The World of Oblivion

A gust of wind had hit her face as she was lying comfortably on her bed, when she opened her eyes. Her bed was placed right in front of the window. It had rained throughout the day but things had settled down now and all was peaceful. The night-sky was rubicund (for all the rain). There was no trace of stars. A pleasant breeze made the night more enjoyable. The clouds sailed by just the way waves of music float in the air. These clouds were not like the thunderstorm-clouds which one is scared of, but were the tranquil ones that one has always fancied touching. It was so serene.

She wanted to go away from all the madness just for a little while. This made her climb up on the window sill and jump high to catch the tail of a passing cloud. She wanted to fly away with it. The cloud was moving at great speed and her body hung to it, dangling. She grappled but managed to reach the top of the cloud. Every step that she took got buried into the cool, cottony substance. The wind was stronger. If it were not for the clouds holding her feet, she would have found it difficult to maintain balance. She had to wade through it.

She felt the clouds, the wind and the whisper of the wind blowing. The world seemed beautiful from here. No madness. She now stood in front of a mountain-sized puff of cloud. It was so high, that she could not perceive where the top was. She sat down with her back against it. The clouds were carrying her away, somewhere, and the thought of going back did not pass her mind. Her thoughts moved from one subject to another.... all random.....all muddled up. She got transported to her dream world, the world of oblivion.

Black

It was a cold and windy day, the kind of weather that can extirpate all one's strength, if one were to stay out for some time. The old woman's demeanor did not suggest that she could bear to be outside in such a harsh weather and yet she sat, with her head down, on the wooden bench in the park, without complaining, without a groan. She was dressed in black all over: black shoes, black trousers, black shirt, black overcoat and a black hat.  It was a gloomy day, not a soul in sight, as if all life had been wiped out from the face of the earth. Her presence added to the day's obscurity and her black attire to the effect created by the dark clouds.

Every now and then, my thoughts went back to the wizened old woman. Maybe she was waiting for someone. Maybe she will go back when she can take no more. What was she thinking? Why was she alone? Is there something I can do for her? What had caused her to look so shriveled?

Was it old age?  

Maybe she had nowhere to go.....

It Was a Blowfish...

They sailed past the island and were now somewhere in the middle of the archipelago. At the horizon, one could see that it was almost time for the ball of fire to get submerged into the waters and relinquish all the vigour with which it had burned during the day; this was considered one of the best hours of the day to try a hand at it. Everybody on the boat had a rod in their hands. Everyone was patient except one little girl. She had seen how Tom catches fish in her favourite cartoon and this always kept her under the impression that it was not a hard task. One just had to sit with the fishing rod in one’s hand, bait attached to its hook and it was only a matter of a few minutes before you see success; little idea did she have about the amount of force required to pull a fish up and that her lean arms were not apt for the job.

Her father was the first one to catch. It was a blowfish she had seen for the first time. They put it in one of those old-fashioned iron pails. It had a shiny black exterior speckled with white dots; the lower part of its body was white with yellow lines running through to the tail. The girl could see its gills throbbing.  It was jumping and bouncing; trying to do something that could get it back into the water, so that she can live a few more days, a normal life, so that it could be with its little ones for whom it had come in search of food. But, how could it survive when everything it was surrounded by was against it. The girl watched the fish flutter; something inside her, urged her to save it.

 Her watch ticked by, the fish had stopped all movements and was still, even the sounds made by it could no more be heard. The sun had gone down, the light from the tiny CFL under the boat’s shade added even more gloom into the atmosphere and a quaint silence prevailed all around.

Collective Stinging

Yes, it required immediate attention so I ran into mum-dad's room last night at 1 o'clock and quickly prodded dad out of slumber. After I came back to my room, I started examining my face again. There was nothing I could do right now to cure it. I had taken the medicine, but it won't go. It looked as if three bees had collectively stung different parts of my face. One on the upper lip.......one on the upper right eye lid....and the third on the lower left eyelid. I mean how would you feel if you woke up one fine night (or call it morning, if it suits you) to relieve yourself and instead find out that something more troublesome has happened? Your face has ballooned out; it has become swollen and started looking ugly with rubescence all over. You can't help itching. You don't even know whether it will ever go or not, leave alone the uncertainty about the amount of time it will take. So, you go off to sleep in a state of dejection; next day is a big day for you (Every day is big, so what if you are on a vacation?) and you are left with no other choice.

