The Girl and the Diamond

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was very sad. All her friends wore pretty dresses and looked like princesses, but whatever she might wear, she always looked ugly. Everybody would stare at her and talk in whispers when she walked by them. She wouldn’t turn to look but she knew it in her heart that they were laughing at her after she had passed by. She would ask her mother, “Mother, why am I not beautiful like you?” Her mother would reply in surprise, “But you are so beautiful, my dear.” “Why can’t I see it then?” she would ask. And the mother would smile knowingly and say, “… because you’re choosing not to.”

The little girl would only get confused, turn to the mirror and try to see where the beauty that her mother could see, lay. She smiled to see if she looked pretty when she smiled. She frowned to see if she looked pretty when she frowned. She cried to see if she looked pretty when she cried. And then, she cried and cried and cried for she didn’t look pretty whatever she might do. In the middle of all the crying, she didn’t realize when she had fallen asleep. She never came to know that all the tears which had fallen off her eyes were going to do something magical for her…

When she awoke and opened her sad eyes, her vision was blinded by something that lay next to her pillow – something that dazzled like a full moon. Slowly she sat up and took a close look at this magical object. When she touched it, it felt as though she had touched cool water. She felt a balm-like sensation run through the very bones of her body. It was a Diamond. A breathtakingly beautiful heart-shaped Diamond of the size of a heart. It felt so precious, more precious than anything she had ever owned in her lifetime.

As she stood in front of the mirror with the Diamond around her neck, she felt what she had never felt before. The Diamond shone like a star and when its light fell on her cheeks, it made them look like porcelain. They reflected the light to her eyes turning them into little Diamonds themselves, making her whole face come alive like a painting. She smiled and saw that she looked prettier than she had ever felt. She frowned and suddenly, the light went off her face, and she was again ugly as ever. Shocked, she broke into tears and the light was back. Her Diamond shone the brightest when she cried and she paused in the middle just to see how beautiful she looked as streams of tears rolled down her cheeks.

That day onwards, her life changed. The huge Diamond hanging from her neck made her feel like she was the most beautiful girl in the world. It touched her heart every now and then, tickling it, making her laugh and feel so desirable. When people looked at her, they were awestruck, for they had never seen such radiance, such absolute perfection on a countenance. When they whispered, she knew they were discussing her charm. When they pointed her out to others, it was only because words had deserted them. She was having the best time of her life. The Diamond made her complete and she was so grateful to it for that, “Thank you Diamond! I love you too!”

One morning, when she woke up, the back of her neck and her shoulders throbbed with pain – such that she had never known before. For long, she had been ignoring the subtle signs of imminent problems. When a sudden pain would shoot through her neck, she would make herself believe that she had slept in the wrong posture. When her shoulders would become stiff, she would think, “Oh, it’s been so long since I got them massaged.” But today, the pain, the stiffness wouldn’t go. She was in extreme agony.

And yet, she wouldn’t take the Diamond off herself, for it was all she had. “It has given me so much. It has turned the world around for me. I can’t let it go. I can’t leave my Diamond.” So, on she went with the Diamond still around her neck, but slowly, the sensation of exhilaration that it had brought had been overtaken by the overbearing pain in her neck.

“It has given me a lot. I can’t let it go” she would kiss it every night before she went to sleep, hoping that the agony would be a little lesser the next day. But it only increased with each passing day.

“At least it makes me look pretty” she would smile and think, but somewhere deep within her, the pain was churning out rivers of tears – tears which she wouldn’t acknowledge, tears which she never showed the way out to.

One day, she realized that it had been months since she had looked at herself in the mirror. As the thought gripped her, she ran to the mirror, her neck feeling like it would fall off any minute. When she paused to look into the mirror, the light from the Diamond blinded her. But gradually, as her face emerged from behind the dazzle, she saw a pale frail face with eyes that looked like stones. The Diamond still shone just as brilliantly, but her skin had stopped reflecting its light. Her shoulders were drooping and her neck was a disturbing red in colour. In that moment, the tears inside her found their way out and flowed like they would never stop flowing… “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” she kept saying, not knowing whether she was saying it to the Diamond or herself.

