I have worn mehendi and pirith-nool with equal passion

Dear Mr. President,

Cartoon by Awantha Artigala

 

I do not have to touch my husband’s feet every morning to prove my loyalty to him. What you have not understood is the fact that this is not about liquor. It is about the equal status that this country ought to be ensuring its women – the country that produced a female prime minister, president and a chief justice, with the former two being part of your own political party. If the respective majorities proved with their suffrage that they were fit enough to rule, perhaps you are of the opinion that buying liquor is even more serious than governing a country.

Your notion of ideal wife or ideal woman is not the ideal notion. If a woman can have an employment and can earn a salary, what disclaimer in democracy prevents her from spending her money? One would not be surprised if your next move would be to station cops at liquor stores to monitor whether women buy liquor. What is your good governance if it discriminates a person due to his/her gender?

For God’s sake this is not about buying liquor. I don’t even drink.

If you wanted to show your cabinet that you are still the boss, you should have resorted to a more assertive tactic. Drinking or not drinking is a personal choice. If you thought that by resorting to such theatrics-- something one would expect from your dramatic predecessor not from you-- that you would retain the favor of the Buddhist clergy and the Sinhala Buddhist nationalistic people- you never had it, to begin with.

This is not about liquor.

Increasing female political representation or the look of it alone cannot address the fundament loopholes in the empowerment of women in this country. How can you let justice take its due course when justice is not made fierce enough to punish the perpetrators? A teenage rape-victim had to hang herself and the rapists would only have to serve a jail term and come out to plunder another innocent from her future and here you are, only worried about women buying liquor.

Where is your hunger to do right by the people when the more pressing issues are brought to the table?

You do not have to harp on how Buddhist you are or quote all the ‘pitakas’ you seem to know when you cannot practice what you have been preaching. What does ‘thanha’ mean to you when you who abjured the supreme powers of the executive presidency and brought in the 19^th amendment as one of the first pieces of legislation with you at the helm, expected others to follow the laws brought in by you and needed another party to clarify whether it applies to you?

What were you thinking?

Hypocrisy has marred good statesmen and now you are in the muck. You need to appease the disgruntled party members threatening to break-free. You need to pacify the angry cabinet who reports to someone else. Safeguard thieves and drape criminals in white. When you work for that pat on the back from all of them, you forget those ought not to be forgotten. The people—those who voted or not voted for you. When a citizenry adopts you, you become their president—this you have forgotten too soon.

When you were appointed, people thought you were a breath of fresh air and now they deny in the open that they voted for you.

How can you get away with the hackneyed excuse of not knowing until reading it on the following day’s paper? For a head of state your information research teams should be shown the nearest door. It goes without saying that the country has had better-informed heads of state, far better informed that they knew where the injuries were even before the crime was committed.

No, we do not forget that era that easily. And it shouldn’t be your black backdrop to prove how very white you are.

Like the regimes before you, you walked over coffins and cadavers to reach the helm. Disentombed and reburied, their skeletons are in your election-time spooky-house, displayed as reminders and still shamelessly buying time to do justice to the dead.

Perhaps, when all is said and done, you will apologize from the nation for this betrayal—not like a cry baby who often forgets that he is the executive president of the country—but like a mature human being, for not delivering what was promised, for yielding to pressure and for being too distracted by bras and liquor to see your country marching to its ruin.

And, no Mr. President, this is not about liquor.

 

When the last man leaves the crease

It was too much to gulp down; a tear emerging in an unexpected moment. After his emotional alter ago had made his exit a few months back, the fans would have wanted the shrewd strategist and the stern diplomat to make an eloquent speech before waving his final goodbye. After all, it is not every day that Kumar Choksanada Sangakkara wears his heart on his sleeve—but when he does, it tugs at the nation’s heartstrings more than his double centuries, stumpings and the World Cup win that the country was long starving for.

It was no easy holding a nation in awe, and that too for such a long time.

He did not have as elaborate a start as his buddy did. Having arrived in the dressing room almost two years after Mahela Jayewardene was officially named the heir to the helm of Sri Lankan cricket, he did not look as if he was in a haste to prove himself either.

Thus began the bumpy carrier of Kumar Sangakkara; he was not always as sure-footed behind the wicket as he became of late. It is hard to escape the picture of him giving a lost look when a ball escapes past between his legs, or the childish wave of amber gloves when he missed out a stumping.

As much as he has been accurate to the last letter of the book in his batting, we have cheered when an opponent drops him off, consequent to a careless stroke.

His first test hundred in Galle against India on a one fine August day, was all I can remember of a school holiday fourteen years ago. Even then, his square cuts were worth dying for; the cover-drives not as perfected and patented as they are now, could make one yearn to see more. The Country was passing a dry spell and hence the scheduled power cuts to ration hydro-power electricity would sometimes mar the fun; until the long abandoned battery powered radio received new batteries and tuned to the live broadcast of the match.