Next day, mum tells you that you look pretty and makes your situation even more arduous. You spot dad smiling secretly at your predicament. "Wow! Things couldn't be better than this.....What a life?!" You would say.
It is true that life is like that, so move on. Live your Big Day. Let nothing stop you!

PS: - The disease is called Urticaria in which red, itchy welts appear on the skin; and when on eyes and lips it is called angiodema ( and trust me it doesn't look very pleasant).

An Unexpected Loss

From somewhere in between the mountains a voice called out her name. The voice told her to go back and finish things she had left undone. She had been away from home for almost three weeks now and still did not want to return. She was running away from her own past. She was not the kind who has the courage enough to face hard times. Her loved ones had always told her that these escapist tendencies in her are signs of a weak soul inside. Not that she, had never tried to get rid of these bad qualities. At some point or the other in our lives, all of us have realized what is wrong and needs to be set right but have failed to correct it. It becomes a part of who you are, a part which requires great force to be pulled out.

She tried to divert her mind. She went to places absolutely unheard of (one probably sees them only in ones dreams), she saw things she had never seen before. But, nothing, no horse- rides, no walks through the orchards, no sipping of coffee on a cold morning, no feeding the birds, no sun setting behind the mountains, however fine the weather may be, however pleasant the breeze, nothing could make her forget. 

Every half hour she would be reminded of the good times she spent at home. She could hear the laughs and cries of her family, enjoying, calling her back. She would see people dancing on her sister’s wedding. She would see her mother telling her all the time to dress up well. Her father would pamper her. But when she would return home there would be no one there…. The house would be empty.

Why Do You Serve Us?

He was holding the tray tightly when he entered the hall. He had a red t-shirt and a pair of dark-brown trousers on, hair oiled and neatly combed in a side-parting. While he walked along the benches or served water to us, he remained expressionless. Every time he would see us communicate in English, his mind would be filled with all sorts of questions. It must have taken a lot of effort to learn a new language? He would try to make out what we were talking but without any success. He barely knew two-three words in English. He would also wonder what we wrote in exams or what they taught us in schools. Why did we study so much? What is the point in writing exams? Why did he never get the opportunity?

My first encounter with him brought a frown to my face. While I was engrossed in writing my paper he went around the hall, holding the tray in his hands. I had only momentarily lifted my head to look at the wall clock when my eye caught a glimpse of him. His presence made me uncomfortable and at the same time ashamed. This was not the place for him. The difference between him and me struck me. It was as if there is a huge valley between me and him, to cross which, would be a formidable challenge for him.

He was hired to serve, by people who claim to be committed to doing their best in imparting education!

I Miss You

They allow me into their world every time I open a book; and every time I do so it's as if my actual surroundings are sucked into and metamorphosed into the surroundings of the characters inside the book. I keep standing there and all the action takes place right in front of my eyes. I go slow, letting every detail sink in. I come to know the characters all too well and get a welcoming response. The more pages I turn, the closer we get. It gives a feeling that they are comforted by my presence; there is someone who is interested in hearing all that is happening; someone so impervious that all the emotions can be shared; someone who wants it to be a happy-ending for them.

I give it several days before I finish a book and so each day some small part of my life is spent with them. The credit lies with the writers, pouring in their chimera, that readers like me want to go back to a book.

If the mood is sunny; it is sunny for me; if it’s dark, it is dark for me. The days I don’t read, a gap is created. Someone goes missing. It feels so important to meet that person again. The connection that has already been created must not be severed. I will miss you Winston. I miss you Mellors, Scout, Jem, Connie, Julia.

Why then, do I always say I don’t have any friends?

If One were To Compare?

A Sketch of My Profile Picture

An Attempt to Sketch Nelson Mandela

Life is Short, Act!

We share the same birth-date. Perhaps that is why I can connect to her so much. I feel that we think alike. I see my childhood in her. The same long, dark hair; the same smile; the same eyes. Even though the age difference is vast; she seems to be much more mature. She can give answers to difficult questions. She can give simple solutions to complex problems. She is one of the smartest kids I have ever met.

That day we were sitting facing each other. She asked me whether I remembered a sketch of hers that I had made. I didn't but she did. Not only that, she has also preserved it. Never knew she valued it so much. So, I asked her whether the sketch resembles her. She at once told me that it actually does resemble her. I felt elated. I have some talent. She made me promise that I would resume sketching.

