Random Ramblings

Neera is in no way related to Lelin dadu by blood. She happens to be the eldest daughter of late Banshidhar, Lelin dadu’s best friend from childhood. Banshi was a few years younger to Lelin and even as a kid had dreams of making it big in life. That is why he moved to Kolkata after finishing high school, and started his own small business. He married late and all his children were brought up in modern ways, unaccustomed to village life and people. Since Banshidhar passed away ten years ago, Neera hadn’t since returned to the village, and had almost no recollection of Lelin dadu. Neera’s New York is as different from the village of two-lakes, as is Brooklyn Bridge from the makeshift bamboo lake-crossing that threatens to snap if more than two persons or one cow walks over it at a time. Unlike two-lakes, New York has running water and wide roads bereft of potholes. The many heroes of the city, the Lelin dadus , vein through city’s gushing life-forces, but their songs of glory are ov

It has been twenty years since you left. Twenty years that I have not seen you. Honest to God, I don’t completely remember your face now. Only that smile, those hazel eyes, and your green striped shirt that later, someone stole from your clothesline on a summer afternoon. That summer remember, we stole mangoes from whichever garden we could, and attempted to cook chutney. And the aftermath – burnt coils of the electric heater and a blackened saucepan. I wonder why even after all these years, a gentle sprinkle of your memories, unleashes a strong flow of emotions that occupy those corners of my mind that normally don’t exist in my everyday life. I don’t like it. I don’t like that you come so close to me but only in a dream. I can neither touch you nor make you go away. You tease me like a freshly popped champagne bottle spilling out froth. That froth that burns my fingertips, but never wets them enough. And slowly, precipitates away into nothing. You are not “nothing” in my life. Y

The gold bangles that you mother had put gently in my hands the week before your destiny took me away from you and brought me closer to my fate here, now await patiently in the old embroidered jewelry box. For the first year or two, about two times a year I opened that box eager and excited. Yes, the gold still retained the shine, the exuberance. I wore them delighted, glamorized and comforted. Now years have passed and I not even have time To ponder upon the time that went between, or the bridges of thought that separate us. The giddy gold I’ve traded for the purple and red earthy beads that guys tell me make me exotic. I wear the wear and tear, of cheap affordable life. (The bright shines blind me now) Don’t tell me now I’ve spread myself thin It’s an art you earn after you’ve lost everything. By giving up the living, I’ve learned to love. By giving up the pining I’ve learned to pain. The gold, like heart does not shine forever, for all. ~Proma (Feeling a little homesick this Diwali)

Today is Special. That was the first thought that struck him as he lay in his bed, woken up by the 5:00 am arati . Like every morning, the chants of the medieval mantras , the beating of the khols and the tinkling of the manjiraas , had together spun a magical weave into his dreams, even before he himself got out of them and embraced the risen world. The distance between the temple where the morning arati was going on, and his house was about one average-sized pond long, which, for you educated lot means about 50 metres or so. Every morning, he wakes up and slowly walks to the hand-pump in his front-yard, brushes his teeth and gargles loudly, frightening the sparrows gathered around the water source. And then on most days, he solemnly looks around, not particularly at anything. By the time the temple crowd disperses after the arati session, he wanders into the vegetable garden. He checks for new coconuts on the palm tree, young lady’s-fingers hanging upside-down on the rough-ste

If hope be man's final destiny then every tear his eyes have shed, tells a tale of silent victory greater than hope itself. Is it his spirit? A madness perhaps that his shattered self, his broken heart, Recoils, rewinds and recollects and colors itself as Art ? ~Proma

It happens all of a sudden: The breaking of the dreams you called your own The demise of the world you thought was yours The curdling of, your ignorant heart. You cannot lie, it happens: You revisit tragedies. For you are aware that re-visits trivialize hard truths, the depth as well as the high. One sad evening you sat by that window, I know you did: And let anger burn you inside-out, and splinters split through you, as you sat by, the window to your soul. I saw your eyes speak to me: Your lifetime of holding sane, the pipeline of bottled pain, cycles running over and end, Only to begin, yet again. The only way out, the only respite: Avenge your sorrows not drown in your plight. At the confluence of bursting fire and simmering tears, the burning revenge ends on the pyre of fear. By merging defeat into an acceptance speech of life, You’ve become a woman, not just a man’s wife. ~Proma

