Potpourri

My attempt to keep the past alive is getting stronger by the day. I hope to one day achieve what I call a fusion of past and present in me; the best of both worlds, old and new. I look up to glance at myself in the mirror as I write, and fail to recognize the real me behind the façade. Who am I? The quest to find myself continues.

A sudden early exit from the office today on the presumption of my failing health (if I may dare to be over-dramatic) had me ending up at a friend’s mom’s place. Things take their toll; demons, sins, life, and the fact that I chose to tear a part of me away for good, a part of me that was beautiful; a part of me leaving which I still fail to understand. A part of me that understood the real me like no one else. Anyhow, I was sick, car-less and stranded. With none of my friends available to give me a ride back home, I thought of Pinky’s mom who loves me enough to come and collect me. I often want to sink deep in the dark abyss of ingratitude. I try, believe me I try. But so many wonderful people around me, so much beauty and goodness, so much compassion in people just wouldn’t let me. I keep coming across people who are so full of love and I keep making new friends. Whoever said you could only make lifelong friends till a certain age and that is quite youngish. I refuse to believe that! Based on my own experience, I keep bumping into people who become very close friends in a very short span of time. The world is full of such wonderful people. I’m amazed to be writing what I’m writing and for believing all that I do, at a time like this. I should be sinking lower and lower in sorrow and grief. I have to admit that it stays, but so does hope.

And my past! My brother once asked in astonishment how I could just block certain things out and not even remember them. I didn’t have a reply to that. I believe that so much of my quiet, lonely yet content childhood had taken over my mind that there was no place left for any tormenting memories. My first most wonderful memories are those of my grandparents and not of my mom or dad. My parents both worked and it was my nana who raised me for the first few years. The first child in the family twenty years after my khala, I was, in their eyes, the most precious, the most adorable creature who was bestowed upon them only to be cherished. Yes, I was a princess in that house and for the longest time I believed that I was, in fact a real princess. The fact that our bloodline connected straight to Raja Rana Sanga further endorsed this belief. Papa always called me a ‘Raj Kumari’ a Rajput princess. I was nana’s Baata, Papa’s Laali, baray mamu’s Bulloo, and everyone else’s Tadoo. None of these nicknames fail to embarrass me, but at the same time they remind me of the immense and unconditional love that these people had for me. Nana is long gone, so is Papa, and unfortunately not many who used to call me Tadoo remain. But baray mamu is around and has a special place in his heart for me even today. Baray mamu, whom I called mama was quite something. Tall and handsome once, he is now just a shadow of what I remember him as. My many 'firsts' were because of him. First time I had an ice lolly, first view master (yes, it was a gadget), first few picnics at the beach, first fresh gigantic cone from Spinzer and many more.

And then there was my khala whom I called Adda, and later, so did everyone else including her siblings. With her ivory skin and ebony curls, she stood out amongst her siblings. She took care of me most of the time. A clean freak, she was the most immaculate person I knew. And she was so simple at heart. I adored her. She was my aunt, my sister, my friend, my confidant. Long gone after succumbing to cancer, she still lives in my memories. When the sabzi wala would come in the gali, she would lower a lovely wicker basket tied with a rope for him to put her desired vegetables in it and would draw it back again. That tradition is nowhere to be seen anymore but how I miss it and how I loved watching her do that.

And the goodies we had to eat. Til ke laddoo, gurya ke baal and batashay! Oh I loved batashay! The flat shell-like sweetness that just melted in my mouth once I was done crunching it. 

I had some strange habits. I liked to sit on the stairs and chat endlessly with choti khala, I would lie on the takhat in the verandah upstairs, my legs flailing, watching the sky through the open space, I hid in corners playing with my imaginary friends who were always over for tea, and I always had a favourite spot to hang out, somewhere in the house. I still do. Today, in my house, I have two reading corners, one where I read early morning, one where I read at night; I have a spot where I like to have an orange or two every single day till the season lasts; I have a favourite corner to sulk and one to sob if need be; and my most favourite spot is right in front of the balcony door where I can see the neem tree across my house and my evergreens right in the centre of the balcony.

