An ode to Rusty

Hey Mrs Rowling, petrificus totalus!!!

Dear Mrs Rowling,

      With the younger generation , all excited about your new Harry Potter play, " the Cursed child", it pretty much brings my hopes down. Just imagine our Harry, dressed in a suit,  kissing his wife and children goodbyes and  off to work in the ministry of magic as  an Auror, with most of his days drowned in the loads of paperwork! Pretty unimaginable and well,  non- magical.  And to add to this babbling,  bumbling band of baboons, Albus Severus Potter is the "cursed child'!! I mean calling a child , with all the privileges and fame, cursed,  is a lot mudbloody, don't you think?
               Moving on,  the new upcoming movie about the ' Fantastic Beasts' author Newt Scamander, is pretty much hyped too, with all the popular  casts and crews hired to play the characters ,along with a big budget special effects team.  Yes!!! We all are very much excited , to see a wizard,  with half of his life,  spent chasing animals.
              Is the whole thing,  a feeble attempt to keep the series alive in our hearts? Well,  the Harry Potter fandom is content with the original seven book series which,  Mrs Rowling  wrote in her sane days. The attempts to turn the whole magical world lucrative,  is just going to turn back and destroy the whole essence of it. Would it be wrong if I compare your new ideas with the horcruxes?   Isn't that ironical,  Mrs Rowling?

             I would only advice you to not  let it fade away  and bask in the glory of the halo, which is still shining on you. Because its Dumbledore , who has immortalized your thoughts, ( which I 've slightly modified), that " Memories are our most inexhaustible source of magic.  Capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it. " So let us bend in our pensieve of memories to live them again, rather than to create more  artificial , lucrative ones.

                                 With love and pity, 

                  Your eternal and tolerable fan.

         

You frighten me sometimes....

Silence

Hoaxed

Breathing for a glance

She looked at her watch. The mailman was half an hour late. Divya always thought of Raju, as her lucky mail deliverer , who always brought some good news, about her relatives with him, every week. After she turned her sand-clock upside down, thrice, her sharp ears heard the bicycle ring. A stranger riding a bicycle dressed in khaki ,sped towards her and handed her the mail, in a hurry. Unable to understand, Divya asked the mailman quite loudly," Where's Raju?". The old man replied with a deep unbothering  tone ,"He was transferred last week. I'm your new mailman from now." With those words, he turned his bicycle and drove away, with the same speed ,as if the earth beneath him was crumbling away.

                      Hearing those words, a small fading memory, turned bright as a sun, in front of Divya's dilated eyes. The same her, thirteen years ago from now, flashed her vision. A timid ,dark-haired girl sat on the classroom  bench eagerly waiting, for her favorite subject to be taught that day, like many other days.  A subject which was her most hated one till last year ,had suddenly become her most loving now. She looked forward to that class more than anything.

                      When her teacher arrived, her world would become a merrier place. Miss Jacobs would greet the children in the most enthusiastic way and ask the students to tell their dreams, their passions and tell them the stories about her own experiences. she would present herself in the most casual manner. Her high heels would perform their tap dance ,as she climbed the classroom's stairs. Her wavy hair ,tied in  a bun and fixed with a large clip ,would eventually find their way out, after a few minutes. Her perfectly fitting chudidar  looked dazzling with a matching  dupatta which hung around her neck, like a scarf does, in the cold winds. For Divya , she was a sign of perfection, her role model ,who just showed no signs of a single fault. When she started teaching, Divya's world would be focused on the blackboard and the book. Miss Jacobs' voice mesmerized her and she would go in a literary world of Robinson Crusoe. That's what she taught. The pictures she drew on the board, explaining the story , became alive, animated if, in her mind, she was on the island, with the sea, with Friday.

                       On the Christmas Eve, she would exchange gifts with all of them, sing and play merrily with them and tell stories about the Eve, which the children enjoyed whole-heartedly. When she got bored of teaching, she would close the book and tell them her own childhood stories and fun moments.

                       When the half hour of the class ended, that world would just be gone- vanished within a snap of a finger.  Six months went by happily and dreamily. But one Monday, a big , fat, rowdy man came in the class and started reading aloud from the book. On looking at the confused glimpses, of the students, he told them lazily, not bothered ," Miss Jacobs has been transferred and from now I will be your new teacher."

                         From that day on, classes were never the same for Divya.  Life for her now, was gloomy with nothing to look forward to. She felt betrayed, cheated, thrown away. How could she go so suddenly? would she see her again?