In Sri Lanka the popular cricket myth is that, in order to make it rain in Kandy, hold a cricket match at Asgiriya—Sangakkara’s school ground and the only international venue in the world owned by a school. The second match was a fluff—spoiled by the much expected rain and the lack of heroics from the home side-- but the concluding one at the SSC, ended with a series win.

The following test series with Windies saw him scoring another ton of 140, getting Mahela Jayewardene run out at 99 in the process. He caused the same havoc to his Skipper Jayasuriya, when the latter was toiling with a match saving knot of 99 in Adelaide in 2003—the ugliest waltz the critics saw and that too on a cricket pitch.

Ironically, the first test match that was not telecast in Sri Lanka was the Asian Test Championship final played against Pakistan in Lahore in 2002—a venue that invoke mixed feelings among Sri Lankan fans—for its world cup victory in 1996 and that of the deadly terror attack on the Sri Lankan team. Fans will remember it for one more reason—the first double hundred of Kumar —a worthy 230 that made Sri Lanka the test champions in Asia.

Sangakkara took time to score his first ODI hundred. Having concluded a fruitless World Cup Tour in South Africa, which nearly cost him his place in the team, Shajah Cup 2003 saw him scoring his maiden hundred against Pakistan, and another in the very next match against Zimbabwe.

Much has been written about his long standing partnership with Mahela Jayewardene; some analytical and others bordering somewhat on the emotional lines. Google is over-brimming with images of the two of them complimenting each other in the middle. They even faced the ice-bucket challenge together.

The most fascinating picture I carry in my heart of the two of them is, when Angelo Mathews (who was not even the captain then) was helping young Chandimal to score an ODI hundred at the Lord’s with what seemed to be a comfortable win inclusive of the impeding century—how, behind the angry-faced Skipper Dilshan—Mahela and Kumar were smilingly looking at the two youngsters in the middle.

Their prophetic smiles have been proven true!

 A record keeper’s memory would do more justice, but a fan would only remember the quirks and the limited doses of glory that game had for those who lived the moment to the fullest.

The Sangakkara I saw and saw through was not the finest to the last line of the script. Since of late, he allowed the liberty to have his face painted on every other hording.  At times he was subject to scorn of others when he started endorsing one mobile connection partner after another.

He is not a paragon of perfection as the media would hype him to be; but a human being, beauteously flawed to the last fibre. Yet he had carried a nation home safely, more often than any other ambassador has ever done, which makes one forget quite easily his dropped catches and careless shots played direct to the hands of fielders.

Oscar Wilde had a wicked wit, and any ardent reader of his, needs to have the wickedness somewhere imbibed into his charm. And Kumar Sangakkara is no exception.

 (--which makes him all the more qualified to become the Sri Lankan High Commissioner to the United Kingdom!)

The second send-off of Denagamage Prabod Mahela de Silva Jayewardene

At a night, the Lankans will never forget, in Dhaka under the floodlights, two buddies in their sweat-sodden shirts hugged each other; probably for the four hundredth time. They were as thrilled as two school boys after winning a much-hyped about big match. They would have walked many grounds before, fist-punched and patted each other for a thousandth time; after every boundary, half a ton and a double ton scored between them.

Long before that night, they would have realized that this duet will one day come to an end—with no secrets of the game between them, they would have even scripted and disputed as to who would make the exit first; and whom to follow.  

Ashqui-2, Aditya Roy Kapur and Ab Tum Hi Ho

Amidst the run-a-round B-town productions, Ashqui looks like slow food.

It starts with a song; and ends with one.

Star-crossed lovers, who are willing to die for each other; but failing to be together.

Showers to bless the divine occasions.

 And the right dose of drama. Ashqui carries the element of Indian-ness that the contemporary productions seem to have dumped for the convenient and invasive western-ness. Its fragile frame does not try to contain anything that is too heavy or cinematically complicated. Ashqui is easy to read, but hard to gulp down.

Ab Tum Hi Ho

A musical would have looked ill-timed in the rush. Yet, this nails it right on the head. From the first no. till the curtain pulls, music enthralls the viewer. There is a reason why movies are supposed to be viewed in theatres; and for Ashqui- it is the score.

The melodies are those that keep replaying in the mind. They were the very type that has musical notoriety to become a rage. And, then there are lyrics that, if one cares to read between the lines, could give away the entire story in a condensed version.

More than the title no. it is the opening song that carries the viewer through the rest. There would have even been an acoustic version of it, sung by Mr. Roy Kapur himself. (why? Why not?)

Ashiqui

The Kapoors, despite their different marks in the cinema, are truly a couple. No one else could have brought out that much, in a company other than what the viewer witnesses. Shraddha moves through the plot swiftly; untainted and feather-weight. Only her quirkiness would have had more space amidst the slots.