Exhausted, she sat on her bed and slowly, almost like a ritual, took the Diamond off her neck. Even as the pain lifted from her neck, a huge weight set in on her heart. She took the Diamond in her hands looking at it forever, she kissed it and as she did that, a tear drop fell on the Diamond. The spot where it fell turned into a tear and gradually, the whole Diamond became a blob of tears and flowed out of her hands. She howled to see what she had done to the Diamond, even though deep within her, she knew that it was her very own tears which had turned into the Diamond that night long ago.

“I’m sorry” she cried out aloud. Only, this time, she knew that she meant it for the Diamond.

For you... Dear Thread

(Something I wrote almost 10 months ago... A lot has changed... A lot hasn't)

I was trapped inside myself.
You became my one thread to the world.

I was cold and shivering.
You became my yarn.

I was parched and the well deep.
You became my rope.

I ached to hear the music of joy.
You became my strings.

I lay in the darkest of nights.
You became my wick.

I knew no directions, nor the path.
You became my halter.

I am foolish maybe… that I have picked the scissors.
But do know, my dear Thread, that as I cut you off
I cut away my World.

Perhaps I need to, perhaps I don’t.
But oh dear Thread, do know, that I must become
All that you became for me.
I must become my own yarn and rope
My own strings, wick, my own halter
And it is only then, dear Thread, that it would make
For a good Knot.

Today, however, will remain a sad day
Because I’ve cut away my World.
Because when I was trapped inside myself
You were my one thread to the world.
In many ways, you WERE the world.

Safar

(Something I wrote for my father on his retirement. The English (literal) translation follows after the original piece in Punjabi)

Nadiyaan, pahaad te registaan

langh taa gaye ne par aane vi ne,

Saal maheene din te pal

bhull vi gaye ne par yaad vi ne

Kayi rahvaan sang tu vageya eyn

Kayi chhavaan heth vi rukeya eyn,

Ohnaa raahvaan laage lagge rukkh

tur vi gaye ne par khade vi ne

Paaley vich tu dhupp baneya

Jad challi loo, tu aa varheya,

Tere har mausam de mitthde phal

digg vi gaye ne par lagge vi ne

Tu kuli vi eyn tu neta vi

Tu rabb vi eyn te banda vi,

Tera har kirdaar te saare roop

mamooli ne par ehem vi ne

Ikk cheez layi bas duniya to

te modi kayi guna kar ke,

Tere pyaar de bhare kayi dil

chhutt vi gaye ne par naal vi ne

Turdi si teri sadak hi hun takk

Hun tere turan di vaari ey,

Kayi rang, mausam te lain-den

mukk vi gaye ne, shuru hoye vi ne

The English Translation

Rivers, mountains and deserts

have passed by but are yet to come too,

Years months days and moments

have been forgotten but are remembered too

You have flown along several roads

Have taken shelter under many shades,

All the trees along those roads

Have walked by but are standing too

In the winter’s cold, you became sunshine

When the hot ‘loo’ blew, you came and rained,

Sweet fruits of your every weather

have fallen down but are growing too

You’re coolie too, you’re leader too

You’re God also and man too,

Your every character and all the roles

are ordinary but special too

You took just one thing from the world

And gave back several times of it,

Many hearts filled with your love

have left you but are with you too

It was only your road that walked till now

It’s now your turn to walk,

Many colours, weathers and gives-and-takes

Have got over, but are beginning too

Two Friends and a Foe

Throughout my conscious memory, I have been best friends with Pa. Sometimes, or in fact many times, I like to spend a few fascinating moments with Fut as well, but Pres has predominantly been like that random student in class who you know by their Name and probably their Roll Number, and just sometimes might want to peep into their tiffin box to know what they’ve got for lunch, but besides that, you pretty much like to be unaware of their existence. Pres was never my friend. I just couldn’t get myself to like Pres.