Why in the first place did I abandon doing it? I had all the time in the world; but I always thought that there was none. I promised. If I don't do what I like doing now the when will I? Life is short. Act!

Don't Let Go

She was walking towards him. Her walk had a rhythmic flow in it. It was bouncy and happy.
He had his back towards her and was engrossed in reading the newspaper.
She wanted to look her best today. After all, they were going to go out after so long. She wore a smile on her face. She was excited.
 He turned and noticed her coming. The look on his face was rather cold, not something she had expected. Never before had he been so withdrawn, she wondered, but continued walking. With movements of her hand she signaled that she would come and her happiness knew no bounds.
He gently nodded her away and just at this point the expression on his face turned to anger.
She couldn't believe it. Her eyes dropped. She turned away in dolor. Was it because of the other day? But that was because of no fault of hers. It was a mere misunderstanding and she had thought he would understand. She didn't feel the need to explain. He should trust her.
 And just as she had started to walk away, he ran towards her with full speed and caught hold of her arm. He wouldn’t let her go!

"It's no good! It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. 
You've got to stick to it all your life.
Only at times, at times, the gap will be filled in.
At times! But you have to wait for the times.
Accept your own aloneness and stick to it all your life.
 And then accept the times when the gap is filled in, when they come.
But they've got to come.
You can't force them." 
 -D. H. Lawrence

A protective shell is what is needed. It has started to develop already. The shell will reflect back all the negativity, negativity that can sear the heart. It needs to grow all around, all around. So used to it does one have to get that it doesn’t make a difference anymore and that is what should lead to the shell developing. But it has to reflect back negativity coming from all quarters not just one or two. So it needs to develop more, all around and grow stronger with time. The job isn't as easy as one thinks. Each time a new bond is made, the shell will have to renew itself and start the process of making itself stronger all over again. Inside it one will be all alone. One will be so brittle that one won't be able to do without the crust outside. One will have to be strong. Very strong!        

Running for the Unknown

I woke up in the morning and started running. If you were to ask me, I really can't say where. For what?

It's a race, I am bound to run. Because everybody is? What's the prize? The good of it all? I don't really know. None of us do. So, running. I am Running. I have lost all sense of time…. emotions…..  people ….or even myself..... all I can see, and all I can think is that I have to run. I am running in an empty space, no ground under my feet, no gravity at all. My speed is supersonic, but no air, can I feel, hitting my face. Or so I feel. I don't want to stop to look around. There is no time to waste. There is darkness all around. I can't see clearly. I need a guiding light. I need a direction.

 I want more of that world where there is some adventure every day. Where I get to explore new avenues, where I can stop a moment to hear the birds twitter and play, and see the flowers blooming. Where I can sit on the sand, on a beach, waves wetting my feet and I can watch the magnificent iridescence a sunset creates, where I have a whole day to spend with loved ones. Where I can laugh my heart out and say what comes to my mind. I crave for more of that wonderful world.

 I need a TIME-OUT, to resuscitate myself. Then, probably I will come and run again.

Everyday Woes of Every Girl

So, I was eating out, as I have a strong penchant for it, when this man entered. I didn't notice him at first. While I was busy eating, he came and sat at the table right in front of mine, perhaps so that he can get a good glimpse and he was looking at me continuously from that moment onwards. He was middle-aged, clean shaven and had an elephantine figure. The way he was looking at every movement of mine, it made me conscious.

Just for the sake of safety, I decided to leave after he did but to my disappointment he didn't budge even a little from his position. I couldn't sit there the whole evening, so I got up and rushed out of the door. The guard pulled open the door again and I knew that it was for the man. I became so sure of his intentions now. He was definitely after me. I was walking on the pavement and he was walking along the chain of cars that were parked along the road. I was taking small steps allowing him every with every opportunity to take me over. But when I slowed down, so did he. I was scared to the core now. “How can I dodge him?” I was trying hard to think. I turned and started walking in the opposite direction. I crossed the road.

Walking past a few people waiting for the bus, feeling safer, I stopped to have a cola candy. The ice-cream vendor had his mini television on. He obviously couldn't miss his duty for the World Cup Finale, but watching India win was no less important. And just as I tore open the wrapper, a silver car loomed in, next to the vendor's establishment.