I realize my world is very small, very limited, interlaced with old memories and some new ones as they are formed; but I like living in my small, simple world. I know nothing about science and technology, but I know how the civilizations began and what led to their downfall. It may not put me in the league of super smart people like my brother or my boss for instance, but it keeps me content and strong inside. It keeps me going. It keeps me interested in life and all the little things about it. It helps me move on. I want to stay fully connected to my past because all I remember are beautiful things about it. I want to stay within my small world because this is the real me, this is who I am. 

Footsteps of Insanity

I'm on the roll these days, writing away like someone whose life depends on it, and it does!Under the veil of composure I can sense the dark shadows of insanity and loss creeping towards me. I try to buy time, I look the other way, I lose myself in laughter, yet I can hear its menacing hiss.
Laughter comes easily to me. What is it but merely a sound!It is so easy to produce that sound. I came across a strange laughter a year back and for some odd reason I did not find it contagious. It was high-pitched, hearty, constant, as if someone had promised a reward at the end of it. But I wondered. It was so similar to my own laughter. High, hollow! I laugh! I laugh all I want! I laugh at the silly jokes cracked and I laugh to drown the voice inside my head. I laugh to forget and I laugh to live. But the dark shadows keep coming closer and closer.
And then the desire to have a dreamless night. Did I just deserve those first few nights of sleep? Why are the dreams back? Why are they interwoven with nightmares? Last night I wondered if I had been cursed. Why is it that I have been waking up at 3:36 am every night for so many days? Why not 4:00 am or 6:00 am? Is there a significance of this hour that I don't know of? What time would it be there? Is that the time when I come alive in another mind? Is this when Bosphorus is imagined together? Why that particular hour? Nightmares kept me up most of the night. I'm content with life or whatever is left of it. But that contentment comes with a price. A very heavy price! But then everything does! I prayed last night after the first nightmare that I don't feel afraid. but the less afraid I was, the more nightmares there were. Is it a test? Why are some lives nothing but a test?
There was a dream last night. It was dark. It was difficult. But I had someone to hold onto. And we both saved each other from disappearing into nothingness and held hands till the end. What is the significance of that dream? I fail to understand. I don't need a saviour. I don't need anything to hold onto. I don't think much during the day. My mind is occupied with other things: work to do, friends to meet, books to read. I chose not to leave any slots in my mind for things of the past. Why then would the recurring dreams not leave me alone? I wasn't the only one! I wasn't important! I was never important! Why am I cursed then? I chose the easier path. I chose it out of the sheer need of being given the feeling that I exist. I chose it out of fear of loss. I chose it because it was my right to do so. I chose it to keep the demons at bay. I chose it because there was no other way.I chose it because of things I heard, and because of things I did not hear. I chose it because, well, just because...And I'm happy! I'm happy as I have never been happy before. I wake up telling myself I'm happy and I go to bed telling myself the same. And yes, at times I AM happy, more than I deserved perhaps. But happiness also comes at a price. What doesn't? So I move on and close the doors even tighter, never to open them again. Nothing will make me open them again, absolutely nothing! I make my way through each day, determined not to give up, losing myself in words, colours, laughter. And i know I will soon be forgotten, replaced by another, but it's quite alright. I wish I could too. Or perhaps I don't. My ties with everything beautiful in the past are very strong, stronger than most people. And to forget the most beautiful, wonderful thing in my past would be my loss. I might not have moments or word or promises to look back upon, but I share the mind that has the same dreams and I share the heart that sings the same song. The song of heaven! So I continue to let it live on in my mind and in my heart, singing the melodious yet melancholic song along with another, for as long as I live!