When I used to be with Pa (and most of the times I was), even the painful moments spent around Pres once upon a time would make me nostalgic with their sepia-toned charm. The days when Pres saw me being ragged up to my skin in the first year, or the time when I had walked down the empty lonely lanes of the sleeping town with the shadow of Pres, even those countless days when Pres had been cruel enough to cause my unrequited love to overflow from my heart through my eyes – all those days would become my haven when I was with Pa – a haven that I felt no desire to leave. Pa was truly my best friend. Crying came easy with Pa around… and Pa was generally around.

Not always though… for sometimes, Fut would hold my hand and take me away from Pa to a land where the night-sky was full of brilliantly bright stars – stars that Fut promised were meant for me, stars that were waiting to fall into my lap and make me radiant and blessed. Fut would show me birds of mesmerizing colours across the horizon, flying… free… In Fut’s land, there were mirrors everywhere, which reflected nothing except the most beautiful image of the world, and in some strange way, even though I knew it was impossible, I felt that image was mine. Fut was my Promise-friend, and Fut was perfect, just like that image in the mirror that was ME even though it couldn’t have been ME.

Which brings us to Pres. I hated Pres – not so much in the beginning, but over the years, I was filled with absolute hatred for Pres right up till my bones. Wherever I went, Pres would come after me. Whatever I did, Pres would be lurking around. Even when I was doing my own thing with Pa or Fut, Pres’ shadow was never too far away. I don’t know whether Pres was obsessed with me or the other way round but it was because of Pres that I sought for a perfect image in a mirror elsewhere, for it was Pres who made me feel absolute worthlessness in my own existence. I hated Pres! Oh! What wouldn’t I give to have Pres killed! I could have chosen to be the murderer myself, I even did once, only I developed cold feet when I realized that as a part of my punishment to kill Pres, I might have to lose Pa and Fut too, and they were all I had. And so, the stalker lived on…

And then…

One day, not too long ago, Pres came up to me… and said, “Please don’t hate me. I haven’t meant to haunt you all these years. I have only been looking out for you, to make sure that you do not get too lost in the streams of tears that Pa brings you or too trapped in the strings of dreams that Fut shows you, for once you’re lost with Pa, you’re lost forever… And once you’ve been trapped away from me by Fut, your dreams will remain only that – dreams. I would always let you see a hint of my shadow around you for I wanted you to remember me and hence, yourself. I always wanted you to see the real YOU, and not the imaginary one that you see in Fut’s fake mirrors, and I knew that only I could help you see that. Now, the time has come when you must do that and face your truth. I want you to see that image that is really YOU. So, will you please…”

And Pres paused for a seemingly endless moment as I stood breathless, waiting for the words that were going to change my world…

“… look into my eyes?”

As I looked hard, I saw an image slowly forming up out of the still waters of Pres’ clear dark eyes. Gradually, it became as vivid as my own flesh, and I couldn’t believe what I saw! I had been wrong all along. Fut’s mirrors had not been showing me the most beautiful image of the world, for if that had been perfection, then what was this? Or had perfection been perfected?

“This is YOU, my dearest. And YOU are perfect! All you need to do is accept it… Pa and Fut can bring you reveries and trances, even though they have to rely on ME to create those for you, but only I will show you the real YOU and it is only if you like ME that you will be able to like yourself, for among the three of us, I am the only one who wants you to be happy TODAY, for among the three of us, I am the only one who LOVES you – I always have, I always will, until death – for the day you die, I shall too.”

Before I acknowledged the tears flowing out of my eyes, before I acknowledged that the image in Pres’ eyes was really me, I heard myself say to him, “I love you. I’m so sorry for the way I have treated you. I was horribly wrong. You deserve so much better than what I gave you. Please forgive me Pres. I love you…”

Pa and Fut are still my friends, of course. They have their own indisputable places in my life and always will, for Pa helps me rediscover my love with Pres all the more and Fut helps me hone the perfection of my love with Pres. Love, after all, cannot be a static entity. Just like life, love has to be dynamic too!

And that’s why, each day, I discover newer things to love about Pres. Each day, the reflection I see in his eyes seems more perfect than the previous day. Each day, I love myself… a little more!

