You love your blanket, too?

Life is a struggle. It seems as if you have fallen in the Rabbit hole like Alice and stuck midway. You keep whining about it and waste your life in contemplating problems. I am not wise enough to say this but other people are! Well, I think that Uncle Chips and Vanilla ice-cream don't leave any scope for problems.

Life is a struggle. Winter is a struggle. The very question of your pale existence hits you straight on your face like an ill aimed high five, when you have to spurn your new found love time to time. Swiping your doubts, I am  talking about my velvety haired, chocolatey comrade with white and beige crisscross pattern... my BLANKET! Well, Mr. Coelho said that if you want something [vehemently] then the Universe conspires in helping you get that. Really? If I need a coffee, I have to move out of the blanket to let the winter cold beat me all over. The Universe doesn't seem to conspire in my case.  aai shappath.

My thoughts move like a drunkard...they aren't steady and make me ramble through the paragraphs. Mind you, it's not my fault. Read British Literature and you would know, I was predestined* to digress. Anyway, on a much serious note, winters are our lives in capsule. You have to carry arms full of things just like Tweedledum and Tweedledee to have a "battle". We slide into the blanket of illusion of a goody- goody existence and pretend to deny the cold-like hassles. The chill blasts of winter are just like the hammerings life and people give to make you formidable. The fear of cold can't keep you in the blanket for long, for problems can vanish only when you face them. Coffee won't come to you through wind; efforts are needed, for sure. As my part time thinker...overthinker friend says, only a pachyderm can get this coffee, literally and figuratively. Philosophically, humans have an inborn tendency of making the "heaven of hell and hell of heaven." In actuality, human being is an idiot, and the massy flesh on the top of her frame being a bigger idiot.

This winter, welcome, yet not welcome the "Satanic" tendencies in you and push yourself harder to make way out of the Rabbit hole to witness reality, full of adventures!! Good luck.

Also, I am ageing, technically, we all are. I tend to forget. New year is in the offing.

So, HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL.

Lipstick Under My Burkha

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Musings

Winged but ringed

Emancipation promised

Yet impeded with gazes and characterizations!

This happens when you step in the big bad world with all your kit of innocence and artlessness. The world and its people stir your mind through constant jabbing; refresh it and initiate the process of rethinking.

As fast as words could fly, one year in Miranda House too was quick enough to realize. I entered as a fuchcha, in awe of the north campus, only that nobody pinched me if I was dreaming. My campus life precisely began and begins every day, with the walk from the Vishwavidyalaya metro station. No sooner you exit the station, the overexcited rickshaw walas with their blatant hospitality, welcome you in their monotone, “Mirinda, KMC, Hansraj, 10 rupay …madam kahan jaogey?” I started from smiling at them, took to frowning in weeks and over months, ended up ignoring them. Trust me, it happens!

Just when I escape this humdrum, our dear idler student netas are up with their NSUI/ ABVP posters, not least unaware that in no seconds, the paper would be crumpled and hurled, only to clutter the place! But amidst all this, the smell of hot momos and kachodi don’t fail to tingle my nostrils. The booklover inside me doesn’t forget to steal a glance at the book stall adjacent to the antique jewellery stall, where, girls, unlike me, swarm over the items, haggling over the 40 rupees’ danglers!

The area outside the VV station is no less than a mini university in itself where you see students everywhere, laughing at lame jokes, discussing the theories of Marx, fighting over cola, reading Dan Brown or even puffing cigarettes.  The stalls and vendors, the hubbub of people, the eateries and the whole hustle bustle add up to the charm of north campus. While going back home, the occasional nukkad nataks at the station area sum up your day. Walking a little further, in a secluded corner, an old man, clad in a crushed blue check sarong and an outgrown pale white frayed shirt is no less a figure of dignity, squatting against the wall with his weighing machine, earning money and respect in the unsparingly hot sun.

