Aegis

A child in arm

nestling, for aegis

A man

bedding upon the home

draws a circle on the forehead

a line penciled, and then trots past

the woman-body moves

not beyond.

Tulsi plant tentacles

shading, hiding, patiently lending ears

Rangoli colors romance

the soul poured out in the courtyard,

as fingers snaked through.

stampede

outside the corridor, overheard

eyes wake

her long coiffure unknot,

gravid shoulder rises.

The slippers left the noise out

the door bolted behind.

##########################

p.b

n.b – the home becomes the centre point for every woman while the man sneaks out nonchalantly. She has the house to decorate, the babies to feed, none but to listen to her. Tulsi(line9): a herb; Rangoli(line 11): powder painting.

weekend shots

Waiting for Godot: Hope someday it’ll rain. In fact it seemed that nature was playing prank with us. So be it.

Last Sunday, out of no where, an opportunity dropped into my palm. I clutched it. A visit to Surat. Well, heard of the place quite a lot. And diamond city couldn’t be missed. Though the visit was purely professional, unprofessionally I clung onto my hubby’s sleeves. So, extra luggage packed and the journey began at midnight. We were waiting for the lensman to join us at Jamalpur Darwaja (one of the 12 gates once adorned the walled city of Ahmedabad), when Mother Nature roared, causing tree-felling in some parts, thunderstorm and the shower. Wait, I didn’t to hop out of the vehicle and there I was wetting my soul. Our journey thus blessed. Throughout in the dark, droplets and lightning made it a memorable night trip.

Morning yawned in Surat. Unlike Ahmedabad, Surat appeared traffic disciplined. The famous over bridges were a treat to my lenses. Drive, was a roller-coaster... Baby thrill zoomed. On one hand the political atmosphere in Surat was pulsating; on the other I was there with a childish wallop.

Surat came calling when a minor girl was gang raped and videographed by three animals post dawn. Now, that’s nothing new. 6 such cases are registered all over the country everyday. Most go unreported! This particular case forced every media man to be in their toes. The beasts were Muslims and had cop fathers. Voila! A perfect concoction to raise the bigoted religious war cries. 2002 is after all only seven years away… A leading Gujarati daily took the predicted lines to scream “Muslim Youths raped a girl,” in its front page headline.

Rumour mills began wheeling. Stories of the girl killing herself flew around. What next? If this had a grain of truth, riot was in the making. Adhering to the tradition, a local news channel ran breaking news of the victim’s suicide, until the family came up to clear the air.

But one thing for certain, unless you have the administration backing you, you can’t cook a riot. So it was peace time… People were out for shopping, chatting, malls wide open…all the hopes of seeing Surat shutting down vaporized in the sweltering heat. The busy Bhagal bazaar with its fruits, vegetables laden market spread out for our cameras. We obliged all of them. There was thin air of unevenness, yet things just seemed to flow...

But look how an issue can trigger off violence and hatred. This was my first hand experience. In Shillong too we have gone through strikes and endless curfews, tensions and unease silence but this certainly had a different smell. My hubby kept on coaching me not to react, to stay calm while trapped in any kind of ifs. But there was a time when the unconfirmed news of the suicidal attempt reached. The woman in me just couldn’t help choking.

Some say its for power, some call it perversion, but forcing oneself on any woman is just not done… not done…. To score brownie points on a rape…? Well, Bapu must have been proud of his kids now.

Billy Graham had said which was shared with equal gusto by our own Indian author Khushwant Singh: “I think when a person is found guilty of rape, he should be castrated. That would stop him pretty quick.” I was informed while on our return journey that the animals were just two steps from where we had been. It was not leaked to me for my sudden explosions. Bobitting! Not a bad idea.

For the raped one, its either silence with the soul wounded or a lifelong journey through ever questioning eyes… did they..? were you..? was it..? how..?Yesterday a national news channel asked another gang rape victim from Delhi to describe “the course of events” on camera… TRP certainly soared. Waiting for the day when journalists ask the victims how much of fun was “the incident…”

Sigh.

“Short of homicide, rape is the ultimate violation of self”-Byron R.White.

