Picking up the pieces

Life is unfair, life doesn't give you second chances, life is a bitch, life is like a bowl of jalapenos that you eat and regret, that's life, that's how things go, life hands you an umbrella and then takes it away when it rains, life is a solitary road that you traverse to a destination unknown, life is, life is, life just is.....

Morbidity, morosity, twisted imaginings, imagining the worst - life doesn't turn out the way you expect, you outgrow things....

This is what he believed in. Depressive isn't it? But yes, that's the way he was. Forever being the victim, forever being the martyr.

And then one day the weight of all of that despair came crashing down, each bit of self judgement and self loathing coupled with a feeling of helplessness and despair. He'd wake up each day and instead of finding the pitter patter of raindrops soothing he'd see the sky crying. Instead of the warmth of the sun he'd see the piercing bright sunlight that was baking the earth. Where coffee had tasted invigorating it was loatsome and chocolate too sweet for comfort.

Loneliness, self loathing, self pity - you name it and he wallowed in it. And the worst bit - I didn't hurt anyone, I didn't do anything wrong, I didn't make anyone's life difficult. Then why ME???

Slowly yet surely the downward spiral began. Work, cooking, writing - nothing made sense. And that's when he realised what was missing.

One day he resolved that enough was enough. One day at a time he decided he would make thins better. One day at a time he would make things alright. One day at a time.

Bit by bit he picked up each thing that was bothering him, reduced it to it's normal size and where there were boulders there were now tiny pebbles, where the sky wept it sent life and nourishment, where the sun had been harsh it now healed and where there was a void and the hurt that people had given him, it began to fill - with memories and small bits of hapiness and the feeling of belonging that so many people had given him along the way...

Those friends were not perfect, those memories were not picture perfect but those times could not be captured again. A distinct memory of walking through the streets of his hometown to take up employment for the first ran through his head, how each street had smelt, how the tears had flown, how his steps had taken him unbidden through the streets to his best friend's house and he'd stood there like a stranger untill his friend opened the door and yelled - "You idiot! Do you need an invitation to come in?"

Today he picked up the phone and called every number he had for his friend, a silly misunderstanding had prevented him from calling for 3 years. He picked up on the second ring. And said - "You idiot! Do you need an invitation to come home?"

And that's where he truly began to pick up the pieces again.....

The Love Story of the Emerald Goddess

(This story was inpired by my trip to Madurai Meenkashi Temple earlier this year. While the idea is not to hurt / offend any one's sensisbilities, if it inadveretently does, then I apologize in advance.)

She sits ensconced in her blackened room, the only light comes from the rows of oil lamps lit by the priests. The clamor and din of the bells rung during aarti and the constant stream of visitors filing past neither elevate her mood nor do they allow any respite from the weight of the millions of hopes and wishes left for her to sort through and fulfill.

The innumerable hopeful, penitent faces; the heaps of gold, diamonds and silks - nothing and no one provides relief from the burden of expectation. She is a Goddess. A divine entity forever enshrined in a single huge emerald. In human terms she is more than 3000 years old. In reality, she is a just and wise spirit, forever trapped in a prison made of her own weakness from which she has little hope of escaping.

She is silent, makes no sound at all. But on a still night, when the moon is a pale sliver of silver and the entire city sleeps, as the stars fall dim, there is a sound - that of silent tears being shed and the pieces of a broken heart rattle in a breast heaving with sadness.

The next morning, the priest finds the chamber a little cooler, in the dim light he fails to notice the wetness on the idol's cheeks - a silent testimony to her grief. He gently cleans the surface of the idol with a soft muslin cloth dipped in cool water. From a huge pile he pulls out a gorgeously beautiful, expensive silk saree in which he dresses the idol. A few drops of Attar and a huge amount of jewellery from the enormous pile available help complete the ritual.

The Jewellery is a gift from an ardent devotee - a sucessful businessman with interests that are as diverse as the languages spoken in India and whose long standing wish for a child has been granted. He had promised to donate one kilogram of gold to the temple if his wish was granted, he has donated twice that amount.

He is one among many, too numerous to count. Each one claiming a special bond with the green hued Goddess. Each one believing that obeisance at her feet will give them something that the others may not lay claim to.

Like a well known courtesan's lovers, each believes with all his heart that while her circumstances force her to bestow certain favors to others, she reserves her special favor for him. And not unlike the well known courtesan, the Goddess gives away her blessings to any one who asks, because what she has holds no meaning for her and also because she knows that what she wants can't be hers.