Aditya Roy Kapur

He drugs the viewer. This is an intoxication which leaves a hangover that lasts for months or perhaps years. As much as his character gets addicted to booze, the viewer gets addicted to Aditya; a kind of an addiction that keeps one awake at the dead of the night.

He only has to shed that smile of his that reaches all the way to his eyes; the rest falls into place. Yet, he is way more than a pretty face. He struggles to stay in character. It is no easy acting the drunkard—specially in the first solo lead. After all, many of his predecessors with lengthy years of experience have got it wrong. After all, not everyone can be a Devdas. Even the Shah of the Kingdom had a tinge of over-acting in his award-winning role.

No doubt, Shraddha is a gem, well-cut and constantly polished. Yet it is Aditya who steals the show. It was no exaggeration when he conceded that he felt he was the heroine of the movie. With the punch and verve he brings in, he doesn’t deserve to be anything less.

Sadly, his sense of humour had gone waste. Yet, the transformation from the food-prodding VJ to crazy curls to a pop-sensation, which became half-truth in the wake of the movie, is truly heart-stopping.

The point is moot whether Aditya would still have the limelight if the the story was a happily-ever-after. Probably, he would have still aced through it; there would be no lacking of praise that is showered over him. The critics of course would have shown a little bit more sharpness of fangs, in the apparent absence of the need to sympathise.

Probably it is high time he sheds his immunity to romantics. For in time to come, he is going to be tied up and be identified with it.

He clearly knows how to hold a guitar, a bottle and the woman!

A poetic line or two would have made him the archetype. Whether he would have liked it or not, is entirely another matter.

For, when it comes to Aditya Roy Kapur, he is the purest form of poetry!

Bas yun hi....

Once I held a pen, so I know it!

All the pens that write do not necessarily write words. There are scribbling, written blabbering, nonsensical blah blahs and oodles of doodles that draw ink out of them. Pens are not designed to die writing nothing but the owners’ names over and again.
And a journalist has a conscience that does not allow him/her to bleed it too much on gibberish.

Once I held a pen, so I know it!

Ethics were what we lived by. They were very much there. Since, we were a breed too poor to put up posters on every wall on our existence; those who little knew us, never knew of our ethics. After all, I come from a kin who did not send a hundred fishermen to sea at the wake of a storm and watched them die. Mine isn’t a fraternity that shrugs shoulders at the tragedies of our women, toiling their way to death in the Middle East. Ours was not a culture to call unprintable names on public platforms; or Adam-tease its female counterparts just to dodge questions.

Our hands have no blood-stains—rather the blotches that are left by ink!

We breathed through censorship, the demonic 18^th Amendment, thugs, arson,murder, white vans, goons and the defeat of the Right to Information Bill. Ethics is a poor name for another device designed to felicitate choking. My fraternity will choke, yet it will not die but live through.

Once I held a pen, so I know it!

Ours were the hands that were tied for the convenience of the truth-fearing. Eyes, though could see, were not allowed to look beyond the fences. Yet, the pens kept carving strokes on the papers; sending words to the printers and back to newsprints. Though they would have soothed many, pricked a few to near-death. Praises were pleasant surprises; threats and clarifications were the ten o’clock plain teas. Those were the overfed cats, jumping out of the bags. And the hands that held the pens, clapped at the sight. Sense of fulfillment does not come with surrender or cowardice.

Once I held a pen, so I know it.

Truth, even in its crudest and the most indigestive form, still fits to be delivered to those who want to know it. It is the unspoken pledge between the reveler and the learner of the truth. Those who come between them are blunt-headed murderers who would only see the pointed finger without seeing the direction it was pointed at. It was no easy dropping hints. Metaphorics would have never been journalism. Hints would have never been information. Yet, the times made them so. The bravest few abhorred the frills and the sugar coats, thus their fraternity was compelled to stare at the frills of their open coffins. The press, as one would loosely call it, has seen enough bloody days, red-letter days and Januaries full of blackened days.

Though a nation could be free once every year to remember war heroes, its citizens would hardly see the trouble of remembering a missing byline on paper or disappeared face on television. For us, hardly a day passed without remembering one of those whom we outlived; perhaps, thanks to our own insignificance. Though press cocktails may flood with scandal at their mention, when tough times hit the newsrooms their martyrdoms would surge, and there would be uncomfortable silences too obstinate to be broken from sighs. And everything would get back to normal. Occasionally a poem or a tribute would appear for a name achingly familiar. Idealization is allowed in small doses. Even the enemies by principle could write elegies.

Those who hold a pen swear in allegiance to stick together; despite the color of their ink, the quality of their newsprint and the reach of their words. And this is something, no amount of breakfast-stuffing with a golden spoon or a countless cylinders of tear gas could take away.  

Once I held a pen so I know it!