Surat seen. Diamonds lost the glitter. Thank god the event lost its spark too…

p.b

silence breeds...

On my way back from college, a thought rattled me. Was I being correct when I asked my students to be pokerfaced? Pre-graduate students and life to them is to chatter out all that is in their heart. Having nick named them “aunties”, continuous quacking is something I am getting accustomed to. Surprisingly though, within seconds they change their color! Tears and laughter fill in the classroom. Youthfulness relived.

 Hills everywhere put on the same look: fog followed by sunshine. That’s a thing you grow up with. If of course, you grew up in hills.

Amid the roar of the vegetable vendors, indecent cry of the horns, meandering thoughts seem to waver away. The thought, that all that you say is being marked and getting imprinted in someone’s used diary, the teacher in me shudders with fear. Hurting someone cannot be just a jest. Most practice. Scary!! Isn’t it? But then one needs to get used to it, when in a city.

 Frames get larger with experiences as we grow old. In the process we do get hurt, limp and begin to walk. That’s what we do. To our young ones, how does it suit when we are approached with queries we shoo them, saying poor you, know nothing! Many have done so.

Angularity is the prerogative of success.

Gujarat, through my bespectacled eyes is an overgrown village draped in a bollywoodic nine yards. It proudly exhibits its libertine face in malls, plazas and high-rises. Make way for yourself in the crowd and your drapings would be touched, the price would be asked. Your salary interests everyone! And mind you these are NOT personal questions here. Did we hear somebody scream privacy? Which bird is that???  So welcome yourself to the Global Indian village.

Greeting people is again one of its kinds. Utter your gods name, you are done! The lips hardly part otherwise. Access denied.  The smile vanishes ones you say or do otherwise.

Question faith and you are on your way to be the next Christ at least halfway to the Cross. Thank God nails are expensive. Well, everyone is happy to swim about in this shallow pool. Everyone is invited. Vasudhaiba Kutumbakam.. here every story ends in khadu peedu ane maja kidu (ate drank and made merry).

Look around in the most crowded corner in any road here. There has to be a food-court. Look at the man attracting all the attention, he must be a share dealer.

Food, share market, green notes…these knock out the natives.

From Harshad Mehta to Ashok Jadeja. The journey never ends. Meet the Visa Consultants. The most worshipped deities, fuelling prayers far fervent than Jadeja could ever do. English speaking coaching centers beget them. After all, speaking English lets you to be powerful. Dinosaurs Sanskrit is fossilized only to be flaunted ones in a while like a Paleolithic war tool. After all, none of the ancient languages are spoken in Pizza Hut or Café Coffee Day (CCD).

 When Ahmedabad came calling, hopes to venture out with my dream seemed fulfilling. First step to a classroom, I had to rest myself! Graduates, under graduates were mouth-shut. They had no idea about their country but aspired to take off to overseas countries! Peacock becomes the favorite animal! Thank God, buffalos haven’t flown as of now. Not as yet…

I knew I was in for more surprises than I had ever assumed. Subtracting my personal growth, I had to just encircle the pay day, collect my cheque and dissolve into the crowd-polluted city street.

Running against the tide continues…

Friends. Family. Call out. Facing same question day in and day out-when would we be back?

Fearing to pass on the dilemma and not so good experience of fazing off in a shell, silence breeds in the shelter of my body, the soul encaged.

___________________________________________________________________________________

p.b

kaala ratri

Kaal raatri,maha raatri, moharatrischa daruna…

Pulsates in my heart. MAHALAYA ploughs the soil of my soul. My wings unfurl and glide me towards my homeland. The greenery, the splashing sound of Sati falls, the silent walks across Ghora lane. Pure. Romance. Gardened by budded love.

The term kaala raatri made understood now. Its been pretty out stretched.

Heat beats the hell out of you. And this time bracketing aside north east, everywhere else in the country sun God is dispensing his wrath. Clouds are on a blissful summer break. Wonder when the vacation would be over!

I have always understood one thing about the place I live in. It is a star-crossed land. Even the rain God isn’t too sure to step in. (The state-head claims otherwise though).  Very few are chosen to perish.

