कली मेरी संतान

ओस की बूँद पर,
स्पर्श सूरज की पहली किरण |
सज्ज उठी प्यारी सी कली,
इस रंग भरी ओस से ||

है सीना तान के,
आँच न आने देती, लड़ती वो हर तूफान ||
लगाए उसे छाती पर,
पोषण देती अपने खून से,
कहती यह मेरी संतान ||

               फैलाओ अपनी बाहें 'ओ इंद्रधनुष,
               नाचे तितली, गाए मेरी सखी |
                        नमन करती मैं निर्मिति को,
                        "सुन वायु, ओ मेरी धारा,
                         मैं धरती, करती विन्नति,
                         बरसो आसीस इस कली पर
                        यह मेरी संतान, यह मेरी सन्तान ||"

जन्मे तू मेरी कोख से
या उज्ज्वल करे किसी का आँगन,
मैं तेरी माता, तू मेरी संतान |
मैं तेरी माता, तू मेरी संतान ||


Poet's Interpretation: I attended a poetry session with a group called Book Exchange Group - Mumbai. I learnt it's good to provide the poet's interpretation for the reader to connect his thoughts with that of the poet's. So here it goes:

Kali Meri Santaan - is about a Mother, the Earth, looking after her child like a flower bud - Kali.
                            A mother fights the odds, protects her child - "आँच न आने देती, लड़ती वो हर तूफान ||"
She feeds her child her blood in the form of breast milk - "पोषण देती अपने खून से". The purity of mother's love is defined in her prayers, here she calls vaayu and dhaara to bless her child. The unconditional love of a mother is portrayed in the last stanza where she says, 'Even if you are not born in my womb, even if I have adopted you from someone else's, I am your mother, you are my child'.

 

Who is it on your bed?

It is believed in most parts of India that a baby in the womb of a pregnant woman, learns from the practices of the carrying mother, her interaction with self and the outside world. And this learning forms a part of one's behavior and thought-process.
Assuming the Indian belief is true, there are numerous questions racing in my mind, when I see a carrying woman, who seemed needy of a comfortable seat in the crowded bus, off on a bumpy ride, leaning on the pole near the seat reserved for ladies and none of the women, indulged in make-up and gossip, ready to leave their seat for her. Saddened, I stood up, paving way for her, with the thoughts lingering 'What would the child in, learn? Why don't these women comfort a needy? Is it that they have learnt the same from their parents or is it that they have chosen to be this way?'

If I look at it this way, the people around us are drowning in their own world and there's no hole to glance out to see the world outside, it makes sense. But.... this is contradictory to what The Honorable Supreme court says in Section 377!

Here it goes:

Chapter XVI, Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code dating back to 1861, introduced during the British rule of India, criminalises sexual activities "against the order of nature", including homosexual acts.

 Unnatural offences: Whoever voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or with imprisonment of either description for term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine.

Explanation: Penetration is sufficient to constitute the carnal intercourse necessary to the offense described in this section.

When one has no business in looking upon the fellow people, why has one got to peep in the bedrooms of others? If two adults indulge in consensual safe sex, how does it harm the society?

 For the fact remains that the deadly sexually transmitted diseases are epidemic in the business of prostitutes, for which, it is men who are responsible.

(read: http://www.openthemagazine.com/article/living/men-according-to-prostitutes).

From child rights to women safety, we raise our voice. It is high time we wake-up for the rights of transgenders, homosexuals, queers. If Section 377 succeeds in stopping the so-called "unnatural sex", will it succeed in stopping the hearts?

Like the bedrooms and affairs of heterosexuals are private and personal, so shall be of the homosexuals.

The womb from which a heterosexual (read 'straight') is born, from the same womb is a homosexual / transgender born (read 'gay / hijada'). When nature (and the mythologies) accept the bonding of same genders, who are we to criminalise? It is not by choice or by force that decides one's orientation. It is fixed while in the womb.

PS: Co-incidentally, while writing this, my best buddy called up to say he's blessed with a boy. Should I congratulate him for his son might be straight or should I ask him to disown this gift of nature for he might be gay and the society will criminalize him?

Left Over

Are you a foodie? Ever spoken to the yummy delicacies before relishing them? Lets take a sneak-peek at the conversation happening at the Grand Table of the Darbar of the riches:

"Can you please stop smelling? My nose is burning because of your smell!", rubbing his nose Kheer pointed. "Who are you?" it questioned. "I am the sweetest, healthiest and most tempestuous on this table. I am Kheer. " he announced in pride. "Say you are the fattest, fatty!" winked Makke-di-roti. "Ah! Who is it sticking on with you?", "Sarson. She is my best-half." he smiled. "Like my Korma! I am Mr. Mutton Briyani and accompanying me is my wifey - Mrs. Korma!". They are interrupted by a gang shouting, "Hello!.. Hi!..I am Pasta, Pizza, Dosa, Sambar, Salad, Brownie,....." and the conversation continues.

