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....