Thank you, Pres! I love you… I love myself…

In need of a Pensieve...

Someday, when I am getting bored in somebody’s company,

I want to be able to not think –

“They must think I’m so boring”

Someday, when I am being stared at continually by somebody,

I want to be able to not think –

“They think I’m strange”

Someday, when I notice somebody in the street talking to somebody else,

I want to be able to not think –

“They’re talking about me”

Someday, when I get a compliment from somebody,

I want to be able to not think –

“They don’t know the truth”

Someday, when I am going to meet somebody for the first time,

I want to be able to not think –

“They will know!”

Someday...

I want to be able to not think.

So much.

Revising a Story Lesson

I’ve discovered a magic therapy. Of late, many times (if not most of the times), I have seen and experienced it working wonderfully on myself. And I believe it has got to be effective if it can help someone with symptoms of hereditary Clinical Depression.

That reminds me. Over two years ago, when I was visiting a psychologist regularly for my certifications, she had told me quite clearly that I had a tendency to develop a mild Clinical Depression, especially since it has been being passed on, on my mother’s side, particularly amongst the women. She had advised me to keep psychiatric help accessible, especially through the most important forthcoming period of 3-4 years in my life. A lot was going to happen and even though it was all for the good, there was no guarantee of the period itself being good.

And surely, there were times when I would wish to skip life on particular days. I’d be desperate to find a way to just jump to the next day, or to somehow discover an Invisibility Cloak and simply carry on with life without having to undergo the pressure of being SEEN. How I wished that nobody would see me, nobody would look at me, that people could just see past me, like I was nothing but a molecule of air.

Today, however, I don’t see the point in thinking or talking about those days. Yes, they made me stronger, braver and all that, but today, I also wish I had tried the magic therapy in those days. But then, I didn’t know about it then. Well, actually, perhaps I did. Perhaps all of us do, because it is one of the earliest story lessons of our lives, but we forget about it. We grow up seeing most of the people around us complaining, cribbing and self-pitying; and somewhere along the way, we unknowingly learn it and make it our way of life too.

It’s simple. It’s the lesson we all learnt from the story of the poor man who didn’t have shoes, who went to the church to complain to God, and there, saw a man who was thanking God, even though he did not have legs.

About a month back, on NDTV, I happened to watch a special report on a 2 feet tall man, who was born without legs, without arms, without speech and hearing abilities. All you could see was a tiny torso and a little face. But what was most striking about that face was an absolute absence of complaint on it. The report showed the man going through all his daily activities by himself without any help whatsoever. And I found myself wondering whether it was right of me to make myself hopeless and helpless when there is such a vast landscape of hope and possibility in the world.

These days, when I am morose and basically carrying out an eternal crib-fest, I try to remember this man’s courage in the face of the cruel fate meted out to him by nature. And invariably, I find myself feeling guilty for not thinking above just my own self.

It is not always possible to think of another, when you’re busy thinking of the ‘unfairness’ of life you’re dealing with. It is only possible when there is that little spark existent somewhere deep inside you – the spark of a genuine desire to rid yourself off pain, the desire to be happy. I have a feeling that I just might be igniting that tiny spark inside me these days, that I might be succeeding in letting it prevail…

This spark which is gradually making me believe that despite all the flaws that I might be made up of, I’m likeable… because I like myself, I love myself, I want myself to be happy, and not on the parameters of the world, but on the scales of happiness that I have to define for my own self.

Just...

I wake up early and confirm to myself the plans for the day, plans – that I have been making since yesterday – will go shopping today, will meet Massi today, will watch a new movie today! Finally, a day when I’m not going to work and not even stay at home!

A nice long soothing wonderful shower starts the day. I wash my hair at length and pamper them with the lovely mint-flavoured conditioner I have recently discovered at my aunt’s!

With luxurious applications of a world of body lotions – varying from Peach to Plum to even Tea-flavoured – I let myself smell like an orchard, and revel in the concoction of fragrances that I have become.

Mmm… It’s just 10 am… A little too early to step out. Besides, my hair is wet. I’ll let it dry and catch a little nap right under the fan, wake up in an hour and by then, it would be the perfect time to start with the PLANS!