All dressed in the colorful garnishing and seated in the lustrous silver utensils. Their introduction  is immediately followed by a rush of hungry guests.

"The people plunging into action seem hungry for ages" exclaimed Phulkas, while Caesar, the Salad bid "Bye! I am the first to go. I am for the health conscious people." As the evening proceeds, each one keen on leaving the containers for the plates, sooner, Kheer still in high spirits, hearing people say - "Keep little space for Kheer, the King of all eats."
As the bowls empty, Kheer feels heavy and sinking as the guests uttered - "Wish I had a little space left over in my belly to have Kheer..Wish I could have one bowl, I should have left over some space.. "

Kheer thought to itself, "When the evening of the feast began, all spoke of me. I seemed everyone's favorite. They wanted to taste everything else and relish me completely. But, by the time it was my turn, they had eaten so much that there was no space left over for me... no space left over for their King of all eats!"

Even humans feel the same, when we know that they are special to us and we don't take time and efforts to be with them, thinking that we'll anyways meet or speak over the phone at convenience. It never happens because there remains no time, energy, excitement, left over.

Are you postponing things and communicating with your special people and making them feel a Left Over?

Where is your Erection?

A denim blue jeans, white polo tee, a pair of brown shoes, make my attire on this sunny Friday morning when I see my colleague dressed in a similar fashion except for that her's is jeans merely reaching her thigh (known as 'bum cut' I suppose). Adding on to her clothes, she being 'she', looks Gorgeous!
Ah.. is that a derisive comment? No.. she blushes when I greet her, "Hey Gorgeous!" Well that's how we talk to each other, friendly. But to what extent does a word, a gesture or a touch can be friendly or complimenting?

                        The impact that a word, a gesture or a touch has, sets the bars of humanness, acceptance and comfort. Any degree beyond is inhuman, disrespecting and harmful.

                        Had it been her boss with whom she is not comfortable in a rapport more than professional, she would not accept being called "Gorgeous", so what even if they interact with each other everyday! If she is uncomfortable and finds it offensive from a man she knows, undoubtedly it is harmful and disrespecting by a roadside-romeo.
                        So who gives these roadside-romeos, the care-takers, the fathers, the self-claimed gods, the bosses, every male who has attained puberty, the right to abuse, molest, rape or murder? Is it the flesh that attracts or is it the lack of availability of sex that forces to rip off one's right to choose the partner for consensual sex?
                       Where is the humanity, one that is believed to differentiate humans from other creatures? The primary difference is in the respect and mutual consent humans are attributed with. No gender, law or superiority provides the right to use a person as a property to be used at will.
                        Sadly, very few voices of women, rarely any voice of men and children are heard. And the reasons behind the abduction of their voices are the society and the government. The role of fellow people is to protect and help when one is in trauma but, it is the other way round. The survivor is looked down upon and the one who commits the crime breathes free.
                       If the education can't, awareness can't, up-bringing can't stop the monsters then only fear FEAR can. The punishment for such inhuman acts should inculcate fear in everyone. Though this won't curb molests but definitely the rate would go down. Other than a 5 year term or a life term for adults and rehab for juveniles (with the capability to rape), the INDIAN GOVERNMENT has nothing to stop the crime.
                     Abuse, molest and rape, no categorization should seep in and the only punishment should be pain. The abuser must be awarded death slowly by pushing him towards exponential pain with methods like castration, stone-pelting, burying alive, setting on fire.
                    My dear most high profile, low thinking Babus, if the clothes meant an invitation to rape, you should roam naked. Nothing can provoke a person to rape, because like I have read it somewhere-

                                                    :Erection is in the mind; not down there:

 

Any less, makes You less!

24-25.
The chapter 24-25 deals with pain, condolences, confinement, courage,  fear, comfort, assurance, surprises, salvation, separation, joy, agony, freedom, infidelity, injustice, peace, wander, perseverance, selflessness, love, suspicion, promises, immortality, knowledge, achievement, journey.

Turning 25 is the first bench mark of the 60 years of life. Until now, the changes that ebbed and flowed only touched and inspired. Some went unseen, some upturned. As the days add in, answering the puzzling question - "Who moved my cheese?" becomes mandatory, for I am a big MAN now. Reading the book of the title same as the puzzling question, years back, left one impression in my mind - "change with the change" is the mantra. My first virtual preacher Dr. Spencer Johnson taught the world to see the changes as they come and to deal with them in the possible right manner.