In a country where the citizenry is deprived of its rightful right to information, and the former’s complacence at hands of depravation have always been the painful reminders of the isolated path, our breed had chosen to walk. Ours were no superstar faces. No girl screamed at a left-out byline, like the way one does when the golden-eyed boy walks out of the stage. The only ones who scrapbooked our clippings were us. Fame was not a fairy- gift created for us. Yet, we took pride in the familiar light that crossed the reader’s face, at a random introduction. We could even skip a few meals if a reader could narrate from memory a line from a long forgotten feature.

This was the highest form of recognition, so credible and transparent that even dollars or pounds could not buy; nor could it be forced out at gunpoint.

Once I held a pen, so I know it!

There is a reason why one is called a journalist; and why not every writer can be one. Indomitability loses its sense when there is no battle to fight. This is why fiction is less hurtful and such writers have fewer enemies, many fans and so much money. We have fought. For us. And for people. We had everything. We had nothing.

My kin has pens and words; everything worth defending.

They have only scissors and they will only know how to cut, reduce and lose!

Once I held a pen and I know it!

The King decides what his subjects read

Cartoon by Awantha Artigala-Daily Mirror

 Being a journalist in an independent media organization would have been an enviable job. With it comes the luxury to laugh at those who betray their integrities to attain perks and privileges; those who lick stinky feet rest on high pedestals, become entertainment material. There is a pride in spurning a green billet wrapped in a brown envelope, handed over at the end of press briefings. There is an unavoidable supremacy that comes with the feeling that your head does not bow to anything else but truth. Empty may be your pocket and leaking may be your roof, yet you have a heart in full and a good night’s sleep devoid of demonic dreams.

Yet, the illusion that one could write what one would want at a so-called free press often goes into pieces.

After the conclusion of war, censorship that had been there in black and white has become a ghostly presence in every media institution. Sometimes, it comes in the form of illogical midnight requests of omissions by the management. Then there are taboos declared and dispensed by those even above the management.

Even with a hierarchy that minimally interferes with the editorial functions, there are hidden hands of the regime that could slip through the protective net to throttle the necks of those who hold the pen.

This is exactly how the impeachment motion against Chief Justice became a banned subject for us. Ours is perhaps the only national English daily that carried editorial after editorial, column after column questioning and cross-questioning the regime’s shameless behaviour in dissecting and raping the independent structure of the country’s judiciary. There were opinion pieces exposing the nudity of the Executive and the spinelessness of the Legislature.

The persistent attack was however to spur the conscience of the readers more than to prick the wrong-doers in the eye. Of course, there was nothing wrong with twisting Goebbels’ theory for a worthy cause; after all, it is not a lie that is being repeated—but truth, more than the whole truth and nothing at all but the truth!

One could not be too sure whether our objective was fulfilled; for the dangerous dormancy of the people still continues in abundance. As for the latter, they knew their hands were smudged with dirt and blood; hence, they dreaded revelation. They were the faceless, unreachable paragons of vagueness, hiding behind the humongous shadow of the crown who drew the free flowing ink out of our pens.

With much reluctance, the politically victimized CJ and the blatant insult to the country’s virgin of Justice needed to be swept under the King’s carpet. Perhaps, it is misinterpreting the mandate people granted the regime. Jumping over the fundamental and ethical boundaries, the King even decides what his subjects read!

Depriving the citizen of his rightful morsel of information is tyranny.

At such times, one has to read between the lines, decipher and decode the message. For our hands are tied to a forced allegiance for a regime that we no longer believe in; a government that could no longer be termed synonymously with the state.

Did the over-enthusiastic general public who took to the roads in support of the 18^th Amendment find it unfitting to oppose when the government trampled the Right to Information Bill?

The kingdom of free media collapsed with the fall of Leader. With its knights dead and having abandoned the fortress, it is just another security checkpoint taken over by the regime.

The Journalists and editors who do not go to taste the Kiri Buth at the Royal Palace automatically become traitors the same way Macduff becomes one for evading Macbeth’s banquet.

Well, tyranny in modern times could come with a majoritarian Parliament and an overwhelming public vote. Perhaps, Shakespeare’s Macbeth was a lamb when compared to the contemporary wolves.

Perhaps, censorship is a security measure for those who open their chests for bullets for nothing. It saves the lives of those of us who hate to sugar-coat our hatred and distaste. The price of life of a journalist has fallen so low during the recent times.

It is not worth dying for a citizenry who plays the statue when their rights and liberties are massacred in the broad daylight; for it is very unlikely that they will open their self-locked mouths in our demise when they were locked at the loss of what is very much theirs.

 

 

Kalu Maali: Unfair endings are always real!

As any other profession, journalism too would call upon its human breed to bear a few troubles and regrets. With the boastful heroics come the lists of haven’t-done’s and to-do’s. And if you are a woman, who walk into a Press room, fully driven to change the world, the common storyline of your life is that you fall in love with a bloke in or out of the paper, enter the holy mess of wedlock and bear children.

So, instead of changing the world, you watch your world change.

