Sunday, March 11, 2012

The Dream Lost


You were always lost. Even
When you found me
Or were you not?
Had you not?

Even when we found each
Other
You were always lost
In a quest to
Find what you lost.

And then I believed you.
Your dream.
Not realizing that
Dreams are personal.
There is no Joint about them.
You dream and share the dream.
But only one can dream.

And so you were lost
And then you made me lose
Myself
And become part of that
Loss, and lost.

And now we are in the loss
Together,
In the search together-
Forever.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

The Messy Messing Moon


“Georgy porgy pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry…”

Farfetched simile, but nonetheless, to me the Georgy guy sounds like the Moon. I wonder, what’s up with the moon that it picks on us girls and plays havoc with us every month, and if possible twice too – when it is full and when it is new. The full moon is here, beware! And it will be followed by the new moon, pretty soon.

We all love role-playing, and as adults, we more than often love playing the role of the Agony Aunt. By the way, this post is woman centric, so if there are any uninterested men, you could as well excuse yourself out.But I'd recommend a read till the end.

Getting back to our Agony Aunt part…we might not be minting money in this part time avocation, but we definitely do increase our telephone bills in living up to the part of the mentor to our friends. Yours truly has also been in and out of this role. And no need to guess further. It has involved, in major amounts, counseling girls that were shocked by their own behaviour at the full moon.

Aha! That unstable and unreliable 15 faced guy up there is a great tormentor. Aren’t we girls all such law abiding denizens of the lunar world. Following its calendar, we rip ourselves; subject ourselves to torture every 28 days. Or were we at some point of evolution forced into obeying the tyrant? Why does this phenomenon have to be a monthly affair? Why did we have to choose the lunar calendar for ourselves? Couldn’t evolution have picked the solar calendar instead? Once in a year, just like a birthday.

Anyway, that was a lunatic digression. My main point is that for some strange inexplicable and unscientific reason, the moon, especially when it is at the height of its pride on the full moon day/night, seems to have a control even on our minds, our psyche and our behaviour.  

As a kid, I used to find it funny when my grandmom would say “It must be a Pournami, or an Amavaasya night. That explains the madness.” Madness? All that my brother and I would be guilty of was giggling and laughing uncontrollably and the only strangeness involved there would be the absolute nonexistence of any trigger to this gale of laughter!! A common behaviour in children, isn’t it?

I know now that though I had realised even then that she was only joking; but I had suspected even then some mystic truth in this Lunar legend – lunatic legend. Well, there is more to the moon than what meets the eye, and I got to know of this eventually, while growing up.

We girls seem to have an unwilling affair with this messy messing moon. And in return, we happen to figure in the punch line in all moon related jokes. Recently, a Big guy on twitter had also thrown light on the interference of the moon in his domestic life. And all the men in the party turned rogue, laughing and smirking at the crescent jokes on us woman kind.

Now that is lunatic behaviour, ours is simply lunaric behaviour.

And I found it funnily ironic that this ‘Women’s Day’ happens to have the full moon invited to the party. Let’s ban the moon or get it so drunk that it will forget its basic cruel sadistic mentality.



Sunday, March 4, 2012

Mummy Papa Kaha Hei?


Where are they?

My family of bibliophiles set out to the crowded World Book Fair at Delhi to satiate our obsession with books. Admittedly, I might be a case of the ‘bordering on paranoia mom,’ so I ran my kids over a dozen times on the “What to do if you are separated from us” drill. Our phone numbers, and residential and e-mail addresses were memorized, the various organizers (the people with the tags) were pointed out, and my children were under strict orders to go to these people with the tags and report themselves lost if they were separated from us.

Instructions given, everything in place, I could now concentrate on taking in the smell of books, the titillating sight of thousands of publications and the mere thrill of being engulfed by them. Not entirely though. The marvels of motherhood!! My inbuilt antenna was up - I could sense the co-ordinates of my kids’ presence; my preternatural eyes were on - I could see the children in spite of my two physical eyes glued to the books.

A day well spent, a day passed too soon, we finally dragged four tiny tired feet and four more reluctant feet out of the fair. I was relieved. We had reported no losses and no separations. Into a recently done up underpass, through a rare landscaped road divider, and then through a more seemingly familiar and offensively unkempt underpass we walked to our car.

In the second underpass, there were four street kids – all happy and beaming – playing a game. It looked like great fun, at least, to them. They would hide themselves in four little depressions in the pillars and jump out all at once, shouting in unison, “Mummy Papa Kaha Hei? Mummy Papa Kaha Hei?”

They were highly spirited and overjoyed with their game; my kids were skeptical of these street kids and their unkempt appearance, but as all kids can, they too sensed the fun factor in the game and were smiling. But I was troubled. I was troubled the whole night; intermittently, the whole of the next day; every now and then, even now, when I recall the incident. And by the law of progression and nonchalance, I should perhaps fade this memory out of my system by swaddling myself with other brighter and happier incidents.

But I know that I will never be able to get this incident out of my mind. This is going to trouble me forever. The happy faces, the merry laughter and the thrilled game were all amazing. The jingle too was mirthful from their lips, but when it reached my ears it was taunting and scorching, barbing and pleading.

I wonder how the jingle would continue (if it were to).

Mummy Papa kaha hei?                                  Mummy Papa, where are they?
Mummy Papa ghar mei hei.                            Mummy Papa are in the house.
Hamara ghar kaha hei?                                    Where is our house?
Hame nahi pata hei.                                         We don’t know.

Street kids, stolen kids, orphaned kids and castaway kids, I am sorry we are letting this happen to you.


Saturday, January 28, 2012

Red on Green



Memories…my memory of
The incident remains the
Same.
But the associated emotions
Change
Every time
The memory
Is fished out.
And then it is served with kebabs.

The rogan gosht
Is yummy.
Should be!
But I am a vegetarian.
So kindly excuse me
My host,
You are making a savoury memory-
One that I am
Unable to enjoy;
Which is unacceptable
To my palate.

Had I not sent
Her a note
Well in advance
Informing her of my
Vegetarian preferences?
But of course, now I see
That green bit of paper
In a red bin of bone china.

So there goes,
My memories taste different
Every time I haunt them
Because you have been serving
The wrong food
On my green plate.