The Work of a Babbling Brain

A wooden floor
Six creaking pairs of feet
Walk the line of duty
It is their drama to learn
Their karma awaits
Success is doubtful
It always is
For everyone
Certainty breeds contempt
Of self and others
They learn with very word
Every move
Every breath
They laugh and cry
For work and for pay
How much will depend
On how much they shed
Clothes or tears
It's a choice of life
Personal decision
Not many can make it
Break it
Fake it
To mould the body
The voice
The self
Into casts of every situation
Existential and created
Real and unreal
Is an art
Or craft as some say
The predisposition to learn and master might exist
Persist
To aspire is one
To escape another
The intent is the key
Same words can break or mend the soul
Breathe
For there will be many with wrong intents
Intentional or unintentional
You are alone
Misunderstood
And unheard
Bear it with an armor
Made of bone and muscle
Iron ones are fictitious
Made up to soothe a child's fantasy
It lies shattered with age
The pieces prick
Wounds that bleed are rare
In such situations
Hurt isn't tangible
Empirical measurement lies in textbooks
Hug that doll
It shall be with you forever
If you allow it
And fight the taunts
Turn deaf
Numb
Cold
It's the anti thesis of a fever
There are no analgesics
No pain killers
No blessed beads for protection
And definitely no shoulders
To cliched-ly cry on
Sympathy doesn't exist
Never did
So don't hope for it
Keep the hope for better things
It's what they all say
Advise
Preach
The ears ring with voices
That sound distasteful
If such a description is possible
But of course it is
Anything is
When the person sitting by you is living the life you want
It's uncanny
But you're jealous of the unknown
You can't curse it
You don't know it's name
Cuss the earth, the sun, the planetary positions
Most find respite in it
Now get back on that crowded bus
Hang on the high bars wishing you were taller
Thinner
Eyes watch
Judge
Leach
You ignore them like always
The ride is rickety and long
Six stops away
Eight signals that are always red
Does nothing go right
'Hahaha nope'
Says a voice in the cerebral cortex
Biology classes and twelfth
Then its a sepia journey until present
The stop comes
You squash your way out as your parts get squeezed
Private and public
Holds are loose and tight
Breathe
There is a rope hanging in the hardware shop
And then there were none
A twisted smile walks you home
There are no messages
The answering machine beeps
Red
Hollow
The fridge has bread
Eaten for five days now
The caps are left for todays dinner
Scrape off the jam
It tastes funny but worse has been ingested
Sickness hasn't haunted the bodice for a while
There is no consultation money
Incentive
There is class again tomo
The uncertain future awaits
Lines have to be learnt
Recited
In a thousand different ways

(4th June 2012)

.

Chipped graphite rolls in between the finger tips

It has a wooden cloak

It nudges the white under to let it move

Allow it to dance on it

But it is repelled

By the brain that is lying beside

For it has gone through 300 emotions in the past second

The graphite mulls

Not knowing what piece to perform

Its confused

The wooden cloak it wears is getting sullied

It looks ancient

But has no proof of experience

It is still long but not drawn

It has not been written with

Danced with

It is handled by nail-bitten appendages

Anxious and trembling

Scared of what might be said or heard

It needs to let go

Of the brain

Of the fingers

Of the cloak

Of the white

All of it

Solitude

I feel like going on a trek tonight. There are several places in my mind. In the the evening I wanted to stomp on snow and make my way up a mountain. Feel the cold winds numb my fingers and turn my nails blue. Breathe the winter. Freeze time in that pristine whiteness that would surround me. But now, as the moon appears behind the pitch blackness, I am reminded of my midnight walk along the deep woods from university to the monument. It was a mass trek, with close to a hundred odd people. We still managed to lose ourselves.

I remember laughing till tears rolled out as we cooked up stories of having been diverted by a strange man in a white t-shirt, who we morphed to be a ghost. In the dead of the night, a bunch of us were stranded. We had gone around and come around. Or so we thought. In the darkness, all the trees looked cloned, all the branches scratched and all the paths were sparkling with foliage streamed moonlight. It was past Cindrella's time. We awaited a fairy godmother to come show us the light. A light different from the one that was spooking us all.