All those who claim to know her, how many know that she was once a chrming young girl? a black madonna with the ability to sing like a nightingale with a voice as clear and as pure as a crystal bell. How many know that she was once a virtuous princess - just, fair, confident and a firm practitioner of logic - a real princess. One who would be queen.

That was untill he came along....

Goodbye Ma....

I was 22 years old when I met Ma. I walked into her life fully formed and all grown up physically like that guy in the Mahabharat who is born fully formed to his Mom. She hated me on sight;told me so in so many words when we graduated to talking for long periods of time, sharing insights and laughter and ginger tea on cloudy days in her airconditioned living room. I was fresh out of college, cocksure and swaggering with self importance, too full of myself to realise that I could be wrong.

Ma was, is the daughter and the wife of a Civil servant. Born to order and good living, the eldest of two daughters, she and I have a lot in common - A love of books, baking, crockery and glassware, the ability to see beyond the outer shell of a person, good judges of charachter, the ability to adopt people and make them ours, to see life as it is, the inability to pass by something beautiful without admiring it, an inherent admiration for exquisite enbroidery, a love for the color black and exquisite raw silks, a sibling that we've mothered, the inability to put ourselves first, the ability to look after any and everything that god puts in our path, people around us who are intensely jealous of our bonding and a sense of personal space that does not allow us to transgress certain boundaries in other people's lives, a work ethic that leaves no room for sloppiness and is hinged on perfection - we share all this and much more.

It was this basis of commonalities that allowed us to settle into a comfortable, asexual relationship that we gave the conventional tag of Mother - Son or as I put it Mother - Daughter because she already had two sons and I didn't want to share that space, I wanted to be special.

It was not easy coming to that stage. We started working together in the HR Department of the Engineering college that we worked for - she as the head of that department and I as an entry level professor. Academic life was not without its ups and downs and all I knew was based on my perceptions as a student. Although she hated me on first sight, she recognised me for what I really was at that time - a directionless kid with tremendous potential and a huge bundle of good intentions with which I was paving my path to hell.

She decided to take me in hand and gradually under her tutelage I grew - my natural talents sharpened and polished under her artistic ability to bring out the best in people and hone it while at the same time minimising their drawbacks making me into a better person.

Somewhere along the way she grew to like me and more than that - trust me. And I? I loved her from the beginning. Loved her with the adulation that only sons can have for their mothers and no other woman comes close. I had lost my birth mother a long time ago, so long ago that her memory only lives in the smell of my perspiration, my inability to speak my mind at crucial times, my love for method and order, my talent for embroidery and my eyes that are so like hers that my father finds it diffcult to meet them for fear of finding her reproach in them. My sister was happily married and my sense of duty and my experiences over the years had made me wiser - I seldom touched her circle of perfection, I had no right to.

But Ma? I loved her, still do. My actions hitherto unchecked were scrutinised to ensure that I didn't fall in her estimation, I redoubled all my efforts to be what she wanted me to be and more.

Two years of trying got me into a B - School and another two struggle filled years when her love and affection in the form of moral support, pep talks and food kept me going I landed a job On Campus. She was thrilled. But at the same time I had to move out of J----r. I hated Delhi. I'd call her and cry. She'd be stern and soft in equal measure reinstilling my faith in myself and my abilities. She was my anchor of goodness in a strange environment where I could not help but bang against meanness no matter how hard I tried. For the last few years I had a place to call home, a place where I'd find myself and someone who'd talk - we loved each other's company.

In Ma's beautifully apportioned drawing room, we found the time and space to be ourselves, to talk about any and everything, to re-evaluate our lives and find the strength to go in the other's solidarity. I spilled all my secrets in that room - the saree I embroidered for my sister when my nephew was born, my love for a girl who could never love me back, my hopes, my fears and my dreams.

That beautifully lit room with it's silk drapes and crystal ornaments is as familiar to me as my own hand, each little change that she made I'd appreciate and assimilate. I still conjure it up and the most important thing I can still see is her - tall, dignified, regal, unruffled, and always willing to listen.

Gradually the good times rolled by - enough money for my needs and wants and still some left over for my friends and family. On one of my last trips to J----r, I saw a beautiful raw silk saree - black with exquisite silver paisleys - her favorite print and I bought it for her. I felt good knowing that I had finally got it right.

