Wednesday, June 29, 2016


For the past three to four days, I have been spending quite some time in cabs in Bangalore. About three hours a day going places, meeting friends. After a while the ride gets nauseous, but the people I see outside trigger my interest. There are just so many people outside, doing so many things. Each one has a life, each one has a story.
There was this lady who was waiting at the bus stop, with an umbrella to shield her from the rain. I thought she is probably getting back home after a day's work, to her family. Her children might be waiting for her. I wondered how long her bus ride would be. She probably would go home, check her children's homework, cook dinner, feed them and wait for her husband. The same thing tomorrow.
There was this guy getting out of a printing press, with his helmet on, starting his two wheeler. He has this big smile on his face. Probably he got to run an errand, and he could use the opportunity to meet his girlfriend.
The cab drivers driving the cab I was in, they breathe the pollution day after day after day. The windows are rolled down, they bring destinations closer to people seeking them. He is probably going around the city everyday. Same roads, same traffic, same routes, different passengers.
There was this lady walking along the footpath (sidewalk) with a sack on her head. She was dressed in a north Indian attire. A street dog following her diligently, which she was unaware of. She just kept waking, rushing somewhere, with the heavy sack on her head. A few meters away I saw a flour mill, where they powder cereals. Another lady sat there in the same Indian attire. Probably she was waiting for the lady with the sack, and they were taking turns.
These are just few of the hundreds of people I saw on my cab rides. Every person I see on the street, tells me a story. A story of their own, unique to them, me a spectator, more so an imagination freak..!

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Seeing her..

I was walking towards the exit after my son's sports day events. Suddenly, I saw her. She was right in front of me. In the moment of shock, I didn't even say hello. She didn't wait either. I saw her smile, not at me. I looked at my wife, she was smiling and saying hello. Oh my God!
After I was out of my bewilderment, I told her, "that's her".
"You were saying hello to"
I just looked at her to let it dawn upon her.. and it did.. faster than I thought.
"Ooooooooooh! Oh my God!!! She?? She is the beautiful one? And I knew her all along??"
And she burst into laughter. What was she laughing at?
"I never thought it would be her? I am so happy it's her. She is not beautiful. I always had this complex that she was more beautiful than me, she is not!!!"
Women, and their silly complexes, I thought.
So I saw her, after many years. She still looked beautiful to me. In another time, in another life,  maybe...

Friday, June 24, 2016

Going home...

The last time this big Bird took me home, the cold body of my mother lay in an ice box, waiting for my brother and me. Her soul gone. The warmth of her embrace now cold from the ice. Her smile faded, forever. I was dreading the journey. I didn't know myself for the moment and the hours afterward I see her. It was the worst day of my life.
It has been a year. During this one year she visited me a few times. I felt her presence as my husband, children and I reunited after my son's week long summer camp. I felt her smiling beside me as I plucked the first vegetable from my garden. I felt her each time I cooked her recipe. I felt her as I sewed my first handbag. I have felt her, more powerful than ever.
This time I am going to help free her soul, so they say. It maybe a ritual, but maybe it will bring closure to the mourning. I don't know, once again, how I will feel. But, maybe it will help me get over the grieving and celebrate her life. I will continue to feel her presence, I know, till my last breath. She will be there with me, holding my hand when I am weak, rejoicing with me at my successes, watching over me and keeping me blessed.
I dread going home, for the first time. It's the first time, that I will be going home without my mother. It's not that thought that I am dreading. When I open her cupboard, will I catch her smell? Will it feel like she is there, yet not there? I don't know. Another uncertain period of life, where I don't know myself.
I miss you Ma, today and everyday for the years to come. I wish I could hug you, just once more.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Getting up

There are good days and bad days
Like cancer
Being shoved to a corner
Being pushed down
In spirit
Known faces all around
A word
A gesture
Sometimes there are no walls
And yet I get up
With all my might
Sometimes I hold on to that climber
Little, yet it supports me
There are times when oh my way up
I am pushed back again
Yet I get up
I wail
My heart breaks each time
A little
I sew it
And get up
The halo of love
At a distance
Smiling upon me
Playing a game of mirage
Is it there
Yes it should be
Giving me the strength
Each time
To get up
And run.