A breath of death

All around me I see a dense blanket of dust, grit and smoke. I fear breathing. It would just make the coughing and spluttering return. Through teary eyes I look around this world of mine.

When I was in my mother’s womb, a mere foetus, she nurtured me with all the love and care she could muster in her weak state. Treated me like a delicate prize that she could never part with. And now, as I open my eyes to the world, all I see is the end. Life coming to a close even before it started. I cry out in fear and hold on tighter to her arms. “Please save me mummy”, I beg.

I feel her arms wrap around me and watch the tears roll down her helpless face. She cannot change the world and the course it is taking. She cannot change what it has become no matter how hard she tries, for she is alone. The last one standing and the evils of this world are a lot more in number than her. She cannot save my life by herself, if only there were more to back her up. She wails in despair cursing the gods for leaving her alone to fight this battle. I watch her look around to see if the possibility of a miraculous presence of another could help her in these tough times. Alas! We stand there. Stranded. Two helpless souls. Crying in defeat. Praying for the air to clear up. I breathe in, and my lungs fill in with the smoke and I feel a breathless helplessness take over me. Coughing. Suffocating. Stuttering and spitting. I cry out in frustration and let out a loud scream. She holds me tighter, cradling me in her arms and telling me it will all be alright soon. Praying for me to not give up. I hold on tighter. Shutting my eyes to stop them from stinging and to rid myself  of the blurry visions of this impure world I find myself growing weak.

Had there been others with my mother, she could probably have saved me, but the survival of our race was a tragic fall. And I was next in line to become a page in its history.

A life I could have had. One where love, peace and nurturing, were in abundance if only the world had not been this careless. Instead I battle with death seconds after opening my eyes to greet the world. I felt myself losing control of my senses. I could hear my heart beat and flutter in a mad frenzy of panic. And soon I started to give up on any hope for survival. Staying alive was getting harder, dying seemed like the best escape from this mad torture. I looked into my mother’s eyes and slipped into oblivion.

I never got to hear a lullaby. Never had a childhood full of innocent memories. Never woke up with a smile welcoming a new day. Never got to breathe in lungs full of fresh air. Never learnt how to spell or write. Never got to look up at the skies while the rain splashed against me face. Never got to experience the joys of being alive. Life as I knew it ended before it started and the little that I remember was a painful war to stay alive. Clinging onto my helpless mother for survival and watching her tired, brittle arms try to shield me from the horrors of the world. And the journey of life ended with me falling off and floating to the ground and crumbling into brown ashes. I was destined to be a happy green luscious little leaf; instead, I lay in the dirt in defeat. 

An ode to empowerment

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word”

She wondered what went wrong, where had life taken that dangerous turn that she failed to notice and double back on.

All her life she had been thought to be bold, to stand up for what she believed in, to never give up on her dreams and always been taught how to never depend on anyone but herself.

An upbringing with such values, could well obviously lead to a highly independent, self-sufficient individual and that would probably have been the original plan her parents had decided on in the beginning.

“Mama’s going to buy you a mocking bird”

It all started when she was sixteen. Maybe it was her lack of teenage rebellion, maybe it was her eclectic choice of hobbies that never fit into her parents simple, content and lack-lustre up bringing’s. Maybe it was the fact that she was blossoming into an attractive young lady. Maybe it was her growing social circles that seemed to have more boys than girls in it. Maybe it the fear that they grew up with which made them not see the good in their original plan anymore. Or  maybe, it was just gods way of teaching her patience.

To be brought up with one set of values and ideals and then have your entire world change overnight. How could anyone expect her to understand? How was she supposed to alter herself to fit this new almost unfathomable perspective?

But, she promised herself she would try. She promised to do this for the people who sacrificed in blood, sweat and tears for her. She tried and tried, but she couldn’t get herself to accept this new reality and be happy. If only someone could explain to them that they couldn’t magically make roses blossom after having planted seeds for Lilies.

 

“If that mocking bird don’t sing”

So, she walked down the path they chose for her, she fought; she objected; she complained, but ultimately, she gave in. Why didn’t she object to full effect back then? Why didn’t she say no; when she had a chance? What was the point in questioning her choices now? But she couldn’t help but analyse it repeatedly in her head and constantly wonder what she could have done to fix it.