Divya  flipped out of the memory. How vivid it seemed! The deja-vu which had just happened, had taken her back to the memory. All these years, despite of Divya's  wishful thinking , she still prayed for Miss Jacobs' safety and good.  That was a memory she preserved, the memory, which was etched in her heart, of a person, she was breathing for, just for a glance.

                       

Reflection

Envisaged contentment

Ever felt the touch of a ripple, 

of cold, flashy shimmering  wave on your feet ?,

bathing your toes with the running droplets , eager to touch the soil. 

Ever heard the wind gushing through the trees?,
the leaves chiming their way aside, for their unstoppable ally ,

making everyone shudder, with its invisibility cloak.

Ever seen a squirrel , it's warm, bushy tail?,

tiptoeing it's way, to the highest acorn on the tree, 

secretly nodding to the group,  approving the way trespassed.

Ever smelled the path that leads to wilderness?, 

the untouched, dry, crisp, roasted,  fallen leaves,

not stamped by a single living soul, directing you to the dense green world ahead. 

Ever spoken and imagined the world ?

where the mother Earth is rejoicing amidst her unprovoked , reposed world 

free from the gaze of calamity.    

Do we care? umm......Meh!!!

A so called 'dumpster' box  overfilled and flowing with garbage with it's complimentary smell for the pedestrians.

A pothole on the road! -  and at least one car wheel is it's victim.

An hour of heavy rains and the sewage water fills so high, that the mud filled floods become a  new centre of sight seeing for the citizens.

                  If we look at the overall situation in the country, along with the people's reactions, it pretty much matches with the above title.  So what do we usually do? We look up for a solution. How? By pointing at the local governing body. The local body in turn, slaps it on the central body. And the blame game goes on. So who is it we can really blame? Is it the government, the people or the nature itself?
                  The actual question is,  do we really need to get involved in this blame game? It's just like the situation, we have all experienced in our school days. We usually blamed our failure on the teacher or our parents or all the other things. We hardly realized that the real culprit was inside us.
                 If we see anyone throwing litter, we whisper to each other the person's wrong act but never point it out and when we ourselves are in a hurry, we sometimes do the same mistake subconsciously, we then rethink about it and let it pass on with the casual excuse, "utna to chalta hai!"
 This attitude is what basically needs to be changed. If we think it in that way, then imagine every person thinking about it in the same way and hence the mess.
                  Hum a John Lennon tune of the song "imagine" and the things will fall in the place. if we become careful, about the small petty things happening around us, then the situation will surely change.
                  If we follow the driving safety signs and the norms that our government has finally managed to post on the roadside, instead of making fun of it, then probably you've got it mate! If each person takes care of the garbage disposal in their own house, the amount of garbage that will be reduced on the roadside.  If each person trains the pets'  bowel movements and the waste disposal, then perhaps people will finally breathe some fresh air while walking.  If we clean the roads weekly, then there is no need of the special hurried cleanliness, when the politicians visit the city.
                    This might seem to be a little boring, but if you think about it peacefully and act upon it, then on a large scale, even the tourists may spread the good word.

                       A little thoughtfulness, a teeny tiny try and then lo and behold! The country will be a better place again.  

The Trampled Roots

The most asked question before 'Why did Katappa  kill Bahubali ?'  was ' who gave birth to whom  first- the egg or the chicken?'  Inspite of the confusion, the people have accepted both of them in the respectable  'laziz khaana' category without much dispute. Then why the injustice in the human race, between the gender, when it is more than clear who gave birth to whom. And I hardly think,  that anyone would object to this answer or raise an argument!!

                       

                      The protagonist of the human society, is being crushed underneath, like the root of a tree which lies underground - silent, and bearing all the insults targeted upon it. The hidden talents, which are dying to come out , to explore the world, to breathe freedom are being pushed into the dark shadows,  misconceptualized under the scary robe of protection. The sensitive, beautifully gifted , light filled female souls are robbed off their rights, at one or the other stages of their lives - some before birth,  while some after their deaths. 

                      These lively lanterns, are shown their 'aukaat' or their 'supposed position' at every moments. These ironical moments will leave Shakespeare's McBeth - the greatest ironies, in awe. 

When she was born, half of the crowds rejoiced in merrymaking, while the rest doomed in sorrow, blaming the Goddess  mother herself.

When she was still crawling , they dreamt  of a perfect suitor for her. 

