While Loving You.......

To every breath, that I took,

 While loving you,

I swore to live, as your's,

To be your's, forever....

To every breath, that I took,

  While loving you,

I promised; your happiness,

a part of which was tied to mine,

which still is......

To every flutter, of my eyelids,

  While loving you,

I have retold our story, our dreams,

our past, our reality......

To every night, that I have slept ,

  While loving you,

I have whispered a lullaby,

As I kissed you, to have a sound sleep,

From miles apart, and yet not a breath apart.....

To every single touch of your's,

On my mind and heart,

you have whispered your secret,

The secret, I overheard,

While loving you.......

Myriad Ways Of Blissful Existence

The road was crooked, with abrupt bumps in between, and  a  narrow path left to drive my car, as it was bordered by stray dogs, and women sitting across their houses with other neighboring women. I drove with speed hardly touching the twenty-five marker, as I scanned the place around , the lanes and by lanes of my forlorn past, childhood, and what remained, of what I thought of my maternal grandparents today, just memories. But I was proved wrong, there was much more to it than just memories.

I had frequently visited this place till the age of thirteen, however the immediate throw back that my brain gave me was that, of the time when I must be eight or nine years old, and probably the happiest in these twenty-four  years of life that I have lived. I drove past the iconic huge metal gate,that bordered the small expanse of about six to seven kilometers and stood earthed at one place, dented scarcely with time.

As soon as I parked my car, In the corner, I was flooded with not one, but a series of images, streaming seamlessly into my mind. I looked at the house of my grandparents, locked behind a rusty small door, behind a small  verandah , which now lay deserted, robbed of its health and beauty, which was once its identity in my memories. Neither did the flowers that introduced me to their species, last anymore, nor the trees whose thorns had scratched me once, gazed back at me. The house stood withered, covered in plastic sheets around doors and windows, across a barren land.

The neighbors’ grandson came along running upon seeing my mother, who had accompanied me in this journey. My mother, had been a caretaker of this property and its ageing residents, for as long as they breathed.

I could not make much conversation other than a slight smile or a nod, in reply to his gazes,as he spoke to my mother.  My mind was occupied, making efforts to stay in the present. The streaming memories, laughter and cries, and motion and people kept on raging upon my senses one after the other.

The gate finally opened, and we set afoot into my memory lane. It was after arriving here after so long that I realized how vividly I remembered every nook and corner of this house. The two maroon steps with a maze like square design on them, the diagonal design of the grey tiles on the floor. The blue colour of the outer walls of the house, the metal hinges on the ceiling where they hung the heavy wooden swing with brass and iron strongholds decorated with delicate curly design . There was this small window pane above the door, with small wooden pipes along its length, which brought the first sunrays in the house, every morning that I slept across it, in this house.

Amidst the creaking sound of the door, and the breaking spider webs and slight coughs caused by the unsettled dust of the house, I could see the photo of my Grandma hung on the wall, and my lips uttered Aaji, subconsciously, a smile stretching through my face. I guess this was the same smile, I smiled as a baby, as a child, as a teenager.  The first thing I did after entering this house, was always, tracking where she was, and smiling to her, as she caressed me with her soft hands, the same touch I still feel in my dreams.

I roamed around. In the kitchen, where she taught me how to wash utensils, at the table where I always ate the most delicious of meals, over to the kitchen cupboard, which held my grandfather’s essentials, labeled in tiny plastic bottles, of sweet homeopathic medicine. The Kitchen cupboard had a big drawer along its width on the top, which slowly became accessible for me along the years, as I grew.
The Drawer, was always filled, with a distinct sweet mellow smell, of old gold earrings, and finger rings, of handkerchiefs and tiny glass vile of the expensive kesar and other condiments. The cupboard in the lower section used to be occupied with brass vessels and Tiffins, shining golden in colour forever filled with delicacies. I remembered scouring with my cousins into that cupboard in silent afternoons of summer vacations, when the elders slept in the high ceilinged hall cooled by the cooler.  
Today all the tiny tin holders and cans inside the drawer were empty.  I am old enough to pull the drawer with one hand, which now opens at my chest level . The cabinets beneath, are filled with empty utensils, looking at which I half heartedly closed the small slit of the cabinet door, I had tried to peep through.  

