to hover arout you, nor their discouragements. If you wish to colour an elephant's ears pink, go ahead. That would be the only time when you might be feeling like it, for all you know. Satiate your desires till they satiate you. 

Carpet your voice only so no one can sweep it off. For while carpets look gorgeous on the ground, we know they can take off too! Sunsets happen by the watch, sunrise in a coffee mug. And if anyone dares to laugh at you when you say so, rise your chin, raise your volume and tell them, "Don't just read a book, write one!"

For Momie just did, all about you!

Kisses,

Momie. 

Delhi Days

I didn't vote this year, declaring, "twas too sunny!" To some serious offenders I actually asked, "What has my State given me? What has my country given me?" Thankfully, a dear friend encouraged me from declaring the latter half of the dialogue, the ask. I am a fan of aesthetics, courtesy which, tons of stereotypes have unintentionally left their indelible mark upon me, including classic Bengali movies which have always glorified poverty, and knaashfhools. I felt like a fool when I could not appreciate the thundering "Dada, ami bnaachte chai!" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8gmWi-PBBY), till I realized well, why should I? I like the background score, but it was not enough to pull me through an entire re-watching of the movie. Brokeback Mountain too. I love Santaolalla enough to have him on my phone (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7fe1dzhY_ps), I cried the first time I watched it, but then, it fizzed out. The length (which is crucial to the movie I believe) could not help me proceed, later.

 

Thus I arrived at a sublime conclusion. Contrary to what I could not have become because I am always bored, I am today, whatever the lump of soul, because I am bored. Naturally, tasteful opulence attracts me over elite academia. Bored I have been with my affairs, my State and in general, the state of affairs. In the truest of sense, I was, on a scale of always and never, I was almost-always disinterested which the nature of things around me. I took way more interest in discovering the taste of a fallen fruit on a dusty road, or opening up the telephone set just out of sheer curiosity. I cherish those moments when my cousin and I actually dropped an exquisite coffee mug he brought me from Malaysia, which said "unbreakable", to find out whether it would break or not (thankfully, it did not). Or, melt a candle all the way to rebuild it and feel like a potter, or, put the tissue paper on fire and enjoy the burning away bits. Given my age, I think I may also be clinically mad!

The last couple of months in Delhi have been very boring -- in the hectic schedules and the unwarranted below par IQ all around. Each time I am about to give up, I smile (madly), and enjoy the failure. There is a smell of survival that is in the air here. I like it. Like I have loved the Warsaw of my dreams and the Manchester of my day-dreams. And lived the love till I grew bored, and moved away, with the ease of a feather. Chords that move to crescendo and cut short our breath. I am blamed of being bored too easily, but now I am happy that I am bored. It makes me look forward, the worst has happened. 

Delhi days are full of laughter. I laugh within myself, at what I left, at where I will go, when things will turn and how they will roll. I laugh because I am bored of the below par IQ, I laugh because I am a part of it, the Delhi Daze.

My Autobigraphy

I have a voice now because I am dead, and I think I may have taken the soul of the person who killed me. Seems she dreams in English too. Born black and active, I have always slaved for my Queen. Not that it bothered me but I found it strange when my parents told me stories of deep woods in which they used to work. There are no deep woods now, I mean well when I was alive. Only stairs to climb. And so many of them. 

I had inherited the necessary sweet tooth from my ancestors and it attracted me like black to white. I gained strength from all the sweetness around, till this morning. Our captain had landed upon a brown jaggery mine and all of us toiled to get it in our camp. We were careful to not attract much attention and were doing it rather well until I chanced upon an even bigger brown mine.

In a much docile manner, I digressed towards that alluring lump only to find that it tasted slightly salty. In two minds, I wandered further. Deeper, I mean. It was a kind of well, with a sticky substance. I was sure it was jelly of a new flavour. I went on. Little did I know I would be trapped for my greed. Here in heaven angels are laughing at my death.

I ended up in a human-being's ear. Little did I know about how curiosity killed the cat. It sure killed me, an ant.