We drip our sweat irrigating our lives.

Have seen and understood a lot in the 3 scores breathing period. Difficult it seemed to explain why I was a meander. Cradled in the whirlpool of thoughts: Always. Every pujo (Durga Puja-popular amongst Bengalis), the smell of the cold breeze just missed. While in the parental threshold, visiting pandals impregnated claustrophobia. Now: Well, there is just a pandal to rush to. And. I don’t feel like returning home. I love the crowd! So much has changed.

2 months prior to pujo, Bengali families would begin their shopping, just like one does before Christmas. Planning, listing out, checking out on the wallet. I did it too. Shopping spree par se was a festival before the actual three day long pujo. Display of the things bought a ritual. The chill in the air just hinted the sounds of dhaak (the drum). There was an unexplained feel of the autumn. A welcome song reverberated from the pinetops to greet mother Durga. Something smelt good. The feel. So strong.

Growing up in a vibrant locality, pujo greeted any &every one with gusto. There was this sweet smile that Maa brought along as she landed in the pandal. Friends popped out of nowhere and everywhere. Love resonated. Dhaak tintinnabulating across. An atheist too would rise up and take a step or two towards the pandal. Maa is here to visit her parents. Look at her well- coached children accompanying her.

Half a decade and a year passed. Dhak pulsates in mind now. No arati. Just a brief darshan. Clay idol. Glitterati overhauls. Munching mouth overcrowd. One doesn’t need to cook at home. Fish, chicken, egg-whatever: please order. Professional networking… a little business; pure fun of course. The fervor mashed under feet as one strolls across eyeing eateries and salivating on decked up youngies. Maa no longer seen.

Heavy heart.

Pujo ends amid everyday work. I just hold my husband, cushion my heavy heart on his. Next day back to work.  Just me and him.

We inhale. Amdabad(the natives like it this way!) air helps us cancel another day.

Every ambitious youth from every next door have left their threshold. Standing on the platform, waving at their childhood days, pain must have clouded them too.  The ever-running metro life shaving off nostalgia. Call of the belly. Remember?

 Somewhere, someone had said- ‘things get better once you give in.’

 As of now the words put to use as a good quote.

p.b

the tunnel

Last night, a mythical creature crept into my bed. It took me in its virulent embrace, crushed my ribs and made a paste of my flesh. Liquid, I flowed out. The monster watched with disdain.

I remember the weight of the snake on my chest, its bone crushing chill. Eyes, dim. Not really doing what it was… bells rang somewhere…. Amid misty dawn it kept on crushing me until I was… I was and was not beyond that.

Close by a young priest sang a hymn.

The snake waited… destined to wait… wait and crush… crush until eternity.

Gods made a mistake and they corrected it. When Nahush fell on the earth, it was raining. After an eternity, it does not rain anymore. A blurred thin line demarcates the forest and the desert.

His vision retains the curse.

Did they look into his eyes as they drove the nail in his palms? Did father look at his children?

Back in my slumber, Nahush did not see me. He was just waiting. Weighty wait went on till the day woke up. I was no more.

Someone has stolen the balance from Yudhisthira. It would take a while before he finds his way in the forest now. For the time being, we’ll have to wait. Nahush will have to wait. And the rains…

They say Monsoon will be early this year….

At the hilltop temple, the deity for now has gone out for a dive in the sea… Radha loves pearls!!

db

never calls

Almost 3300 kms covered. Pine Hills, virgin ravines peeping and giggling from one hill to another, 17 degrees; chirpy chilly wind deafening the ears, cold yet vibrant café’s, verses in guitars and poetry on tea cups- Shillong swarmed in life. Black and white flashback.The kites now fly overhead, covered faces, smog-clouded streets, Sabarmati flows sidelined with bollywood songs and jagraatas in the background. Patellia rules in this part of the land. 

 6 long years of waiting. Waiting to go back. Hopefully, unlike waiting for Godot... We reiterate to each other everyday when Ahmedabad bedlam wakes us up. A stroll of a peacock with his 5 queens in our backyard is the only delight. Cup of tea sipped and kick started the day..