Nani Jan ka Aangan

The first four blooms in my Jasmine plant brought a strange sense of calm this morning. A night that was laced with nightmares, waking me up every few minutes and an extremely early morning on a Sunday which could have been avoided sleeping cozily till 9, became blurred with the beauty and fragrance of the white flowers. I had been checking every morning for the last four days, waiting for the delicate buds to uncurl and give birth to one of my favourite local flowers. They take me back to where the story started from - nani jan ka aangan. I remember the little girl gazing open-mouthed at the frangipani tree right outside, the clear blue skies, the friendly Christian neighbours talking outside the gate. I remember the sunny afternoons when everyone would be asleep but that girl would stay up during the warm afternoons, carefully filling up her smock with the white blossoms strewn on the pakka farash of the courtyard. The rows of evergreens on two wrought-iron stands, the Quaid-e-Azam look-alike (in her opinion) grandfather keeping an eye on her from the verandah out of sheer over-protectiveness , the house sparrows chirping gaily and often perching skeptically on the edge of the wall and the Jasmine bush! Oh the Jasmine bush! The delicate ivory blooms, the heavenly fragrance, the divinity! Her world was so complete - phool, chiyya, Tadoo, ghar! Chiyya being the birds she was friends with, Tadoo the Godforsaken nickname given to her which she did not find very flattering later. All those wonderful people who doted on her, left one by one. Some gave in to sickness, some to old age and others just to relieve themselves of the pains that life inflicted upon them. She often wondered, how is it that this particular family saw more death than many others she knew. But then she was told that it was only a select few who are so dear to God that God likes them with Himself on the skies, so she was content knowing the fact that her loved ones who were gone, were happy with God, in a special place.
Nani's aangan had a special meaning to her. It was her playground, her adventure park, her happy place. There was always so much to do in that square piece of land: setting traps for the sparrows, setting them free after a few minutes of triumphant pleasure; running after the occasional frog, then shrieking hysterically when it would leap near her foot; lying flat on her back watching birds fly past, playing hopscotch on a crude hand-drawn chalk grid and making garlands. Yes, every evening she would pick Jasmine flowers from the bush that now reached the upper floor, and carefully run a needle through them, turning them into a fragrant gajra for nani. Nani was a petite figure, always wrapped in a pristine cotton sari and a neat plait. She once roamed the aangan keeping it immaculate as herself. Now confined to her takhat and a wheelchair, she still had an authoritative air about her. She was a nani straight out of a storybook , with her paandan and takhat with white chandnis and gao takyas (bolsters). And then she had countless stories to tell. The first brush with koh qaaf ka jaadoogar, alif laila, uran qaaleen, and the likes was all due to nani. And then there were fact-based (according to her) tales of pacchal peirees a.k.a. churails, that chased either her or her friends or some cousin back in India. She was born in Gorakhpur, a name that fascinated the little girl till she finally got to visit the little town at the age of seven, maybe eight. To say she remembered vaguely would not be correct. She remembered most of it. The cycle-rikshaws, the pigs roaming around, the Hindu and Sikh girls from the mohalla whom she had befriended. And when it would rain, which was almost everyday as the trip had been taken during the monsoon season, the girls in the neighbourhood would arrange for a huge swing on one of the trees. The swing could accommodate about half a dozen girls in one go. Her mother's aunt, nani's sister, owned the fields right behind the house. Often she would accompany pappal nani as she chose to call her for some odd reason. The monkeys that used to sit on the walls, visiting frequently because of the guava tree in pappal nani's aangan were never forgotten. And so the little girl's story went on from one nani's aangan to another nani's aangan till one day she grew too big to be playing in either of them. She did however reminiscence often and dared to share her romantic associations with aangans with the only one who would understand.
The rest remained in her memories, her dreams, her heart, and perhaps another heart that shared her passion for ties with the past...

Because you dared to reimagine...