Tauk, tauk, tauk..... hit the outer sole of my shoes under my heels as the three stairs led to a well-lit dining hall of a restaurant at the corner of the street where a man whose heart was broken by the unkind deed of his love being taken for granted, was waiting to lighten the burden of his pain by sharing it with me. The words of wisdom gushed out of me. "There's always a principle of cause and effect, and the cause of one's sorrow is not the deeds of others but the emphasis of it on self is". To differentiate between matters seeking emphasis or ignorance lies in the ability to hold responsibility of freeing oneself from the fears and worries, flowing with the current and taking up the responsibility of the good and the bad. Making him understand this was an easy task as this enlightenment I had attained from the "License To Live" that led to "The Perfect World". Priya Kumar, your beauty in thoughts is seen the charm of your face. And this you've embossed, ""I am responsible of everything that happens in my world!"

Sex....Oh my God!!!  Speaking of it, errr.... uttering the THREE letter word in India is religiously foul. Hats off! to Paulo Coelho for remarkably inscribing the power of "Eleven Minutes" of the forms of sex. Paulo's art of description of events reflect the ideals of we Indians on sex. When I spoke of this with my friend at the restaurant, after pulling him from his despair, a lady from the behind rushed unto me asking me to curtail the talk on it as my loud voice enthralled everyone there (wink wink...it happens only in India)

We had left the restaurant. He felt better. I was happy seeing my friend finding peace for the chaos in his mind. But the conversation went on. One subject lead to the other, very much like Em's in "Em and The Big Hoom", a story that resides in my heart, from Jerry Pinto, whose impeccable style of reciting conversations has taken me head over heels. Love is nowhere in the words, only in deeds, that way Jerry portrays the joy of giving. Love in depths of insanity is about giving with no expectation of seeking, a feel that imbibes you to experiencing richness in showering selfless love and puts you down when you don't give in your fullest, it's about the art of giving in which"Any less, makes you less"

Life, Paus and Masti!

At 6:00 pm, on a foot-over-bridge (FOB) leading to Andheri railway station, looking around to familiarize myself with the streets and the shops clustered with people, who in vain to save themselves from the showers of monsoon sought shelter there, I paused my feet from taking any step ahead. The time did not pause with me, it went on as if to board a train in an unending journey. But, I stood there, carefree of the happenings in the world away from the aura of this particular engineered structure.

I had a schedule on my mind to run on, which did not include the very moment I was experiencing. A railing with a slab of the length of three sedan cars was filled with men and women. What were they doing here when the rest of the mob was running amok to board the crowded trains to reach its destination? 

A peep. One group of teen-aged boys shouting in glee, about their academic examination results, about girls they were dating and aghast about their fathers being miser. None of this disturbed the couple of a man and a woman engaged in tasting the taste buds of each other, but seeing this infuriated an old man gasping while walking, accompanied by hundreds of co-commuters in hustle, complaining about the rain that they long for otherwise, brushing aside one another after a day long work or merry-making. As the dark clouds were darkening the evening, the number of couples across the length of FOB increased, along with the number there was a raise in the gestures of making love in public, some cuddled, some kissed, some hesitated, some fiddled, all with one thing in common - the urge! Little did I realize that the urge in me caused hunger pangs in my pot-belly.

Walking down 34 stairs to the ground level, getting a ticket to Churchgate station from an automated ticket vending machine, I entered a well-lit food court maintained by IRCTC, taken aback by the clean ambiance, I relished 4 pieces of Uttapam (supposedly South-Indian cuisine) cut in the triangular shape of pieces of fish in a fashion that Bengalis do. When I turned towards the window, I saw two men holding hands and kissing. Two hours had passed from the moment it started raining. We, the commuters in the local train were getting drenched in the rain drops that drifted in when the doors were sliding back.

At the lesser crowded Churchgate station, among many others was a girl shivering in her wet clothes, an abandoned boy whom almighty had not gifted all senses, an old lady helping her ailing husband and many ladies pushing off the water from the entrance of the station. I did a little that was required for one among the needy. After a while, my friends arrived with one mission - to enjoy the Paus (rain).

Omelettes and buns we bought, munching them and stuffing our umbrellas in our bags, we drenched. Howling on the road, dancing on the pavement, splashing the water from the pot-holes, we paved way for the honking cars. We laughed at the people running around to protect themselves from rain, holding umbrellas that turned upwards not withstanding the force of the wind, wearing jackets those seeped water in. Holding my hand she pulled me to cross the road, to that piece of land we were excited about - "The Marine Drive".

