Ashaye Benche Thaka

Ek tuku shukh , ektu khani hashi
Shunte chaowa, ‘ami tomake bhalobashi’
Hanta pothey kal pawoa karor shongo,
Shei daily routine k ekdin kora bhongo

Ei tuku  ashaye benche thaka…

Ghuri hoye akaash chuiye jawoa
Buke mukto lukiye rakha jhinuk howa
Tarar niche ek raat shuye thaka,
Shankhe kaan patle shei dheu-er daka

Ar ki chai benche thakte…

Shiter roder ushnotaye ekbar snaan
Brishtir jole lukiye fela kichu abhiman
Ektu jeta ektu hara niye shesh kora khela
Rongin durbin diye duniya dekhe fela

Aladiner prodip nei amar kache,

Tai shudhu ashaye benche thaka…

Feriwala shono toh....

Hankcho na toh tumi, dakcho-o na je tumi

Just beriye jaccho amaar janlar shamner poth dhore

Ooooo feriwala, shono toh..

Ache ki tomar kache amaar harano chelbelata?

Iskool-er shei prothom dinta?

Pabo ki Tomar kache hariye jaowa bondhuder ke?
Babar kandher shinghashon, ar babari belt-er maar?
Ditey parbey, amaaye mayer hath dhore hanta shekhar anubhuti?

E shob je ar paina kothao!!

Pabo ki unchu heel juto porar shei prothom khushi ta?

Prothom shei 'concert' e chool jhankabar anando ta?

Fire pabo ki tomar kache prothom proposal-er shei prothom gorbo ta?

Prothom oi laal kolom-e 'fail' lekha dekhar atanko ta?

Ditey parbe, 'Ebar kintu HS HS' kore para mashi-r kanduni gaowa gaan!!

Ei shob je ami hariye felechi kothao!!

Hankcho na toh tumi, dakcho-o na je tumi

Just beriye jaccho amaar janlar shamner poth dhore

Ooooo feriwala shono toh...

Prothom college bunk kore cinema dekhar oi 'thrill'ta?

Ditey parbey, harano bondhuder shathey addar oi din gulo?
Prothom oshofol premer oi prothom dukkher kobita lekha-ta?

Ache ki tomar jhuli-te oi prothom cigaretter abcha dhuan ta?
Oi prothom guitar dhore angul roktakto kora ta?

Ei shob je amaar bhishon money porey!!

Hankcho na toh tumi, dakcho-o na je tumi

Just beriye jaccho amaar janlarshamner poth dhore

Ooooo feriwala bolo na...

Hobi jedin amaar bondhu...

Takiye achish amaar ei mukher dike...
Shanto, niriho, snigdho!

Thoke jashney ei  sneher murti dekhe
ja dekhchish ta je moteo shotyo noye!!

Hosh Jodi bondhu amaar ekbaar
Dekhbi tui amaar ashol chehara ta!

Bondhu.... 

Porey achi eije ami mukhosh-ta
Khuley felishney tui – tui parbi na
Ei , tui bujhe ja!!
Mithye  porichoy dewowa amaar porichoy

Hosh Jodi bondhu amaar ekbaar
Dekhbi tui amaar ashol chehara ta!

Jedin bohu porot chariye tui gobhire dekhbi
Dekhe Jodi shedino bhalo amaye bashish
Shedino Jodi ‘sakhi’ boley amaye dakish
Hente jabo tor shathe sharata poth!

Bondhu amaar hoye jash tui
Chere amaye jashney kothao
Bhalobashbi jokhon tui amake
Bhalobeshe felbo amio amake!

The darker side of light

I walked. I was humming a song to myself. A sad song- Bleeding Love. The singer was pining for her beloved. She spoke of how they keep trying to pull her away, but her then she kept bleeding love, because her lover had cut her open. I thought I could relate to her, except that I was bleeding blood. The gash I’d inflicted upon my wrist was slowly but steadily draining my veins. I was glad though, that I could not see it.  It was too dark for the trickling red drops to be visible.

Suddenly, I stumbled against something. The thing woke up with a start. It was a homeless boy, probably my age, sleeping on the pavement, wrapped up in tethers- his version of a blanket. He looked at me and smiled. What could possibly make him smile in the dead of the night after being rudely awakened, I asked him. He was dreaming a beautiful dream, he said- one in which he could sleep for as long as he wanted. One in which he did not have to wake up at 4 am to walk to the brick kiln to work all day long and make his way to a slow death from dust poisoning. He asked me, “Yeh subah hoti kyun hai”?

I smiled at him and tried to move on. But the pain in my wrist was beginning to numb me. I wanted to walk ahead, but as long as there was even a little bit of life was left in me, I was a slave to the commands of my body. I leaned against an ambulance parked nearby. I looked at its insides. It was one of those well-equipped ones, with life support systems and a very comfortable looking bed. I couldn’t help but wonder, how many lives did this ambulance help save everyday? Ten? Twenty? Fifty? The life support system, that soft bed- did they really matter when you were dying? At night, the ambulance was just another vehicle, waiting patiently for the emergency to occur the next morning. If it had a mind, would it have wanted the sun to rise the next day, bringing with it yet another crisis? Somebody’s mother, somebody’s brother, somebody’s child battling for life... the ambulance saw all this everyday. I wonder if it ever got as sick of its life as I had gotten of mine.

The blood from my wrist was still dripping. I looked around. I could see the silhouette of my city against the night sky. The city I loved. The city that I hated. It looked beautiful now. All I could see was the minaret of the mosque nearby, with a huge statue of a Hindu God in the background. I had never seen a sight more divine, more touching. I was thankful to the darkness of the night, for I had seen what the same scene would look like in the daylight.

Suddenly, I saw a light go on in the minaret of the mosque. I heard the azzan begin, and realized that dawn was breaking. My body had gone completely numb, and I felt the last dregs being sucked out of the
cup that was my life. I lay down on the street, when
suddenly somebody stumbled against my body.