She shouldn’t have let them talk her into marriage at twenty. Shouldn’t have married a man she barely knew and had nothing in common with. Shouldn’t have believed it would work out to be a happy ending. She shouldn’t have thought that a baby would fix it.

She looked at the little girl in her arms, a sweet little two weeks old innocent little child, unaware of the turmoil taking place in her mother’s head. She wondered, whether he would love his daughter the way she did, wondered if he even capable of loving anyone. She wondered if he would ever truly understand and respect her for having given him everything she had without ever questioning his disregard for her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft cries of her daughter. The girl who should have been enjoying success in her career; peace in her mind; the admiration of a few suitors and support of her family, rocked her baby gently and sat in his room, in his house where she felt like a stranger even after five years. She took a deep breath and sang in a defeated voice,

“If that mocking bird don’t sing, mama’s going to buy you a diamond ring……”

Published in:

http://images.roundlines.com/websites/theyouthexpress/cover-story.pdf

Daddy's little girl

Dear Dad,

Remember our trips to Cubbon Park on Sunday mornings? I think the tradition started when I was two years old. You probably remember this better than I do.

We would leave home early with me sitting high up on your shoulders squealing with delight at being so tall and high up in the air. A bus ride, a small walk and we would be standing right outside the ticket counter for the toy train. A few rounds around the park; followed by playing on the swings and slides. Running around the place with all the other kids, that was my favourite part. I wonder which part you liked the most. Was it when you saw me all hyper and excited? Was it when I would tire out and come give you a hug and fall asleep in your arms? Was it when it was time to leave and you could get back to your grown up world again?

We continued this way every single Sunday for the next ten years. I eventually walked along and refused to be carried. I started going on the older children rides and sometimes; we would leave a bit early and visit the neighbouring aquarium. I eventually got this habit of going “kooooo chuk chuk chuk chuk” the entire time because I loved the train. I’m sure it annoyed you, but you never chided me for it. A few things never changed. We always took the bus; I always sat by the window. You held my hand when we walked towards the park and stood at a distance while I ran around like a crazy hyper kid, never taking your eyes off  me and always making sure I was safe. If I ever fell down; you were right there telling me it was no big deal; sometimes pulling out a band aid; patching me up and then ordering me to head back to the rides. We always stayed for exactly one hour. You were very particular about that, no matter how much I cried; screamed or refused to budge, you never over extended our visits. We always went to The Airlines Hotel after that and you sipped on coffee while I ate idlis. You always enquired how Little Lulu was doing and I always took that as a cue to go into excruciating details of the latest episode that I had watched. I’m sure you did not really care about them, maybe you just wanted to get me to talk some more or maybe I really was a very good story teller.

I wish it had never changed. Wish I had never gotten so caught up in my own life that I forgot to chalk some time out for you. Wish I could go back to being that little girl who was absolutely certain that her father was the tallest, strongest and most wonderful person in the whole wide world. Wish I could go back to sitting in toy trains and discussing Little Lulu’s escapades with you.

I know you worry about me, and brood over my rebellious lack of any regard for discipline and structure. I know you cannot comprehend why I have to go off on a tangent about everything and never do things normally. But I need you to understand that my lack of regard for the world, society, people and everyone’s ways has nothing to do with my respect and love for you. You are my superhero. You always have been. You are the first and most important man in my life and even though I hardly ever express it, I still need you. To stand at a distance and look out for me. To always be there when I fall, and tell me how it is no big deal and instruct me to bounce back like I have no other choice. To always listen to my pointless ramblings about things only I believe to be important.

I’ll always be the little girl who always looked forward to a Sunday. I’ll always be the girl who grew up believing she was special because her father said so. I’ll always be the girl who made sad puppy dog eyes to get her way. I’ll always be the crazy hair-brained teenager who hated rules. I’ll always be the young lady who is glad her father brought her up the way he did but still complains that  he could have given her a break every once in a while. I’ll always love you daddy. Always.

With everlasting Love,

Your little girl.

Published in :

http://images.roundlines.com/websites/theyouthexpress/cover-story.pdf

A dollar for my cuteness

Being twenty five is fun! A successful career, friends who adore me, a retired mother who dotes on me, and the general luxuries of being grown up and independent. And yes, the romance, the flowers, the fun, the laughter and the happiness.