While still in my teens, I often heard my dad recite his favorite lines from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina , “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”. For years the true meaning behind these lines eluded me, and no matter how deeply I dug into the words, somehow I couldn’t touch what the author really wanted us to understand. My dad, who would always return a mildly challenging smile when asked what those lines meant, would never satisfy our questions fully, but rather leave us in a grumpy, confused, self-defeating state of mind. And then one day, I finally got it. That occasion was of no particular significance, barring the fact that it had been an extremely tiresome day. I had picked up Sid from his childcare center after my evening MBA classes. It was already ten. Sid, being tenderly fussy on the days he was forced to be away from me till late at night, refused food and went straight to bed. Another night of non-stop studying was about to begin

June 21st 2007 5:40pm Savannah, GA Shyla’s little ranch home was tucked away behind the row of weeping willows. More dreary looking houses and an abandoned truck rusting by the street, made the scenery look even sadder. It was hard to imagine that inside one of those old withdrawn houses, a newborn was trying to see the world with twinkle eyes in all amazement. Eric had parked on the street and was now walking towards the little ranch home. He had not noticed the adjoining houses, nor that the driveway ended into a worm-infested narrow mud pathway leading towards the house. He could see nothing, as his insides couldn ’t bear another iota of sensory impulse. Or perhaps, he, standing at this moment, still and alone, on grounds completely alien, was shielded from everything outside of his own chosen senses. He felt strangely calm, as if he had just come walking out alive from the dead. As he stood in front of the large wooden door now, loud heartbeats thumped against his ringing hea

Jan 1st, 2007 -11:00am -Savannah, GA Rumble- rumble ….. Sshhh… Again, rumble - rumble. Shyla’s heart skipped two beats! Was that her baby moving? This was the first time that the baby had moved. Shyla felt her tummy with her hands. Her face was still; her hands glued to the small belly. Something powerful went between her fingers. The movement of life, felt intensely alien at first; but the second shudder turned her fears into an awakening understood only by those who have experienced it. A little bump appeared at one end and then tumbled across to the other side of her belly. “Ma!” cried Shyla. Her mother came running into the room from the kitchen where she had been preparing lunch. “Ma, it’s the baby moving”. The two women sat close to each other, their faces flushing with excitement. For half an hour they followed every little movement, with eager eyes, un-relinquished enthusiasm and squeals of laughter. ****** Four months ago, Liz had welcomed her daughter

-June 21st, 2007 -2:00pm -Somewhere between Atlanta and Savannah, GA Eric Cohen stopped the car and let his head out through the window. Not a single car could be seen within a mile’s radius. The Sun’s brutal rays fell sharply over his balding head. He was blinded for the split second before he puked, for the third time. Puking felt good momentarily. But then Eric was too high to enjoy the release fully. His head was like a dead washing machine not even trying to start itself. He sat back straight on his seat wiping his mouth with Kleenex. As he put his hands on the wheel again, the churn in his stomach returned. Nothing had prepared him for this. Nothing. Not even the strongest joint he had ever fixed in his life. Three minutes passed. Three very long minutes. Eric wanted to start the engine. He really did. And intermittently between the clouded nirvanas, he thought that he actually could . He had been feeling this way for weeks now. And especially when he was high on m

One dew drenched evening, still we sat our eyes floating under the ocean of stars. The breeze drifted into a delirium and that one night had you open your heart. But the morning came and took you back to where you smile between your fears. My open arms you withdrew from and knowingly I had shed no tear. Since that day you're afraid to sleep Your bloodshot eyes tell no lie A bowl of sun and a drop of pain is all you'll dream when you close your eyes. ~Proma

Clinging to strange lands set my native fears free burying the known I’ve let the unknowns ravage me The only truth I’ve hit Were souls others had tried Someone’s pains slit Inter-twined with mine There’s nothing to despair My contemplation drafts – There’s nothing to repair It’s broken from the start I’m tired of the swinging And death-ness and the stings There’s no meaning in -no-thing- Until your loveliness sings - Proma

Its one o clock in the morning and I'm still awake. Conventional wisdom would suggest I go to sleep. Not enough sleep would probably mean a less productive tommorrow. Not for me. Being a mother, I'm inherently programmed to wake up at 6:45am every morning. And I've done all the great deeds of my life being tired, broke or sleep-deprived(sounds scary!). I've been thinking about family, home, roots and culture. Perhaps because its so close to my upcoming visit to India (after a gap of three years). The mind imagines the reunion with the family, the glowing faces, the tears of joy. There is nothing like home. For so long have I missed the strolls along those streets strewn with idle shops, tiny but uncluttered, ugly but charming. The roadside thelaas selling the spiciest bhelpuris and the yummiest egg-rolls. The magic madness of the tuesday haats . Thin street-vendors nagging every passing tourist. Brightest saris. Hot pink sindoor. Neon bangles. Loud uncles and warn