She wanted to eat raw mango, pleading the seller to add all spices, we handed him wet currency notes. Talking about everything we know in the world of ours, we sat facing the waves, those that emerged one after the other.  Our mobile phones wet in our bags had many calls unanswered. Struck by the aroma of roasted corn, we rushed to the family selling them. Joyfully we churned while families, ill-mannered men and shy women were looking at us. Many men seemed awe-struck looking at my friend, as if it was the evolution of man-kind and they were seeing a woman for the first time. She was gorgeous and bold enough to chase one of the on-lookers away, even before I could realize and react at him.

Like the icing adds on to the flavor of the cake, ice-cream does to the rain. Indulgence is the term for our madness of gulping in scoops of ice-cream while it rained.

The hustle and bustle is the life of every man everywhere. No time for many things. No space to live. Yet everything is available at the end of sleeves. That's how a Mumbaikar lives and also celebrates monsoon!

Kuu Chik Chik

Dal, rice and bhindi (lady's finger) fry, mixed together in  bowl of stainless steel fills the little tummy of my cute nephew aged a year and a half. He promoted me to the title of uncle, when I am just 13 years old. I play with him, cuddle him, trouble him and when he cries, I take him out on the road that converged three lanes from three directions, having a railway track on the fourth, we gaze at the trains churning their wheels, bid bye to the strangers, look at each other and laugh! I say "Kuu chik chik", he reads my lips, imitates "kuu thik thik thik thik"
 Oh! the best uncle and nephew couple we are.

As we grew, his cuteness lined spunk and charm while I bloated fatter and fatter. The little boy was taught to follow the footprints of his uncle - me. His parents, my maternal cousin brother and his wife, forced their expectations on their child in a disguise of inspirational figure they figured in me. My fighter would never give up. Scores in exams to scores in cricket, he ranked 1, even in the fun and gala. Dialogues from the movies starring Salman Khan were uttered by him with a tinge of acting.

Excitement, joy, liveliness were the traits of this little boy, who lost his father at the age of 10, lying besides him on the bed was his mother, both seeing his father die. In the body of a boy, my nephew was now a man. Taking good care of his mother, completing his home work from school by himself, attending guests, playing cricket, checking the doors locked before leaving his home, before hitting the bed. His father's death exploded the love he had for him, as he did every deed his father had done.

I spell no courage to meet my nephew soon after his father's death. I did meet him, to take him in my arms, to wipe his tears, to assure him of not letting him miss his father. A few months later was his 12th birthday. My Mom and I celebrated his birthday with a few other relatives in view of not letting him miss his father. Instead he felt his father's absence as he had never celebrated his birthday before.

A few months later, life was normal until the night when my Mom and I were unpacking kulfis and my brother scurried inside the house announcing in awe that, "my nephew has fallen off a train and his chances of survival are lean". He had fallen off a train, dwindling between life and death, blood gushing out of his head and hand, he was unconscious, not completely, he uttered, screamed words of help, crying in pain, hoping for someone to dress his wounds, someone to bring him close to life. The doctors did nothing to save him except for the suggestions of transferring the dying little boy from one hospital to the other, waiting for the police to register the case.  My fighter gave up!

I cried, I wept, I sobbed. I cried and cursed the fate, the destiny. I continued crying, fell ill. I lost my nephew and myself in that accident. I didn't know that ":the train that I am showing him everyday to see a smile on his face, will be the train that will take him away from me". The scars of the wound are in my heart. The wound penetrating deep inside. Everything around me was normal but inside, even at this moment, I feel the pain. He had done no wrong. He was a young little boy, caring for his widow mother. He brought smiles to the face of everyone around. He danced to the peppy numbers, he prayed to the Gods of all religions. He celebrated Ganpati festival in zeal, shared chocolates with his peers, forced his aunts and uncles to eat with him, respected his teachers, he was exemplary. I remember every moment of the time we spent together, every tear, every smile, every word, especially the four words he mumbled when he was learning to talk, I remember the gleam in his eyes when he looked at me, the grandeur in his joy of buying me the best food when I went to visit him, I remember everything. But I won't shed tears, not for the brave young boy. Yet, I don't search for him in any other child. I live and I live happily, for He once said, (when his father died)

"Chachu, now that pappa is no more, I am your brother. I am always there with you :)"

Yes, He is with me, in my heart. I feel no sorrow when His thoughts strike my mind. It is He who taught me to move on from grief, if not for His own-self, but for the sake of others who love us.

(I had decided that I shall never teach any child Kuu chik chik........... but then I shall not stop teaching the same to every child, to see them smiling)