My autobiography is ant-sized thus.

Unbearable Kindness

What takes him this long to answer? Vidya pressed the redial button as she stepped on to the escalator. Now he will know I am not selfish. Not selfish at all. So much for him being 35 and me 26.

"Was in the loo, Vidya. What happened?" Rajiv enquired from the other end.

"Rajiv. I don't like us fighting. You cannot call me selfish for not being a hundred things to you. But I realized I am not! I should believe in myself that I am not selfish. You cannot and will never doubt that!" rushed his seven month old wife.

Bored, Rajiv combed his hair looking into the mirror. "What now?"

"I left two tubes to get a seat Rajiv, and finally found one in the third. And then, before the train started, an old lady -- well, she was not exactly poor -- came and stood in front of me, and I, I gave her my seat! All the way till my stop" Vidya gasped as she hailed an auto.

"OK. So feeling virtuous, are you?"

"Yes" Vidya resounded as she settled in the auto and continued "I mean no, but you know what I mean. I feel good. It is a selfless act! Is it not?"

Even more bored Rajiv grunted a sad "Yuh."

Elated with herself, Vidya smiled at the loud song no longer complaining about the blasting music and pepping at the sight of the rare greens beside the concrete. Now I can launch the idea about Nainital.

Kindness often makes one feel very good about oneself. How shall we put it, it is, with due regards to its intention, often a selfish act performed involuntarily.

Miles away, Aarushi got off from the tube and went into the loo. It was always a matter of timing with her, to play with that soulful kindling of kindness. She came out adjusting her white wig into her bag. God bless the fool. She silently thanked the same God for her daily smartness.

Studio

When Farida Khanum was born, in the rusty village of Wasnal, no one knew, including herself, that she would end up where she was right now. Farida Khanum stood with her stillborn, unable to understand why she should grieve the way the rest of the family were. She held the bundle of flesh and took pride in administering the commands over cremation. Farida Khanum IPS waited with baited breath till she could ask her driver to move on. It was dusk, and dusty. Memories of her village in Pakistan came alive. It was a fresh country. Fresh with wounds, trauma and the renewed knowledge of a religion which was never a part of her childhood games. 

She smiled dismissively, aware that her driver should not see the smile, and thought of how intelligently her parents made the shift to the new India and thereafter in her teens, the numerous requests she would beget to sing, courtesy her name. New Delhi was not too far off from her ancient village. And Farida was glad that she gave birth to a stillborn. She now had the pious face to continue with what she wanted most -- to serve the nation.

Bred by choice an atheist, Farida lost herself in the traffic. Even Ahmed could not understand her relief of not having to attend to nappies and breastfeeding. All of a sudden she had this urge to wear her uniform and be seated in her cabin. But she knew she had to behave a certain way in the face of mourning. She could not remember what Mourning becomes Electra was about, but traced something about Chaplin and O'Neill being linked with each other. Maybe they were in-laws.

The bungalow was draped in a shade of silence she did not know could exist. It was nothing near the screams of horror from the bloodshed stories shared in her Wasnal neighbourhood. As she got off from her car and went into the room, Ahmed held her hand and said "I am sorry."

"It is ok," she replied, not knowing what he was sorry about. After an intimate embrace she continued, "Listen, I was wondering..."

Before she could complete, Ahmed reiterated, "Yes, we should start planning again. May be we could take a weekend off in McLeodgunj." Farida smiled and changed into her kaftaan. "Yes."

She went into the washroom and looked into the mirror. If only wounds were healed by planning, Ahmed. She smeared a generous dab of ittar and went out for dinner. As she took a spoonful she realized she had thoughts of murdering Ahmed. Now that would be a nice plan. Killing you with kisses. 

That night she dreamt that she was being awarded the highest award by the President. When she received it, it was her stillborn. Farida woke up in a sweat. Ahmed tossed towards her and asked softly, "Is everything ok?"

