Hello

(Hello)

ships not anchored

stationed here n there

like scattered pollens

of a broken flower

on the waters of Ganges

carefree.

just besides

toy like cars

ply on highway

with tail lights

blinking.

drops of light fall

and rise

on the façade of that

glass building

that stands tall

next to them

-pretending to be happy.

also, boasting is

another concrete high rise

just to my left

busy with its humans

stuck to desks

in cubicles

typing

typing

typing

and few, over the phone

talking

typing

talking

I sit by my window

observing and sipping thoughts

and typing…

typing this piece

whilst watching

an evening slip by

into the dawn of another

monotonous day.

#AnEveningInHongkong #hellofromtheotherside #ｔｈｏｕｇｈｔｓ #aboutLastEvening

My Anonymous Story – Chapter 1

10.30 am.
A usual chaotic morning.
House chores on full swing.
Her Dad in his music world.
Sound of a very busy street.

Things did not change even after 25 years. There was noise inside, there was noise outside – out there in the dust laden street. She still loved this chaotic morning, it fell on her ears like a melodious harmony. There was so much to relate to this symphony. Winters were special. They were cold but they were warm. Home was the best place in winters.

She was home after a year so had the privilege to sleep a little longer than usual. It was almost 11.30am when she thought of leaving her comfortable bed and stepping out. Pushing the heavy cotton Rajai away, she slipped into those blue bata slippers. “hmm…looks like these belong to Grandpa” thinking to herself.

Rubbing her eyes she dragged herself out to the sunlit balcony. Out to Fresh air. And then after bending her body a bit backward and forward with both her hands stretched out, she crossed her arms around herself and she sat on that wooden bench in the balcony to catch on a little sun in that freezing morning. The pink sweater looked a bit loose on to her and the checkered white pyjamas too big. Her hair occasionally lifted and shown bronze in the sunlight.

“Namastae Deedee”. Said Raani, their age-old maid. (Hello deedee).
She turned around to greet. “Arrey Namastae, kaisee ho aap?”. (Greetings, how are you doing today?)

It was like an unsaid tradition back at home. The maid would wait till long just to greet them in the morning whenever they got back from their high schools in big towns…just to see if their faces after this long-span of time were still the same or turned Aliens since they moved out of that small crevice.

“Bus theek hai aap sunao, itnae din baad aayae ho yaad nahi aati humari?”.

She smiled back.” Aati hai raani…bahut aati hai magar chutti nahi milti kya karen..”I knew how much I loved home. They knew how much I loved home. We all knew I loved home. But still that goddamn question? she thought to herself.

“I think didi doesn’t get to eat over there…look how skinny she has gone” and Mom nodded her head concurring to Raani’s beliefs. “she has a lot of work to manage there…you don’t know how difficult is it to manage in big cities”. And those little endless conversations would carry on. They wanted to know how people in Mumbai dress up. What do they eat? How do they look like? It was hard explaining they were very much similar to them.

It was an undying conversation whenever she visited back home.She looked at herself, her body contour, the way the silhouette of the tee fell on those curves. It wasn’t that bad a frame, but their idea of a healthy frame was obese in her terms. She knew she had to bear this everyday… and they would nod their head like roberts concurring to mom’s beliefs stating ”haan sahi kha unty”.

She couldn’t help but giggle within. She loved the way Raani addressed her mom – Unty and not Aunty. Small pleasures in life.

Stories in a Spin.

Its a beautiful evening with hues of orange and darker greys in the sky . His short hair are occasionally lifted by the breeze blowing through the wide open window panes. There is set of lego blocks on the floor; red, black, white, grey and a bright yellow . Each has a different shape with different dimension and yet unlike our daily lives any piece here can fit onto any other without any difficulty. He sits engrossed building some structure out from his mind onto the blocks. There is a sound of quick footsteps and he is been forced to let go off these little pieces, get off his play and do his homework. There are running tear marks on his cheeks because of his continuous rant and crying of stating that he wants to play with his blocks instead of digging his head into the school notebook. Forced to let go off the last lego block from his hand, he is made to sit next to the pile of school books and notebooks.

He stares blankly at his lego chaos, his eyes tracing the path to the three notebooks piled on one another. The one at the bottom in blue has two sketches on the top; one is a boy with a pencil in his hand and is bent on the book with eyes wide opened with excitement, the other image is that of a girl with a high ponytail neatly tied and a wide grin; her legs wide open with both her arms raised holding a school book. Then there is a second notebook which is half hidden between the first and third. Its red in colour and there are few numbers visible at the corner stating mathematical activity. Then there is a third notebook on the top which is covered in a boring plane brown paper with a name sticker pasted on the front stating – Valay sawant, junior KG B. It is this book he needs to practice his alphabets right from A to Z three times. This three times seemed almost thirty times to him considering his pace and interest.

After a bit of sweet bitter exchange of words, he agrees to pick up his boring notebook to start practicing his alphabets. The inside pages of the notebook are marked with a set of four lines at constant intervals. A red, then blue, blue again and a red spaced out at one fourth of an inch. This entire set is spaced at half an inch from the next set. This is where he needs to start putting his alphabets.

“Start from the top red line, cross the first blue line and end it at the second blue line. None of the alphabets should touch the last red line” she says.

He picks his lead pencil lined in black and red, looks at it with disgust and bends over his notebook, writing his first letter A, which looks like crumbling mountain. And so he goes on dreamy eyed waiting for few minutes after every deshaped letter he draws.

“Why are you not writing properly? Your alphabets need to touch the second blue line Valay.”

“Mumma mere alphabets hawa mae udtae hain…..unko wings hain..” . (Mom my alphabets fly in the air, they have wings) he smiles and keeps making his alphabets a little above that blue line.

She pays a deaf ear and is busy winding up heap of clothes piled on the floor for washing.

A set of white fairy wings hang behind her on the wall and moves occasionally with the breeze.

Scars are Beautiful

Scars are beautiful

My Obituary

 

My orbituary

Its 5.30
and time to rush back home
My takeaway sandwich
is cleanly wrapped
in what was today’s
Newspaper.

My bus arrives
and I hop in
to grab a window seat
in the rear
I settle
and put some music
on my ears.

Unwrapping, I see
my sandwich cover
is so boring
‘Obituary column’
It says.

It has words printed
In black and white
And a bit of colour
Bespoken praises
And some good deeds
Of the souls
who have but returned
to weeds.

She was ‘good’
and he was ‘soulful’
and this and that,
I read through
and munch on
As bitter sweet symphony
Sways my head
Back and forth.

Why is it there
Who is it for?
Is it for the peace of
departed soul?
Or for the world now to know?

I think to myself
As I wipe
the last bits off my hand.

The bus halts
at a red signal
and awaits its turn
I quickly remove a pen
and mark a column
-‘My Space’
Right at the top
in Red,
Somewhere in the middle
as I plan something
in my head.

It’s time I sent
some letters
to my friends
For few good words
on myself
It would be nice to read
Words – that flatter me
In my column,
In my space
NOW
Than o know, when I am dead.

So let me start
By asking you first-

Before I turn to dust
Which I must
Will you please
Write my obituary my Friend?
So I know the truth about myself
before my end.