"Oh ****! This is the same man." I exclaimed.

He pulled down the glass window, bought a brick of an ice-cream and paid the vendor. He was waiting. I was chewing (because I like to chew my ice-cream not because I was scared). The ice-cream vendor was wondering why the man was still waiting. I moved a little towards the vendor and there was more waiting, chewing and wondering. I pretended to watch the match.

The man finally started the ignition and drove over only to halt the car a little distance away. I saw the rear red lights of the car blinking, with my heart was pounding inside me. I couldn't walk on and I couldn't stay. What was I to do? There was a fear that if I will go the man will somehow catch hold of me and he wouldn't spare me, and then don't know what he will do. Tears were about to roll down my cheeks before which I gathered up the courage to make a move. My home was two minutes away. If only I could reach it without any hurdles, I will be safe. I crossed the road again. I walked on. I had to be quick. The car was still standing. The lights were blinking. I walked on. I reached, slammed the gate behind me and turned to see from in between the gates if the car had followed. There were no signs of it. I breathed a sigh of relief. I made sure the man wasn't there.

Friends scolded me for having gone alone. Maybe I shouldn't have, even though I like it. The man must have been a real pervert. This is what we girls face every day. The place has nothing in the name of security for us. This wasn't the first time I came across such a situation. There have been several such occasions, not just for me but for every girl in town. Even though I can't understand the psychology behind such behaviour from men, I know that we cannot stop. We have to go on with our lives without letting things like these affect us.

Hope

It was 1.30 in the morning. Lying on the bed with one hand under her supine head, Melissa was looking at the ceiling. The walls were pink and white. Pink never went with her personality and she had never wanted it. But, something made her like it at that point of time. It was adding some colour to her insipid and dull life; it was bringing an inexplicable relief to her senses. She lay wondering about her life achievements. She lay, thinking for several minutes. There were cobwebs on the ceiling corners. The ceiling fan was crying out for some cleaning. A lot of things needed to be changed. A lot of things needed to be reformed.

Melissa got up and sat cross-legged on the bed; her head bent down and her back crouching. She sniffed; looked up at her reflection in the mirror. Her face had thinned down; she had dark under her eyes. Her eyelashes were moist. In spite of all the sorrows, her eyes were refulgent.

What does she hear all of a sudden? There's a knock at the door!

Who could it be at this hour of the day?

"Who is it?" Melissa asked softly.

"Melissa!" She heard a familiar voice say, although she could not locate the voice.

She reached out to the door knob and opened the door.

It was............ "Her hope"............ "Her light"........ standing there; right across the door.

Whom We Never Notice!

(Chandrakali is a washer-woman working for me(this contradicts what I said in my previous post, if you were careful while reading it). She is an aged woman, about the age of Sixty (I must warn that I am not good at guessing ages, she might be older). She is plump. The skin on her face and hands is lax. She has grey hair with perhaps one or two strands of black ones. She is pretty fair (I presume that she must have been good-looking when young). She also has cataract because one can see those prominent white rings, one develops around one's cornea when one has the disease (and mom will correct me if I am wrong here). Her teeth are distorted and have spaced outm which is a sign of old age. She is always dressed in a kurta-pyjama. During winters she carries a dark-green shawl. She is loud and strident. She smells clean and she has an inveterateness of giving a bang on my door every afternoon(waking me from my slumber) and having a small palaver with me before getting to her job. So, I do entertain her. What follows is a conversation between me and Chandrakali.)


Chandrakali (tellingly): The first day I came here the landlord asked me how much I will charge him for my services. I was clear that I won't accept anything below Rs. 500. They have four members in the family. I'll be made to wash so many clothes. The Old Woman was indignant. She said I was doing nothing but extorting money. She sits the whole day and watches Television. She is earning so much money out of this P.G. and she cannot give me the small amount I asked for. After all, it’s us who have to do laborious work. We have to wash clothes in cold water. Can't we ask for this much?

Me (not knowing what to say but completely in her favour): Yes!

Chandrakali (changing the topic): Will you pay me for this month?

Me: Yes, two minutes I'll get the money.

(I take out the money from my wallet and give it to her.)

Chandrakali (with a smile): Can I get Rs. 50 advance. You can cut 50 next month.