"No!" she screamed. No, you idiot. I cannot have the conscience of a mother if I have to kill you. I cannot think of how unlucky Lucky's death can turn out to be. I cannot be uprooted.

"It's ok, Farida. Come here, things will be fine." Ahmed was very kind indeed. 

"You think, Ahmed?" retorted Farida. "Everything will be fine? Explain, how? Did you dream of Lucky?" The air-conditioner suddenly seemed to be not enough for the room. Ahmed passed her a glass of water, "Here, have it."

She bashed it aside and ran into the washroom. It needs to be done tonight. Ahmed has to go. I can't bear his gentleness. I am IPS Farida Khatun and he will sing to my tune. Like the kites in the childhood skies did. She geared up, gun in her hand.

The dawn at the bungalow was one of celebrated sorrow. Officials lined up in sympathy for IPS Khatun. But most of them went back saying, "I thought she was stronger."

When she had fired the shot, no religion stopped her, nor any emotion. She was driven by an impossible impulse to end a life. And end it well. 

Nobody could tell, even as her coffin was lowered, if she had meant the shot for someone else. She would have laughed at yet another wrong she would live her life with. 

Farida Khatun's life was a studio, voices filled her roles. They never echoed her own.

Thirty One Different Days

In a hospital green couch, of a college staff-room, Shabdita Nayak sat in her starched black cotton saree, with her ear-phones plugged in and her fingers fiercely typing on her notebook. The starch was so crisp that it made the black seem grey. She had just had her lunch on a motley bunch of regional snacks -- happily shared amongst a motley group of regional colleagues -- and  some unofficial gossip and defined determination to rough it all out in her next off-period.In between she also managed to cross couple of hurdles on her mobile game. That was last year. July. She was on one end of a see-saw, on the other end an invisible body of burden. Sometimes Shabdita could see her. On a see-saw, one either sees or gets the saw. Gradually, she befriended her, on the other end. Last year, through July, they made new friends in the park -- Firoza, Wahida, Mridula. Good friends, bad friends, mad friends. There was not a day they didn't tide the outcast.

Last year. July was thirty one different days. With an invisible, body of burden humbly befriended. From there, today would seen most unlike to Shabdita. She was writing about herself, the distances covered and the destinations left behind. She covered some in letters, some in faith, others in love. She uncovered secrets, discovered ambition and rediscovered herself. Those thirty one days had given her strength to travel three sixty five more, to reach here. The continuity of change is persistent. Here she sits, no sarees in her cupboard, no students beckoning upon her, no inhibitions to live with, of the next.

Shabdita looks at her treasured chest; whispers sing to her of known melodies, her friends. They are no longer with her. Helter and skelter she withdraws from her comfort to look for Firoza and other tales. They are as faint as the essence of lemongrass, long stocked. Shabdita runs towards her team, they run further fast. Shabdita closes in, they close away. She thinks she is lost. But everything is familiar -- the empty chest, the whispers of her vanishing friends.

Walking alone on a pavement in the clouds, she suddenly feels it giving away too, and as she was about to panic, she realizes she was falling in a proper balance. The balance was held tight by her friends. All this while, they remained where they were. In thirty one different days, chapter after chapter, a soul slit to fit. Every fall was synthesised with an effort to fly.

Love lived in an empty bottle full of nothing. She looked deep into it, sometimes sniffing, sometimes smiling.


"Poor girl. She had a lot of talent they said" the matron informed the new Doctor in the asylum. Shabdita sat there, holding a bottle, and smiling through it, straight into the Doctor's eyes. She knew she would wear a shining medal for her works soon. Here it is! Golden, shining.

Dr Pachrisa took Shabdita's hand and brought forth his brand new Littmann stethoscope. Golden, shining. 

A Thank-You Story

Daughters cannot and should not be blamed for situations they did not create. To begin with, they did not ask to come to this life. Having once arrived, they have been conditioned to put their entire trust on this monstrous monument of faith called "mother". Holy mother and holy child, I tell you a secret, it is a trunk full of lies. Mothers are disastrous failures and daughters are not meant to duplicate it. So this evening, I decided to live up to her little expectations and at least have a story for her, which could double up for all that she means to me! 