It was the brick-kiln boy- the boy who loved sleeping, the boy who hated daylight, for that meant working in inhuman conditions. He was in a hurry, he did not recognise me. Besides in the dark I doubt he’d seen my face too well. Suddenly I wished I had not slashed my wrist. I wanted to live. I turned my face to look at the Hindu God behind the mosque- In the pink light of daybreak, I could see the idol that had been defaced by the members of the community whose mosque the Hindus had painted black during a communal riot. I asked Him to send the driver of the ambulance to me, to take me to a hospital where I could be saved. But no miracle happened.

Later in the day, as the sun shone down upon the city, bathing it in a warm light, people found my lifeless body lying next to the ambulance. 

Happy Mothers' Day

She heard him wail... She opened her eyes groggily and looked at her bedside clock. It had barely been an hour since she had fed him!! What made babies so hungry so often? All they did was to sleep all day anyways! She thought she’d buy earmuffs now.

She trudged towards the cradle. She picked him up and brought him to her breast. He gurgled hungrily. One look at his beautiful face, and all her irritation vanished. A smile came upon her face. “You greedy boy,” was all she managed to say. She was still looking at his innocent face, secure in her bosom, when she drifted into a dream.

She saw the bank where she used to work. She was walking in, dressed impeccably as always. She saw her clients, she saw herself smiling at them. She saw her fingers dancing on her keyboard as she punched details into the customer databases. She saw her boss applaud her, call her his prize employee. She saw her colleagues looking at her with admiration and envy. Oh, how she enjoyed the attention she got. She recalled last years Annual Celebration Day when her boss had presented her with the ‘Best Employee’ trophy, telling the audience that he couldn’t imagine working without her assistance. She was beaming with joy that day.

Suddenly, he began tugging at her long hair that was hanging loose. The dream was over. He had to be burped, and she thought afterwards she’d check his nappy too. And then put him back to sleep. She hoped to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep after that. She couldn’t remember when she’d last slept for more than four hours at a stretch.

As she rocked her son to sleep in her arms, she tried to recall what her life was like before motherhood happened. The days of girl-talk, appreciation at the bank, of romancing her husband, those weekly dates they went on, those fashionable clothes that wouldn’t look good on her almost misshapen body anymore... all of that was a distant memory now. She had almost forgotten where she had kept her favourite sketchbook- it was probably buried under the piles of baby stuff that now filled her home- diapers, toys, clothes...

Life used to be so different just a couple of months back. The arrival of the baby caused major upheaval, even though they were so well-prepared. Her past life seemed like another century altogether.

She had taken her son to the bank last week. She was surprised to see her old colleagues still busy with their work. Nobody really missed her as much as she thought they would. They were doing very well without their ‘prize employee’. Even the boss who loved and had appreciated her so much just acknowledged her presence with a cursory smile. Life goes on, she thought...

She looked at the window with the curtains drawn. She moved them, and felt overjoyed at the sight of the first snow of the year. The streets were empty at this unearthly hour. She told her son what snow was, and whispered into his ears, “You and I have witnessed what nobody else probably has. I wish you could remember this day! This is probably our best moment together!” She looked at him, but he was sleeping like a rock.

She put him into his cradle, thanked her stars and went back to sleep. She still had some hours before he’d cry again and demand to be fed.

She did not know what hour it was when she awoke. Sunlight was streaming into her room, and her husband’s side of the bed was empty. She peered at the clock again and was aghast- she had overslept by two hours. She was confused- why had the baby not cried? She called out her husband’s name in panic. Just then he entered the room.

He was holding a tray of breakfast- toast, scrambled eggs, and a big mug of strong coffee. He used to do that occasionally just after they had married. A wave of nostalgia hit her as she bit into the toast. She almost forgot they had the baby now- it was just like the old days. Immediately then, as if he felt her thoughts, Baby decided to make his presence felt and let out a loud wail. Their romantic moment was destroyed. She got up, but her husband held her by her wrist and said, “You enjoy the coffee. I’ll get him.” He rose and went to the cradle. 

It was then that she saw it lying next to her pillow.

It was a beautiful handwritten note- with scented ink on handmade paper. A single rose lay across the paper. He had written plenty of such notes to her when they were dating and even after they married. She read it. It was a one line long message.

Happy Mothers’ Day to the world’s best mother. Love, from the two men in your life XOXO

Tears welled up in her eyes. Motherhood had always been a thankless job; she had never wished her mother on Mothers ‘ Day either.

 Her husband entered the room. She rushed to kiss him. Then she took the crying baby from his arms and sat to feed him. She was staring at the note while she was at it. All of a sudden, the baby threw up, and the note was soiled. She cried as she held up the soggy remains of her husband’s love (on behalf of the baby!).

She kept the note aside as she tended to her son. Later, while he slept, she dried it in the sun. She meant to keep a reminder of her first Mothers’ Day as a mother. So what if there was baby puke all over it? That’s what motherhood was all about, right? Suddenly, her feelings of neglect at the bank, those sleepless nights, those soiled diapers looked like paradise to her... She was the happiest woman on the planet...

A Great Bargain...

Shoot, she thought, irritated, when she reached into the bread basket and found it empty. How could she be so absent-minded? All the farm fresh bread had been eaten up yesterday, when Lilly came visiting unexpectedly. All the biscuits and the leftover pies were polished off too.