Talking about MH and not introducing cats can definitely hurt the sentiments of the latter. You will see cats and kittens, if not anything, cuddling in laps, lazing in lawns soaking sun, or balancing themselves on roof edges. But I personally dislike Wilson for having devoured an innocent squirrel! Whenever the college’s name echoes, mentioning of the canteens is obligatory. The tidiest canteen in the campus, here, sumptuous chhole bhature and the 6-rupee samosa is a must for all. The Nescafe coffee is the best to keep you refreshed in between the lectures.

The Principal’s corridor, Nescafe lawns, the Hogwarts stairs, Heritage hall…to describe life at the red brick Miranda, one may fall short of adjectives. Some freshers, including me, enter(ed) here with a lot of apprehensions but learn(ed) to dodge the stupid stereotypes the college is looped into. None of the walls in the college reverberates that men are extraterrestrial and girls are not…so they should be loathed. It gives you a lot of space for free ideas and discussion but surely doesn’t provide a battle ground for feminism. Though the class discussions are linear, with no male perspective, but that doesn’t make it any less from other colleges. Another seed of doubt our dear Non-Mirandains may have is that the girls remain desperate to see boys. So, to clear the mist, dear men, you may linger in our conversations but hardly become the epicenter of it.

The estrogen filled corridors with all its pitter-patter seemed suffocating initially but the same aisle became liberating with the feminine vibes, swelling me with pride for what I am, unwary of the judgmental eyes. A girl with long wavy hair to a bad headed one, a girl draping saree to the one wearing shorts and flimsiest of tops, not just this but the Mirandaians are also massive brains who are witty and intelligent with their tongues. Independent as they are, these girls make Miranda what it is and Miranda makes them who they are!

One year in college

Withered away…

Like a Bakula flower

Leaving the scent of memories in air!

Jaggu diaries

#1

The loud music was failing badly to deafen the voice of her crying heart. The pain had sunk its fangs deeper inside her, which oozed out in the form of tiny, warm droplets. “Let’s write,” she thought. With the heart drumming against her chest, she began writing, struggling to manifest her agony in words.

Jaggu began, “What is it that’s more painful? Is it that he hit me in front of 50 people or is it that I hurt him badly by running away, to his utter shock?” She continued, “I know I am obstinate but what I did, is it expected of a bad daughter?” While it was raining cats and dogs, people around her were seeking shelter under the shop shutters or tarpaulin tents of the sabzi walas, and there she was… running anxiously and sobbing uncontrollably. Fully drenched from head to toe, Jaggu finally reached home, the wet face camouflaging her teary eyes.

She was happy that she acted it out well in front of her mom!

Jaggu retired to her room and picked up a book, her solace. But as she started, the letters became hazy. Guilt had then taken better of her. The only thing she wished to do was…apologize!

//Year 2001//

Tallest among the guys, he had ‘tall’ egoism too. He was ever ready to flaunt his fat, yet ridiculous vocab of crude words. Jaggu was no less a rebel and fought with him hand to hand whenever he tried to bully her. He used to hate her in class IV and so did she. They couldn’t see eye to eye with each other. In fact, she had strong urges to break his banana long nose and crush his rowdiness too with it.

Classes reshuffled, and they weren’t in the same section anymore.

Years flew.

//Year 2008//

After 7 years, she became aware of his existence in school. He came back into her life through a mutual friend. Even then, for Jaggu, his presence was like gravity…hardly noticed!  Tall as he had always been, he had turned handsome and to her incredulity, shareef. 

//April, 2011// 

During her second semester in college, he showed up.

Again.

Like a soft blow of wind…

ruffled her life tenderly

and disappeared as morning dew,

having promised to come back…at the right time!

Those four months compelled her to think as where he had been during all those years in school. She found it incomprehensible that the guy whom she detested so much, whose presence didn’t matter to her, who just didn’t exist for her during those 7 years, had now taken refuge inside her. She wondered, why missing him became so ritualistic?! He entered her life at the most unexpected time as the most unexpected person and vanished, taking away a part of her.  Those hands which once wanted to smack his nose, now wanted to belong to him, forever. She often sighed, “Dear ‘dear’…I am not the same person anymore you crossed paths with.”