What good is this life if we don't dare to dream, if we don't have the courage to move past all hurdles, if we don't reimagine?
You dared...
The little girl who liked looking out the car window at the balconies in the old area of Saddar, reimagining them in pristine condition, died a slow death; or so you thought. Perhaps she never met her death but was in deep slumber. Perhaps she just needed to be awakened with gentle love. Perhaps she chose to close her eyes till the day came when she could open her eyes to a sight worth seeing. And awakened she was! And the sight was everything she ever dreamed of. But it wasn't for her; it wasn't hers. Was it a delusion?
People appear what they aren't and you know that. You know what they really are. People warn you, they tell you to be wary; but the world seems like a better place with them and you ignore all warnings, all signs. As you move forward with them, you realize you are not really moving forward at all but are stuck in one spot. But the illusion, oh so beautiful! There is no way forward, no end in sight, nothing to hold onto; yet you grasp onto a tiny shred of hope with all your might and just don't want to let go. You know deep down you are not the first, you know you will not be the last, you know you were not the only one; yet you hang on. You know what people tell you is true, yet you hold on. You know there is nothing special about you, yet you hang on. You know no one will ever return, yet you hang on. It's humiliating, heart-breaking, like someone twists a dagger through your heart each morning and wrenches it every night. Your mind and heart are in a constant battle everyday. You spend your days with a new hope and nights with a rapidly deepening sense of hopelessness and sorrow. Till one day you decide to make a choice, bury the dreams and close all doors as tight as possible. You move forward with a vengeance, refusing to let anything dampen your spirits. You try to build new dreams, but all you see is haze. You still move ahead with a determination never to look back! You banish all memories from you mind to the darkest place in your heart. You refuse to acknowledge the face that lingers in you mind. You turn to your heart and urge it to sing a new song, full of hope and love. You peep into your heart and gather happy moments to fill it with. You make yourself  believe that you were justified in making the choices that you did. You continue to blame others for treating a poor heart like a plaything. But you move ahead. You keep your pace. Your stance changes however. You lose the chirpiness, the patience, the composure you were once known for. But you do move ahead. You put on a brave front and go through your daily motions almost mechanically. And you try to find joy in brief moments with a few special ones. And you try to let go... yes, you try hard. You try to erase the familiar face from your thoughts, your mind, your heart...you try so hard! What went wrong? Or was it wrong from the very beginning? Did it even exist? So you die with countless unanswered questions?
And all because you dared to reimagine life....

There's always a catch...

The choices we make in life, good or bad, all come with a price. And life itself? I call it crazy, twisted but it's so much more than that. Like a big black hole that just sucks everything in.
Sometimes I feel it's all one big game for Him. He places us where he pleases, then just sits back and has His fun. But then He can! What are we but mere puppets! For He chooses to make us play the role of puppets. And one after another, He springs surprises upon us, watching us smile, cry, hurt, writhe in pain. And then with everything that we are granted, there is always a catch! Nothing is granted just like that. There are always two sides to everything; what we see, and what He sees...
What if we look at life from another perspective? From His perspective. Can we?
I sometimes feel that I have left my physical form and just floated out of my body and am able to see a different view of the world. We all experience that at some point in our lives whether we realize it or not. Or perhaps we do realize it but are not willing to acknowledge it.
I witness so many bizarre happenings around me. Strangers become soul mates and once soul mates, become strangers. It's almost as if those hundreds of days never existed between the two. You spend more than a decade figuring out the real meaning of life and then just give up. You feel tired, your feet refusing to take another step and you just let yourself go with the flow, knowing there is no end in sight, yet hoping there will be one. What other choice is there? He wrote the script; He pulls the strings; He runs the show. And you thought you made all those choices? What fools? So just move with the rhythmic motion and let Him take you where you're destined to end up. What good is fighting it? Go with the flow, let yourself be taken into what the future holds for you. Let fate decide! There will always be a catch! There always is! Every time you think you have conquered the world, stop right there! It is He who has made you believe that you are in charge; but you're NOT!!! The world at your feet is a delusion! You being in control merely a figment of your imagination. The correct choice infact is not the correct choice, but if it makes you happy for now, so be it! It has its price, and you will pay! What you left behind was not the correct choice either. There IS no correct choice! There never IS! So be content with what is there, and brush aside what isn't there. Be content, be content my heart! You have a long, long way to go. Do not let the demons pull you in abyss! Fight them with all your might! Let them know that you have the will to banish them to the deepest darkest corners of your mind. Let them howl and wail all they want. Be strong my poor heart! For you have a long way to go!