A man hailed from afar. Our light. The different one. Having sung songs of the past to keep ourselves entertained, we moved ahead after what seemed an hour. Closer to the voice, back on track. It took our group much longer to reach. We took routes the others hadn't. We trailed heights that others saw from below. We did reach, but much delayed. The others were on their way back. Some made fun of us, but we gloated at having passed shrubs and trees that they hadn't, graveyards that they hadn't, experienced haunt as they hadn't. We always were good story tellers.

It was a full moon night. The trek had lasted for about 5 hours. We reached the arms of our cozy rooms in taxis at the break of dawn. Exhausted. We dreamt. Of what, I don't remember. Must have been something pleasant for we slept with smiles pasted on our faces.

Memories have a snowball effect. But the snowball I want right now is the one I'll make for myself. I want my snow tonight and I am not in a mood to share it. Not this time. At least for a while.

My Lee Filters swatch book is lying next to me. I have spent the day painstakingly looking at each filter against the sunlit window. I am still looking at them through the white tubelight. I am not a fan of white light. I like to add colours, maybe thats why I enjoy lighting. I want to rig a spot light climbing up the ladder, focus it at stage centre, put the colour I like the most at the moment and sit under it with my book.

Let the hall be empty.

Let them not know I am here.

Let them not know I exist.

Let them not know I am lit.

Shattered glass and hollow window panes

Sometimes certain words evoke aural memories. The mere whisper of a place can remind you of a robotic voice announcing the station in a metro. Then its a vicious cycle of remembrances. The station reminds one of the reason one boarded the train, the people it was boarded with, the place one actually got off, the songs sung on the train to pass time, the fun one made of co-passengers etc. The scene is cognitively recreated. It feels real and one desires to go back in time and relive it. I have spent the last couple of hours in such a fabricated reality. Its been a comforting journey. I am a lover of the past times. My affair with it is endless. The future is something I do look forward to but not at the risk of letting go of the past. Coward twit, maybe.

The music flowing in my ears is fresh and hopeful. Songs sung by a junior from school. I love them and hope he sings like this forever and that his music reaches out to as many people as possible. They drip of honesty and warmth. I can imagine myself feeling the soft green grass at my feet as I thrust myself on a swing, under an early spring sun that sparkles through the thick foliage of a great big tree, in an open lonely silent field.

There is a strange heaviness in the air. Its been there all day. A melancholic stillness that is turning stale and lifeless. Maybe the spark of the sun will rejuvenate its spirit. The colour of tomorrow might resurrect it. I hope it does cause its seeping in and spreading despair.

Another stage is calling on to me. It will certainly not be the last. I will light it with all my love. Its a play I love. It has actors I love more. It shall be a communion of honesty, something that seems to have shrouded in veils of duplicity and cozenage. But thats true of a lot of facets of life. Theatre, still remains the only place where one can speak the truth in its crass and stripped form. Its another matter altogether that only a few indulge in this heroism. And those who do, have a path of shattered glass laid before them. Scarred and blood-stained, they continue. Its what they live for.

Its so difficult to explain oneself to others. Not as a justification of actions, but just to be able to word and articulate the surge of emotions that arises and drowns one. There surfaces, on certain occasions, a desire for the other to be able to hear one's beat, feel one's pulse and sense the mood and give a i-know-what-you-are-going -through nod. I have given the nod to many this week. Its time I got one too.

Paint that hollow window pane.

Let it show what you wish to see.

Keep gazing at it till it comes to life.

It will.

Just wait.

You can't always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find that you get what you need.

Thanks Rolling Stones. Its difficult to stop wanting things but I guess one lives happiest then. Lower expectations and let things unfurl for themselves. Its true of tangible and non-tangible entities. But then are we allowed to let things unfurl for themselves? Is one free to exercise that liberty? Many argue that its all in one's mind. That if you want you can do exactly what you wish. Easier said than done.