On the terrace of a tall building, lived a sturdy water-tank, by the name of Thank. It had a little fellow of a washer for a friend called You. Well, disbelieve me if you will, but it's name, indeed was,"You". Now what can we say about Thank. Rather, let me tell you about Thank. Thank was a thankless being, very distant from being courteous, and static in pride -- a tank-full is really quite a lot. To be frank, no one knows till date, what Thank is so thankless about; I mean it is just another essential resource for the entire building. This was exactly what You told me one day. Erm, sorry, You told Thank one day.

"Cmon Thank, be a sport! Why so grumpy?"

Thank was angry. "You puny You! What do you know about what it takes to be me?"

"Tell me. How difficult is it?"

The sky changed colours, it was about to pour. Thank went into one of its rare pensive moods. "Look at the birds, flying away to their trees. Look at the ants, crawling underneath. Even the spider, it is running towards the web it has been building off me!"

You looked concerned. "I understand. But how does that anger you?"

"Why not?" screamed Thank."All day I am their playground, even to the hefty amount of dirt in the water inside me. But everyone goes! Everyone leaves me!" In a second, the stature of Thank was one of pity. You were moved to understandable tears. I mean You was.

"That's a lie" You asserted. "I am with you, all the while." Within its mind You were, oops, was saying 'though stuck to you'. "We will forever remain, tank and washer. Like those mothers and daughters who live under our terrace. Look at them fight, not talk, disagree, but in the end, they are somehow 'stuck' to each other. Like that?"

Thank wondered for a while. It began to rain, slowly at first and then very, very heavily. "You mean that?"

"You means what You says, always!" To that, why don't we build a nameplate to ourselves? 

Thank was pleased and obviously forgot about all those who deserted it. "What will it read?"

"Why, Thank-You!"

 

They taught us, our elite breed of convent teachers, "Sorry, Please and Thank-You" are the three golden words to be used generously. I beg to differ. Use them judiciously, only when you mean them. 

You are most welcome, by the way.

Is it a Wall?

People disbelieve me when I say that I like staying indoors most. In spite of holding lucrative jobs, I slide back to the comfort companionship of being on my own. New people do not interest me. Do not take me otherwise. I love people -- only when they wear the colours I choose to dab them with. But, to know more people, interact, nope, that is tiresome. I am content. Thoroughly. I have had my hefty share, thank you.

Having said that, in my room the other day, as I was celebrating much nonchalantly the crossing of a difficult level on my phone-game, my eyes fell on a face looking at me. From the wall. For a moment I thought it was my hallucination due to an overdose of clashing colours. I was wrong. There was indeed a face, hair smartly done, eyes not defined, but smile certainly mocking me. I made the giant effort of getting up from the floor and finding out of it were a tactile truth. It was.

I ran back to my corner on the bed and sat up to look deeper. Of course there she was. As were others around her. A flying dragon, a slaying warrior, an attacking sea-horse, a stuck kite on a swaying tree, and yes, people carrying about their daily wares rather comfortably around these -- an old man selling unknown wares on his shoulders even as the dragon's fire shun the potter's collection next to him. A sweetmeat wounding up more delicacies the taste of which lingered on to the little schoolgirls walking as they laughed over the struggling kite. 

The wall was ablaze. A planet had invaded my privacy, my sacred solitude. Music erupted from somewhere, light effects too; I put the phone away. It was ferociously fascinating, different worlds carpeted in fancy. I was reminded that I should be conscious that this was not for real. Shrugging it away, I focussed on the wall. There, she smiles. There, he walks. There, it flies. Here. Faraway.

Is it really a wall? Is it paper? Is it a wallpaper?

Mayhem rains in shades of colours I chose not to dabble.