I should have seen it coming, I should have known that my fate does not allow for the presence of a mother in my life. My Nani told me long ago. One day not long after I had presented her with the saree, she sent me an email teling me that there was now no need for us to stay in touch, a short email - exactly six lines long. Ironical. This June we would have known each other for six years in the parlance of physical time although I always felt like I'd known her forever.

There were times like when we went to the IIFT this winter when other women would stop her and say enviously, "I wish my son were more like yours!" She'd swell with pride and I? I'd feel finally like I belonged somewhere, like I had an identity, a heritage,a home. We'd planned to go again next year, I don't know if I will.

I was eight years old, standing beside my mother's funeral pyre when I last felt this lost. When I set it afire I felt that I was burning much more than my mother's body. I was sure that I'd never feel like that again. I was wrong. I felt the same way reading Ma's email, lost, abandoned, cast adrift.

I'm older, stronger and wiser now. I'm 28. Yet I feel like an eight year old standing beside a funeral pyre willing a dead body to come alive. But I still have the strength to say - Goodbye Ma and thanks for showing me what it's like to have a mother. Thanks for all the memories......

Rain - a modified version that I submitted for a contest

I was running against time when it hit me. A whiff of breeze that carried with it a medley of fragrances - wet earth, rain kissed leaves, floral nectar and much more, an indefinable scent that an attarwala in Hyderabad claims to have replicated – the aroma of rain.

I don’t remember when the irritation of being caught in a downpour gave way, but I remember what I felt - pure joy as my haste evaporated along with my anger.

The first few rain drops were like gentle caresses that loosened the knot of hurt in me and then it beat down harder demanding that my tears be released. I was glad to let go. It gently ruffled my hair and slowly seeped into my very soul.

When it gently left, I felt renewed; whole again, as if the rain had filled in the gaps.

I was, I still am, amazed.

Fear

She walks down the hallway. Slowly, hesistantly as if her life is slowly draining out of her as she takes each step. Her mouth is dry, her palms slick with sweat. The folder she grips in her hands almost slips as she walks.

She catches sight of herself, as she walks, in the polished reflection of a doorway and sees not the beauty that others appreciate, but a too thin, too artificial young woman who looks old. She sees only the flaws, not the perfections. The sum of the parts of the whole are not known to her, all she sees, all she can see, are the flaws, the incompleteness of being that in her eyes defines her.

She takes a deep breath to calm herself, suppresses a feeling of being weightless and jagged, a sense of light headed-ness that threatens to make her fall and stumble.

As she walks further it seems to her that she has bitten off much more than she can chew this time, she will not find any solace in her own self, she will not be her own person, she will continue to be someone whom she despises and despises with all her soul.

Each breath catches in the back of her throat, each word she so carefully rehearsed this morning, what she would say, each gesture she has practised in front of the bathroom mirror is slowly slipping through the grasp of her conciousness as surely as sand slips through an hour glass, marking the passage of time.

She pauses in front of the door that she knew she would have to enter. Her stiff cold fingers and clammy palm belie the confident expression she pastes on her face. She knocks out of sheer habit and waits.

"Come in please." - Says the calm confident voice at the other end. She grasps the doorknob with the finality of someone grasping a life line. As she swings open the door and enters, she can hear that slow intake of breath, the spark of interest that her presence in strange company is de rigeur. She now walks more confidently, sensing with her huntress' instinct that her lithe figure, long legs, lush brown hair and blue eyes have done their bit. Now all she needs to do is charm the idiot behind the desk. "That should not be diffcult." she thinks.

As she reaches the chair she can see her fear out of the corner of her eye, that living breathing entity that always makes her life hell in a run up to something important.

She watches with satisfaction as it curls up on itself and pretends to die. It will be back, but untill then.....And she smiles even more widely as the interview begins...

Rain

I’ve always been fond of rain. Maybe because the day I was born it was raining. My grandmother fought her way through a maelstrom that was a mixture of water, hail and wind. I was wrapped in a shawl and taken to the best pediatrician’s house in all of ______. As the rain lashed down, my grandmother was so preoccupied with moving through the deluge that threatened to sweep her off her feet that she didn’t stop to see whether she was holding the much awaited and highly anticipated son or the curse that a girl child is regarded in India.

Lucky for me that she didn’t because she only came to know that I was the latter when the pediatrician exclaimed that I was a really beautiful girl. Not yet a day old and I had already charmed my first guy.

Nani would always lament that she should have succumbed to the temptation and dropped me into the river that the road had turned into on her way home.