Me (pulling out a 50 Rupee note from the wallet): Take it.

Chandrakali (thankfully, she puts her hands on my head to bless me): May God bless you. May you pass in your exams. May your parents be happy. May you do well in life.

Me (overwhelmed, still not knowing what to say): Yes.

Chandrakali: That was your mother (who came a few days back)?

Me: Yes.

Chandrakali (amused): Oh she is also nice!

Me: Yes.

Chandrakali: I'll get to work now.

(After several minutes pass I see her climbing up the staircase to the terrace. The heavy bucket of clothes in one hand and the other hand on her knee. She groans in pain but doesn't stop. )

The Natural Cycle

I'll be home tomorrow, finally. Since the day I came to Delhi to study, I never felt like I belong here. There was some force, always pulling me back home. I, now think that I have understood why so many Indians do not choose to settle abroad (even though they get everything they don't get in India). Most of them always return to their motherland. Those who don't, make me wonder how they manage to keep away.
I can't.

Dad told me over the phone that seeing my parents is also one of  my responsibilities The only reason that stops me from going back home is that I'll only find myself feeling miserable when I come back to Delhi.

I am in Delhi and I get used to those rickshaw rides and washing clothes everyday (some things I don't need to do at home). There are friends to hang out with (school friends have now made their own friends and we find it hard to get along). Above all, there's a purpose. That purpose is education (we all know its importance). There's more freedom (not that there's any less at home, Mom). There's nobody to tell you what to do. You are on your own.
Take a flight. Soar high into the sky.

Back home there's much more. There's Mom and Dad. What more can you ask for. I still remember the day when my tuition teacher told me that she was a topper in school yet she didn't go outstation for higher studies(without any regret in her voice, if I may mention). She stayed at home and did her graduation. She wanted to be with her parents. It left me wondering what made her tread along this path. She was brilliant; she could've done lots of things. I got my answer today. When your concern for your parents overpowers your aspirations, this is exactly what the outcome is.

If I always want to stay at home, then why can't I? 

But, there's something which my mom also acknowledges; and that is that these periods of separation has brought us closer. I've learnt to handle the world (there’s still to learn more). I've also understood that you can't give your hundred percent trust to anybody except your family. All of this would not have been possible, had I confined myself to that small world. So, I must return after all. This is the natural cycle. Babies are born, who grow up one day to leave their parents behind and make something of themselves. We see it in all animals and birds. So, I guess my parents are happy seeing me having reached that stage (almost).

Water balloons

"No, no, no, I refuse to stay in Delhi during Holi." That's what I told mom over the phone.
It's more than a week for Holi and they've started hurling water balloons at you. Go to the market and you are sure to be hit by "at least" one (unless you can make yourself invisible, of course!). It's difficult to step out of the house during these days of spat and splash, when children (no matter how big or small) are out on the streets hunting for a prey.

Unfortunately, today I was the one being victimized. Let me narrate the incident to you. It must not be very late in the evening, when I put on my slippers and set out to buy some goodies (my goodies include chips and chocolates, which I like to munch on every evening) for myself. I was enjoying myself, looking around at the trees along the route to the departmental store.
Suddenly, I see some kids speeding up towards me. There were about six or seven of them.  I was quick enough to get out of their way, lest they came crashing down on me. I am usually alert in such situations because I like to avoid any sort of public humiliation.

So, after they all ran by, I continued my journey to that temple of munchies (which I had been hankering for), dreaming about food. Three or four more steps and SPAT.
I was like, "Ughhhhh, this can't be a balloon?"

I turned around and saw them grinning from ear to ear. Ignoring them  I  tried to walk as fast as I could.

Another SPAT.

"What do these kids want?"

I sped up. SPAT.

"Oh no, hasn’t anybody taught them manners?"

By this time my back was all wet. I was flushed with anger. I ran inside the shop and after buying all I needed, I asked the shop-keeper to scold away that mucky bunch of kids. I contrived to reach back home after that.

All of this makes it more of a festival of dirt rather than of colors.

Next time you meet me, kid and you'll miss the shot. You just wait and watch.

PS: The writer was hit by an egg last year. (Oh no. You are guessing it wrong. It wasn’t the head.  It was the waist. Just to tell you the truth.)

Also, it would be good to tell, that she couldn't come up with a better onomatopoeias! So, if anybody who can come up with  a better word is most welcome.