My grandparents had built this house, set up their possessions, brought up their children, bid farewell to the bodies of their parents, in this very house. They saw their grandchildren play in different nooks and corners of the house, right from beneath the bed, where I used to hide, to the space outside the house beneath the window pane, where my cousin took care of puppies and kittens.

My grandparents were freedom fighters, during the Independence movement. Their house was a home for everybody, who had ever met them , once or twice or thrice, did not really matter. If they were acquainted, this house was a home to them .

My grandmother was not only fond of cooking, she was fond of feeding people. She administered a kindergarten in the area, where children living in the nearby houses and huts would come to learn, and were sent back home in a well taught and well fed condition.

My grandparents had a son, who they sent to the States for accomplishing his dreams, and in whose pride and passion they dwelled the last  few years of their lives. Away from his life and existence, but closer to his being. Their two daughters, were their pillars, more for my grandfather, after  Aaji  passed away. They loved their grandchildren, four of whom visited them often ; and the remaining two, whom they visited rarely, but loved all the more.

Two framed photographs hung on the wall in the bedroom, of my grandparent’s visit to the States, which were hung there by Aaji , so she could cherish the times she had scarcely spent there. They were now eaten halfway, by moths, but the smiles hung there, without faces.

 I kept on drowning myself in the memories that oozed into me, without any obstruction. I did not cry, I relished in them.  The only way I could relive them was by being here, and letting them scorch inside me.

I looked at the small temple set in the house, which always had a small lamp lit inside it, which had answered so many prayers and sermons. I touched the frames and idols, but did not pray, the lamp that lightened that urge within me ceased to exist now.
I breathed in the distinct scent I remembered as that of of Aaji  and Ajoba,  which still filled the black wooden cupboard, that now held shrine to their clothes and shawls. Amazing isn’t it, how some shreds and traces of existence never disappear, and can still be found hidden in some unknown depths.

Before locking the door to the house, we checked for any possible damage that could have occurred to the house, and found a few cracks into the ceiling. Before tracing back our steps through the dust worn floor I looked back upon the smiling faces inside the photo frames, that would fall back in their infinite darkness in a few moments now. Before I drove away from the house, I smiled back the same splendid smile again, looking at her, smiling back at me, and at anyone who would step upon her door.

As we locked the small metal gate with its rusty lock, we heard an old shrill voice from the neighborhood calling my mother’s maiden name, asking her to come in for some coffee. Those were my Aaji’s neighbors.

As I dragged myself out of the compound and into the one right next to it, I clicked a couple of pictures of the house, as a memorabilia for my visit here. Also, to send to my cousins, who shared similar or even stronger insights in this house. One of whom still sleeps, with my Aaji’s soft cotton sheet of clothing beneath his head. An inseparable habit that he has hung on to since ages.

Sitting in the neighboring house, I observed a  similar setup of shimmering golden utensils of brass and bronze on the rack nearby.  As I touched her feet, I could hear the twinkling of her bangles, similar to my Aaji’s, as she touched my cheek, I could see the layers of her wrinkled skin, just like my Aaji. For the next half an hour, I sat there, with my mother chatting with her, and me trying to seep in the era of my childhood.

For moments I was just staring at her, and the house, holding onto the feeling of peace, I felt in this environment, amidst these people, amidst the same space, where my childhood traversed.

I realized the infinite and innumerable ways in which I had been shaped as a person, being a part of my grandparents legacy. How everything around me right now, had a beautiful and unique essence unique to itself, which felt like home, away from the fallacy and pain of this world. How divine the existence and life of my grandparents would have been, that their warmth, their teachings, their words, their touch , their existence still remains unchanged in our existence.