They had chatted over endless cups of herbal tea, as her best friend of twenty five years tried to explain to her why it was a good idea to forget the past and move on. It was time she found herself a nice young man and fall in love all over again. But at the end of the conversation, Jenny was as heartbroken as she had been before. Things were just not moving forward, however hard she tried.
Pangs of hunger reminded her that she’d better head to the supermarket and get the shopping over with. It was a bright Saturday morning, and the store was bound to be crowded with families. It was a small town and nearly everyone knew everyone. She cringed at the thought of the sympathetic glances she would get from people. After all, who did not know about how her fiancée had disgracefully called off their wedding for no apparent reason. She wished she did not have to go, but she decided to leave before the store got too crowded.
She knew the whole trip was doomed when her car refused to start. She had a strong temptation to kick it. It had been a present from her parents to commemorate her high school graduation ten years ago, and was well past its sell-by date. “So am I”, Jenny thought to herself, morosely.A few more attempts later, the car finally started and Jenny reached the supermarket. She chose a trolley and proceeded to pick up her groceries. She knew the supermarket like the back of her hand and so very soon, she was almost done. She was just tossing the last few items she’d bought, into her trolley when she spied a packet of jellybeans she’d definitely not picked up. Maybe it had fallen in by mistake, she thought, as she kept the packet back on the shelf. Now she only had to pick up the sour cream, and she’d be done. As she steered the trolley, she saw a box of muffins lying in it- again something she did not need. As she looked around, wondering what on earth was happening, she felt a sharp pain shooting up her ankle, like somebody had kicked her. She glared down to see a small boy, about eight years old, giving her a naughty smile and dropping a box of fries into her trolley. She kept back the fries angrily-how much worse could the day get!!- and caught hold of the child’s wrist. A man, obviously looking for him, came running to them, apologizing for the boy’s antics. “I’m extremely sorry, has he been troubling you?”
“You should learn how to handle your children”, she retorted, spewing anger.
“I’m terribly apologetic. Actually, his mom is in the hospital for a couple of days, so I’m having to take care of him. I’m pretty bad at it. And now I’m having to shop as well- another thing I’m not great at. Having to handle both is a little cumbersome! I’m sorry, I should’ve taken more care of him”.
Jenny looked at them. The little boy’s mother was in the hospital, he was probably not happy without her. She looked man holding at the shopping list the unwell woman in the hospital had written down. He was having a tough time locating the commodities. She thought it was now her turn to play a little game. She had plenty of time anyway.
She picked up a carton of full fat milk at put it into the man’s trolley. He looked up at her, surprised. “We women all use the same shorthand”, she said, pointing to an item on the list, “1 crt mk, ff , stands for one carton of milk, full fat!”, she told him with a smile. He looked at her gratefully as she took the list from his hand and proceeded to help him. In less than twenty minutes, they were done, and the proceeded to the billing section. They went to different cashiers.
When Jenny had another look into her trolley at the counter, there was a box of those very pretty heart shaped chocolate wrapped in red foil. But this time she did not return it. It had been a while since she’d tasted them- she’d been dieting for a while- to lose weight for her wedding- the wedding that was never going to happen.
When she had finally paid her bill and picked up her bags, she noticed the child standing near the exit gate, with the man, waiting for her. She nodded and told him, “I hope your wife gets well soon. This little prankster misses his mom!”

“Uh, she’s not my wife actually!”
“Oh, sorry, partner, then?”
“No! She’s my sister. This naughty kid out here is my nephew!”
Suddenly, Jenny felt the hot blood rising to her cheeks. She was embarrassed and did not know what to say. But she did not have to say anything, for the man spoke.
“Do you shop here regularly?”
“Yes, on Saturday mornings.”
“Even I tend to do my shopping on Saturday mornings!” He was giving her a shy smile. The same smile every man has when he meets a wonderful woman.
The rest was left unsaid. They’d look for each other next weekend, they both knew it. Who knows what that could lead to!
She felt light-headed and unusually happy as she walked towards her car to return home. She got into it and turned on the ignition while she hummed her favourite song. The usually difficult to start car started in one attempt. Now that was a very good sign.

Already Perfect- Confessions of an anorexic

Everyone feels the need to fit in, right? All of us have issues with self-esteem and self-worth, and so did I. Most of my younger days were spent being involved in activities that included popular approval and criticism. And no one likes the latter, do they? I strove to be the best in everything I did and pretty much succeeded for a long time. The fact that I was my own worst critic further helped me nip most of my faults in the bud.

I had always wanted to be a superwoman. I was already into gymnastics and football, and I was planning on taking dance lessons too. But when I did not qualify for the finals of the dance selection camp, I was hurt. And I began feeling extremely inadequate and unworthy. I began wondering what could’ve caused this unexpected rejection, and finally decided that it was my weight. I had always been on the heavier side of thin, but now I was convinced I was overweight, and that I needed to get rid of all the extra fat if I was to attain that success I had always chased.

Thus began a downward spiral that turned my life around forever. I began competing again, but this time I was fighting myself. I began to reduce my portions of food, and my mind began try beating my body at this game of fat versus fit. With every meal I skipped, I felt a sense of triumph, for I was beginning to succeed. In short, I was well on the way to becoming what the dictionary defines as ‘anorexic’.

In the beginning, it was all very rosy. I felt great about myself- attractive, strong and successful. I was powerful, almost superhuman- for I could do something that other people could not. I could go without food. I had broken the very rule that had governed mankind since its inception- food was no more an essential in my life.

Some months down the line, my friends began to notice my weight loss. They started becoming concerned. “You’re losing too much weight!”, “At this rate, you’ll disappear”, they said. But obviously, the fox who does not reach the grapes call them sour- that doesn’t mean the grapes really are sour. I chose to take their comments as a compliment- they reassured me that I was succeeding, that I was getting closer to ‘perfection’. My physical appearance was now my priority.

I kept cutting back on what I ate, until breakfast was a cup of skim milk and an orange, and dinner consisted of a small bowl of fruit. That was all I ate on most days, and eating a bite more than my allotted ‘morsels’ meant strenuous gymming.

In a year, I had reached a phase where I had had to stop socializing almost completely. I couldn’t go out with my friends- what would I eat if I went to lunch; for it had been months since I’d eaten something in the afternoon. Dinners out were impossible. If I ate out, wouldn’t my little bowl of fruit keep waiting for me in futility? I began scheduling my days around my meals, and started avoiding my friends. What if they decided to tell me how awesome that loaded breakfast was, this morning? Besides, what would I wear? Now that I had a fantastic body, I’d wanted to wear amazing clothes. But none of my older clothes fit, and I couldn’t but new ones because no store stocked clothes my size. I’d shrunk, and I’d shrunk big time.