When she was still learning to speak, they tried to suppress her feelings and keep her in control. "what if her words sadden the people? Who will marry her?" they said.

When she aced the exams in school, they tried to discourage her, fearing ,"what if she becomes a lawyer or a doctor"? Then what will happen to their perfect suitor's (probably a school drop out) position or the 'ijjat'

When she came of age, they prohibited her from wearing short skirts and jeans. "What will your future-in-laws think of you?", they said.

When she graduated, they gave her the nightmare of marriage and bearing children. "You will be the caretaker, when your husband starts a family"  they said. 

When she was a mother to two boys, they stopped her from working. " Who will nurture and nourish the children?", they said

When she stood there,   thirsty and hungry, after toiling in the kitchen and doing housechores, they grabbed the food out of her hand. "It's the rule to serve the husbands first. What will your master think?", they said.  

When she was lying on her deathbed, craving for someone to comfort her, they handed her a pen and a paper. "You've done your earthly duties. Now sign here, so that your children can enjoy your earnings of lifelong  hard work without much trouble and struggle", they said.

"You are a Goddess. A life on earth so invaluable that the diamonds will lose their shine and the sun will dim it's brightness, just for a glance of you",  they NEVER said. 

The fidgety midget

A long awaited moment, 

when slips through your mind.

The hand suddenly loses the grip,

of the white silky sand.

Fluttery butterflies,

when crowd your stomach,

you suddenly feel,

like you have had enough.

You can't wait to surpass,

the long paused time.

The wind blows away,

quivering the gold chimes.

The instance which was flashing,

a few minutes ago,

now crashes into the wall,

with a head hitting blow.

The severity of the reverseness,

 is simply overwhelming.

when you think that your mind,

is just calming.

The Twilight Terror

        Dylan Thomas has etched  these  immortal words that raise your hair at the ends.

It's the middle of the night. Your hectic work and your sweating out, the entire day, has failed to reward you, your well deserved dreamless sleep. You lay awake in the bed clutching your favorite cozy blanket, you expect will protect you.
               A tree near the window, has had the same fate as yours and is tweaking it's branches, as it's sleep is entirly nullified, by the hollow ball- eyed owl, rotating it's head to give your sleeplessness, an extra company.

The faceless old man on the road, covered with a smelly thick black rug , you've feared since birth, taps his wooden stick on the ground mercilessly, making your already trembled sleep, now impossible. 

The trees, birds, the people and other things that seemed to be insignificant in the day, haunt you at night, grabbing your heart tightly. Sometimes you wonder" Is the Hitchcock  craziness drowning me for real?". Well, you might find an appropriate answer to it later.

                 When we are presented with unexpected situations - real or imaginary, that tend to shake the very core of our existence, we tend to "flight or fight". It shows the "real mirror" of our vulnerability, the stroke of death or the fear of the unknown. We often react on the spot, to these situations ,than we had forethought of, earlier.

              For instance, sometimes you think, what would you do, if you come home at night to find out to your horror, that the door is ajar. You plan in your mind, that you would alarm your neighbours or call the police or kins before entering. But if this happens in real, you tend to act differently as your conscience tells you to. You may enter inside hurrily , dial or text your dear ones, in the hope that if something goes wrong, someone should know it.  You check the rooms as you rushfully enter the house or close the doors and windows tight and you are ready to fight anyone or anything that comes in your way while imagining the worst in your head. In short, you act in the way you haven't thought or planned before.

                 And after all this, you later realize that this was all, but a game of the neurotransmitter signals fighting in your brain and you laugh at it mockingly. 

" The dreams make you fear,

oh! the reality is almost here.

the agony of the great shadows surpassed,

still makes a tiny insect look aghast. 

but oh Mortal, hold onto the string of your dear,

that makes the evil wear and tear"

Elixir of Life

"Live. So that when your children think of caring, fairness and integrity, they think of you."- Jackson Brown Jr.
A "father" as the emotions point,  nurtures  his children  in such a way that , in their every step they idealise him.

As a father, Atticus Finch (from "to kill a mockingbird") treated his children as adults, when he answered any question they had, while keeping in mind, that they were free to make mistakes as children.

So , what is it like, to be a father? Does he have to be a stern, disciplined and a high tempered figure that a child looks up to him with fear? That's not entirely true. On the contrary, a father is the guiding light. A muse who shapes the future in a rightful way. To a child, his first idol, hero, is his own father. He is the soldier, a brave , emotion controlled protector, who is willing to sacrifice everything and anything just to see a smile on the child's face.  