We were gifted with a life, a legacy. If or not you could treasure this serene gift, is the real test,
that you shall pass or fail. The rest are merely, distractions and attractions, away and sometimes
right into the bliss of life.

My bliss, lies in the smile on my Aaji’s face. Where does your dwell?

Distance

Distance is a source of rest and unrest,
Distance can mean longing, for a bird, away from his nest,
Distance can mean wheels rolling around a zillion times on its crest,
Distance can mean that, between two hearts, and that between fingers entwined in thrust,
Distance can mean the time we spend looking at the horizon at rest,


a pursuer of roads, across mountains and curbs,


a snail gliding for hours, just to reach a few feet afar in  wet slurps,


a leaf passing sands and waters, directions unknown, yet miles it turns,


a pair of foot steps walking alongside in sand, walking, twisting in loving huddles,


a longer wait, a longer hour, a longer month , a longer second is distance in farthest measures.

Ripple

A heart that beats in your hum drum chores,
A smile that fades and ceases, brightens and spreads knocking doors,

Hands, entwined yet aloof, of each others warmth,
Touch, that spear's into the soft depths of a dreadful swamp,

Each moment, a ripple from far off treasures, reaches the shore,
building, breaking, linking all that destiny conspired to pore,

Shafts of air,  bringing fragrances from far of lands, hearts and people,
One after the other, reaching you like the concentric swirls of a delicate creeper,

So much in life, that comes along with the flow,
Touches you with a sparkle of magic, and turns around aglow,

Never coming back, yet forever cherished,
Lost into the wilderness , and with time, perished.

A Loose End

Trust, a dried leaf amidst some yellow pages,

A survivor through memories amidst fading ink ,

Trust, a pebble lost on the ocean bed  for ages,

The rock bottom of the vast hollow, now filled to its brink,

Trust, a shadow cast out of the rays that couldn’t pass through you,

The darkness, that could chalk out your hollow on the floor,

Trust ,a ray of hope , travelling towards you in a que,

A string of footsteps in mud, leading away from the open door.

The Garden Of Splendour

I live in a small town, with cement roads and dust smitten air. Like all middle class small town dwellers , we relish in the small town luxury of maintaining a garden, in the front as well as in the backyard of our bungalow. We never got a landscape designer or a planner for the garden. Instead, through the years, we just collected a variety of plants , and creepers and found them an ideal spot in the garden area, that was also strewn with tiled pathways.

The garden was in-between a porch and the compound wall on an axis, and my neighbors and a large shaded swing on another axis. Standing at the cross points of these two axis, one stood on a tiled pathway, with shades of green all around, along with red, pink, orange roses, white lilies , yellow bell flowers, nishigandha,white chameli, an overgrown cactus, some show plants, and some mud pots along with a huge underground water tank, with a large metal lid, in one corner. Some plants are such, whose names I never learnt, I mention them as the tree with cropped-leaves, or elongated-leaves, yellow-patched-leaves, white-rimmed-leaves and all that made them distinct.

As a child, I remember spending all the Sunday mornings with my father, collecting the leaves that he had just chipped from a plant, uprooting the weeds, digging water hollows around the stems, disposing shredded leaves and flowers. I followed him in my flower-print cotton frocks, from one plant to another, drooling in the joy, of feeling, splattering, and cajoling the soft mud with my hands and feet.  All this, with the pleasure of sprinkling tons of water in the end.

Years passed, and the small pleasures of life were replaced by exploring the world outside, new facets, up surging enthusiasm to see the unseen.

I left for the city, to a new life outside the confines of what I had already been and done. The garden was as fragrant, welcoming, and inviting throughout all these changes revolving around it. Every visit back home, every holiday, every mid-term vacation, that I came back, with a backpack of my own, the garden waited with peace and solace. New trees , new flowers, new rotations of pollination. All along the old bounties of the garden never lost their charm, they looked wiser .