But you always sow what you reap. The body that I had worked so hard for a year began to rebel. My poor nutrition started causing me to lose sleep and concentration. I began feeling stressed out and fatigued as I worked towards burning those calories that I had not even consumed. My friends and family tried to help me, but I denied I had a problem. But I could not live in denial forever.

One night, like many others, I couldn’t sleep. My heart was pounding against my ribs and it threatened to beat its way out of them. I tried to relax, but I could not. Breathing was beginning to get difficult, and finally, after a year and a half of warnings and symptoms, I realized my folly. I now knew I needed help. Had my mom not seen me palpitating that day, I would not have survived to tell you this tale.

Thus began my long, ardours journey to recovery. A week of hospitalization and months of counselling later, I figured out what really mattered, and a new sense of reality struck me. A series of hospital visits later, I was a strong and healthy as I started off with.

Anorexia, for me, represented all that I wanted to achieve. It was a yardstick I used for measuring my self confidence. For a while, it had defined who I was.

Now, I am committed to being healthy. I use not an eating disorder, but my intelligence and talent to show the world who I am. This is who I am, and I’m beautiful- it’s not about the size of my body. I had tried to achieve perfection on the exterior, but I sacrificed the idea of who I really was. I promise, I will not walk down that lane again, for it leads me to the wrong destination through a difficult terrain. Take my word for it, do not take that route to success. It almost always will mislead you.

Aruna Shanbaug- nipped in the bud

A sau mein ek patrika for a horoscope, a loving and successful fiancé, a rewarding job, starry dreams for her future, and a zest for life- just about everything a 25 year old could dream of. As on 27 November 1973, she thought she was the happiest woman on the face of the planet. A staff nurse at (then) Bombay’s reputed KEM hospital; she had spent the day taking care of a batch of school children who were down with food poisoning. She was loving as well as disciplined. Unlike the seedhi saadi village belles Aruna was frank & fastidious; a senior nurse nicknamed her as Chatak Chandni, while her room mate called her a good hearted girl but with a ’’muscle in her mouth’’!Adored by most of her juniors and all her patients, she was Aruna Shanbaug. India’s most well known living existing nurse.

At the tender age of 18, newly orphaned Aruna had moved from her ancestral home in Haldipur, Shimoga, Karnataka to Bombay with her older brother Balkrishna. She was young and ambitious. She soon finished a course on nursing and went on to join the reputed KEM hospital. Her remarkable good looks were soon the reason young doctors were falling for her. She, in turn fell in love with one of them- Dr. Sandeep Sardesai, a junior doctor in the same hospital. He was good-looking, caring and was soon going to do an MD. Aruna’s life was ‘set’. She decided she’d continue being a nurse even after they were married. They’d spoken of the children, their home and the two dogs they’d have after marriage. They were soon engaged, and their wedding date, fixed.

Her career was her priority, and Aruna made sure she was dutiful. She had recently been posted in the dog surgery research laboratory. One of the male nurses she supervised was Sohanlal Walmiki- irresponsible, rude and a thief- something his senior Aruna could not stand. She had rightfully accused him of stealing medicines and dog food; and had reported him to the admin and other concerned authorities. And this dutifulness would soon cost her a lot.

As her problems with Sohanlal increased, his grudges against her did too. He just needed an opportunity to get even with her. And so, when on 26 November 1973, she told him she’d reported his latest misdemeanours to the Dean, he decided it was time to get down to work. He thought the next day would be a ‘do-or-die’ day beca And so he hatched a plan. A sinister plan that no one could’ve dreamt of in the most horrific of dreams.

She went about her work smoothly on the 27^th. She spoke to all her co-workers about how she was looking forward to getting married. She was unnaturally happy that day- like the lamp that burns brightly for once just before it goes off forever. Her shift ended at the scheduled time, 4:50pm. Now, she only had to change and go home. And so she headed to the basement of the hospital where she and her friend always changed, ignoring for the millionth time the matron’s advice to change in a more secure place. After all, changing was a daily thing and what could possibly happen to her in that tiny window of a few minutes? The next day, everybody who loved her wished she had not been so confident.

Early next morning, a cleaner found an unconscious Aruna on the basement floor, drenched in blood, a dog chain wound tightly around her neck, her body leaning against a stool. It did not take the cleaner long to correctly guess who the culprit was. Aruna Shanbag’s friction with Sohanlal was by now known to everybody in the hospital.

Medical exams revealed that Sohanlal, lurking in the shadows of the basement on that fateful night, had forced himself on Aruna while she was changing. Well-equipped with a dog chain, he used it to immobilze her as he attempted to rape the just nurse. On realizing that she was menstruating, he stooped to levels unheard of- sodomy. His revenge extracted, he left her to die.

Immediate medical assistance was provided but asphyxiation by the dog chain had caused irreparable damage to Aruna’s brain as she lost her hearing and motor functions. She also became cortically blind- she could see, but her brain could not register those sights. Paralysis was yet another effect that impaired her forever. Her doctors hoped against hope that she would recover, and they worked for years to bring her back to normal. The Dean of the hospital thought they ought not disclose the case of anal rape, for that would rob her and her future husband of all respect in society, if she were ever to recover and marry. Even as her immediate family deserted her, Dr. Sandeep Sardesai visited her daily and reminded his once lively and now vegetative fiancé of the dreams that they’d dreamt of together. Four years later he too lost hope and got married to another woman. A day before he got married, he visited Aruna for one last time and told her he was sorry. He was sure Aruna heard him and gave him her blessing. Doctors believed that she’d at least recognised him, if not heard him.

Aruna: then and now

Sohanlal, in the meantime was held guilty of ‘attempted murder and robbery’. He served his prison sentences- two consecutive 7 year terms. His involvement in the ‘unnatural sexual assault’ could not be proven in the court of law as the hospital had wanted. He then changed his name and went to work as a ward boy in a reputed private hospital in Delhi, but not before visiting Aruna in her hospital room and trying to push her off her bed in order to kill her. She was then shifted to a more secure room in Ward IV of the same hospital. Sohanlal’s lecherous ways brought about his death due to AIDS recently.

