Like Mother, Like Daughter

Don’t make your life out of some else’s
Don’t do that I will tell my daughter
Why daughter and not children you ask?
Because it is what women are taught to do
And hence are more susceptible to

But what do I tell my mother
who has already done that?
I am everything to her,
along with my brothers
I am to her what my career is to me,
what good books are and poetry
And I find it impossible to believe that I can fulfil
the aspirations and dreams
That she substituted with me,
When I can't fulfil enough of mine.

She takes pride in my each step,
as if it is my gift to her
But it is only what she gave me,
her breath, repacked
A gift I repay, in silent shrugs and curt replies.
I tell my friends I am Gogol from the Namesake,
Like him not knowing why my parents named me.

Trupthi, Contentment I am to them,
just with my existence,
And that seems to blow my mind,
coz after all my tries
I haven’t found contentment yet,
never in my grasp
I only lapse
in doing all that
I can with my breath.

She gave me warm smiles and warmer food.
She gave me her truths
with equal measures of lies
To keep me from crying,
She picked my slack when she could have left

Taught me that she wanted me to do all
that she couldn’t
That if I was right
she would stand by my side
No matter the opponents,
Mostly that is the only kind of courage
a little girl needs for her dreams.

She has made her life out of
caring for me, praying for me,
a courtesy I sometimes
Don’t do enough to deserve
but she doesn’t seem to mind
it’s a quality of her kind,
but I can’t see why.

Since I can’t figure it out
I think it dangerous, an oddity.
To love someone more than
your wants and needs
To love someone even when they insist
That disappointment is all they can give.

But maybe when I have my daughter,
a little one of my own
Something like a poem,
which is credited to my soul and name
Maybe I will make her my life
And will be a hypocrite for telling her
to not do the same.

The Gratitude Poem

To the boy in the train who sold me this Ferrari last week, while saying “chalta bhi hai, Jalta bhi hai”
To the CA course, for making me desperate enough to start TPC,
To the girl who wrote us a thank you mail last time, you are the fuel to my soul
To the guy who has visited all the countries in the world and still personally replies to my fan mail.
Thank you.

To my mother for never losing her sense of humour even when there was nothing to laugh about
To books for connecting me to my soulmate, Kurt Vonnegut you died too soon,
To the girl on youtube trying to make strangers smile,
To my brothers for discovering me after all these years.
Thank you.

To Facebook, For making meeting strangers easier
To TPC, for teaching me that human connection is exhilarating
To anyone who was strong enough to write a thought down, so that I could say I get you
To myself, for realizing that I deserve nothing, this is all a gift.
Thank you.

Equal

We are retold so very often
By folks our parents’ age
How we are all the same
Restless, wired up mistakes.

It is not as they say,
You are not me or the other way
Never has a generation come along
So wanting to be different

We aren’t turning out to be alike, I realize.
In appearance or otherwise
But every time I cry
From the misery which bias tags along
I wish we do.

Don’t get me wrong, I like being special too.
But I don’t want to be separate.
I’d rather be alike.

Alike.
No glass ceilings holding me back
No eve teasing scaring me
No history to prove wrong
No closed doors to step out from

Alike.
When you can’t make out whether I am a woman or a man
Would love at first sight still count?
When you cannot make out whether I am black or white,
Would you really be thinking of ways to hurt?

Alike.
I wouldn't mind that quite
To not love based on race, status, façade, gender.
I want to fall in love without love laws
I want to fall in love with what you have or have lost.

Alike.
When I am done falling in love with your story
Then maybe you can tell me your gender
So that I can figure out whether I am straight or gay.
Instead of having to start out the other way.

Alike.
Viewing the world as a blind person does.
Without any presumptions to make on sight.
Maybe, make a little with smell and noise.
But mostly on chatter and poise.

Alike.
When I hold your hand in mine,
And when I raise that hand to make a line
Or drop a blow, I recall that we are fellows
Identical but with different truths.

Alike.
Maybe someday I will more than brown
And my mind will be more than my body
Maybe someday everyone will finally see me
And I will know what the word equal means.

Why I write

To be the thing they call “timeless”
Like the night sky full of stars or a kid’s laugh
It will always move you, no matter your age
or the era the world exists in.

To be the thing they call “soothing”
Like a bowl of khichdi or a nap on my mother’s lap
It will always relieve pain some, no matter the hurt
Or the wars the world dwells in.

To be the thing they call “pointless”
Like a walk down memory lane or the pursuit of art
It will always be worthless but for your soulmate
Or the world that values pain

To be the thing they call “beauty”
Like an overcast sky or a gorgeous man
It will always vanish but in the eyes of the beholder
Or the world that the writer creates.