                         The other day, I had a peculiar ornithological experience , that made me understand, that fatherhood, is not at all limited to the human species. A singing bird ,was laying her egg in the nest, on a wavering branch of a tree. A bird , in general, needs to hatch the egg while literally freezing in one position, while facing every type of challenges in the world. The winds gushed around it, the rains poured, the tree swayed and another time, the heat of the sun, torched it. But the confidence of the bird was to be admired. Then , another look around, caught my attention . The partner male bird was sitting on the next slender branch of that tree, fighting the natural turbulence! The vibe of confidence of the female bird, became quite clear to me then. 

                           A father is a silent supporter, whose importance is rarely realized unless he is gone.

 He is the one who enlightens the child to the world and  the dark side. That is the toughest job which he does ,with such an ease or maybe whilst hiding the pain. 

He is the one who stands awake, guarding, when the children sleep cozily, dreaming .

He is the one who opens the locked doors when his child is trapped in the endless, dark maze of life. 

He is the one whose heart unknowingly skips a beat, when the child hurts or gets hurt. 

He is the one who surfaces no emotions, when his heart is being gradually torn apart. 

He is the one who holds the child upto the world when he himself is crumbling to pieces without succumbing to pain. 

He goes through every emotion seeing his baby grow into a man, his own reflection. The first cry of the baby, fills his heart with immense joy. The first word and the first fight gives him a peaceful gratifaction, The first graduation, inflates his chest with pride. The first salary, makes him content and happy with the fruit of his struggle and perhaps, signs of his retirement. He then knows, that his toiling was worth it. 

                        

The influence of a father, on his children, cannot be underestimated. Although, being the Godfather, Vito Corleone, tried hard to keep his children away from the crime world, when Michael, his good, wise son, took over his bussiness and proved to be his own  reflection. 

                                                                

My elixir of life,

who alertly, never blinks an eye,

when the world is on a strife.

To me, he is my pave,

a ray of strength ,

when I return to my cave.

The guiding light that never dims,

A torch that in the darkness always rims.

I would collapse without you,

for, you are my support, 

a cornerstone amongst a few. 

I won't fear of the death,

a constant dangling knife,

because, Father, you are the Elixir of my life. 

An Incantatory Call

The steep, rocky, dry, snow-clad, heartless mountains in Leh seemed to take a toll on my soul (technically, my airway). The icy dryness was cracking my core. The trip to the north was failing to soothe me. Instead, I was looking for some warmth, to help me go on.

As I was about to kneel down before this nature's peaking cruelty, a little school boy walked  across me, humming a slow tune. Suddenly, the tune mesmerized me! My blood deprived heart, now began to flood suddenly with emotions. Joy, relaxation, admiration , inspiration gushed their way into me. The seemingly everlasting drought, had finally come to an end! Finally, I was a human again- with flesh and blood. "Did a simple tune turn my world upside down?" I wondered. "or was it the hypoxemia talking?"  At that time, the latter opinion seemed to be believable. So I stuck with it.

Next day, as I entered a Tibetian monastery, the tune was everywhere around me. Later, it struck me that the "tune" was in reality, the "religious hymn" of the people!  After that, a mild humming or loud chants started having a calming effect on me. It was an extraordinary religious experience for me, as I humanly felt closer to God. A realization dawned upon me that, a simple thing can have such a quick impact on somebody. The new peacefulness was developing its roots inside me. The world was suddenly a better place, the best in fact.

The contentness knew no bounds. All the goals, ambitions, greed were crushed, for a moment, under this huge rock of solitude. My family thought I had turned my way to spirituality or worse- exorcism! But this was something else. I have not yet found a correct word to express it. But I can only say that, for me, the time stood still. 

                     As I was hastily browsing a shop , I came across a dusty rack covered with cobwebs. On keenly observing, there it was! Peacfully lying in the rust - the record of my "inner call". The search was over. Mission accomplished. 

My Patronus

The scar which Harry Potter  carries throughout his life, on his forehead was a sign that ,mother's love is not only selfless, but is stronger than any evil force in the world. 

"You are the shining pearl in my heart,

A ray of hope that never loses it's part.

though you are not a superhero, 

you always try to make it thorough.

for you, I can go to any end,

where the drop of water parts and light bends"

       A single cell multiplies into an infinite celled creature into the womb protected by the strongest bond in the world. 