//August, 2011//

“Where is the envelope mumma,” Jaggu asked peevishly from her mother. Reverting irritably, her mom refused to have any. The girl had scribbled something on a paper and folded it in three pleats. After her frantic search, she found an envelope buried under the spiral pads in the almirah. She secured the letter with a stapler pin and slid the wrapping under the stacks of books while her eyes were moist.

//October, 2011//

Finding solace in books became her need. She unconsciously searched him in the characters of the author’s imagination. The moment she left the book, his picture flashed through her head, replaying everything like a recorded film. Jaggu dreaded her tears while sitting alone as her mind had become ‘his’ favourite haunt. She was often doubtful if he really understood her compulsion and why she did what she did.

//Year 2015//

Everyone wants to love and be loved. “Love is the best feeling on Earth,” they say. It’s a more of a spell to me. It gives you joys of the world. You don’t just the feel the butterflies but the whole bird sanctuary in your stomach. It also gives you sorrows and hurts like nothing…forming lumps in your throat and pit in your stomach. It comes with a baggage overloaded with emotions and sentiments. Your feelings remain on a roller coaster ride.

But once the spell breaks (trust me, it does!), it dawns upon you that what you had been doing all this while was utterly nonsensical! Love is like any other phase of life – which comes and goes…

Dear me

BEWARE

This world is vulnerable…full of hopeless romantics.

P.S.: I am an emotional fool!

*****

Jaggu stumbled upon this letter when she was organizing the mess in her book shelf.

She had written it four years ago. She laughed at it, finally confirming to her own words… utter nonsense!

...

It was the month of July when the sun becomes unsparing. The heat reaches its peak, sapping energy of the innocuous creatures. Myra had come early from college that day and was expecting to be asked what she was expected to do!

“Myra, don’t welcome a beating for yourself and look sharp to get the reports.”  Myra’s mom was in no mood to accept any excuses. But, for the girl, getting up from the couch came with reluctance, given she was enjoying the TV remote in her hands in her brother’s absence.

Muttering under her breath, the 18-year old, hurried from the house and reached the lab to collect the reports. She galloped out of the not so handsome building with the envelope tucked under her arm. As she crossed  two blocks, all of a sudden, a street light pole fell down beside her and she was saved by the skin of her teeth. Amid the panic-stricken birds and perplexed bystanders, there she was, white as ghost. Irrespective of the loo, her nerves got cold and her heart was thumping at the speed of a bullet train. Myra's eyes were opened wide, jaw half sunk, fists clenched tightly, and goosebumps exploded over her skin. She hallucinated as if someone had shackled her legs. The girl could hear the hubbub of people who had swarmed around her. The excruciating shock had robbed her of her senses for a few minutes. Someone from the crowd quaked her and said, “You are saved dear. By the Supreme’s grace you are safe. How lucky! You had a hairline escape.” A gust of wind helped her retrieve her lost senses. she was about to shed tears but sniffed them back.

Feeling wobbly on her knees, she got back home. The TV remote laid on the couch waiting for her to grab it and start pressing the buttons like crazy. But it laid there and there only…

When you sacrifice your kulcha in the face of adversity!

Haggling with the rickshaw wallah for a few seconds, we paved the way to the Delhi ridge. But before we could march ahead the aroma of the kulchas tingled our nostrils and the very next moment, we had them packed for the ‘picnic’. But we hadn’t walked even three steps when we realized that the monkeys have an eye on us and our hotly packed bread. Seeking refuge in my satchel, the food was safe. We ascended the steep track. All we could see were trees, monkeys, more trees, squirrels, even more trees and birds…love birds, perched here and there, everywhere!

