YOUR RECIPE OF EMOTIONS

Her first wedding night.

Passed.

Second night.

Passed too.

Then third.

Fourth.

And now, a week.

Somehow!

Anyhow, she skulked in the shadows into the kitchen, her mind lingering in the nights to come. A sudden chill would run down her spine. The burden on her breasts, every night, only accentuated the wound that etched her dreams. The intrusion. Or humiliation? Perhaps, both. Her mind often wandered to the sweet nothings before this bondage and now, fate grimaces at her face. Tying the helm of the sari to her waist, she poured rice in a bowl kept in the wall cabinet. "What good are daughter-in-laws for if not cooking?!" Sabirah heard this from her mother-in-law on her first day and was, therefore, familiarised with her 'abode' like the palm of her hands. From the spices to the ladle, the locations fixed in her head as nicely as a glove in hand. She handled the kitchen as if she belonged to it since ages.

On the chopping board, she slayed few tomatoes - ripe, unlike her marital relationship and squashed, like her body. She moved to the basin, held the china bowl of rice. 

Her core quivered.

He was coming.

Disquiet rang through the bowl.

Her intuition was never wrong.  Her palm froze on the bowl, as if giving it some protection.

It was nauseous. His hand coiled on her naked waist. Squeezing, rubbing and moving. She twitched  his grip and mutely, began chopping garlic and onion and carrots and potatoes and, she could chop all veggies in the kitchen if that could drive him away. But for her, gone were the days when wishes were low hanging fruits. He digged his rough chin in her shoulder, tightening the hold, while cold shiver bolted her body. "It's not fair," she thought angrily. It's indecent.

"Feels good, no?" He smirked her unease away. She stood silent. Crestfallen. Her hands trying to betray her passive mind. The hot oil was bubbling. As she poured the ingredients in the pan, he bit her neck. Her scream escaped through the spattering, sputtering noise. Precisely, her life in capsule when her voice buried in the cacophony of discomfiture. She jerked herself away from his repulsive grip with a huff. Turning her face away, Sabirah tried to escape. The veggies had caramelised by then.

Her thoughts leapt to the day when Sabirah was trying a family recipe in her flat.  Waves of pleasure had run through  her body when those succulent lips licked off the sauce off her lips. The charred smell halted her stream of thoughts. He had gone. Perhaps in rage. Only the coming night could  tell. The recipe was ruined. Her recipe. A nasty odor thickened the air.

How brisk and spicy that day was! The steam of the food blended with that of their bodies. Sabirah had looked in  her eyes with a heavy breath.

She smiled.

TAMASHA - Movie Review

"Kabhi kabhi mere dil mein khayal aata hai ki mai kaun hoon?"  The movie begins with the Robot fixing the trope of the movie i.e. the question of identity. The director creates a dichotomy between the heart and the world, and from there on begins the Tamasha of angst and passion, wonderfully sketched out by Ranbir Kapoor, Deepika Padukone and of course, the director, Imtiaz Ali. The joker on the stage replicates the true self of the Robot which buries in the rubble of the mechanised system where conventions dictate our behaviour through normalisation and discipline. On metaphorical level, the 'janam janam ka taka' between the Joker and Robot is jinxed and later manifests in form of bipolar personality of Ved (Kapoor). In the movie, to applaud the sheer intelligence behind the dialogues , adjectives will fall short!

VED

Ved loves to parachute in the world of fantasy but his transitions in the movie is what Tamasha captures on celluloid. From an extremely inquisitive child who feeds on stories to an adult caught in a ho-hum existence, Tamasha is an intelligently portrayed story with a timely placement of songs and lyrics. The presentation of the story in the form of musical narrative and non linear screenplay surely betray the grapevine influence of the crap feeding Indian audiences which fail to digest quality cinema. The music carries the story forward and intensifies its rich tapestry. Starting from the actual tamasha on stage to the figurative tamasha of life and emotions, the metaphor of Robot stands high for the mechanical existence of conformist people which prey on the dreams and inner self of individuals. Imtiaz Ali, once again, weaves a character with potential rebellion, and from  Jordan to Veera to Ved, his journey hasn't ended yet!