I spread the wet minted-hair on the bed, cover myself with the blanket and shut my eyes, loving the bundle of fragrances the blanket has become, thanks to me!

I half wake up, take my hand out of the blanket, touch my hair and realize that it is still moist. It can’t have been long since I slept. The hand comes back into the blanket and I go back into my fragrant sleep.

I half wake up, and begin to take my hand out of the blanket to touch my hair again, but vaguely realize that it seems to be going towards my tummy instead. “Grumble”, says the stomach, and I wake up with a start. The aromas seem distant and dying.

I push the blanket away to look at the clock. 3.30, it says! I’ve been sleeping for 5 hours! My hair is all dry and crumpled. Thankfully, it does still smell of mint. I don’t smell of fruits and orchards though. I just smell of sleep. My face is inflated and distorted. My plans are deflated and distorted.

I’m hungry – extremely hungry!! I haven’t eaten a thing since dinner last night, and there’s nothing cooked at home right now. I pick up one of the only two options available, and finish the half-eaten packet of Haldiram’s Kaju mixture. Clean!

“Grumble”, my stomach still says. Hence, I pick up the second option – the pack of Hide-and-Seek biscuits – and finish it clean too, while watching crap after crap on TV.

5 pm – Should I go out now? Should I not? I can’t meet Massi or go for a film alone now – it would get too late to come back alone. I can still go shopping though. And I can get myself some nice inexpensive dinner packed while coming back. Should I? Should I not?...... Doorbell!

Of all the options of days available in the week, the maid has chosen this particular day to perform her weekly duties towards this house. And so, for the next hour or so, as she cleans every nook and corner with utmost dedication, I carry on watching crap after crap on TV, including a film which has a younger-looking Akshaye Khanna with some hair still intact on his head repeating every 10 minutes of the film, “Agar mere dil mein eeshvar hai, agar mere dil mein sachchai hai, to woh mere paas zaroor aayegi”. I watch and hear him say that every time until the end when… surprise surprise! Ms. Aishwarya Rai does goes back running to him after all!

As I say Bye to the maid at the door, I can see that the world outside the door is getting dark already. I can’t go shopping.

Now? I can go take a walk in the Botanical Garden in the vicinity. While coming back, I can go to the market and pick up a packet of Maggi noodles.

I step out and head towards the garden. I can’t believe how totally dark it has become in the 5 minutes I took to struggle with my messy hair before coming out. I’m not accustomed to this area, and the absolute absence of human beings on the long stretch of the dimly lit road makes me unnerved. It doesn’t help that within 2 minutes, three different automobiles with three different sets of men in them pass by me and slow down right next to me to take a good look.

I turn back and head towards the house. On my way, I call up Domino’s and ask them for their cheapest pizza option available. I keep sitting on a slab outside the house waiting for the promised Pizza and counting the minutes, since it is Domino’s.

30 minutes have elapsed, and I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad that the Delivery boy is still not here. It means I am getting the pizza free. I do wish I had placed a big order and included Garlic Breadsticks and the Cheesy Dip and all the other yummy side-dishes. But I am not sure whether I should ask for the pizza free. I have been told that the delivery boys, when they’re late, start begging you to pay them, else the money would be deducted from their salary. If he does that, there’s no way I can’t not pay him. So, I call up the Domino’s number again to tell them directly that their delivery is late. I am told that there is no guarantee of 30 minutes in my area! It makes no difference to me… I say, “Oh, okay… May be you should have told me that at the time of taking the order.”

The delivery comes 40 minutes after this. I make the payment, take the Cheese & Tomato Regular Pizza, go inside the house, turn on the TV, realize that both the Oregano Seasoning packets are torn and empty and eat the bland cold Pizza while watching some more crap on TV.

The pizza over, I take my pills, change the channel, watch the entire length of one of the really cheap and funny multi-starrer Hindi films released of late and find myself laughing…

The cellphone hasn’t buzzed much all day. Not many people in the world needed me today, except yes, two friends - one of them calling to let me talk, and the other calling to talk. I talked in one call and listened in the other, although I don't think I remember much of either.