The secrets, the lies and the nightmares. The constant fear of being discovered. The heavy weight in my heart that I have to carry around with a smile. Whoever said, ‘never judge a book by its cover’; knew what he was talking about. No, I haven’t done anything morally wrong or unacceptable or maybe I have. I was the reason and cause for who Mumma was forced into becoming. Yes, I have done something very horrible and even though I did not do so intentionally, I still made it happen. He did not want children. Never wanted to be tied down with that kind of responsibility. He left her alone, poor, helpless with a mouth to feed. It’s my fault he left. It’s my fault she had to go down that desperate road. It’s my fault she became a prostitute.

It wasn’t until I was fifteen when I truly understood what she did and who she was. Even then I chose to pretend to not notice. I told myself false stories of how she was an actress or a singer or a waitress, whatever I needed to hear to stay wilfully ignorant of reality. I never loved her differently than before I came to terms with reality. On the contrary, I loved, respected and cherished her even more than I thought possible.

I remember getting my very first job at eighteen. A secretary to an editor at a news agency. Mumma quit work that day. We moved out of the one room apartment in that smelly rotten locality where others like her lived and took the bus to that far away town where no one knew her, no one knew me and no one knew our secret.

What I shall always be grateful to her for is the fact that she never brought her work home. Home to me was my wonderland. We would discuss my day at school, and she would patiently listen to me give every explicit and tiny detail of what happened. We would eat dinner together in the balcony and watch the stars and she would tell me funny stories of her childhood that would that make me clutch my stomach and roll on the floor. She provided for me in every way possible. School, clothes, occasional treats, books, trips to the zoo and museums. All this while she worked twice as hard to protect me from her world. I occasionally met some of her friends who I assumed to be waitresses like her. I never ever met the men. Not even one.

I remember talking to her about it a few years back. She looked at me with a warm smile, held my hand and told me it was important for her to make sure I was safe and normal. I knew she had more to say, so I sat and watched her patiently not letting go of her hand.

“You were the cutest kid. Always listened to me. I never had trouble with you. You went to school where your teachers adored you. You always finished your homework and ate your green vegetables. You never complained when I worked late and you made me little cards that you would leave on the table for me to read.

I once told you that you could be the president of the country if you wanted to and worked hard for it. You spent the next three days singing a loud noisy version of the national anthem to make sure you knew it by heart. Your antics always made me laugh. You were like a ray of sunshine in my life. I even forgave your dad in my heart. For all the nasty horror he brought to my life you have been the perfect balance.

You once overheard me talking to some of the girls at the park. One of them said to me, “You can always tell how rich a man is by looking at his shoes. Even if they are tattered and torn you can squeeze a dollar out of them. It’s the ones that wear loafers or slippers or nothing at all that never pay. And if a man touches you, then he pays.” She fell silent when she realised we had you for an audience and we then distracted you with the duck pond and ice cream. But your eight year old brain was sharp. You did not forget. Your innocent mind did not even realise what it had stored up there. This is why it was important to keep you away. That lively, bubbly innocence. I refused to let my choices affect your innocence.

A few days later we were at the same park and our apartment’s supervisor was there too, walking his dog. He was a nice man with a big heart. He knew exactly what I was and why I did what I did. But he never questioned it. Never took advantage of the situation, he even helped when the occasional problem occurred. You went to pat the dog and spent a good hour playing with it, chasing it around the park. Eventually the dog got tired and sat by the supervisors’ feet as he rested on a park bench. But you refused to slow down. You ran around trying to burn off some more energy. Watching you play always cheered me up. You always were and still are so full of energy and life. I remember the supervisor pulling your cheeks and calling you cute.

Neither of us was prepared for your reaction. He was very amused and laughed over it for days. I felt the ground slide out from under me and nearly got a heart attack too. That is the day I promised I would keep you away from my world even more. I could not let go of your innocence. It was my single source of will to not give up on life entirely. Your sweet innocence.

You went really silent and stared at the dog for almost an entire minute. Or that is what I thought you were doing. You were however staring at his shoes. You looked at him directly in the eyes with a look that showed you were convinced that you had a right to ask for it. You stretched out your tiny little palm and said,

“That will be one dollar”.