You go back to your fairytales, nursery rhymes, math tables and get stuck with homework. Only this time, it is because you have a child: a child who quenched the fire in you to be a daredevil. A child who is alien to the fencing skills of your pen.

And you wait and watch your orbits change.

And what about the man who wowed at the altar to be by your side during good times and bad times—happy days and sad days! He was the man who used to read your scribblings and say they were good. Now you realize, even though he read them, he never understood them completely.

You won’t blame him, coz, at the end of the day, he is just another reader.

Henrik Ibsen’s Nora is no journalist when she breaks open her cage. Yet she isn’t labeled a bad woman for seeking freedom. It looks extra-ordinary on stage or cinema screen yet, hypocritically nasty in real life. As opposed to Ruwanthie’s narrator who has understandably walked the streets, met many people and seen the world, Nora is just a closeted pet. Yet, she breaks away from the frame whereas her modern-day counterpart is still imprisoned in its four corners when the curtain falls.

Fairytales have cheated on us (with men).

Though they are named after women, it is the men in the shining armour that make them happily-ever-after’s. A woman comes to the world with a ready-made frame, whereas society sets the man free and let him pick the frame which suits him.

What makes the jubilant Kalu Maali a boy is that the frame won’t fit any other way.

Though my lips still taste bitter from last night’s premier, I buy it!

 Writer’s note: Five years down the line, I picture myself in Dil’s three-quarters, probably sporting the same hairdo. There are no big regrets for me to bag and take when I walk out of these doors. My seat is not unfillable. The void won’t remain for long. I wonder whether my hand will forget my pen---will my man still know me when he sees me?

Between the lines

Sandwiched between

Every two words

There is a word

I dare not utter…

Metaphorics

Never worked

With you

Never will it be…

To proclaim it

I am too shy

To admit it

I am too proud

-I miss you!

What I told you

A squirrel has built its nest on my windowsill. I want you to come and see my forcibly adopted kiddies, when they open their eyes.

 I fell from the bicycle and scraped my knees.

 I picked a fight with the bus conductor, because I caught him leaning on a schoolgirl.

My hair had grown two more inches. There are a few grey hairs, emerging here and there. Is growing old at 24, premature?

I cleaned my table and found a wrapper of a chocolate we had shared ages ago.

My slipper was scrapping again. Perhaps it is the roads I walk on-or is it just me?

My umbrella has grown frail, it cannot hold the rain anymore; perhaps, what it sends inside for me must be the the most gorgeous raindrops.

I broke a door handle, a tap and dropped a cup from my mother’s most treasured set-thus I was banished from the kitchen for two days.  Why is china worthier than the services of an efficient kitchen aide?

Hindi songs are my new lovers. Like the midnight hunger, that sends you down the stairs at the twelfth hour of the day, I creep into my desk, switch on the machine and listen to the same songs over and again. Please do thank the person who invented the earphones, on behalf of my family members.

What I didn’t tell you

My mirror has gathered dust. And I have forgotten what my face looks like. Perhaps you remember.

I miss the shoulder against which I fall asleep, the hand that disciplines my uncurbed hair and the tone of guilt in your voice when you say we are home.

I miss the scent of your perfume; you rub off on me when we hold hands in our usual Friday walks.

I see your face in my morning tea. Perhaps, this madness has  long lost its method.

What I carry around is a memory; a collection of days and minutes I took a lot for granted.

It serves  me right!

Dear earth, I promise…

When many lovers walk down the aisle and pledge love and dedication for each other for eternity, I will make a pledge for you, the day I get my chance; for you are part of me and I am part of you. Dear earth, I promise not to waste many papers on guest lists and no overprinting of invitations, cake boxes and thank you cards. I may not be able to save an entire forest with my attempt, yet, it will give me the satisfaction to know that another tree could live one more day, before going to the axe. Dear earth, I promise that I would not celebrate fulfillment at the expense of others’ bliss. Thus, I will not allow loud music to leave me with a thundering headache on the day that is supposed to be special for me.  Like you, I also do not understand the logic behind making glaring noises to say you are happy when silence or soft music would have conveyed the same message, perhaps, in a more elegant manner. Dear earth, if I am to have a cake, I promise that every part of it will be edible, unlike the expensive Regiform structures that will devour a portion of you, the day they are discarded. I might not have anything as grand as the showpieces, yet, my cake will be a real treat-not just a feast to the eyes. Dear earth, I promise to keep away plastic and undegradable materials that choke you. Hence, my wedding will not have liquor, no plastic bottles of fizzy drinks. I may displease many by being stubborn, yet, it is a good way to find out who love me more than they love the bottle. Even if the world laughs at me, perhaps you will understand my disgust at being kissed by drunkards, because a bride of any kind should not be humiliated in such manner at her wedding. No one takes seriously the wishes  coming from such persons, as it is hard to go by the word of drunkards. Dear earth, I promise not to be over-indulgent and go against nature by picking artificial flowers. Whatever I carry in my hands has to be natural, that withers with the dying sun. Thus, I will carry with me the ultimate truth of life and the lesson that, nature cannot be cheated, let down or ignored. Dear earth, I promise to plant a sapling on every anniversary, and many more whenever time permits.I may not be the most attentive and thoughtful person to have walked on you, yet I will care, the way I have been caring. Dear earth..till death do us closer, I promise!