I don’t know what she was thinking but she didn’t do it. According to her she uncovered my face to take one look before she dropped me but she didn’t. She tells me that the look of pure joy that settled itself on my face as the first rain drop touched it was too much even for her to resist.

She tells me this every time I walk in out of the rain.

My skin feels alive, a shimmering being that is a part of me and yet not my own, my soul feels like its been washed with nectar, life courses through my veins.

I love the rain. I adore the smell of water mingling with the earth and turning to fluid. I love the feeling of raindrops on my skin and the touch of cool wind in my hair. Whenever I see people running away and taking shelter I want to tell them to stop, to find a puddle to splash in because you never know when you might find joy again. Pure unadulterated joy. The kind of joy that makes you see emeralds in the light of day as the rain shimmers on the leaves, it makes you see rubies on the flowers that sway on the boughs of the china rose tree and turns the violets into amethysts.

Rain in the nightfall brings peace. The kind of peace that you can only dream about. The kind of peace that is accompanied by the rhythm of the raindrops, the sound reassuring and comforting telling you that you are alone but not.

I’m sitting with my cup of warm tea watching the smoke curling up from the surface of the liquid a brief bit of warmth that is whisked away with every breath of cool wind that comes by. My minds eye sees eternal love, dancing , laughing briefly in the face of time before being swept away by the powers that be.

I can see the bark of the trees glowing like molten copper, reddish brown.

Nani waits for me, she expects me to thank her. For the tea, for her love and for the gift of life that she gave all those years ago.

I’ll do it again, like I always do, and I’ll lie to her like I always do that I love her the best. I don’t .I love the rain more.

I owe it to myself

The day is dying. The sun has already begun its ritual of descent leaving the sky a gash of red like a freshly acquired wound hell bent on bleeding until death comes as the end. The light breeze blowing across the visage the only reminder that it had rained heavily a few hours ago.

He thinks back to the day he first saw her. Running as fast as his heavy build would allow; he had been arrested by the sight of a lovely green chiffon scarf blowing in the wind. He remembers coming to a standstill. Etched firmly into his mind is a vision of a lovely girl in traditional Indian dress, her hands clasping the handle of a black bag, the wind playing hide and seek through her long black hair that she didn’t bother to push away or tame.

She was focused solely on the arrival of the bus that she seemed to be eagerly waiting for. The august sun beat mercilessly down and in that life time that passed between halt and movement the sun forced her cheeks to yield a lush red blush that gradually crept up her face to reach her already pink ears.

From that day on the colors of the sunset had always reminded him of that single moment; that one heart stopping moment in time when the color rose unchecked like a thief across her face and at the same time had crept unbidden in to his heart.

That day he had dismissed her. Another brush with lust he told himself. You’re letting your hormones rage within you like a little kid. What’s wrong with you? You’re an adult for god’s sake.

Then the next bus came by and his thoughts were swept away with the mundane details of life that demanded his immediate attention – the bus, the conductor, loose change and fellow travelers jostling their way to a relatively comfortable position.

The next time he saw her she was walking down the corridor of the Institute. Tired gait, eyes haggard, her entire face flushed with the exertion that comes on the heels of mental labor and an exhaustion that signaled fatigue.

He’d forgotten about her by then. And here she was bringing with her the scent of wisdom and innocence all at once. He never knew what impulse drove him to ask her if she needed help. He’d already decided by then that he wasn’t going to be used in any way by anyone. But somehow he knew that she was going to be different. Maybe she felt the same but she didn’t show it but she did accept his offer.

Time didn’t wait for either of them. It kept moving onwards but he remained in a place inhabited by her intelligence, her values, her words and her admonitions. She became a constant reminder of what could be, a possibility that could make life much more bearable and perhaps even enjoyable.

Life’s little pleasures acquired a taste that was unique, tinged as it was with the essence of love. A shared cup of coffee, a sandwich eaten on the run, a conversation late into the night, they all took on the rose colored hues that love brings in its first flush.

But that was how he’d seen it; it was his perception of how life was going on. His heart that had always been a bit of stone melted like wax. People, places, sights, sounds. Everything became mesmerizing; every object was a sign of things that were yet to come.

Winter rolled around bringing with it an occasion to be celebrated. Birthdays are always a very safe way of expressing things. Certain emotions can be cloaked in the hues of other neutral feelings. Yet they can be felt by people as surely as if they had been spoken aloud.

A small but perfect gift, beautifully wrapped. A little doll and a set of bangles. Selected with care and hand delivered well in advance. The next day the bangles dancing with every movement of her hand making music that perhaps only he could understand.