The world is a gnawing place. Every corner of the body and every word breathed out is scrutinized, judged and commented upon. You might not ask for it. You might never. But you will get it. And it will be sharp, harsh and upsetting most of the times. It'll cage you in a box and feed you guilt till you crumble. You might see pretty sights beyond the bars but they aren't for you.

Funnily. we're all in boxes and as the adage goes. the grass is always greener on the other side. We appreciate each other's lessened restrictions. There is no such thing as freedom in its purest sense. Well, then again it depends on what one defines freedom as. Its such a relative term, like all others. Everything is relative. Nothing exists without the other.

I have a dream. I will have a small room to myself. I will have a cozy bed next to a warm fire place and a rack of books. Let it be a windy cold evening. There will be a window near my bed. And as I will rest my head on the pillow, the moon will peep into my room through it and spread its bright white light that'll sparkle the room. It will be a happy companion and it shall read with me into the darkness of the night.

I walked into that space after more than a year. It has changed so much that I can barely recognise the concrete I lived in for three years. The walls don't feel the same. The heartbeat is different, or rather has died out. Some areas still call out to me in remembrance. I have lived, loved and laughed there. Stood in the middle of the ground, that unfortunately doesn't exist anymore, and yelled to the first and the second floors. The trees still smile with warmth and welcome me. I don't want to go there again soon. Not alone atleast. I am not afraid. Just uncomfortable.

I don't have an end to this note.

Well, I had a dream I stood beneath an orange sky.

I woke up this morning groggy and sat cross-legged on the bed facing the window. There was a silent breeze brushing the sun's early strands. I closed my eyes and tried recollecting my dream. I remember snippets that don't fit together. They are pieces of different puzzles. I had more than one dream.

Somewhere a friend is snuggled under a warm blanket refusing to leave the bed. I want to make chai for her, snuggle in next to her and have a long talk. Its been too long since we met. A lot has passed between us. More than half of December has gone. And I haven't shivered even once. I am nearer to the equator. I can't complain. It is geographically impossible. My wish.

Reading has taken a stand still although I have a set of new books piled in front of me. Each wanting to be touched and flipped. Each wanting to be heard out. I will. One and one. All of them.

I made what I was supposed to. It came out well, served its purpose and made the person it was made for happy. Satisfaction swept in that evening. It was beautiful. I could do with more such evenings. Many more. And they shall happen in time.

I have been listening to a lot of music these days. And when I say lot, I really do mean a LOT. I have been breathing, eating and obese-ing on music. Genre irrespective, I have had headphones on my head all day. My grandmother now thinks I have transmogrified (Calvin style) into an extra-terrestrial specie.

I am going to return to watching Prison Break now. I will return with more that is in my head.

Did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?

I want a room to myself. I want to paint it blue on two adjacent walls and white on the other two walls. On the white corner I want to paint a tree. Blue it will be. Let it grow from the corner and branch across on the whiteness on either sides. Adorn the walls with pictures and posters that'll make me cry with laughter. Wash them with memories of the happiest and most loved people. Have a window that'll give me a view of the sky when I'll lay beside it at night. Let the stars wink me to sleep. Let the moon read me a bed time story. A shelf of books that'll smell old and friendly. I want to stick glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Have a stain-glass lamp hanging from the window. Let the sun sparkle through it and spill into the room. Let every breeze waltz around the wind chime. Allow it to drop in a 'hello' as it passes by. I want a Kaleidoscopic that'll show me new colours and patterns every day. Set against the same world, it'll be pretty nevertheless, without fail.

My hands are numb with glue. I have been sticking things other than the pieces of my scattered life. The table's turned into a workshop. Whether something creative will emerge from the debris strewn across is a million dollar question. I have to answer it in a few days. I will.

Justifications are tiring. The need to explain every move one makes. Every choice chosen. Every road traveled. Etc. I will, on days like these, lean on my painted blue tree and let things be. Let the branches soak my frustration and grow stronger. Let me grow stronger as well. A strange symbiotic relation that would need no words.