Crescent Dusks

I took it in, I took it all in. No! I am taking it in. These clouds, and how I swim amidst the smoke that rises from a distant villa in the sky. Down there, people call it the moon. Up here, it is a house that emits a halo. I have been trying for a long time now to reach it. How long have I been trying? Damn I forgot my watch. But the more I hasten, the more it fades. Till what it remains now -- a crescent. Here, I float. It is a beautiful place. Someday, you might visit it too. There are strings of strawberries lined on either side, and flowery fences around which naughty fishes find each other. Like down there, in movies. Fish finding fish. Aw fish. Am I in my senses, you would think. Are you thinking? Great. We are together in it then. I am floating because I am full. I am floating because I am filled with emptiness. Hasn't emptiness ever filled you? Delusion.

The silence here is instrumental. Instrumental in touching chords of a moist place I did not know existed. Deep in the boots, or in the pockets. I left them behind. But the silence has evoked them. Silence looks like a talk stalked white lily bunch, amidst a chaos of intertwined wires, no longer awaiting rust. There is a boat, they say, which could bring in more people like me up here. No one knows how to board it. No one knows how to reach it. They say, the boat finds you. It did find me, yes. I passed through dense backwaters, dark, and opened out to the suddenness of the sea. It has never been enough to contain anything. Or, has it? The little boat did sail me across to the sky. I remember I was taking in the infused smell of roses, and vetyver. 

Looking back, there was no looking back. As they say I followed blindly. This time though, my eyes were all open. Sometimes, I saw known faces trying to lurk out from behind the bushes and reach out for me, they did cry. Far away I could hear a mother snapping at her daughter for the wrong answer. It faded faster than the lines of a song I did liked. Who would say love smelled like herbs, or seaweed? Does any of this make sense? I did not mean to. Make sense, that is. Tell me, don't we have too much happening with all the senses working, anyway? I took in the switch off. My senses slept. Faces drifted away, I fell on the boat and flew away. Their tears built a river. Roads looked red, bridges were built on sand and everything seemed as if it were long meant to be, away. Far off. 

Am I really dead or all this is just a lapse? I will just roll over and hold the silence of the lilies and sleep instead. Perhaps I could find out if the dead had dreams too. 

-- Submission on "Were I High on a Holiday".
Maanvi Pathak.

If I only drafted some. Dreams.

Women's Compartment

On a day that I had to take the public transport to ride to the other end of the city, which is actually another state, I realized I took the tube years after Kahaani was released. Yes, I gave in to the cinematic fear of suffocating in a compartment which was poisoned, or whatever it was. Accompanying me, my friend was amused to see fear written in bold letters all over me. I was sweating profusely and my heartbeat increased proactively.

It was like the return of a monster, in other words, a sequel to a horror story. This time it was rail-speed, and imaginary attacks by terrorists, gunshots and bloodshed. This negative horror of anticipating the worst possibilities have become second skin, until in one of those epiphanies, I decided to listen to some music. I excused myself from my friend's banter and dissolved into an army of poetry, percussion and strings battling the imaginary bullets. The bullets were fast, fierce, left a mark. Till I remembered words are really, often, all we have to hang on to.

Having found that resource to cling, I looked at the faces around me. Numbers have also been a ruffian-like monster. I cannot give you the exact percentage, but may be, twas about 95% of the woman's compartment, no, 99%, who were engrossed in you-know-what, their smartphones. Young fingers were actively scrolling on the screen with the same agility of a grandmother's rolling out a roti. Middle-aged attention was captured by online shows they must have missed the earlier evening, and newly-weds (around 20%), in their fearless faux pas wrists ladled with glass bangles, managed their newly got/bought bags (I am good at betting, and can assure you most of the MKs were fake), and effectively snuggled the phone between their slanted head and uplifted shoulders. Gross, the misfit in the outfit and the accessory and the incessant whispers into the phone. Am I judging? All of you do. Each of you stereotype; in spite of our best efforts at liberating our minds, we do. Few, like me, are foolish to accept that we do. I indulged, as if I found the perfect scoop of tender coconut ice-cream in that compartment.