He took it as a sign, another in a long line of signs. Foolishly he dreamed of the day when he would be able to get her better ones, precious ones that would have a value that would be evident in the sparkle of the precious metal that would be used to craft them.

Every gesture that she made and every word that she spoke seemed to be an affirmation of perfection. Every emotion that love brings flooded into him and drained away into oblivion. Jealousy, sadness, longing, melancholy, anxiety, indecision and an aching soul. The seven plagues of the bible are pale in comparison to those that rack your soul when you are in love.

Love in all its multicolored hues, sweet as sugar candy and more bitter than bile, came and settled its lovely wings over him. He was in love that was for sure but was she? That is something that he forgot to ask and perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

He began to walk through paths that were strewn with the softness of flower petals. The winter air that hit you in the lungs with the full force of a sharp knife was now a bouquet of fragrances that brought pleasant memories with it.

A mixture of air tempered by the cold, the fragrance of wood smoke, the sharpness of tobacco mingled with freshly brewed coffee. Small bits of joy that had been dormant in his mind came to the fore in full force to remind him that life is, indeed, beautiful. His life, so far a struggle, now seemed to have been a quest for that one perfect person that he had succeeded in finding.

Then came the day when life decided that enough is enough. Things had gone too far. Things began to unravel. It all began with a prank and ironically his best friend was the perpetrator. She’s getting engaged!

The sun fell out of the sky. How could she do this to me? Hurt, sorrow, tears and recriminations. It could not end like this. Maybe you should tell her how you feel. A snake was whispering in his ear. His own desire was edging him on. He tells her and then the world does really end.

I don’t love you, not in that sense. Simple words but to him they are incomprehensible. The sky loses its silvery sheen and becomes the dull leaden grey of a wintry day. The entire world becomes strange and forbidding.

He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Is this what it feels like to have your heart broken? He couldn’t fathom what he had done to deserve this. What have I done wrong? He wanted to scream, to shout, and to cry but all he could do was carry on living.

He went back to the institute. She was waiting for him. I still want to be friends. Easy words, easy to say, difficult to keep up for the sake of appearances. I don’t want to be just friends; I want to marry you for god’s sake!

Life became unbearable for a while, looking at each other and saying the same banal contrite things that people say to each other when they want to get away from the heaviness that silence brings. Two people trapped in a prison of words that convey nothing except the sheer futility of a life that is being forced to exist as a whole. Words forced out of the fragments of a heart that could once feel and still bled because it had nothing else to do.

He puts the fragments of his heart away in a corner of his soul. He puts his mind to work and his body into a tortuous routine that few understood and no one approved of. His life fast becomes a miasma incapable of being untangled.

He begins to nurture a dream that the day he becomes capable enough, she will change her mind. He continues to see her as the one. She maintains her distance. They carry on dancing to an age old tune, desire and despair merging in a brief coupling like smoke meeting air before vanishing.

They say Time heals all wounds but the scars remain. Maybe the scars are there as proof that you are a stronger and wiser person. Who knows what life has in store for you?

He kept on working and he kept on waiting. Things became easier, the pain passed away and the sharpness that had accompanied him since that fateful day loosened its hold.

Gradually life came back into his work and his movements. His heart renewed by hope he carried on. Maybe he would have carried on but then life was not going to be kind. It had already been too kind to him.

The Monsoon arrived with a fury that was unprecedented. Lashing through the air the rain drops beat down on him as he made his way to the Institute. The rain that had always signaled unparalleled sadness didn’t give him any clues as to what was in store.

She was in the library struggling with the financial news. For no apparent reason he decided to ask her the question that had been worming its way through his mind for quite some time now. Have you ever been in love? Yes. Silence. And would you marry him? Yes. Why? Because he’s always been the one I’ve felt comfortable talking to and its always going to be him.

The rain was a blessing. No one saw him cry. And when the sun finally came out he thought about every thing that had happened. He felt saddened, as if a great weight had been placed on his shoulders. Is there any point in living?

Then some thing snapped. It was as if a tightly coiled spring had given away. I owe it to myself he thought. There’s no one who’s more important to me than myself. If I create a need only then does that need exist. I owe it to myself to succeed and no one else.

He got up and walked out into the dying embers of the day ready to begin anew. I owe it to myself he kept repeating over and over again. A talisman that would keep hurt at bay.

Life, for once, was utterly and completely taken aback.