To be the thing they call “history”
Like a sculpture or Rembrandt’s paintings,
It will always be relevant as an evidence of humanity
Or a world that changes with every blink.

And I write to remember every moment that made me sigh.

(Inspired by an artcile Why I write - by Reginald Shepherd: http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/why-i-write)

Dogs

When I was a little kid, I hated anything that moved besides humans. Actually, some humans too. I was never an animal lover and this feeling magnified after the following incident.

I was "blue house" prefect in the fourth standard. And prefects in my school wore white uniforms. Everyone else wore brown uniforms. So I was pretty cool in shiny white shoes and my shiny white pleated dress and my blue tie. I usually walked to school with my brothers or my friends through a 'galli' which took me 10 mins to reach it.

It was open house day. My brother, my mom and I were walking to school when I suddenly remembered that I had left free coupons to buy story books at the school book sale at home. I insisted we all walk back home but since my brothers had pretty much learnt to ignore me by the time I was 9, my brother refused, saying that he was late for the open house. So I suggested that I would walk back myself and get them while they could go ahead and I would meet them in school. It was a mere suggestion. I didn't think in my wildest dreams that my mother would agree. She did.

So I walked back home quite easily, picked up my coupons and started on my way back. When I entered the galli, I noticed some sinister looking dogs checking me out. The galli was full of them but it also had houses so I knew I was safe and nothing would happen. I started walking. They started following me. I thought it was their normal path to take to their usual loitering business so I continued. But then a thought struck me, a terrified 9 year old in white uniform seemed like the perfect target for loitering sinister strays.

So I started running. I think that is what I do when I am scared, I run. So I did. And to my horror, the dogs started running behind me. About 4 of them.

When I narrate this story I make sure, it sounds like a story of terror because it is. When my brother repeats the story, (which he of course does) it sounds like a funny one. It is not a funny story.

So I still remember with vivid details, the dogs running behind me and I running for my life. After a good 2 minute run which seemed like a lifetime, I fell on something that was metal. I hurt myself and was bleeding profusely, while simultaneously crying like only 9 year olds can. At the top of my voice.

The dogs stopped near me and were about to bite me to pieces. (The dogs stopped near me and started sniffing me.)

When my saviour arrived, dressed in a blue saree, she threw a stone at the dogs. The dogs ran away. She picked me up and saw my knees and elbows bleeding. My uniform looked like it had been washed in blood. My shiny white uniform was red.

But I survived.

PS: I did get tetanus injections though. And my brother has been repeating that story ever since. But I survived.

Arun

Arun walked home from school everyday. Alone. He liked his friends and played with them all day. But the walk from the school to home was his journey to make.

Why? Because he took a lot of detours and his friends were too hungry to accompany him every day.

His mother worried when she saw him returning, later than all the other boys. She asked him why he was late. He said he walked slow. His mother worried.

So one day she walked to school and watched him leave.

She was curious. She had been a kid once. She had a world she lived in. When touching every railing, every wall on the way home was necessary, deciding which route to school she should take. There weren’t men she was afraid of. It was the dogs. She loved her white uniform. She was proud of being prefect. In school, obedience was the ultimate duty. Being a kid was nice.

He walked like her. With a skip and a hop. Like there was some jazz playing. He stopped to stare at flowers in the cracks of stone. And walls with drawings. He removed a pencil from his pencil box and drew a house. He loved drawing on walls. Her house was proof. The house was made with two windows and a door. Also, a mountain and a sun between them. Then he walked some more. Stopped near a puddle of water and pretended he was fishing. She laughed.

Then he went some more, stopped near a bunch of elderly vegetable vendors, smiled at them, took a free carrot and walked along. She was worried, the carrot was unwashed. Maybe he’d fall ill.

Then he sat down on a ledge and dangled his legs. Then looked up straight at her.

“What are you doing?” “Nothing. I came to school to pick you. Teacher said you already left. So I was walking home. What are you doing here?” “Nothing. Waiting for you. You shouldn’t wander alone.” “I am the adult here, kid.” “Okay, if you say so.”

And then he jumped from the ledge and held her hand.

He wasn’t like her. He didn’t need his mother as much she has needed hers. And as much she needed him.

But he needed something else, she realized. He needed mountains and the sun. He needed the water. He needed old wise men around him.

This cold world with manufactured mountains, blocked sun, artificial lakes and broken families was not enough for him. So he was creating his own.

