Dedicating a rhyme, for a dear friend of mine

This rhyme is written for Mariam, my dear friend,
To who I am grateful, to no end.

Before she took matters in her hand,
Rhyming was something I could never stand.

The only rhyme I could ever write,
No matter how much I would fight,

Were the following two lines,
From the scores of literary mines:

"A merry month is December,
Though we don't have much cucumber."

I'm sure you understand my plight,
When at the mention of rhyme, my brain would be halfway in flight.

The credit of this fire, my friend, goes to you,
My rhyme is colourful and no longer blue.

Summer lovin'

What to do on waking with a bad mood?
Break your fast and have some sinful comfort food.

But are those early morning calories going to do you any good?
Perhaps just slide back into bed and lower the hood.

You fear if it's going to last all day,
Especially in the tiresome heat of May.

Whether outdoors or indoors, you profusely sweat,
The trick, I realise, is not to fret.

Eat, sleep, drink and be merry,
And when the heat goes down, let's go on the ferry.

Unfettered

Faded jeans and superhero tee-shirts
Clipped nails and no makeup
Wearing flats, carrying a backpack,
I’m ready to take on the world.
There’s nothing I can’t do,
No limits that I know of.
To take the step, to accelerate,
The time is now.
Now, more than ever!

I am three and twenty years young,
As yet unmarried.
Further disinclined, rather uninterested.
A major concern for the parental units.
And all those of my kin, far and near.
Each of them wanting nothing but The Best for me.
Undoubtedly.
The best that they will decide.

Wham! Unanticipated road blocks and sudden breaks!
Tears, fights, stalemate.
Autopilot on, follow the road,
Present my best profile to the expert’s lens.
Feel comfortable, but strike a pose.
Stand straight, but not too much.
Everything in moderation, nothing in excess.

Albatross

For the nasty words I've spoken,
And the well-meaning ones I haven't.

For the thoughtless things I did,
And the well-planned ones I didn't.

For wanting what I wanted,
And refusing what I didn't.

For holding on when it was harder,
And letting go when it was needed.

For doubting what I know,
And knowing what I doubt.

For just being,
And sometimes not being enough.

I plead guilty.

Guilty, for feeling.
Guilty, for not feeling guilty.

A number in history

History was one of my most favourite subjects in school. And I especially enjoyed reading about colonialism and the conscious process of nation-building. How kings indulged a greed for more, how empires felt the need for power. During successive years, I saw that many of my friends did not share my curiosity for the past, some of them in fact felt otherwise. Things were said and done and it has all been long gone, so we should forget about it and live in the present, they argued.

Mastery of Zen Buddhist philosophy by twelve year olds? Or just a marked dislike for the study of history? I didn't know then and I didn't attempt to find out. But I like to think that many of us have since realised that studying the past does not necessarily mean that you are reliving it or cherishing a sense of unhealthy/unproductive nostalgia. A consciousness of events and influences past can guide us to a better understanding of who we are, which is much bigger than ourselves, our immediate surroundings and our societies. It is also very likely that this knowledge might change our present or shape our future (if that's what we're looking for). And of course, like Steve Jobs said, we can only connect the dots looking backwards. So there, live in the present but do not be afraid to look back. In so doing, we construct a certain aura about this day, that time. 

Today happens to be one among my many "days to remember". Today, five years ago, I bought the SIM card to my first, personal cell phone. This meant that I could finally be in touch with my friends. Anytime. Everytime. Always. 

I would no longer need to plead with my mother to borrow her phone or sincerely demonstrate our mutually agreed terms of fair usage. Neither would I have to feign apologies on keeping the landline engaged for long. Further, the far-fetched notion of speaking to friends on birthdays as the clock struck twelve was now real. 

Quite a big deal, that.

I finally had an identity - ten digits which would represent me as much as (or in some sense, more than?) my name. How would I choose those numbers? Should I ask to be in serial with my family? That way, there would be just one, or at the most, two digits that would differentiate us from each other. Or should I do what my peers did -- incorporate the digits of my birth? Or perhaps try to rack my brain a little, use some creativity and request for a meaningful set of numbers? 

That wasn't all -- there were a whole range of service providers, offering these fancy-sounding terms like top-ups and talktimes and whatnots. All basically providing the same things at similar prices.