Published in:
http://images.roundlines.com/websites/theyouthexpress/cover-story.pdf

Broken

Sometimes you have no control over where you end. Destiny, fate and the other know it alls always interfere. Yes, I used to be the master of my own future. But now that the end is here I would like to blame any one but myself.

I can’t blame her though. How could I? Her actions aren’t the product of her choices, or maybe they are. He was her choice, wasn’t he? But can you define the matters of the heart as mere choice? Irrespective, I choose to blame Him.

Trust. Such a horrid word. Such a disastrous emotion. Nothing good has ever come from it. Look where it brought me, on the floor helpless and in pieces. I would have survived if it weren’t for him. I wouldn’t be explaining my abrupt departure from this world if it weren’t for her choices. If it weren’t for him, if it weren’t for trust.

He wanted a rendezvous. A quick do where everything was fun, games, hearts and rainbows. She wanted a future. A steady ship they could sail together. Not unicorns and pots of gold but a beautiful cottage with a wide porch, a swing set and a white picket fence.

Me? I wanted nothing. I don’t think it’s my place to have anything to do with it either. I just watched silently. Pretty sure my opinion wouldn’t count. But anyone who watched them would have sensed that this was how it would end. She would stay up and watch him sleep; he wouldn’t even close his eyes when they kissed.

So it wasn’t a surprise when he left. Leaving her and her white picket fence fantasies to themselves. She should have ideally been strong. Gotten over it and moved on. But when have humans ever been known to do the right thing? It was only natural. Normal. Obvious for her to completely lose control.

The endless tears, the large tubs of chocolate chip ice cream, the mood swings, the choice to avoid the world, the denial to accept reality and the random mindless ramblings. But this is never expected. I was glad she was quenching her thirst, but why put the blame on me for what her choices did to her? Why look at me like I’m the genius that invented heart breaks?

I hate the way she stared at me with accusatory eyes. “Always half empty”, she said. “Always half empty”, she repeated. “Never half full, always half empty”. And she hurled me across the room.

Slamming against the wall and crashing to the ground in pieces. That’s how my story ends. I lie shattered, damaged beyond repair. A broken glass. My story ends here as I watch her crumble.

Published in:

http://campuswriting.com/2012/06/19/broken/ 

Pissed at men syndrome

You wake up in the morning to the sounds of your mother yelling at your brother to finish his breakfast before it gets cold. You smile to yourself, still tucked in bed; semiconscious; contemplating whether you should go back to sleep and slowly, you become aware of the pain shooting through your body. Perplexed, you wonder what’s wrong and suddenly it dawns upon you. Doing a ninja, you bounce off the bed and rush to the bathroom. It’s that time of the month again......

To read the complete piece go to:

http://bangalorewritersworkshop.wordpress.com/2011/12/08/bww-star-pissed-at-men-syndrome

A lovers lullaby

I hear the thunder roll
and stare out at the dark sky.
The pitter-patter of the rain
magnifies the eerie silence I feel inside.

A void
that's slowly filling.
With cynicism, hatred and despair
All together at once.

The more I try to avoid it
fight it and move on.
The tighter the feeling clasps itself
around my heart.

I pray for help to arrive,
Maybe I should ask.

Like a thirsty bloodsucker
it steals the elixir from me.
Happiness draining out
I find it hard to breathe.

Sleepless nights I befriend
like a lover I'll never leave.
If only I could cheat
to find a happy day to greet me.

A tear rolls down my cheek
as I pray for the day I would learn to live again.
But pain, hatred and despair
refuse to let go of me.

Like they are the masters.
And I am their keep.

I scream, wail, and die
again and again on the inside.
This torturous journey refusing to end
I find myself giving up on me.

From a distance
I hear your voice.
I halt.
Your voice. It’s louder now.

Like a drop of sweet golden honey
on my tongue.
Like the caress of a soft feather
on my cheek.

I begin to relax.
I begin to breathe.

Your voice grows louder
and I no longer feel like I'm lost at sea.
Like a beacon you guide me
your voice being the tune my heart wants to beat.

In a life where miracles
don't happen very often.
Every night you heal me
with your speech.

I have found myself again
I now smile effortlessly.
You are the reason I wake up
experiencing beautiful dreams.

Your voice like a lullaby
puts me to sleep.