When a woman smiles

She was sitting on the beach, writing. She was afraid of water but she loved watching it. She loved all dreamy things.

He walked past her, and then turned. The hair tied in a bun. The slight tilt of the head. The eyes staring into nothingness. The tattoo on the neck. He walked back. “Hi.” He said. She threw her head back and looked at him with one eye open. He smiled his most charming smile and plopped down next to her.
“I am Aditya. You live here?”

Always too eager.

“By here if you mean the beach then I only wish I could.”

Unwanted company never made her happy. He looked like he wanted to say something then thought better of it and kept silent. Finally, after some silence she closed her book and got up.

“I should get going. Nice to see you.” She smiled. And he knew he would like her. It was one of those few brilliant smiles that lit everything up. Only cliché about her.

“See you around. Do you come to the beach often?”

“Whenever I can, and whenever it isn’t too crowded.”

Then she turned and walked away. He wanted to stop her and talk to her. He stared sat her till she walked to the road. The legs in shorts and just the right amount of curves was what he noticed the most. He turned and looked at the water. It was turning out to be a pleasant Sunday.

A sudden urge gripped him. He had to know that he would meet her again. So he got up and ran faster than he knew he could. He reached the street and there she was, walking away. He casually caught up with her. She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. He had never been more embarrassed. Just as he was wondering what to say, she gave him a smirk.

They talked about inconsequential things for some time. Then he finally asked, “Your name is? Sorry if I am intruding.”

“Anya. Don’t worry; I’d kill you if you were troubling me.” She winked. He gasped and then laughed too hard. Trying too much.

They walked for sometime in silence. She stopped outside a building. She asked in a suddenly animated voice, “Have you seen the water from up there? It is hauntingly beautiful. I go up there once in a while. You want to come along?”

He knew he had a chance with her. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t like tall buildings. He said, “I’ll come. Don’t really have anything to do.” A doubtful shadow then crossed his face. “But isn’t this the haunted building? No one’s lived here apparently.”

“I know. And that is what makes the view all the more surreal. There’s only water and rocks below. Nothing else.”

She took his hand and led him. He followed. He felt he knew her. She drew him in. She raced to the top laughing her enchanting laugh. As he walked behind her all he could think of was how beautiful her body was.

They reached the top and like she said; it was stunning.

He turned to look at her. She pointed towards the corner of the building and they sat there at the edge. They listened to the rhythm of waves for some time. Then he said,” You are beautiful. Your eyes gleam.”

She looked at him with a distant look, “I said that to a guy some years back. His eyes gleamed too. I really loved him.”

“What did he say?”

“He called me fat.”

Then he remembered. Tania.

When he fell, the last thing he saw was the wicked smile and the sexy body.

Next morning, the newspapers had a small mention of a suicide from a haunted building.
“Now he’ll know not to call a girl fat.” She smiled.

Mother

The last time the mother saw her daughter, it was the train.

There was that one careless moment when she looked away. She doesn’t even remember what it was that caught her attention.

It was late. She was working late that night. She remembers.

She remembers that steady blowing wind. She remembers her tired, sleeping daughter. She was holding on to her. Then as her daughter fell asleep, she lay her on the train seat. With her head in the mother’s lap. But then. There was that one moment that she would regret all her life. When she looked away. And her daughter wasn’t there anymore. She yelled frantically for her.

That split second when she looked away.

But then there was something she forgot. Or overwrote.

The last time the mother saw her daughter, it was the front seat of the car.
There was that one careless moment when she looked away. She doesn’t even remember what it was that caught her attention.

It was late. She was working late that night. She remembers.

She remembers that steady blowing wind. She remembers her tired, sleeping daughter.
The mother doesn’t remember the truck that she didn’t see. She doesn’t remember the car she slammed into. She doesn’t remember the part where her daughter died.
There was that one moment that she would regret all her life. When she looked away. And her daughter wasn’t there anymore. She yelled frantically for her.

That split second when she looked away.

The Little Girl

“Murder!” She screamed.

Ah! The damned woman. Never could keep quiet, could she? He pretended to be alarmed and surprised too as he saw what lay on the floor.
The body of a little girl.

As the woman continued shouts of murder, he stood there staring at the familiar body. The beauty of it. The beauty that he didn’t see when it lived. She, he corrected himself. Now that she was dead, she was more real for him than she ever was.

“Oh my god!” muttered a neighbor. “Who is she?” The fat one with the apron asked.

“I don’t know! We entered the house and there she was. Why would someone kill a stranger in our house?” The woman’s voice made him want to strangle her sometimes. That thin quivering voice.