I have been reading about the psychology of pain. It is interesting to look at the several views people have about pain. Unlike happiness, which we tend to think comes in greater degrees to others, pain is a feeling we attribute with magnified intensity to ourselves. Tell those who wish to comfort us that they will never know the feeling. That it is worse than anything they have ever felt or will feel. Relativity is twisted to suit one's needs/desires. Is pain that cannot be attributed to an organic lesion false? Can one claim it is a case for psychological intervention with certainty then? Does the need for psychological intervention mean one is not strong enough to deal with one's problems? Does the blame then point to the sufferer? Does the sufferer become the cause and effect of the pain, unlike in the case of a lesion where the cause and effect can be separated? Does the sufferer, from a victim, become a perpetrator?

Its a gloomy day and its rubbing off on me. Sigh.

Jupiter is catching a bus this year.

I turn the music up, I got the records on

From underneath the rubble sing a rebel song

Don't want to see another generation drop

I rather be a comma than a full stop

Its the penultimate month of the year and as always, it seems to have come too fast. Its been a life changing year, like every other year. A lot of new people have been met. Old doors have been knocked. Unperceived goals have been sought. Familiar places have been re-visited. A few favourites have been revised, furnishing the pages with more fingerprints. New books have been inked to the list. The taste buds have feasted more. The nights have been haunted with bizarre dreams and the feet have tread more gradients. New hugs have given warmth, while lost ones have been missed.

There are heroes in the sea weed

There are children in the morning

They are leaning out for love

And they will lean that way forever

The Jupiter is closest to the moon today. Apparently, it happens once in a hundred years. Hmmm, I feel historic, now that I have witnessed it. But it isn't the breaking news on TV. For once. The sky has always been an intriguing space. Small dots, that are actually magnanimous in size, wink every night- tirelessly.

The buses haven't changed and thankfully, neither have their fares. The conductor gives me a glace of recognition. He's seen me before. A gazillion times. Its the same girl who lost her balance every day, while trying to hold on to her several bags, sanity and the pillar together. Its been a couple of years, but I have still not lost my charm. I still fall. I still stumble. I still like my bus.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend

Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night

Had I known how to save a life

The Colour Purple beckons me now.

P. S.- The lyrics incorporated are a result of my listening to them while writing this. And the title, well lets just say that a fall in the bus shook my sanity out.

Monotonous Monologues

An old man rests on a parapet. He swings his legs on either side of the freshly built wall and places his meal in between. He chews it slowly while gazing below at a mother and a child standing under a yellow street lamp. Its twilight. The lines on his face suggest years of toil and hardship. But for now, there is certain serenity that embraces his aura. A good days work. Remembrances of childhood maternal affection. A mother's hug. His calmness is infectious. I don't know him. Still.

It has been infernal, weather wise. So much for hallucinating a forthcoming winter.

Beckett and Kesey are eating my days and nights away.

The festive spirit is here, once again. Nine days of loud music, sumptuous food, vibrant attires, social meetings, energetic dances and so on. Am I kicked about it? Certain sins are attractive but I seek inner peace.

Dreams are a reflection of one's subconscious. That part of the iceberg which is just hidden below the surface of the sea. If so, I need help. If Freud were to analyse my dreams he would have given up Psychoanalysis and taken up a more innocuous profession like brushing a crocodile's teeth. (So said a friend a long time back) What does dreaming in black and white mean?

Over the past few days songs, photographs and certain aromas and hues have taken me back to distant memories. Does it mean I am living in the past like my today's horoscope says? I'd rather see it as a foresight. Ironical I know, but I think it means I am about to have a eureka moment that'll lead to the creation of the most sought after machine of all times- The Time Machine. The ability to travel across temporal dimensions. The ability to go into the future is under construction, however. Nevertheless, it does not mean that once you go back into the past you cannot return to the present. Wait a minute! If the voyage to the future is under construction, then for the past the present will be a future instance, meaning I mean (another past reference of an English teacher who spurted 'meaning I mean' a good 70 times in an hour's class with obviously no context of reference) one might get stuck into the past then...

I solely blame One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for my current mental stimulation.