Now, the cellphone buzzes. An SMS. I reply, turn off the lights and turn myself into the blanket. A distant ghost of the ‘orchard’ engulfs me and I shut my mind before I shut my eyes. Thinking is not allowed… Sleep, Sleep, Sleep, Don’t think, Just Sleep… Don’t think… Just sleep, sleep… Just…

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 4

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 1

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 2

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 3

I haven’t met Amu, my Bua’s son, for almost a decade now. We did exchange emails and talked over the phone, once in a while, until last year.

And then, when I announced THE decision to everybody, he stopped corresponding. His wife would write to me sometimes and tell me that Amu has been keeping very busy, but that he supports my decision. She wrote twice, he never wrote… For months. Even after the biggest day, when almost everyone in the family called me or wrote to me, Amu didn’t.

And I knew what was going on. Vira and he had always been mirror images of each other. Actually, I think it’s a thing about Men in general. It’s hard for them to see the inside before the outside. I’m not saying it’s impossible. I’m saying they need time… and well, honestly, I’m in no hurry.

But Amu surprised me four months back. He stopped being Vira’s mirror image! He wrote to me – an email as beautiful as there can be – and not only did he apologize for being late in writing to me (he said he wanted to do justice to his thoughts and never had time enough to do that), but in fact, asked me to send him a Rakhi by all means… His closing line made my day – ‘Love you little sis’!

So, 10 days ago, when my favouritest aunt was saying to me, “That’s very expensive, Monu! It makes no sense to spend so much! Besides, in the US, they hardly know the dates of festivals and all. The day it reaches him, he will tie it… I think it is foolish to spend such a big amount on this!” because the courier guy was charging 1150 rupees for it, I decided not to argue with her. I lied to her that I would send the envelope by normal post the next day. I decided not to tell her that even if it had been 11500 rupees or more, I wouldn’t have thought twice. I had got late in sending it for various reasons, but they didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered, except for the fact that I had to ensure Amu got the Rakhi before Aug 16!

The only option was to wait for 2 more days and send the courier when I had my own money, although that meant that the delivery would happen either just on the 16^th, or a day later. I was feeling inexplicably horrible!

The next morning, when I was leaving for work, my favouritest aunt placed 1500 rupees in my palm. “If you’re convinced with what I said, then you won’t use it, but if you’re not, which I know you’re not, then you’ll definitely send the courier later. So, it’s better that you send it today, and at least achieve the purpose… I would still say it’s a humungous waste of money, but the choice is yours”.

I smiled at her. She knew what I was going to do. I hugged her. She hugged me back.

Aug 16. I kept checking my Inbox through the day, hoping to see an email from Amu, hoping to read that he did get it in time after all. I was doubtful about him writing because it was a Saturday. He never checks or writes mails on weekends. The entire day went by. As I feared, there was no mail from him…