       Just like a bud blooms into a bright coloured flower, under the roof of it's leaves.

       just like a chirpy baby bird, that learns to sway and dance in the air, under the wings of it's creator. 

Just like a Patronus which fights the dark forces by keeping the person in light.

"Sometimes I think,

Is it a miracle that I came into this world?

that my tiny little brain grew so big 

to hold the entire worries of the earth.

You are my patronus

my shell  that protected me against the storms ,rains and dust

my roof that rescued me when I was drowning in my own sins 

my patronus that showed me light whilst burning in the dark.

that proud look keeps me going,

when I earn the price of my toiling.

that smile turns my world upside down 

when my day has ended with a frown

I promise that I will hold onto you my Patronus,

till the mountains erode ,

and the oceans dry out.

I won't let your suffering go to waste, 

till the earth is moving,

till the winds haste. 

You are my Mother,

You are my Patronus"

The Creator

About people or money,
he knew little as a penny.
He watched the structures elegantly designed,
against the mockers' joy, he quickly resigned
Then  stood  the  girdles, the pillars  self admired
it was a heaven, a place they long desired
From an office to a quarry
he scorched under the sun, too busy to worry.
Until the sun rose in the west,
Calmly he sat, fulfilling his quest.

(based on Ayn Rand's 'The Fountainhead')

The Thunderstorm

The  dark clouds of silence  which prevailed for a hundreds of  years in the skies of tolerance  are  finally bursting. Some are pouring their rains, to destroy the dignity while some are gently mending it. The social , political and economical situations in India, are on their peak with a thousands of supporters and an equal number of oppressors, both at the same time,  climbing and chasing them , with different motives. 

                The country is using it's digital and communicating medium, like never before. Every human is voicing his opinion and hence the thunderstorm is the most persistent feature of these violent rains. Those in power , are adding an extra ingredient to the chaos- an element of utmost importance, which can destroy the morality of anyone within seconds- that being the element of Confusion. This element maintains the strength of this thunderstorm, which has led the country in both unity as well as  seperatism.

The result of this climatic twirling,  has led to many changes and a total sense of newness in the environment. No one knows the end of this enigmatic conundrum, but still every one tries to stand out, in order to be saved.  The only person who has faced every situation or the storm - the common man - is standing there, like a tree who faces the storms  with his wisdom held as an armor, waiting for it to end while the country, fights with each other, in order to achieve it's obscure gains.  Because he is the one, who has become the most tolerant and experienced than any other powerful human and whose roots, lie deep inside the earth marking his inevitable strength.

A Miragy Day

It feels indeed like a mirage when amidst a hot afternoon, the weather suddenly turns cloudy and cool. You can surely imagine yourself as a 'chatak' bird of the Indian mythology eagerly waiting for the first rain drop to touch it's dry, waiting mouth. For this, he has waited years long without ever complaining.

        Today the clouds exploded and all the Chataks made peace with the skies. The cloudy weather has always been one of the reasons for my  happiness rather than the living beings. The  cloudy, drizzy weather brings peace and contentness to my heart- reason unknown and not expected.( I think).

         When the clouds turn dark,I lit up usually like 'Maria' from The Sound Of Music and suddenly my heart wants to sing every song it hears. The greenery and it's surroundings become lively and I fall prey to the unrealistic wish of 'flying' and 'soaring'.

        It's like the hills, the brooks, the birds, the branches are alive with music and are dancing and clapping to the beats of the nature. The cold air adds up the rhythm.

        And suddenly you forget the long, dry summer that lies ahead - just for a miragy day!

Primitiveness

As the first ray of sun impinges his eye,
 the primitive man lumps up and sets out for the lonesome goal in his life - survival.
for he knows not the burden or the joy of money
or the weekends off to heave a sigh of relief.

There's a movement behind the bush
and he must warn his species off the danger
for he knows not how this danger would be used later
by his own, on his own.......

It's raining heavily and he must find a shelter
for he knows not that dried out life ahead ,
will take the shelter under these rains
He is chirping and swaying
with the wildlife
for he knows not,
 what boredom is.

It's about night and the man collects the scatters-
the woods and the twigs for he has to survive the night,
in order to see the sun
No. He knows not the special diet plans and the calorie burdened food.

He runs to bed as he hears the wolves moan
at a distance in the moonlit dark sky
for he knows not,
when the sky will give an evil surge.

But one thing he knows for sure
that his very own primitiveness
protects and guides him
to the mysterious paths , yet to be explored.

Iniquity