What was "It" all about?

Ee had to walk past three corridors and climb two flight of stairs to  reach the classroom. It was her first day at the new school. She had contrived to get into the most renowned institution in town and her excitement knew no bounds. She hadn't slept all night, thinking what her first day would be like. How would the teachers and her classmates take her?  With  many questions in mind she had got dressed and set for school.

As soon as she entered the classroom, she could see some eyes looking at her with bewilderment. While she was looking for a place to settle herself, she intermittently heard kids whisper around her.
"Oh, perhaps she has gotten into the wrong classroom (sniff)" She heard a voice say. There was a kind of friendliness in the voice.

She looked around. Some girls were looking at her puzzled. The boys, busy among themselves. Then, as if out of nowhere, she she saw a girl emerge and she was now, standing in front of her. She had a round face with a fringe. Her eyes were jet black, her uniform was properly ironed and her shoes shone so brightly that one could see one's reflection in it. Overall, she was as prim as one can be. Neat.

" Can I sit next to you?" The girl asked.

"Yes, Of course, " replied Ee.

Five minutes.....Ten minutes.....fifteen minutes passed and the two girls were sitting quietly.

"Are you new? " asked the girl to strike a conversation.

.......................................................................................................................................................

And that marked the beginning of it. One day, they were supposed to write an essay on it. Whose names did they write? Each other's.

....................................................................................................................... Years passed by, and they are still together, in this world, where you don't get....................

These Bouts of Depression

Sometimes I get these unexplainable bouts of depression especially when there's a test coming up. So, what do I do? I straight away call my mom with the hope that she would ask me not to study and relax a bit......and this is what she exactly does every time.  Infected again by the same depression, which in all certainty was because there's a Macroeconomics test due on the 9th of March. So, after consulting mom and after a lot of fretting( because there was a feeling of guilt; as to how I could think of going out when there's so much to be done), I set out for Connaught Place.

I shopped and had lunch. On my way back, I was in line at the metro station waiting for the metro to arrive. There was an elderly lady right in front of me. She had short hair and was plump with a shopping bag in her hand and a purse on her shoulder. I didn't pay much heed to her at first because I was busy, more, in observing other people ( of all sorts) at the metro station.

The metro arrived and all of us got into it( the ladies' compartment). As usual everybody wanted a seat, so did I. Some were successful, some weren't. The same lady( I referred to earlier) and I were from the ones who didn't manage to get a place to sit. The lady seemed enervated and disappointed. The young and the thriving were seated but not one of them cared to offer her their place. I felt something inside me....it was the urge to go forward and ask some girls to make place for her; but at the same time something was pulling me back. I don't know what it was. It could be anything from disregard to fear or maybe incapacity.

Nevertheless, I engrossed myself into reading the book I was carrying in my bag. A few stations passed; some people left and some joined us in. I was still into the story. The next station was Kashmere gate which is an awfully busy station and also, this is the station where a lot of people get down from the Yellow line and you can hope to get a seat. This time when I lifted, my head my eyes went back to the same lady. Thankfully, she finally got a place to sit. I felt something inside, again, and this time without having to search for an answer, I knew that it was the feeling of relief that I don't need to see the lady standing anymore. What I also knew was that I should have gotten her a seat in the first place.

I resumed reading. After some more space was created I went over, sat beside the lady and continued to read. However, I could not stop myself from keeping a check at the lady from time to time. She was asleep now. Her head, resting against the glass panel at the edge of the seat.

So, I was in three worlds at the same time. One was that of the metro and the lady, the second one was that of the girl I was reading about and the third one was that of my thoughts which I gave to each one in turns. I was thinking what that lady was going through that made her look so debilitated. It's amazing how strangers can make an impact on your mind.

The train arrived at the university metro station and I got down leaving the lady still sleeping. She probably got down at some succeeding station. As for the novel, I am yet to complete it.

The bout of depression over; I must get back to work. Untill next time!

Power, Courage & Strength

Writing is a beautiful art. I have realized this of late. I am grateful to that one person( she'll hopefully know that I am referring to "her" here when she reads this) who somehow inculcated the interest in me. It's given me some kind of a power, courage and strength( please note that there is a difference in the meanings of these three words) which I shall try to explain.