In summers there was  a green hue  in the garden, as a result of the protective green insulating cloth draped around on a structure of bamboos. Creepers stretched over those as well, they loved reaching their own heights I guess.  The rains sometimes pooled the garden, and ponds  formed amidst the plants and pots , pathways drowned in the pool of muddy waters. The garden looked fuller, and lush with each passing year. Families of ants squirmed somewhere beneath, through tiny tunnels.  Squirrels, birds, butterflies, mongoose, cats, all had their habitats zoned into its nooks and corners.

Writing down a memoir for this splendid patch of land, within my home, seems quintessential today, for all that it has been, for so many known and unknown souls.

Every time I look at it, I find something to look at, to ponder over, to be amused with, to be fascinated out of nowhere. Sometimes just a tiny leaf sprouting upon a stem, an unfurling flower, a withered bunch of leaves, a tender bud. At fortunate times, a tiny birdie with shining blue head, or a group of yellow butterflies zooming around the garden as if in infinite space. In some season, a family of birds with yellow beaks keeps on visiting the garden collecting twigs, croaking at one another, scaring the baby squirrels.

I once saw a squirrel trying to dodge a thorn laden plant, just to get to the tip of it, for some reason unknown to me, she gave a highly lyrical performance.

With the vast array of memories that I have with the garden now, I realized that with each new life that each one of us planted in this garden, a shower of happiness emancipated with its own rhythm. Each day, each week , each month, the buds kept on sprouting, shoots kept on uprooting , flowers bloomed, leaves withered, some even died. But this constant rhythm that flows through the garden is synonymous only with peace and joy. It would never happen that you gaze at it and the garden wont gaze back with a smile. Happiness is mirrored in one half or the other. The garden has so much to give , and we just take a handful each time.

The warmth of the deep brown earth, the fresh breeze of contentment, a sweeping spray of fragrances in each of the colorful spaces, the chirpy noises echoing from one side to another, the ruffling touch of leaves on your arms, the hesitant scratch of the cactus, the neat line of red and black ants. You take away as many flowers from it, you sweep off all the crisp dry leaves, you unearth as many as a million weeds, you breathe in as many zestful bounties of air from here, the garden will never fall short of giving you some more.

Life in its forgiving form,

Bountiful, incessant, ever afresh,

Even in the darkness of a moonless night,

Even in the leafy shadows of a starlight sight,

Just step inside with naked feet and a seamless  soul,

Step inside with wide eyes and unbound with a stroll,

When the world outside is too harsh, step into its shadows,

When willing to rejoice, bounce in its sunlit shallows,

You will be forever welcomed with lush green arms and mellow whistles,

Your spot will be reserved through the harsh summers, and the rainy drizzles.

My eyes may see less, my hands may tremble, my feet may lose their strength one day, but my heart will always stay afresh as long as the garden welcomes me back. Whether I stay or leave, whether I make or break promises, as long as I can look back to the garden, the world will be a merrier place to dwell.

Nari

Sita,

a daughter found in the chest of earth,

A princess with thundering eyes, and the heart of soft mellow clouds,

 that drizzle, and at times burst apart with a streak of lightening,

 who could uphold strength and character , with times burning ablaze around her,

the abandoned queen, the sufferer of fate, and yet the goddess, enshrined in our hearts,

 a mother, like a wanderer in the dark green forests, hair aloof on her shoulders,

 the wife, of an ideal King, an ideal son ;the God who succumbed .

Draupadi, 

a princess with a webbed fate,

The wife of five, and the friend of one Supreme,

The one, who created a palace, and succumbed to its illusions,

A body draped in royal jewels, and distraught amidst the lanes of power and lust,

A soul draped in valor and vengeance,

 A body draped with His hands,

The messenger of war, with blood bathed hair,

The power that destroyed , and was lead by the chariot of Gods.

Both were pelted and powered by overpowering stars and crowded lives,

Both were  overthrown by leaps, in their own times,

Both were the shackles of destiny, that burned evil,

The soul of one, relived in another life,

The soul of a Nari.