When we found a vacant bench after an innocuous search of five minutes, I promised to treat myself with the three oranges I had in my bag, then and there. The moment we rested on the bench, a squirrel began frolicking around us. I thought that the pickle in the chholey will satisfy her but she mistook us to be too generous that she called her friends too for the lunch. And lo and behold! The squirrel hopped on the bench when we had had not many morsels of the bread. We got up hurriedly, clutching all our paraphernalia and whisked from the place only to encounter a monkey gawking at us. My first instinct was offering him my food, which I did. So, did my friend. But two kulcha rolls (which we had managed to make in the meantime) didn’t seem to appease him. At the back, we could hear guys making sundry remarks. Fully equipped with his sharp canines and harmful intent, he was in an attacking stance. God bless those boys who scared the animal away with their loud cacophony otherwise I wouldn’t have been writing this so amusingly.

The intuition was deep-rooted that the monkey was still eyeing us and can attack us anytime with his entourage. So, while retreating, we made sure to be tails of a random couple!

P.S.: The ridge in DU’s North Campus is

Green

Beautiful

Lovers’ friendly

BUT

In the face of ADVERSITY,

you might have to sacrifice your kulcha!

Amira

The dusk had descended and the chill blast of winter was not so welcoming. Almost everyone in Amira’s vicinity had withdrawn to their burrows. Lying on her stomach and murmuring her favourite song, the six-year-old was doodling something on a scrap of paper which she found near her tent the other day. Her one-year-old brother, Moosa, slept in tranquility making Amira envious of his garden of dreams, full of serenity. After a short while, she was carried away by sleep.

The rays of the morning sun came slicing down her face. It was not long ago when the girl dreamt of going to school and making more friends.  But it took just one harrowing day to transform her world into a nightmare. The bomb blasts took away her father, her house, her country and her hopes. Amira’s only experience of madarsa was what she fantasised of in her head. Her happy future came crumpling down like that building in her neighbourhood two years ago, and lost somewhere in the rubble.

“I am quite brave, but I feel scared now,” Amira exclaimed while climbing the boat to the Lesbos islands. Yes, she was scared of the huge waves and of course, her life. Nonetheless, she was just a six-year-old caught between the conflict and a futile war, struggling for survival. Amira recalled, “The sea was enormous, windy and scary at the same time.” She vividly remembered that she couldn’t move her hands and feet for five hours at a stretch, for the boat was overloaded. Allah-u-Akbar echoed in the air because everyone feared that the boat might capsize and the hungry waves might devour them all.   

The little girl travelled with her mother and younger brother. Fear of insecurity, uncertainty and death was written in large letters on every single person’s face. Amidst the hullaballoo of cries and discontent, there was a sort of quandary shrouded on the boat. The trauma people went through, including the end of livelihoods in their own homeland where they sadly became refugees, shifting from one place to another and finally to Lesbos, in search of hope. Also, the flux about the future and the hardships reflected in their eyes and flowed down in form of tiny droplets. Amid all this, Amira thought of her new toys and dresses which she had not used even once and to her amazement, the baggage was flung in the sea. Moreover, water splashed all over the boat and this further aggravated her distress as her only frock too was damp by now.

It grew pitch dark and the island could be seen. Fortunately, the boat reached the shore safely and people hurled their life saving jackets out of sheer joy. Some were happy and some were horrified at having taken such a risk. The fear had shackled their very souls and had left them in an eerie numbness. But the shivering Amira was gay, ironically, for the future prospects in the island!

Like yesterday and a day before, Amira was again lying on her stomach when the world went in slumber. Up with her pencil and another shred of paper, she landed in her world and scribbled. A gust of wind twitched the paper from her hand. On the paper, the little creature had sketched what she experienced at such tender age. A building being bombed, a boy bleeding from the head, a mother wailing with her dead child on her lap… in nutshell, the cruel and pathetic condition that had become the reality of Syria. Maybe in the stillness and solitariness of night, the girl tried to manifest her plight in those sketches and experience a cathartic release.

Amira sneaked through the camp and took hold of the paper and resumed her drawing, silently humming her regular song:

“We've come to wish you happy holidays,

Why is that we do not have any holidays/decorations,

World.... my land is burned down,

My land's freedom is stolen.”