After all its the call of the belly. And here we are. Roasting ourselves in the sweltering heat.There. Rains weary off the denizens.

The door to a chalky city unbolted... 

Opulence strikes on your face. Zooming big cars deafens the silence of the night. What was that car? A Chevrolet? A Merc? The tiny little small town girl grows up. Market is booming.Market. The all pervasive, the ultimate, the supreme. Boom! Students have evolved to compare your care with the others in the market. 200 years of Darwin… indeed!!

Nights: sweltering heat brings in chilly frozen tears. “You think too much.” “Do I?” “Do we?” By any chance can we get over with our thoughts? The nights in any case deepens, darkens our ceaseless haunting thoughts. Can nights be blacked-out?

The process of growing up in a big city- a compulsion. Conflict breeds and braids poetry. We live. Muses after all are by far the most amusing and most often the boring breeds of all human forms .Banters my husband . swallowing. 

Standing on the balcony: the only outlet for a small town woman now. The world yawns here. Emotion gets stifled. Obnoxious odor of politics insinuates the ones uncorked soul. You are in the news making mine, my dear.The incessant flow of breaking news on the background, Barkha Dutt, Prabhu Chawla...Bla bla bla never stops.T.V is all puissant, husband's soul mate after all. The keyed toy just walks in to disturb the peaceful date of the two- one the animate the other the inanimate.

Time has worn a new face. A bridal move. worry thickens. what next?

“I am a poet too.” voices out my soul. I want my writing there too. Printed.

The affinal bonding didnt just stir up my personal being, every thing connected to me rippled. My publishers address, my favourite college students, my favourite work place, my native. All have been left behind. 

Most North-Easterners believe that its good to move away from the eastern side of the country. Growth surmounts.

 PART1. PERIOD.

Does it really?

 PART2.Growth definitely has stumbled upon us. We have grown up to see different faces of our species. Ones you land in Delhi, you grow up. Up your sleeves, your visciousness in your eyes. YOU dictate. you meow, you are sold-upright. Thankfully, unlike my father who was robbed off in Delhi railway station for his sheer display of naivity, my husband called the shots through the claustrophobic Delhi streets till we boarded our train to Ahmedabad. Weeping within for having heard slangs that never travelled across my mouth, my journey to womanhood began. 

Six years have rolled on. Ahmedabad streets still alien,people still not befriended, food not yet tasted. We spend sultry evenings in our solitary trees and wait for the rain to wash off our tears. Our native never calls upon us. 

The patience of waiting is gradually fleeing somewhere amid the concrete jungle. loneliness breeds in our terrace garden. It crawls into our bed. Tears too don't roll any longer. our breath is louder than the sounds of the cricket outside, singing the song of night.

Bereft of motherly love, the two lost souls ride on the back of life trying to pull the string and manipulate the move of destiny. We look at each other and laugh out at our foolishness.

Kankaria lake opens for public view amid tight security...

pb

wait....

Familiarity begets distance. Or distance familiarity…? 12 years is a long time. Intermittent rains…scorching heat… at one point everything seems to be same.

Did it rain last night? Or was I dreaming?

Dead pines have left their cones. Someday they may germinate… weeping willow whips the air… for now.

Some things never go away. Remember, last-time you had cried over whisky. Things just refuse to fade out. In fact nothing goes. Stars of midnight are all there… buried in sunlight. Did the grand old man say this? Of course he did. Who cares… now I am saying this.

Up in the market, they just sliced the lamb.

The meaty fatty one did not make a sound. It was dead long back. Knives only made the meat accessible. Flys celebrate the stench… dogs, the bones thrown.

The ascetic had prayed to the deity. Let lambs grow on trees. He is a vegetarian, walking around the countryside barefoot in his tattered white robe.

The crook has struck a deal. This time he wont fail. Dogs and lambs look the same once you skin them.

The dainty girl is horrified. “They actually kill and skin a lamb for its meat?” “But kebabs are so yummm.” Mixed emotions I think.

The boozer is a little dazed. Lamb steak is great… what’s the fuss all about.

Christmas years away.

db