The little girl had a deep one. A soothing deep voice.

The woman made the whole scene, a pity show. It shifted from being the death of a little girl to a dead body in her house. He hated her. Someday, she would die at his hands, too, he thought.

One good thing that came from the ruckus was he didn’t have to do the dirty work. Somehow the police turned up. Somehow people who were not even around when he and his wife reached home to find the girl were giving statements about it.

He smiled. The girl deserved more. The little girl with the pig tails and the torn dress.

She had lived on the same street as all of them for years now. All of them had just conveniently forgotten her. Like he had.

He went and sat on his rocking arm chair. He was too old for this now. He was happy he had done away with the children and could drink beer without the permission of the missus.

Every day on his way to work, he’d toss a coin to the girl as he chatted with her and answered her harmless questions. He didn’t once pay attention. He didn’t once look into her eyes. He should have. Then he would have known. Then maybe he could have saved her. Maybe, he could have talked her out of this.

But he was selfish. Wasn’t he? He never thought he’d care if a girl killed herself. A girl no one cared about.

But he cared. He did.

So he reached for the gun in his drawer. As he stood facing the window and felt the nozzle of the gun on his temple, he felt a memory rush back to him.

“Do people care about each other?”

“They don’t. They pretend to but they don’t. One of us would otherwise have picked you and given you a home. But have we? Because we don’t care.”

“So it wouldn’t matter to anyone if I died?”

“You are a tramp, my child. It wouldn’t matter to my family if I died.” He scorned.

“So I’ll kill myself then and see if it matters.”

He ruffled her already ruffled hair and said, “Go ahead. Try it.”

“Mind it if I do it in your house?”

And as he tossed her a coin, he nodded and said, “I do not mind. Just don’t mess up the place too much.”

He pressed the trigger. He hoped no one would care about his death. Not as much he had cared about hers.
That little girl with the pigtails and the torn dress.

Afterlife

I had this severe pain in the left side of my head. My head throbbed. I continued working hoping the head ache would stop. 10 minutes into work, I knew I needed a drive. So I got up and left.

I was 29. Horrible, I know. I need to really start smoking.

I lived alone in a fall-on-your-face-and-you’ll-probably-hit-your-head-apartment, without my parents who found it perfectly fine to die when I turned 18. Yes, they left me no siblings. The aunts and uncles and cousins were all perfectly too annoying.

As all these depressing thoughts passed my head, I found myself near the elevator. As I waited for the torturously polite elevator to finish its pleasantries on each floor and reach mine, the Greek god of my office walked right up to me and said, “I think you dropped these.” As I smiled at him and extended my hand, a strip of anti depressants fell into my hand. I looked down and said, “But these aren’t mine.” I swear they weren’t. But he smiled and walked back.

Asshole.

I mean what does he think of me? Yes, I am not exactly chirpy but come on, I wasn’t on anti-depressants.

Maybe I should take it.

The headache was worsening.

I reached my pityingly small car and sat in it. Seriously, did I look depressed?

I took a quick reverse out of the parking lot and drove onto the main road. After a physically torturous 10 minutes in the traffic, I reached an absolutely empty road. And I drove like a maniac.

It felt nice. The wind in my hair. The absolute freedom of an empty road.

Then crash. Boom. Pow.

Dead as a doornail.

Holy shit. One time I drive recklessly and you kill me!

Okay, wait! How was I still talking? I mean, in my head.

I was dead. I somehow knew it. I was still there on that hauntingly empty road. But just that I wasn’t there. As in my now-should-be smashed car and my mangled body wasn’t. But I was.

This is confusing, I agree.

And as I stood there with a bewildered expression, I realized the left side of my head still hurt.

But they said there was no pain after death. Aw, crap! So they were lying.

I walked on that empty road.

If I had to choose between whether this was heaven or hell, I would say hell, alright. This place was empty except for me. Maybe only I sucked at living.

Then absolutely out of nowhere entered a man. A man with boyish eyes. A man with a crooked smile.

My ears. Violins did start playing. The street did fill with colours.

A man who seemed like he was waiting for me.

“Anya? I was waiting for you. Thank God, you are finally here. Hi, I am Aditya, your soul mate. Sorry, we couldn’t meet in life. I kind of died young” He said.

I knew it! My soul mate had died! I wish I could tell all the people that once mentioned that I was meant to die alone.

Okay, technically they were right. But whatever.

Oh, by the way, the lies about love are all true. All pain does vanish, music does play, and yes, you do start believing in life. Sorry, after life.

Colours

She sold superstition and love. On the streets of Mumbai, she lived, she dreamt, she slept, she worked.