Cut to three decades later. Oblivious to Sohanlal’s fate, Aruna Shanbaug, beautiful as ever, still lies on the same cold metal bed in Ward IV of KEM. Attended to by the hospital staff, she’s still breathing. She’s still in the same vegetative state she was in, 39 years ago. In 2010, Aruna’s journalist friend and journalist, Pinky Virani moved the Supreme Court of India. She begged for permission for the plug to be pulled on Aruna. Crippled digits, a featherweight body, brittle bones that could break if somebody held on to the body for a long time, a toothless mouth, gray bristles to call hair- coupled with inability to hear, speak, or even see properly defied a human being’s right to live with dignity, she pleaded. Aruna’s situation was declared as incurable by the doctors anyways.

But the caregivers of the former nurse at KEM said she still exhibits signs of life- prominent signs at that. When she is fed mashed fish or chicken soup, she smiles. She blinks once in every 6 seconds like a normal human being does. She hyperventilates when she hears a man’s voice. She can sense if her room gets crowded with visitors- and on such occasions, lets out a very audible gruntle. And if she hears devotional music being played on the cassette tape kept next to her, she calms down. When she soils or wets herself, she whimpers to attract the attention of the nurses to come down and change her bedclothes.

And so, Pinky Virani lost the case. Passive euthanasia was denied to Aruna Shanbaug.

Aruna’s attendants wash her everyday; they clip her fingernails once a fortnight. Every night, a nurse, her fingers dipped in oil, massages her scalp and combs whatever is left of her hair. True, they do the best they can to give her the life she deserves. They want her to live the rest of her life comfortably, if not happily. And they pray everyday for a miracle. They come to her room everyday, silently hoping to see 65 year old Aruna cured. How, they do not know. But killing hope is impossible, right?

My Real Sister

She was beautiful, intelligent, kind and funny. She made heads turn wherever she went, and it usually took people a couple of minutes to fall in love with her personality. Her laugh was infectious, and she knew the exact formula to cheer people up. No wonder everybody loved her. Except me.


I did not know why I hated her so much. Was I jealous of her good looks and charming persona? Or could I not digest the fact that she was so much better than me in every aspect of life? Or was I disturbed by the knowledge that she was adopted?


I was nine when one evening my parents told me they’d be bringing home a little sister for me. Initially cheered by the prospect of having a sibling, I asked them how they knew it was ‘sissy’ who was coming, and not ‘bro’. It was then that they told me that a distant aunt of mine, a widow, had passed away two days ago, and there was nobody to take care of her four year old daughter. That was how Natasha had come into our lives. It was since then that this incredible feeling of animosity had made a home in my heart.


Natasha knew she was adopted, but she was grateful to God for providing her a family that mostly loved her. So what if she had an older sister who despised her very sight? She tried hard to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister; unfortunately, it was only the former that she succeeded at. While my parents had completely owned her within months, I had spent three years with her before I even began to accept her presence in my house. Yet, Natasha never complained. Everyone has sibling troubles right? She did too, it was not a big deal; she thought. Her God gave her the faith that one day, I’d love her the way she loved me.


She never showed off, even though she had more than one reason to do so. Not only was she extremely witty and kind, but she was also gorgeous and fashionable. No wonder the boys came into her life early on. And no wonder I grew even more hostile towards her.


Let’s face it, which teenaged girl does not like a swarm of boys following her around, who doesn’t enjoy being Miss-goody-Two-Shoes? Until Natasha came into our lives, I was an only kid; but with her entry, not just my parents, but also everybody else I knew, had someone to compare me to- someone exceptionally lovely, at that. Someone who was everything I aspired to be, but failed miserably at. So I began looking at the world as my enemy, and rebellion as my only retreat.


I began writing poetry. I wrote of justice, freedom, envy and darkness- everything morbid. I spoke out through my verses about loneliness and rivalry. The sad stanzas I wrote made me feel worse for myself as I began sinking to abysses lower than any normal person ever would. I wallowed in self-pity and strangely enough, that was the only thing I liked about myself- I pretty much hated myself otherwise. My depression increased with every poem I wrote, with every song I composed. I began demarcating zones in the room I was made to share with Natasha- there was her side and there was mine. I forbade her from ever entering my side. And she always followed my instructions. Or so I thought.


One day, about ten months and approximately fifty poems later, as I plonked my body on my bed after school, I spied a huge envelope on my pillow. There was no name or address on the outside. I tore it open and out fell a slim book and a note. It read:


Sissy,
I know I was never supposed to enter your side of the room, but some months back when mom was looking for a pen in your drawer, a piece of paper flew out of it and landed on my dresser. I happened to read it. It had the most amazing poem I have ever come across till date. It was then that I realized you’re an absolutely amazing poet. I had always noticed you scribbling away in a diary, and so one day, while you were away, I fished the diary out of your drawer and got a photocopy of your poetry and submitted it to this publisher. And you can see the rest in the book.


I’m sorry I did some snooping around and meddled with your stuff. I hope you’ll forgive me. Meanwhile, enjoy your first book. Do have a look at the preface by the newest bestselling writer- she’s praised you tonnes. And remember, I love you and I believe in your talent.


Love,
Natasha





I looked at the cover of the book, ’25 Poems’ and in the place of the poet’s name, I saw mine. I suddenly had an urge to look up at the cross that Natasha prayed to everyday. As my head bowed down in prayer, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to Natasha’s smiling face, her eyes sparkling with tears of joy.

As we then hugged for the first time ever, our tears did not stop flowing. The next thing I did was to remove the table that demarcated her ‘zone’ of the room from mine. I had finally made peace with my ‘real’ sister.

NUMBER ONE FAN...for all those women who’ve ever given up something for a man...