The world beyond your doors

You wait for years, months and days and finally you have your wings fully grown. They stutter to the sound of wind the sight of the high skies. You are ready step on the window sill, spread your wings and take off! And you realize that, life is all about taking off’s and safe landings.

Despite the reasons that make one walk away and whatever the theories that justify such departures, it takes a lot of courage and soul-searching before someone decides to get out of his comfort zone.

It is hard to let go of die-hard habits, the familiar desks and chairs, the friends and villains and everything else that have been greeting you every day for the last four years. If you have any regrets, that would be about missing your good times with friends, the lazy Friday afternoons spent in front of the Television set watching cricket and of course the familiar food outlets within the vicinity.

Whatever the pundits say, those who proclaim their departures and act on them are thousand times better than those who say they go without a hint of courage to walk out. Announcing departures may be a convenient way of attaining favours or a better way to climb up the ladder. Yet, it’s a bargain, a lot of people cannot be comfortable with unless your conscience is deaf, blind and mute.

You spend your last few days, cherishing every moment of them. You talk to everyone because you know you might not get another chance. Your desk already looks empty because you have taken away the jokes, the poems and inspirational quotes that used to adorn your sidewall. You have started emptying the place of your presence because you will leave only the footprints and many memories that won’t die with time.

They say, despite the strengths of the individuals, goodbyes are always hard. Thus, you learn to uproot yourself from one place and plant yourself elsewhere. There is a pride that blossoms within you, because you act on your own will without letting someone else decide the fate for you.

With every goodbye comes a greeting for a new beginning. Thus, you begin to grow friends, spread goodwill among them and learn the proper way after trying out so many ways to do something.

If you have to cry, you will do so in secrecy and smile to the world because, it is your choice and you are about to reap the fruits of your hard efforts. Perhaps, after a long voyage, you will come back, like a wise, old sailor coming home.  After all, the world is still  round and small.

Bliss

Bliss is when you can go about your daily tasks on a rainy day without being depressed. It is all about understanding that weather too has its moods and that does not give you the excuse to change yours accordingly.

Bliss is when you can appease your empty stomach with the last two bananas in the comb without cursing the empty refrigerator. Gradually you will come to know that the temptations that lead your heart and eyes are not necessarily those of your stomach.

Bliss is when you can keep your head high when people try to pull the carpet beneath your feet. It is all about understanding that we are not here to change the world, but to change our individual selves for the betterment of the world. As for those who act like the “serpents” under the “innocent flowers,” you will come to know that their days at the helm are numbered, and one day you will meet them on a different platform- if that is meant to be!

Bliss is when you can get lost in a crowd and still be at peace with yourself. You will reach a time when you feel that making conversation with strangers just for the sake of it, is cheating. You will get tired of being nice to strangers just because society demands it. Hence, you will opt to the method of being cordial to everybody without being a public entertainer.

Bliss is when you are grown up enough to let go of childhood grudges and forgotten birthdays. You will come to realize everybody else’s lives do not spin around yours. You will gain the maturity to understand that, being there for a friend does not give you the authority to expect the same from him/her who received your support at their hour of need.

Bliss is when you know love is not synonymous with expensive roses or perfumes. Hence you will come to love selflessly and remember to treasure people you have earned more than the possessions you have got.

Bliss is when you can give your mobile phone for repairs and not miss it or go on for a week without the fear of getting your mailbox clogged with mail. You will draw a line for technology and still learn to do things on your own without trusting the computers way too much.

Bliss is when you learn that happiness does not depend on those who are around you but within yourself. Hence, you will not let it be disturbed or shattered by the words and actions of others.

Bliss is when you smile knowing that the world smiles with you when you spread good cheer and love.

Dear heart I am sorry

I know I have been foolish. I was selfish. Several times, I took you for granted. Today I would want to say sorry for everything I did or did not do that made you hurt.

I let down my guard easily and let the outsiders toy with you freely. I would have listened to my mind, yet I was not too wise then. I let them misuse your mildness and let them keep you hostage. I would have rescued you. But I was too blind then. I would have realized that it was torture, when it felt like it was acceptable in love. Dear heart, I am sorry.