As I was going to bed, a little before midnight, I checked mail one last time… and there it was! His three-liner email, written from his blackberry, saying that he had received my Rakhi on the 15th.

~~~~~~~~~~

Whatever the relationship, it is the little things that matter. To me, if Amu had not got the Rakhi by the 16^th, it would have lost its worth. Yes, love and relationships are not about ONE day, but then, if there IS one day to celebrate it specifically, then either you don’t value the day at all, or you live by it thoroughly. It can’t be about convenience then; it HAS to be about the day.

So, all said and done, this Rakhi, for me, was about buying Rakhis! The next one would hopefully be about tying Rakhis too! :-)

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 3

“That you’re my sister would take some time for my cognition” – that was Vovu, my Mama’s son, in an email almost 9 months ago. Yes, it’s quite open-ended. ‘Some time’ could be a month, a year, several years… or a lifetime.

Ever since childhood, I was the closest to Vovu amongst all my cousins. I’d still be, but somewhere along the way, and I don’t know where and why, he just distanced himself from almost every human being around him. You can’t talk to him anymore. There’s always this uncomfortable air between him and… everybody. Everytime I try to prick this balloon of discomfort, I’m forced to realize that the balloon and Vovu are not two separate entities. Yet, I do keep trying to separate them…

Three days before Rakhi, I was going to stay at Vovu’s place. My mother had asked me to deliver her Rakhi to Mama. And even though I knew it didn’t make any sense because Vovu’s ‘some time’ would probably still be going on, yet I bought a Rakhi for him – perhaps the most beautiful Rakhi amongst all the Rakhis I’ve shopped for in my life until now!

No, I was not going to offer to tie it to him, but it’s always good to be prepared. What if he asked me to tie him one? What if, when I gave mother’s Rakhi to Mama, he asked me why I hadn’t got Vovu one? No, I’d rather not face that embarrassment! Yes yes, it’s best to be prepared!

I finished mother’s assignment. I finished the one I was assigned by Mama after that too – of delivering the money to mother. However, the most beautiful Rakhi amongst all the Rakhis I’ve shopped for in my life until now would stay with me for ‘some time’, at least a year. But then… I’m ready for the next year! After all, it’s best to be prepared…

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 2

Vira was the first one in the family to support my decision. And it didn’t surprise me one bit. His tough macho exterior and grumpiness aside, I knew (know) that the real guy within is highly emotional and extremely innocent. He can’t deal with complicated situations, and he had always seen my complicated life from perhaps the closest quarters, hence his immediate reaction was – Go ahead with it!

I did go ahead, after all… In fact, I’m still going ahead! The ‘going ahead’ goes on and this process of going on has created an even more complicated situation for him.

He hadn’t expected me to take a break from Bombay and come home for this period of my life. He hadn’t thought he would have to deal with my phase of ‘being in the middle’ almost on a daily basis. And just like me, he hadn’t imagined this phase would be so long (although a year and a half is not so long after all).

And so, even when I was buying a Rakhi for him last week, I had no plans of tying it. I knew he wouldn’t be comfortable, and he wouldn’t know how to say that to me, and so, he would feel like his hands were tied… I didn’t want that.

And yet, I guess he was apprehensive that I would land in his house on the D-Day and claim my right of being his sister.

So, two days before Rakhi, when our mother asked if he would come home to take our cousin’s Rakhi, he said it loud and clear to her that he didn’t want ANY Rakhis from ANYBODY this year. “These are all pointless, unnecessary things”!

So, obviously, this ANYBODY got the point that she had never lost anyway! The pretty non-bling-y Rakhi stayed back, but on Aug 16, I did make our father deliver the cousin’s Rakhi to Vira’s place. He gets it tied every year. It should not be any different this year, just because his mind can’t acknowledge as yet, what his heart had accepted in an instant.

A Tale of Four Rakhis - 1

“That’s very expensive, Monu! It makes no sense to spend so much! Besides, in the US, they hardly know the dates of festivals and all. The day it reaches him, he will tie it… I think it is foolish to spend such a big amount on this!”

I nodded. Half-heartedly. And being my favouritest aunt, besides of course, being a woman of extraordinary sensitivity, I guess she could see the half-heart reflected on my face. So, her frustration on my ‘silliness’ mingled with a sadness for not letting me do what I so wanted to, topped with 63 years of middle-class sensibilities left quite a helpless expression on her face.

“I wouldn’t be adamant. I shouldn’t be. I’ll do this on my own, the day after, when I get my salary”. It was unfair to ask her to shell out 1150 rupees because I needed to courier a Rakhi to America, even if it was just a 2-day loan from her. It was unfair to expect her to understand what it meant to me…

~~~~~~~~~~

A year ago, I had couriered another Rakhi. On behalf of my best friend. To her brother. Rem was studying in the US, and she was atrociously late in posting the Rakhi to her brother in India. So, she had called me up two days before the festival and asked me to do her the favour.