Her mornings began with yellow and green. Scanning the cars and rickshaws, she’d head for the open windows, sleepy eyed. She’d sell them hope in a string. They would buy it. Superstition was too cheap to buy, anyway.
When the sky was a little red and when wants had been ordered for, from the immortal one, they’d hope other mortals wouldn’t hinder the delivery. Hence the nimbu-mirchi.

She’d saunter around looking for the regulars. Hanging the string without a word, taking her change and walking off. With some she’d have to haggle. She always won though. How lower than Rs. 5 can you go anyway?

In the evenings, she’d sell some red. She’d look for the alone man or woman who wasn’t lonely. The ones who had a strange smile on their lips. They were easy to spot. They always bought her roses.

That’s how she spent her days. It seemed there were only 3 colours in her life. Red, green and yellow. When the signal turned red, her work started and momentarily stopped when it turned green. She’d sleep on the street when all the lights were yellow till they became red again. She sold the wares as solutions, as a remedy to problems, as a gift. To the hopeful.

One night, she sold her last rose to a boy. A boy with green eyes. And in the moments that followed, she was the one being handed the rose. He smiled at her and ruffled her hair. And as the rickshaw drove off, she smiled too.

He was what she waited for everyday. A splash of rainbow to end the day with. Suddenly, there were more colours to look forward to.

He came diligently every night, bought her a rose. And some happiness too.

One day he came with another woman in the rickshaw. He was holding the woman's hand. And as the girl sold him the rose that day, she knew she wasn’t going to get it back.

The signal was still red. She turned to walk away but lights of yellow crashed into her.

She fell back on the street, her eyes closed from all the pain. She noticed the street turning red with her blood.

It turns out some people don’t observe colours as closely as she did.

A lesson in verses: Part Three - I believe you, book!

I do not remember when I first read a book but I fell in love.
Head over heels, it was how love was to be. Inexplicable.
Every time I held her in my hands, I’d go weak in my knees
I needed to sit down for some time as I immersed myself in her beauty.
I spent hours looking at her, listening to her complain and rave.
I was mesmerized with her smell, her joyful contours
My hands on her. What more do I need?

She spoke and I was eager to listen, she was shy sometimes.
Slowly revealing her course. Passionate at others,
Passion seething out of her as she explained her views to me.
I would do nothing but listen, listen with my ears, my heart, and my mouth too.
My mouth agape at what she would say and what I would hear.
Its fiction some would say, she makes it up. I would push them away.
They hadn’t held her in their hands, caressed her with their touch. They wouldn’t know.
She was the truth.

She introduced me to my world again. I had seen the grass already, the sky too.
But when she said “Those blades of earthly warmth underneath the canopy of blue”
It was like there was a new grass now, a new sky too. A new world altogether to see.
She spoke of brooms and witches for a few years. Of good over evil. Of oddly numbered platforms.
I went mad with frenzy imagining that new world and nodding at all those new people in cloaks.
And when she spoke of all the pain she had seen in Afghanistan, I cried.
And in solidarity with her pain, went silent for a few days, let her talk and shed her tears.

She was also very funny. When she spoke like Wodehouse with his wit and charm
And asked "why the sudden change in mood?" she’d say in Vonnegut style,
“Why? That is such an earthling question to ask. There is no why. It just is.”
Sometimes suddenly her voice turned a little Indian. She spoke of my issues.
About castes and marriage and harassment and loss. She spoke of solutions.
She spoke of hope. And when I started believing, she pushed me a little, and said that hope was an illusion.
Like God. I cried a little too much that day.

We are lovers in a world where my love for her is not accorded to many.
And for my kind, our love wasn’t accepted. If I had been born 50 years back or
today in another family, they’d snatch her from my arms. But I wasn’t.
I was lucky to have her by my side, I was lucky to be able to have a light to read her by.
There were millions, millions who needed her wisdom. And she wanted to stop but had to pass them by.
But she swears to me that someday, all of those little children will feel her touch.
In their hands and their hearts and their brains.

She loves me. And she can love some more. It’s a weird kind of love.
Where I want it shared. Where I want to find someone who loves her as much
And then recite our stories of her.
How she carved me with her tiny chisel. Cutting away stone little by little
To reveal a form I didn’t know I had.
And today when I talk, I notice she talks through me. The wisdom of a million years.
And when she says “Look Trupthi, that's where wars were fought,
Look, that’s where love was lost
Look, that’s where a little girl one day wrote her poems like you. Look.”
I smile back at her and say, like always I believe you, book.