They were the perfect couple. They were both incredibly good looking, popular, excelled at their respective areas of interest, and were nominated for the ‘best outgoing students’ in school. All the other students envied them.
Jay was the captain of the school basketball team. And under his leadership, we never needed to worry. We would win every match we played. Always. And every time that happened, her face glowed with a pride we doubted even his mother felt. She was happier than him, and she felt a deep satisfaction. After all, all those ballet classes she had skipped, just to cheer him while he practised, had not gone in vain.
 As the mentor of the school ballet group, I was not too worried about her missing so many classes. She always caught up, and within minutes, she used to be ready to dance with the rest of the class. She was the apple of my eyes. Mona always did me proud. Every time she performed, I’d feel like the most blessed guide ever. The grace with which she danced, coupled with her devotion and passion for ballet easily made her the star of my group. To be the world’s best ballerina had been her girlhood dream, and she worked hard to make it big in the world of dance. She told me she’d make the world sit up and take notice of her one day.
That day was not too far away, as she began to be admired wherever she went. Her moment of glory came when she was crowned Ballet queen of the State early last year. Her fan following kept increasing by the day. I doubt it was just to do with her dance. She was beautiful, inside and outside!
We were both excited. The day we waited for all year long was finally approaching. The Annual Students’ Day in school was jus three months away. Our school achievers would be recognized that day, and there was going to be a variety of programmes organised by our students. The highlight of this day, for the past four years had been the ballet performance. As usual, Mona was chosen to be the lead dancer. She put in her heart and soul into it, and practised for three hours everyday after school. Yet she found a couple of minutes every hour while everybody took their break, to run to the court, where Jay practised his game. But one day, about a month before the D-Day, she did not return. We waited for her for a long time, and then, when she did not turn up, we decided to carry on the day’s practice without her. We wound up around an hour later.
The next morning, I spotted her in the corridor, looking like I had never imagined her. Her beautiful, long hair was spilling from the braid she always wore; and the kohl with which she lined her doe eyes was missing. She looked distraught and impatient. I began to worry. An optimist like her needed a really serious reason to be depressed. I’d surely talk to her at practice today. If she came.
I thanked God as I saw her entering practice room that evening. But as she came closer, I sensed fear, desperation, and guilt in her swollen eyes. She had been crying. But I was not surprised. She’d had an argument with Jay during lunch, and very soon, the whole school knew about it. In fact, I was surprised at the composure with which she presented herself.
 “You okay?” I asked her as she took a seat beside me. I looked at her. She had not yet changed into her ballet costume; neither did she look like she had brought her shoes along.
 “I’m quitting”, she told blankly, to nobody in particular. I almost fell off my chair! Mona was not a quitter, and I knew she’d do anything for ballet. What then, could have happened, to force her to take such a drastic step?
 “You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?”I asked her gently.
Unmoved, she told me Jay did not like the fact that she was not around to cheer him these days. “I’m his source of strength,” she said with a glimmer of pride not enough; however, to overshadow the pain she was going through. “He calls me his number one fan, and he needs me now. I need to stand by him if he’s gonna make it to the state team right? That’s been his dream since like forever!”
I was aghast. An independent girl like Mona was surely not saying this? “And what about you? Aren’t you the most talented ballerina in the state? Hasn’t it also been your dream to be this acclaimed ballerina? What about that? Are you willing to give up on your dreams in order to see his dreams come true?”
“Yes. Love overrides everything, mentor! Besides, I enjoy cheering for him. It’s a great feeling when you get to be your boyfriend’s number one fan! His games... they fill me with pride. You’d know if you saw him play one day. He’s a star. I see him play everyday! In fact, l’m going in ten minutes, as soon as I’m done talking to you.”
 “And has he seen you dance, Mona? Even once?” I asked, feeling angry and sympathetic at once. “Does he know what a big star you are?”
Mona’s head hung low as she realized that it was not me, but herself that she tried to convince. She knew she was kidding nobody but herself when she said she was giving up on ballet out of her own will. Her teary eyes stood testimony to that. “You should know that if you’re giving up on ballet, you have no rights to own the “Ballet Queen” crown anymore. It belongs to someone who’d never quit. Real love doesn’t pull one down, Mona. No one ever ‘falls’ in love. One should rise in love. If Jay ever loved you, he’d see what ballet means to you; and just like you want him to be a basketball champ, he’d want you to make a name for yourself. Somebody who really loves you will love what you love. Really Mona, the rate at which you give up ballet for him and still shine, he ought to be your number one fan.”
 Mona listened to me wordlessly. The she stood up and left the room. A sense of loss enveloped me as I realized that my words had no impact whatsoever on her. I started wondering who’d be replacing her as the lead. I had almost made my choice when the door creaked. I saw Mona enter, dressed as a ballerina, all set to dance. “ So, let’s start?” she asked with a smile. Returning that radiant smile, I asked, “Does Jay know you’re here? Will he be waiting for you?” And I knew I had made a difference as I heard her say, “Today, basketball can wait. I’m lagging behind on my ballet practice!”

www.electronicencounters.com

He was relieved. Glad, even. They were finally going to leave. His mom was finally ready to attend the party, and dad had already been honking for the past five minutes. He’d now have the house to himself, for at least five hours. He had always loved being alone, away from the crowd, and sometimes far, far away from his parents too. He was never too much of a sportsperson; he preferred activities that stimulated the intellect. While other sixteen year olds would’ve spent such home-alone nights partying with their friends, probably even drinking, Rustom would read, or play his viola (if only he had a penny each time people called it the violin!). He was mature beyond his years (or so, everyone said, but that was possibly because they had never considered the possibility of other sixteen year olds not being as mature as they should be!), and a loner. Not surprisingly, he had plenty of friends online. Lonely people make the best chat room friends. He was especially excited tonight. He couldn’t wait to check out the newest site he had read about in a journal. It asked you for your hobbies, your likes and dislikes; and connected you to someone with the same interests, and let you both chat. The only condition was that you weren’t allowed to upload your images. And you’d never be connected to the same person again. The site ensured that.