I tried to imprison you in social conventions. I did not understand the gravity of the most innocent dreams you nurtured, nor did I take seriously the thoughts that triggered me to do the impossible. Instead of going by with what you preached, I took the safer way of listening to the mind more. I ignored you when you said I was strong enough to walk out of my comfort zones. Instead, I decided to take the easy way. I was deaf to your craving for adventure. Instead, I kept doing the same thing over and again. By doing so, I not only deprived you of the chance to soar high with jubilant feelings, but also I let myself get used to the sameness of life when I had every means to change it the way I want. Dear heart, I am sorry.

Too often I underrated your judgment and did not let myself trust your choices. I gave too much for rationale and thereby forgetting the simple truth that the most valuable things in life are the choices that were made with the heart wide open. I thought your pick was not good enough. Too often, I questioned your choices when I failed to see reason in it. When everything turned out perfectly, suddenly it dawned to me that this is why you led me through that route. So, today, I know better. Dear heart, I am sorry.

I have ignored your voice when you tried to alert me on a coming danger. I thought your voice was a sign that says I am going mad. I got scared in the vicinity of people who tried to talk to you directly. I knew you liked the sensation of it. Yet, I feared they were trespassing of my emotional boundaries. I did not know then that you were strong enough to be broken several times to emerge in one piece. I feared cynicism would violate you, a heavy dose of which would leave you blind to the romantics forever. I know today that you were much more than that. Dear heart, I am sorry.

I let you dictate me poetry, the only time you get autonomy over myself. I would not mind being led by you, for I know in most cases, you can hardly go wrong.  Dear heart, thank you for remaining unbroken.

The recipe of love

Who said Valentine’s day is all about love? Must be a marketing conceptualizer who does not have time to spend with his wife. Contrary  to the popular misconception, Valentine’s is the day on which  love sells for the highest price  when there are fools rich enough to buy any rubbish  wrapped in red. Wouldn't a rose smell the same on any other day? Don’t snow-globes produce music? Do chocolates taste sweeter when it is Valentine’s?

The truth is that, love is not flooding the roadways with red lights and snaring the trees with red polythene hearts, nor was St. Valentine a big marketer who foresaw that his noble initiative would be twisted into a lucrative business. Who would have thought, what brought him his sainthood would become a money tree!

Undoubtedly, there is nothing wrong with celebrating love; but the question remains as to whether there is real love to celebrate. Most of the victims of marketization of love are none other than schoolchildren who attend mass tuition classes.  Their version of love is as as vibrant as their love for color. For them, fluffy teddy bears matter. Coffee bar is another name for paradise. Chocolate hearts may not fill their tummy, yet it will satisfy their hearts. Seeing these items of temptation on shop windows one might get the impression that a boyfriend or girl friend is necessary to indulge in such treats. Yet, their definition of love is far from its real meaning.

Roses wither with time. Care bears stop caring and chocolates expire. It is only real love that lasts forever. Be it the love shared between two lovers, two friends or even among family members , it needs compassion, care and commitment to make it last forever.

You need not have calendar day circled with a heart to share your love. You have 365 days and nights to express it. Valentine’s Day might serve as a good reminder for anyone who thinks he/she is too busy to keep in touch with those who are dear and near to him/her. Yet, love does not have deadlines. It does not mean you can love a person one day and hate him/her for the rest of the year.

Love is cozy without soft toys, sweet enough without chocolates and aromatic without expensive bouquets of roses. It does not burn holes in one’s pocket- a mere note, a smile, gesture, touch or a hug will express affection that cannot be valued in rupees. Love is rich. Those who tried making Valentine’s Day a price-tag day for love only made it cheap.

Dear Diary,

Monday

Each one’s parameters of pain are defined by the amount of trouble one has to endure. It it easier for someone who has lived all his or her life in heaven to call the earth, hell for the contrasting comfort levels one finds here. Depression does not mean having a weak heart and seeking help is not an attack on one’s pride. Bravery does not necessarily mean living-trouble free; it means, keeping your balance when your boat is rocking in a storm, and placing your trust in the hand that is extended to grab yours in the hour of need.

Tuesday

Freedom fighters are not only the ones who are good at fencing and crowd-raising. With or without arm power, there is a fighter within every individual; whether they fight for freedom is another matter. Rulers will come and go. Yet, the essentials of freedom may remain the same. Too often we have been too complacent to go without a voice in many occasions. We have been satisfied with the role of spectators when we ought to have been the front-row actors. No wonder, the world is changing and the people are complaining that it was not the change they wanted.

Wednesday

I will sit with you on a rainy evening over a hot chocolate, and listen with enthusiasm to the list of girls who turned you down. I will let you talk about them at the usual ranting speed with the words that need a lot of censoring. You will eventually slow down to breathe and look with an unspoken apology. I will try to make you realize that, no girl is obliged to say yes to your proposals just because you have the looks, brains and the dough. Every girl has a right to say ‘No’ without giving reasons, and expects that ‘No’ to be counted likewise. You will call me a feminist and walk away into the setting sun only to call me later to say sorry for behaving like kid-why similes? - you are a kid!