Untitled

Well, I have had what you call a writer’s block for a long time now. A disease better known as laziness- for the common licentious soul wishes to sound profound at whatever it does. I have read many blogs during my sabbatical and come to the conclusion that people write just about anything under the sun- well, some say that’s how it should be. Valid.

Now, for some news on my front- I am at a crucial stage of my life- in Bollywood cinemas it is the path-breaking moment of every hero’s life. The point from where his saga of greatness starts, mostly. It is called Berozgaari (unemployed). Since the cinemas fill us with such optimism I refuse to feel let down by the fact that I am still salary-less. I shall await my heroic moment with patience. That day shall come. Sometime. Soon I hope. Period.

Like I said I have seen people write about anything they feel like with strange titles that I am yet to fathom. Math and integration seemed simpler. Not that I was ever good at it, but still no harm in praising oneself about something one will never indulge in for the rest of her life, sincerely hoping so. (my heart goes out to my younger brother)

Its going to be two months since I bid farewell to a place that took away a part of my soul for keepsake. 355, third floor, IV wing. I remember writing a post as soon as I had joined the place; complaining about how it was full of opinionated people who were intimidating from the word go. Hmmm, can’t believe I am saying this but I think I miss being intimidated upon. There was something in that air that you loved to breathe it (no, I am not referring to the non-polluted purity of oxygen). I miss the canteen, for obvious reasons of being a glutton. The cheap food. The cheap talk over the cheap food. Oh the sheer cheap-ness altogether. I met eleven heads there that put together with mine were close to the most explosive material ever made. We made noise, a hell lot. We laughed, heads off. We cried. We argued. We did everything that a Malory Towers book described. We put the Addams family to shame with our wackiness.

I had certain topics in my head that I thought I’d write about:

1. Ghulam Ji’s (in)famous comments.

2. Delhi Police’s claim of Delhi as a ‘safe’ city.

3. My brilliant driving lessons.

4. The new ice-cream flavor in my life.

Etc.

But now that I have a gush of memories flowing in my head I shall try and pen them down. What are the memories about?--- Koyna Hostel Life and my Phamily.

I am a list-making person, hence if you put your head through the pensieve you’ll get a description of my memories in points.

1. One thing I miss terribly is getting up to see a horde of love messages on my phone—‘Meera darling, my love, wake me up at 8:00. I have a class at 9:00 that I must attend. Thanks so much sweetie. Big hug and kiss.’

‘Eeyore love wake me up at 11:00. I have to go to CP to meet…… Love you. Slap on your forehead.’

You get the picture. I miss my mornings running from room to room waking people up- some gently with love, some-I wish I had a bazooka in my hand. I miss being the human alarm.

2. I miss my ever-green breakfast of bread and butter with my breakfast partners (one was constant but some others gave guest-appearances if I had succeeded in waking them up). And yes, when I say ever-green I do mean it literally as well; for there were days when we had colourful bread- patches of green, pink and blue. It was wonder bread.

3. I miss my marathon to classes with my ghetto. I miss sitting in class and looking at blank faces, sleepy faces, faces that winked at you out of sheer boredom or at the crack of a shady inside-joke. I miss raising my hand and questioning or arguing in class.

4. Jaundice kadi, Koyna lawns-paneer, Toxic bengan… obviously these aren’t things I miss eating, but I do miss talking about them. I miss sitting in the mess for hours supervising people’s eating; forbidding them from playing with their food or wasting food, on most occasions. Let me be clear that my services were restricted to my Addams family and that not everyone was party to my pravachans.

5. I miss being a floor doctor. There weren’t any fatal mishaps so I think I managed well.

6. Now that I just gave a banana to my grandma I realized that I miss my Tuesday banana breakfast. Its another thing that when I packed 5-6 bananas the mess-wala thought I was a total nut. Clarification: they weren’t for my consumption. I had several sleepy mouths to feed.

7. I miss washing clothes with music my ears and loud across-the-wall talks with my fellow dhobi-ghat members. We did curse the winters- it was unbearable to wash clothes then. The water would prick the hands and post rigourous scrubbing they would be white and pink. Fair and Lovely users if you wish to have a fair face I have a cheaper full-proof method- please keep face submerged in the tap’s water in December/January for half an hour. Guaranteed fairness with pink blushes.