Hey Bhagwan, this was getting more and more complicated. I didn't need to be in serial with my family, in order to memorise their numbers. And maybe, just maybe, I did not want to merge my soon-to-be-mobile self with the familial units. The birth-digits option would have made sense if I was a schoolgirl. But I was in college and I felt quite above such childishness. And I couldn't think of any set of meaningful numbers because I had hitherto lived a simple, uneventful life. 

I was anything but average at math, preferring always the qualitative over the numeric, so I was getting too lost with all this preoccupation with numbers. But my mind insisted that it was necessary, because the digits once chosen, would become my identity and I would have to live with what I had created. 

I invested a few days of my winter vacation in this quandary. The answer came to me one afternoon while watching an old Hindi film on tv. Listen to this song, and you'll know (and please don't judge me).

As to what I did? Well, I went to the store and let them do their job. I got a number and an identity I am quite comfortable with. 

Two years later, the government of India came up with the Mobile Number Portability scheme, allowing existing users to change their service provider without changing their ten-digit phone number. So, that was one of my concerns already taken care of. They're also trying to work on eliminating the roaming charges in the country, so I wouldn't have to worry about altering my identity at all, as long as I lived in India :)

On ever leaving the country... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it and create whatever avatar I then feel like.

What is home?

My family recently moved to a new place, a place I’ve wanted to live in for years. It was being bought when I still lived in my childhood home. (Tries very hard to not indulge in self-righteous nostalgia – those were the merry sunshine days of eternal bliss, et cetera). I realise now that in the functional sense, we will always be a joint family, but the things that this house promised seemed too far-fetched to ever be realised: the thought of actually living as a nuclear family, for instance.

It’s been a little over two months since we moved, but it still feels so unreal. I had gotten so used to the noise and laughter of little cousins, the comings and goings of relatives, the ways and means of everyday life. Back then, you needed to be very careful with your books and papers, lest any loose sheet find itself in the hands of an angry parent or under the feet of a naughty kid. But now, we have our valuables in every room such that, you can never be sure what imperative you have left behind when you leave the house. Earlier, if you did something wrong, the entire house would know about it and would participate in corrective action. But now, it would be incredible if you could just get yourself to place your finger on any wrongs. Also, in the old days, your mobility was conditional, and as a result, the only way you got things done was by making and sticking to your meticulous plans. However, as you grew older, you also outgrew those conditions (which were replaced by other ones) and learnt how to be spontaneous, but then, never seemed to get anything done.

Can it be said that when people want something for very long, they cannot handle it when they actually get it? Perhaps it feels too good to be true. Or rather, they no longer want the thing the same way. Or worse, they prefer to want it in their dreams but not as much for it to really be manifested in their lives. But see, I overdid it, again. It is quite possible, that all they need is time (with a capital T, the kind that no one ever seems to have or get enough of). We need Time, to embrace and accept any change in our lives, even if it is a change we have actively sought and aggressively pursued.

So what do you do with this Time, I wonder. Do you wake up one morning and suddenly feel at home in your new place? Or must you make a conscious effort to accept the new, each day, and numerous times, every day: because home is made up of and represents so many things?

Home is a place where you learn and explore the possibilities of all that you can do and be, like your school or college. Your workplace even, if possible.

Home can be a person who accepts you truly and completely, like your best friend or partner; or a couple of persons who will always want the best of everything for you, like your parents.

And of course, the place (or the places) where you have lived.

This advertisement shows coming home to so many things, although it’s selling a completely unrelated product. In his book Go, Kiss the World, Subroto Bagchi talks about homecoming in an insightful way: “Home is the place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to go back to.”

So if home “is where the heart is”, and your heart is in many different things, does it mean that the feeling of “being at home” is divided between that many things/people, or is it multiplied? Do you then feel that much more? Or do you feel marginally less every time you find a new home, so to speak? 

A chance encounter

Time to leave, but before,

A quick look all around.

Perchance, our eyes meet!

I pause. Turn back.

Give in to the invisible string

pulling me to you.

What worries gnaw 

at the core

of your heart?

What existential questions

fix your eyes

upon that spot?

Quietly, I tip-toe

lest any sound

break our connection.

I kneel in front of you,

and yet, you see

past (or through?) me.

Mahabubnagar district, Telangana, India. September 2014