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!