  

Thursday

Forgetfulness is a blessing in disguise. Whatever the experts say, I can’t imagine how to live in a world where everyone remembers everyone’s cruelties and their life’s mission is to take revenge. All hail those who forget!

Friday

My story has you in its diction. There are corridors filled with your presence and a wardrobe that has locked your perfume in. There is your half-finished coffee cup by the bedside and the papers exactly how you left. There is a story without an ending; a climax with its hero missing. Memories hurt less when they are written.

Saturday

I sniff fakeness when I confront it. Don’t say you care, when your definition of care is talking behind my back. Don’t smile when you are a back-stabber and don’t ask me questions I am not obliged to answer. I do not need to be fake to be popular. Hypocrisy may be your way of life, but not mine!

Sunday

Yellow rice, seeni sambol and papadam will make you feel glad to be alive. To complete the scene, a mug of vanilla ice-cream sprinkled with milo! Take me to paradise,  I will still come home in time to have my lunch! 

‘Islandness’

Not all those who are born with wings are compelled to fly long distances. They fly around their demarcated territories and come back home with the setting sun. Yet, there are those who cross the waters, savour different types of food and build their nests with different materials. So are the travellers and migrants.

You can be deep-rooted to your soil or conveniently airborne that you can easily replant yourself elsewhere. A traveller can afford to love or hate the land he/ she is exploring. He can openly criticize the food he gets to eat or the natives who are too lazy to point their fingers at the direction of the super market he has been looking for. A traveller can always leave the land when his least favourite season hits it. A traveller finds his own universe within the universe. His travel journal may not contain the label of the worst food he ate or the picture of the most insolent native he met; yet, it will have the theatre ticket of the most mesmerizing opera he viewed and many accounts on the random acts of kindness by the natives.

 There is an attachment within this detachment. There is a freedom to come and go as one pleases.
Only the time will tell you whether you are a traveller or a resident. For us, what makes life more difficult in a foreign soil is the fact that we tend to seek too much of home comforts. This ‘islandness’ has its pros and cons. It must be the smallness of the entity that one can reach the other end of the country within less than twenty-four hours. There is no vastness for one to get lost. There is fresh air even the city. There is space to breathe and neighbours to talk to. A migrant does not necessarily mean a one who forgets his roots. He or she is a person who has a great amount of courage to do what the seemingly brave travellers are reluctant to try out; be a resident instead of going places. Accept the conditions and try to get used to them. Bring up their children and still teach them the cultural values and their histories. Make them feel proud of a culture they have never tasted. They will make a home in a far away land, and inevitably take a tinge of ‘islandness’ there with them. True enough, opportunities draw them there. Unlike all sorts of fairytales that are painted, they land with the realistic pictures, and for them survival matters more than anything else.

When things do not work out, something tugs them to home, and like the birds do in their winter flights, they will come looking for their old nests and be grateful for the fact that, in this island home, the world spins slowly.

Love by any other name

Sometimes, you come to love people for simply what they are. You crave for their company and intellectual conversations. Sometimes, you find comfort in the company of strangers and come to realize that they are more fascinating than the people you call your own.

It is not wrong to yearn for somebody to read your mind and wordlessly offer you a shoulder when you need to have a good cry. Sometimes, you come across people whom you don’t mind exchanging with the seclusion you seemed to have enjoyed so far. You hear poetry in their voice and find a guiding light in their eyes. There will be victory in attention they pay you. This does not necessarily have to be romance. A friend can be all this without being a lover.

Yet, sometimes we you fail to define the margins between love and infatuation, jealousy and devotion, and friendship and romance. Often we wonder whether it is necessary that every relationship has a name irrespective of the fact whether the name we give describe the nature of the relationship accurately. Sometimes, what we don’t realize is that societies adopted to the theory of naming objects only for people’s convenience. So, it is not necessary that all your relationships have name so that society finds it easy to refer to it. There is no criteria  under which you can standardize a relationship. It depends on the people who are involved in it. If the two parties are comfortable with their stride together without a name, it cannot be a problem to anyone else.  As long as you are not jumping the moral boundaries ,it is rather better to go without a name than calling it the wrong name at times.

Sometimes what people don’t realize is that personal relationships are complex than what they find on the surface. For an outsider it can be just another ‘juicy tale’ on undecided lovers who are about to fall in or out of love. Yet, when it becomes your own tale rather than a story found in a tabloid, you tend to think hard and empathize with those had been there before you. You begin to understand the grave error you had committed by trying to judge and measure such relationships.

Be it love, friendship or even romance, it is the business of those who are in relationships to call them what they prefer; whether they call them right names or wrong ones is another matter. Friends fall in love and lovers fall out. Strangers become special friends but do not achieve the ‘lover’ status. It is love that shows its face in every gesture of care. It is love that makes one send random text messages in the most unusual hours. Yet, this love need not be branded; it can survive in its generic form.