I was always a quiet child at school. Still am to the amazement of people; even though I have grown up to be in college now. The reasons for this are very much unclear to me. I could never say things openly even to people who are close to me.There was always a fear inside my heart that I might hurt the other person which in turn would affect me. So, I stayed quiet and it became a habit. I was even tagged: "The Silent One".

I guess that this is the best platform I have got.I have always believed that one can make  difference in someone else's life by what one writes......and it is evident from what we read in history about the great Voltaire and Rousseau( the two figures from the French Revolution).What I cannot say, I will write.This is the power I have got.The power to make a difference. My self-confidence will be my strength and all of this will give me courage to go out do more than what is within my might. It also gives me a chance to explore my inner-self. There's a lot inside; which I am not yet aware of.

I want to learn!

Every morning at six one could hear mellifluous tunes flowing out of our house--Dad with his music player on would be shaving. I never understood classical music and it  always was  a nuisance to me and mom to bear the music every morning. Dad always told me that to understand the thing I must sway my head in line with the rhythm. I even remember that once when I found it difficult to sleep he had put on shahnai from the legendary Bismillah Khan Sahab and told me that it would bring sleep to me if I concentrated on the cadence; but I found it all the more insomnious. He always wanted to learn music and very modestly said, " If I can become even a fraction of what these people(the great classical vocalists and instrumentalists) are, I'll be satiated."
He tried to arouse the passion for music in me too, because he wanted me to do what he couldn't. I never paid any heed to his wishes. It was only when I was asked to give a solo performance in public that I learned how enriching it can be to sing for both the singer and the listeners( if the singer is right).
The passion did wake up in me and now I want to learn but its only the paucity of time thats stopping me.But, I will learn. Someday!

A Dying Language

I happened to speak to a friend one of these days and it so happened that I started talking to him in Sindhi, just with the purpose of annoying him because he wouldn't understand what I am saying because he is not a Sindhi. Sindhi is a funny language just as is English. Now, there are many words whose pronunciation can't be figured out just by reading them. In fact, once you know how its pronounced you'll still require a lot of practice to ge it correct.Like, dado, though it may seem simple, but to pronounce it correctly one has to be talented enough. It involves a queer synchronised movement of your tongue and the vocal chords in the throat. And, yes some of it has to come from the nose too.
I realised how interesting it would be to learn this language when I was trying to make my aforementioned friend understand how he'll need to employ all his phonetic skills to say this word.
Its a dying language unfortunately(even though its dying a slow death, but it is dying). My mother made uncountable attempts to induce me to learning it but all in vain. I don't blame myself completely for it. It was  also the influence of my cousins who were always strictly against learning it (for reasons I never understood).
Moreover, its not only Sindhi thats disappearing from people's memories, there are actually many more (That need to be preserved, as is obvious from the point I am trying to make and from my inclination to devote an entire article to the subject).
I think i'll try to learn the language and also teach my children(if ever there are any, that is) the same no matter how much they grumble or frown at it; because we need to keep alive our culture (if not traditions).
 PS:The two reasons that I can remeber which my cousins gave for not learning the language are:
one: People who wear cargos and talk in Sindhi are weird.( I was in full agreement with this at that point of time)
two: The language doesn't sound normal. (Normal is his favorite word he uses it for everything even for dal)

Why does this happen time and again? I don't know what the reason is; I can't figure it out either!
The first time it happened I was shocked. I tried everything but it didn't work. Then I thought that it was perhaps meant to be this way. I consoled myself....I told myself that I can't let this put me down. Life goes on, it doesn't come to an end. So, I tried to forget and was successful in covering up all the not so good memories by creating new ones, good ones.
 But, all of it came back to me the second time it happened. I was prepared but I had never expected it would strike back. This time the wound was more painful, it was as if someone has punctured my heart and it was oozing out blood refusing to stop. It took time to for me to recover. I learned my lesson. I learned how to stay alone. I started seeing things which I had been overlooking so far.So, in a way it was good that it happened. I was happy.
Again, it happened, and this time it was as if someone has cut me into two pieces.Nevertheless, I didn't cry this time.....I am still fighting.......I will fight no matter how many times it strikes........no matter how deep the wound is......I will fight.......
Because my brother once said: "Fight o' warrior 'cuz winner are born of sheer valour. There's hole where the heart should have been; but now you'll see what you've never seen!"