8. I miss tea-parties- the consumption of hot tea with high-calorie munchies over gossip and general non-sense.

9. I miss the outlandish activities of the ‘Twelve Mindless Women’ which includes the outrageous shopping sprees, the movie madness, the late night maggies, the super-late night ‘disturbing content’ talks, the dramatization of scenes and songs from the time-less Bollywood mobhies, the in-the-middle-of-the-road choreographed dance sessions, the PSR antaksharis. Etc. The utter filmi-ness of our life.

10. I miss the bus rides, the auto rides (which includes the fight sequences with the auto-wallahs), the walks… actually every form of transportation we used; for we made a joke out of everything.

11. I miss our family dinners. The prolonged eating-talking-laughing till the mess workers shooed us away with their horrendous weapons (brooms which you might think are harmless but I dare not say what all they swept).

12. I miss being ragged- Boo, Autistic Octopus, Eeyore, Grandma… Some of my several avatars.

For my 11- I miss being a 4 year old with you. I miss being an 80 year old with you. I miss you. I love you.

P.S- I am going to keep the post untitled. Meaning I mean, I can’t think of an appropriate title.

...

Some days one just wishes to RIP.

Too bad those days are becoming oftener.

Contours change.

Colours change.

Facets change.

What remains is the black shadow.

Black as ever.

Sharp as ever.

Haunting.

Powerful.

Defining.

Me.

Eh+Blah+Huh= Life

its been a while since i wrote something and i fear i've forgotten how to. these past few months have been maddening in a lot of ways. i was standing at crossroads every few days making decisions that would change my future. it hasn't been all pleasant. well, it never is. there are times when you feel that you should have taken the other road or rather gone to a totally different country and tried new roads! i have also learnt that all roads aren't smooth. they all have there own manholes and bumps at differing frequencies. it all depends on when you encounter them. profound point being don't be jealous of the other for happy times await you and well there are manholes awaiting the rest. :) [apologies to the 'rest'- no offense meant]
new places always thrill me. this one did too and still amuses me with its randomness. its full of people with opinions- some i agree with and some that i condemn altogether. it is full of people professing large things when small things need attention. its full of people who are so sure of themselves that at times it leaves you intimidated. its full of people wanting to achieve greater heights. (i fear falling hence, i shall not even attempt such dangerous desires)
now that i don't know what to write i'm going to religiously cut copy and paste the lyrics of the song i'm listening to. it actually states my condition well.

Put your faith in what you most believe in
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see

A paradise untouched by man
Within this world blessed with love
A simple life, they live in peace

Softly tread the sand below your feet now
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see

Beneath the shelter of the trees
Only love can enter here
A simple life, they live in peace

Raise your head up
Lift high the load
Take strength from those that need you
Build high the walls
Build strong the beams
A new life is waiting
But dangers no stranger here

No words describe a mothers tears
No words can heal a broken heart
A dream is gone, but where theres hope

Somewhere something is calling for you
Two worlds, one family
Trust your heart
Let fate decide
To guide these lives we see



disclaimer: this post is a result of caffeine+insomnia+work

Proceed at own peril

i've been meaning to write for a long time but then i was in one of those lazy-bleh-aahh moods. i figured that rather than writing a post of my own i started writing blog-post length comments on other's. heights, i say!

these holidays have seemed longer than they ought to be. it is now that i realise the need for a routine in life. having a purpose can make the days seem short. recently, i also figured that i've become extremely critical. i guess its a result of idleness. though i have appreciated what people are doing and have done i seem to be waiting to find faults. not like i'm faultless. the Freudian interpretation would be that i'm using a defence mechanism to shield myself. an escapist! not exactly what i'd like to call my self.

contemplating has been one of my major preoccupations. its been a month since i visited the dargah in ajmer. the trip was courtesy a relative who'd been wanting to go there and dorn a carpet. well, since we were anyway going there we decided to go to pushkar too. it was amazing to see the differences and the similarities between the two religions that have always professed to be entirely different from each other.