Last Sunday we drove up to the Amicalola Falls of North Georgia. It wasn't really planned but, as it sometimes is - things just happen, plans just don't. After a cozy night's sleep (it was cold!) when I finally acknowledged the morning, albeit reluctantly, it wasn't so exciting. The mercury had dipped significantly since last week and the clouds threatened to ruin the last day before the hectic work week began. Darn ! just when you thought this was going to be the day you could do anything under the sun, it turns out, the Sun God has a mood swing. In a couple of hours, bleak turned into bright, and the temperature rose to bearable(a very relative term). Aha ! mmm... the adrenaline rush was getting me now. A packed ice-box and a filled gas tank later, my Pontiac Grand AM was ruling the roads(ok, at least in my mind). Now, lets talk about the landscape. Honestly, the roadside trees are not their sexiest in March. In fact, unless you love the bald look, they probab

Today was a refreshing day. The past weeks had me caught within a "Coriolis Effect". This effect is the apparent deflection of objects from a straight path if the objects are viewed from a rotating frame of reference. Sometimes even a steady headed person can deviate and forget that we live within a mesh of various forces. Its not fun being carried away to a strange foreign land by strong staggering wind and not realising that all I had to do was to hold on to the familiar hand of obscurity, until the wind settled. Instead , once caught in a wildfire, its easier to lose way and get caught towards the worst epicenter, than run out to the perimeter. The Whirlwind, that's what it is. Today was the day, I got out of that whirlwind. And silly me, all it took was a walk to the local Barnes and Noble, get a tall Cafe Mocha, head to the poetry section and settle all by myself at a little corner in the store. As my latest muse, Rumi took me in, and overcame all my six se

I meet all kind of people all the time. Love 'em. They intrigue me. Knowing, observing and analysing them comes to me naturally. Some open up easily. Some push me away. Some wait and watch and test before giving away in increments. Sometimes I come across someone that doesn't know the existence of the 'invisible cage'. What is this invisible cage ? We live with it, and operate within the framework it lays for us. Hinduism describes that cage as "AHAM" , but you and I know it more as "ego" . I think of Ego as a useful engine, but it needs a driver for steering. A powerful engine without an equally powerful driver drives aimlessly , and could even be self-destructive. They miss their goals, repeatedly. According to Hindu Philosophy the Goal of Self Realisation may be achieved by surrendering ego and merging with Self. The road to happiness begins with the giving up of the notion of ego. Now, the reason I'm writing this is because, from m

Art as Flirtation and Surrender In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest, where no one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art. - R U M I

Whats wrong with us ? Why are we not rejoicing that Deepa Mehta's "Water" was at least nominated in the Oscar's foreign films category. The day the oscars were announced most Indian newspapers had the following headlines : "Deepa Mehta's Water misses the mark" , "Mehta's water not good enough" , and the even more bizarre, "Water misses Oscars, John misses Bips" !!!! . I sense the deep rooted complex that we have against our own fellow countrymen a little different from the rest of us. Before you begin to think that I am a fierce feminist who wants to defend Mehta, let me tell you thats not true. I had personally found Mehta's films good but never great. And I'm no feminist. The first one of the Trilogy , "Fire" was about two women, married to brothers of the same household, both women being neglected by their husbands. Shabana and Nandita did their roles convincingly, yet I found the film not depictin

As the year ending ceremonies begin with flowing champagne and throbbing music, and end with the birth of countless new hopes, every little heart feels the in-escapable sadness arising out of that fleeting last moment, the emotion lasting perhaps for a split-second. But then in the next blink of an eye, the glitter of shining new promises take over. Tomorrow will be a beautiful new day, and even if it is not, perhaps I will be stronger to still hold onto you, wonderful life. Like every other celebration involving a public holiday, people party, and that too within huge groups. Countless new resolutions are made. Some old ones are renewed, yet again. As if resolutions made this night are consecrated by the collective goodness of the nocturnal participants. People hold hands, kiss and cry with complete strangers, share (coincidentally) similar sounding stories, as they look back at the year just passed. All this, I am sure is familiar madness to you. At the strike of 12:00, I dec