The element of mystery appealed to him, and he felt particularly excited as he put his headphones on.  It was a gamble, he thought to himself, and he loved taking chances. He typed in the url, and was very soon filling in his name, and his hobbies- surfing the net, reading, art. That was about it. Oh, and yes, watching movies. He waited with bated breath as the site found him a suitable ‘friend’.  He secretly hoped it would be a boy, so that he could have an interesting conversation about fighter planes and Star Wars. What did girls know about such stuff anyways?

Too bad when within two minutes (thank God it didn’t take longer- he was getting rather impatient!), he heard a slight rustle on his headsets, it was a rather mature sounding female voice (the internet sometimes did that to your voice).

“Hi!” the girl said softly, almost whispering.

“Hello, Rustom here”, he replied quickly.

“Hi Rustom, I’m Alisha.”

“Alisha? That’s a rather pretty name! So tell me Alisha, what do you like doing?”

“Oh, plenty of things! But I’m not allowed to do most of them! You know, I recently fractured my hip!  So I’m confined to the bed, doing nothing much, except surf the net, watch television, and paint a little. Even that has gotten so difficult these days. So I’ve started reading- a lot. I’ve always been a big reader, but now that love has strengthened! And I have my blog. I write in it, a lot”

“Oh, that could get kind of sad, I understand! But if you look at the brighter side, you’d realize that you have plenty of time to spend with your family! How cool is that?” Ha-ha, look who’s talking about family time, thought Rustom! He barely knew his parents. As in, the kind of people they were. He did not know.

Alisha chuckled. But he sensed a tinge of sadness in her laughter and her voice, as she said, “Barely anyone at home has time for me. Nobody like spending quality time with an invalid, you know! The conversations are mainly limited to them ordering me around, telling me what to do and what not to do. Sometimes, to be honest with you, Rustom, I feel like running away from home... to just break free!”

“Wow!” remarked Rustom to himself. He did feel bad for Alisha, but he was relieved, glad even, that there was at least one more lonely person in the world. He tried to recollect the number of times he himself had contemplated running away from home.  “Forget them’, he continued chatting with Alisha, “and tell me what kind of movies do you like to watch? Romcoms?”

“Haha no! I’m sorry, Rustom, I’m more into the “Star Wars” series!”

“Really? It is rather unusual to find a girl who likes “Star Wars”. And what kind of books do you like to read?”

The conversation went on for more than an hour. The spoke about many things- Billy Joel, their painting styles (both of them pursued painting as a hobby, but they both admitted they kind of sucked at it! In fact, his mother had called his latest masterpiece ‘Squiggles’), their mutual dislike of Harry Potter, and their fascination for Frank Sinatra. They had a little quiz in which they asked each other the toughest questions about Sinatra. Alisha won (‘but very narrowly’, Rustom consoled himself). “The most brilliant hour of my life”, Rustom thought to himself later on.

They then recited dialogues from Star Wars, and they laughed themselves silly as the discussed the antics of Tom and Jerry (you can never be too old for cartoons).  He expressed his disappointment in finding out that her favourite cartoon was the Powerpuff Girls simply because it was a display of flower power! They had a very philosophical interaction about the hidden meanings in Lewis Carol’s humorous writings. And they finished off with a debate about whether Macbeth was Shakespeare’s best work, or was it Julius Caesar.

When they had both gone offline, Rustom was a happy young man. He wished the world had more sensible people like Alisha. He also wished that he could talk to her again. But he did not have her phone number. He did not know why he did not ask for it. Neither of them had brought it up, and so neither of them had asked for the other’s contact details. Perhaps this is how it was meant to be. Perhaps if their friendship had gone beyond that day, they’d realize they did not really like each other as much as they thought they did on the first day. Alisha was an extremely wonderful girl, and it was probably best to remember this evening in the sweetest possible way, without further conversation to spoil it. Rustom switched off the lights and went to sleep, hoping to have a memorable dream about his encounter with Alisha.

Miles away, in another continent altogether, Alisha nursed her broken hip. A fracture at the age of fifty three was very difficult to handle. Especially since she had lost her husband, her pillar of strength of thirty years, in the same accident six months back. The mishap had completely broken her, and she thought she’d never be happy again. So she had decided to completely drown her grief in caring for her infant granddaughter- the only beacon of light in her otherwise dark world. She had forgotten how to smile; her tears did not stop flowing.

Until tonight, that is. It seemed like aeons ago that she had seen on her face the creases that accompanied a smile. This ‘www.electronicencounters.com’ was an amazing site, and this man Rustom was an absolute sweetheart. How old was he? Forty, forty five? Younger than her for sure, but he had managed to bring back that spark back into her life that had been consumed in the flames that had engulfed her husband’s pyre. Silly, it may sound, but in this one hour she had connected with him in a way she had not connected to in a very long time.

She felt rejuvenated. She thought she’d write about this man in her blog. And title it, ‘www.electronicencounters.com’!

My best Friend

We sat in my room, enveloped in the aroma that emanated from our mugs of steaming hot green tea, doing some catching up. Our dose of heart to heart conversations was over six months overdue. I was home for a day, and I was afraid the hours were just not long enough. True, we spoke over the phone everyday; I pinged her by the hour, and sent her close to fifty text messages a day. But none of those could provide me the warmth of her touch as she held my hand, and as long as I just called, texted, or pinged her, my daily migraine pestered me, for she couldn’t massage my head over the phone or the computer. So, while we knew of each other’s experiences, we had not dissected them. As we discussed my brother’s apathy towards his upcoming exams, her latest adventure in the kitchen, my latest project and my boyfriend troubles, I leaned back into my bed and wondered, “She was always my mother, but when did she become my best friend?”

As far back as I can recollect mom has been the first one I had run to with every tear, and every joy. When I first hit a guy in school and when the same guy asked me out a couple of years later, my mom had been my confidant; my friend, philosopher and guide in the true sense of the term. When I first broke a tooth and when I made a new friend, she has always been there for me. Whether it was to teach by example, or to silently support be from behind the stage, mom has never judged me; she let me set my own expectations. She was proud of me when I surpassed those, and encourage me to improve when I fell short. She is the best listener I know and a mind reader too. She instinctively knew when I was asking her for advice, and when I just needed her shoulder to cry on. She multiplied my joys with her enthusiasm, and divided my frustrations with her empathy and good advice.