the dargah was packed with pilgrims. squeezing in through the door way, touching the holy carpet and squeezing out was an experience in itself. one could see people from all social, cultural and economic backgrounds under one roof. one could hear the echos of the diversity in language our country boasts about. similar to hindu mythology islam too proclaims the achievement of moksha- i.e an abode to heaven through charity and goodness. like hinduism it believes in feeding the poor and down-trodden. the pradakshina path is present in both but the difference lies in the direction one takes. though i've mentioned only a fraction of the things that were similar one can only visit the two places to sense it in full measure. writing about it makes me feel like a fraud intellectual trying to trivialise the whole concept of religion which is one of the most controversial and essential institutions in our country.

pushkar was a more silent affair. i guess thats because we went there when the sun was just above our heads. jumping over the hot marble we reached the shrine that's been built for brahma. the only shrine in the world dedicated to the creator. apparently for some yagna he was expected to sit with his wife. saraswati's unavailability forced him to marry a woman from the district where the yagna was taking place. since the woman was from a lower caste she was purified by a cow and christened gayatri. saraswati was furious at this breach of trust and left in anger cursing brahma that no temple other than this would be built and that even in the built temple no worship would be conducted. the temple had a small window through which one could see the top of a mountain where a small temple for a saraswati has been built. she is beleived to have resided there and abandoned brahma. hindu mythology never fails to amuse one. there are infinite stories about gods and goddesses. what disappointed me about the place was its maintenance. the water level was lower than ever before and dirt in it was more than ever before.

though i walked on the turf of two of the most conflicting religions my feet burnt where the sun shone on the ground and felt the cool and damn earth where the trees provided shade- equally.

i apologise to the readers of this post. its probably the most ill-defined one. i think the heat's getting on my nerves.

My endless obsession with questions.

Where is home?

There where the mind is at peace
or the heart beats at ease?

Where you dream freely and fearlessly
or enact them out with painless compassion?

Where you are questioned
or allowed to questioned all that is around?

Where the wind blows like a fierce storm
or breezes past with pleasant memories?

Where the rain pelts like stone
or dances to celebrate you?

Where the trees haunt and scare
or smile and embrace in their shade?

Where one's echo seems like another's
or answers one's deepest queries?

Where the sea rises to destroy
or tickles ones' feet and washes away all sorrows and disappointments?

Where the sun blazes overhead
or soothes one with eternal warmth?

In search of such a home we wander.

Aimless

Hopeful

Little realising that it might be where one is and not where one fantasises one to be.

The process of making the existing place home, is called life.

women or we-men!

While studying my AO- Women and Development, my mind pondered over a few questions, answers to which I'm yet to find. Will i come across gender discrimination in my future life? If i do, then what am I going to do? Will I exercise my legal rights that have enough loop holes to disadvantage me rather than act in my favour? Why does the word women have men in it? Will men ever fight for women's rights?

There is absolutely no society in the world that can boast about it's perfect equity among the sexes. Gender discrimination is considered as the oldest form of discrimination that has diseased the societal framework across class, caste, religion and region. We are so used to it now, that many women don't even realise that they are being discriminated or ill-treated! Domestic violence is, appallingly, seen as an expression of love and a genuine attempt to make the other person a better person. It's puzzling that India has presented both the worst and best results of women upliftment. India was one of the first countries to bring women out of the four walls. The British Medical Journal predicates that India aborted at least a million girl foetuses in past two decades. (contradictory?????)
Renuka Chowdary revealed that when she interacted with a group of rural women, a lady came up to her and said,"My husband beats me, that's ok. But can my mother-in-law and sister-in-law also beat me?"
Well glorified planners of the country, i can't see results of your implications! Do the plans made by the government actually reach the ones who need them the most? Are these plans effective in these times? Will the roots of discrimination- patriarchy and sexism ever be eliminated?
In the hope that the w(omen)orld will become a better and equitable place with the conjoined efforts of all, I retire to contribute my bit.