That evening, I travelled from one shop to the next and the next and the countless nexts, spending a good few minutes at each shop, but I just couldn’t settle on a Rakhi. Most of them were rather bling-y – and I have always hated too much bling in everything in life. Most others were quite sad – the singly thread-y ones did not evoke a happy festival-ish feeling. Besides they did not seem to symbolize the ‘unbreakable’ bond…

I hadn’t realized exactly how many shopkeepers I must have left cursing me, until it dawned on me that it was dusk. Bulbs glowed bright, hanging right above the Rakhis spread out on the pavements, in the stalls, in the shops. And it was then that I also realized that my feet felt sore, my legs had a feverish pain in them, and my throat was dry. I had been out shopping for one Rakhi for more than three hours. I wasn’t exactly satisfied with the one I chose finally, but it sure was the best of the lot.

Another half an hour, and the couriers would send today’s dispatch away. I was new in the Mahim area and still had to figure the location of a good courier. As I ran from pillar to post asking for DTDC, Overnite and the likes, and as I finally found one and begged the guy to give me 5 minutes to put the address on the envelope with a pretty colour and in my best handwriting, I acknowledged to myself the real reason behind my taking so long in this whole activity…

I was not doing it for Rem. I was doing it for myself – for the two decades behind me when I couldn’t, when it was not RIGHT for me to do it…

And I thought it was only right for me to write what I eventually wrote on the envelope:

"On behalf of Rem... From Monsoon"

The Waiting Game

Expectation, they say, is the root of suffering…

And if you ask me, they’re not wrong! But then, am I the right person to decide? My opinion could be biased because my expectations have almost always led me to pain. But then, there are those in the world too, who know the recipe to make Happiness, with just the correct amount of Expectation and the accurate amount of Commitment. (If you happen to be one of them, please do share the recipe for the benefit of those who are hopelessly starved)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Before M painted my world red, I had actually never expected anything like that to happen in my life. I never thought it was possible, given my circumstances. And yet, when he came, I surprised myself with the realization that I had waited for it all along. There he was – an impossible dream that became my reality; but even before I could get a hang of the new wings my life had given me, he had turned back into a dream, more impossible than ever before. I had expected too much, asked for too much, and life had shown me where I belonged.

Night after day after night after day, I used to wait to treasure each syllable uttered by him for me, wait to capture each glance he would be kind enough to throw my way, wait to cherish every little touch of his on my skin. Yes, I was hopeless, I was helpless. I had completely lost myself in that waiting game, so much so, that I didn’t even realize that soon, I was the only one playing the game. The waits had slowly become longer, and eventually, turned endless.

A little part of me, perhaps, still plays that game, and I wish I could, but I just don’t have the heart to kill that part. I heard this somewhere… and I know how true it is:

“The most difficult to do in the world is not killing a man, but killing your dream”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VS was not a dream. Nothing after M was. Whether anything or anybody could ever be, remains to be seen.

VS was a fantasy though. A passionate fantasy. When I look back at it today, I can remember almost nothing. It has all turned smoky, almost as if it had happened in a faraway place to somebody I don’t know. In fact, I might even be able to make myself believe that it had never happened at all, were it not for the potholes it has left for me on the road to Trust. I do often find myself analyzing those potholes and waiting for answers to pop out of them, even though I know that those answers will change nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waiting is a game. It comes packed with excitement, frustration, anticipation, joy, sorrow – every damn thing you look forward to in a sport. And hence, there have to be rules for the Waiting Game.

But I don’t know what they are, or whatever I do know are the wrong ones, for I have certainly always found myself at the losing end of the game… I seem to always start as the one who is waited for, and end as the one who waits. It makes me edgy if I know that someone I care for is WAITING for me. I almost look at it as a punishment to them, and can’t relax until I have ended it for them. And yet, season after season, I find myself serving the very punishment I hate.

There is something certainly wrong somewhere. Is it that I expect too much? Can you be happy if you don’t expect? Can you be human if you don’t expect? If expectation is the root of pain, is it not the source of happiness too? Must I know the rules of this game, to stop losing?

I want to stop Waiting… I’m tired of this game… And there are two ways for my being able to STOP the game… One of them is not in my hands, though… And the one that is, might be just as painful as the game. Yet… I’m sick and tired of this game.