Yet, for many years, to me, she was just ‘mom’. Back in my school days, when she picked me up everyday, she asked my how my day was.  I remember asking about her day once. I was surprised by the amount she had to say. We rarely had late night conversations (I slept early), and our days were very busy, but those precious forty five minutes every morning  when I got ready for school, were spent chatting about every topic under the sun. We slowly found the time to fill each others’ ears with stories, and our hearts with love. We shared our experiences and hopes, our frustrations and fears. When I heard that she had stumbled at the same blocks when she was my age I became stronger; when I learnt of her romance with dad, I was no longer scared to tell her about my latest love. She never made my opinion seem inconsequential, and my ideas were ‘difficult to implement’, but never impossible. She had immense confidence in her daughter, and her goodnight kisses always came with the message that tomorrow was a brand new day, a day to revel in.

And so when she had her hysterectomy, I told her it was okay, she’d be fine; just like she had calmed me down every time I went through PMS.  When grandma passed away, it was from mom’s lessons to me that I found the wisdom to let her cry. She always told me, tears were not a sign of weakness, they were a stress buster.

It was then that I realised, she had always been my best friend. She had given me her heart in its entirety, right from day one. It was her soul that she divulged to me in instalments, as and when she realized I was ready.

As I sat across her, looking jot down the recipe for my favourite chicken dish so that I’d never miss it when I was alone, I couldn't help wondering what she felt. Was I her best friend too? I was looking at the woman who had given me life and then shared hers with me. It was time for me to get going if I wanted to get beck to college on time.  Our mugs were by now empty, but our hearts were filled with a kind of warmth I never knew existed. We both knew that by tomorrow she’d be busy being the perfect wife to dad, and the perfect mother to my brother. I’d be immersed in my project, and if I had some time in the evening, I’d go for a party at a friend’s. Yet, we’d both be growing and learning – about life, about the world, and most importantly about each other. Our relationship was like the chicken in the marinade of the recipe she’d given me- the longer it soaked, the better it tasted!

She still believes what his eyes say....

He could make her deliriously happy, or uncontrollably angry, quicker than anyone she’d ever known. When he looked at her, everything else disappeared, and he became her whole universe. She could not help but smile. His eyes were just perfect- kind and assertive, knowing and doubtful, playful and sensitive- all at once.  It was paradoxical. Just like their relationship.  They made her laugh when she was low, forgiving when she was angry, and believing even when she knew he was lying. Those eyes were more than enough to make her fall head over heels in love with him- and that was something she had always tried to steer clear of.

They had hit it off on the wrong note. Her first memory of him was an awkward encounter in a party thrown by a common friend. She found his silence intimidating, yet when she felt his eyes on her- even on that first day, she had felt beautiful, inside out. He looked like a cold sort of person, the kind she had never planned on falling for. But as their friendship deepened, when she found herself slipping, she realized, when has Fate ever been kind enough to let you follow your plans?

He was the first guy she ever really loved. She was surprised too. He was just the opposite of what she had wanted from life.  Yet when he held her, her head resting on his shoulder, she knew he could hear her deepest, darkest thoughts. She had always been talkative- she’d needed plenty of words to convey her thoughts to the world, yet she did not call it a miracle when she felt him read everything she had ever wanted to tell him, in the silence that often enveloped them when they were together. She called it love. When he spoke, it was mostly to tell her that she was never the kind of woman he thought he would settle for either, to tell her that despite that, he loved her and only her. She knew he was lying for she felt somebody else in his heartbeat, in every throb of his pulse; but those eyes – they always made her trust him.

From the time he first held her hand, he dominated her thoughts. She tried hard to focus on college, on her painting, on her family, and even on a God she never believed in, but with each passing day she felt weaker and weaker. She felt reckless, afraid and excited. Her days began with the thought of meeting him, the afternoons she spent with him became evenings before she’d even realized it, and her nights were spent texting him. When she met him the next day, she often had dark circles, but he made her feel beautiful. Every time he looked at her with those eyes.

Her instincts were at loggerheads with each other. “Trust him”. “Trusting him will easily be your biggest blunder”. “Reach out for his hand”. “Be at peace with returning the pressure when he squeezes your fingers”. “Ask him about her; find out if he still loves her”. “No, he’s totally into you now”!! She was confused. The love in his eyes overshadowed his lies; their warmth was more than the doubt in hers.

She occasionally saw the deception, the insecurity very clearly in his eyes. She was sure his loving words were for her, but she wondered if his heart was too. Like the rest of his emotions, she could never tell with surety how much was an act for her benefit, and how much he really felt for her. She stared into his jet black eyes and wondered if he knew how much control he had over her every sense, and if he knew how devastated she’d be when the break would ultimately happen.

Then one day, a fortnight later, it all came crashing down around her. As abruptly as he had walked into her life, he walked out. He was gone, and as she hurt alone, she wondered if he had ever really loved her, even for a moment; or if it was all a charade. She had so many questions for him, and so much to tell to him. But the alarm clock had gone off too soon, and now the dream was over, leaving her lonely and cold. All that she had, to remind her of the best fifteen days of her life were some text messages that she’d immediately deleted, and some notes he’d made for her homework. She tore it into pieces as her tears washed the ink out of those assignment sheets. She was too proud to dwell on those memories, to wait for him to come back. Her heart wanted to cry out, but her mind had decided to move on. In the end, that is what she did.

He taught her many lessons. Lessons on life, on love and on circumstances. She has finally made herself collect the fragments of those days, ensconce them in a special part of her heart, and live life like she ought to. She thinks of him less often. Yet, I’m sure her mind sometimes drifts back to her past, to the sweet dream of her first love. And at those times, she remembers his eyes... and she still believes what they say.