There were some who looked rather refined, the kinds who would be the intelligentsia (0.25%), too aloof from the humdrum around, only staring blankly at the window as if  they too were one with the music that was plugged inside their ears. I thought for a while (in the apologized delay) how must I appear to them -- tourist-y, you could say, taking in the new, sometimes opening my earphone to ask my friend "how many more stations", or, "how much longer". I didn't care. Yes, I found the next question bothering me! Was spondylitis somehow related to smartphones? I wandered to what the correct spelling of spondylosis was. Was it spondiliosis, spondilitis...or oh my god, I found another stock character. The ones who look alike. I mean, have you noticed something uncanny about this new generation high-schoolers, or college-goers? All have straight hair, ironed to perfection, all of them pout in an effort to take a selfie (yes, also inside the packed metro), hands on their waist, thin or fat like thin or fat were meant to be, and not much to differentiate between their skin-tight jeans and t-shirt with a message. From city to city, I eventually land up on these, sometimes barging on a Blue Lays at ANY time of the day.

My friend elbowed me (as she WhatsApped) indicating it was time for our station. I smiled, switching off the song and pulling out the earphones, leaving a faint superior smirk to those glued to games -- I was at level 1050 -- way better than any of them. As I made my way to the Gurudwara, I sat at peace and thought of all those faces that came in and those who left along -- so much for fears. Three insights into how each one's life could possibly have been just before they de/boarded, was enough to shut out all the bullets. Inner peace.

I love my life because I love looking into other people's life.

Letter to Daughter XVII

Sweetest C,

Yes, honey, sweeter than peaches (which thankfully you have taken to -- finally a fruit, and not a new flavour of chips). Things have been tighter than we had expected, and though you approve of your where you are "do-poopy", and your "soomming-pool", I know it deep within that things haven't been right at your new school. Friends aren't as nice as the ones you have left behind. To top it, Tucks too has growled more than necessary at the most unexpected times. Mommy has been missing for more time than you ever knew. I will share a secret with you and leave it under your pillow, so that when you wake up and do not find me you can read it, may be today, may be tomorrow, may be when I am no longer, may be when you finally are able to.

The secret, my love is, within each of us are different people, lurking -- and waiting to take upon the natural self. One might me mighty with its evil intention of making you dark, with anger, jealousy or even thickly sad. A sadness that you can never explain, even to yourself. Even when walls around you are orange, and chairs green. Things have a tendency to turn unpalatable. While I say that there is always a chance you must give yourself, and life keeps giving you, you must never, I repeat never give them faces a chance to turn to phases. 

To do that, it takes a shredder like ability to slice the spirit; the beautiful dawn and uneven dusk appeal no more, but the wheels (as we know) keep moving, and one push, or one kick into the ignition and things begin to roll better. All your Nike t-shirts and hot pants that say "Just do it", mean a thing. A great thing indeed. It means, hold your breath, to just do it.  Munchkin, Momie still doesn't believe that her stories are loved, but when you smile at one, Momie needs no other assurance. What you gotta do, you gotta do, love.

Sweetie, it takes nothing to lose, but when you desire to win, it takes your will to work, endlessly, to just keep moving, in spite of the odds, the colours that do not match, and the games that you lose, don't count, for when you put touch the shine on the medal, all the pain dissipates. Momie not only doesn't have new friends, the problem is, she does not even want newer ones, and when they come in plenty, that, again, is a pain which persists.

Just one moment when that inside person in you takes over, force yourself to think of ALL the people outside yourself who you owe to be who you are, happy, and to yourself of course, you owe it even greater. When I return to a sleepy you, it saddens me that I have missed listening to your adventures of the day, none the less, when you curl in to me, in the middle of the night, like it were always meant to be, a presence more than any rainwashed absence, nothing makes more sense. Or showers more wins. You will always have your friend in me.

I do in you,

Momie.