Ved's character is a round one in the movie. The movie begins with his childhood when his heart leapt to behold the rainbow which never let reality get in way of captivating yarns spun in equally mesmerising way by Piyush mishra. "Mai toh chala hiran ke shikar pe" - these lines and the "Chali kahani" song, thereafter, sum up the first part of the movie establishing the incredible network of stories which keeps us compact and interconnected. For instance, the story of Soni-Mahiwal echoes with that of Ved and Tara in the second part of the movie, hence the director rightly throws his dilemma that no one knows where a kahani begins and ends. It just travels!

In the second part of the movie, the beauty and warmth of Corsico lie parallel to the mood of the characters. Happy Ved, happy Corsico and happy music- Imtiaz's use of pathetic fallacy is as fitting as a shoe. The role play again reinforces the dominant trope of identity and can be seen as a way of escape from a socially conditioned self of Ved which stifles him like his tie in the later part of the movie. This is also his unconscious attempt to leap up to that same rainbow of childhood. "Dil ka bhanwar kahe sun sathiya, chup na duppatte mein tu o chhliya" - this precisely capsules what Imtiaz ali wants to portray through his film. This "Matargashti" song and then "Heer toh badi sad hai" songs carry the story forward and set the ambience of the story.

The dexterous use of shadows on stage, mirrors, and other important symbols like clock, his cubicle in office...display inner conflicts and also the gloominess of monotony of a low spirited survival. In part three, even on his date with Tara, Ved's keeps a check of time which shows his complete thrust into the hole of the robotic existence. Moreover, this part also sees his consequent rebound and redemption.  The interval at the break up scene pins its importance as it is a turning point when Ved's life will take a new route. The rickshaw wala of the "Wat Wat" song, emerges as the double of Ved who is "andar se kuchh aur (hi hai hum) aur bahar se majboor" which further trigger's his memory of his engineering days. His final redemption comes from the kahaniwala who, enraged, says-  "dil mein heer liye aur heer khojey viraane mein. farebi, dhokebaaz'' and  indirectly urges him -  Bol De Tu Koi Aur Hai, Chehre Jo Odhe Tune Woh, Tere Kahaan Hain.

TARA
The idea of 'waiting' seems peripheral in the movie, but it actually binds the whole narrative in a nuanced way. Amongst all the 'wait', Tara's is most obvious and also underrated in terms of due acknowledgement.

Laila-Majnu, Heer-Ranjha, Romeo-Juliet, Soni-Mahival, Ram-Sita, and even Helen of Troy who wished to be reunited with Menelaus...all these legends end with the characters waiting, for their lovers, to meet, no matter in death! Ved apparently waits to be Don again and Tara, for her Don...and regardless, she is twice removed from Ved's actual, real self. Tara's period of waiting becomes lesser important , perhaps because of the pact before the 'pack of lies' life in Corsico. However, she is Ved's heroine, his soul's voice which literally and metaphorically gets established in the very beginning of the movie- the joker who juxtapose the robot and is actually the rainbow the latter buried for him. In true sense, Tara is the actual hero who becomes instrumental in varied ways. Moreover, Tara's wait is more corporeal whereas,Ved's wait for the rebound is more psychological. the both stay, because of faith that they will be together. and here, Ved's wait becomes important because he is on verge of mental illness whereas Tara is psychologically healthy and she only is emotionally distraught and nonetheless, both are all by themselves to tackle their own selves. This makes Tamasha much more than just a love story as human emotions have a much larger canvas which can't be exhausted in popcorn worth storylines.

Tara is a very strong character and it becomes important when we view it in context of modern relationships and hook-up culture where physical proximity brushes faith and emotional intimacy aside.


TAMASHA IS A MOVIE WHICH LEAVES A FANTASTIC AFTER TASTE; IN A KIND OF ZONE YOU WANT TO BE IN SOMETIME, ALONE BY YOURSELF!!

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.”

Musafir

Few days back, with all my paraphernalia, I went for a walk to the Qutb Complex. I grew up hearing a lot about the Qutb Minar. Doesn't it look like a crafty pencil from the metro station? 

 An aunty living next door recalls her experience of Qutb Complex-

“Ah! Nice place for recreation.

I liked the construction but it also seemed plundered.

 The designs were artistic, though quite ambiguous.

 I don’t remember much but yes…we clicked a lot of selfies!!”

It feels good that we live in a country with rich cultural heritage. But as a matter of fact, these cultural sites (for most of us) are sheer touristy structures.

For me as well, these were pride taking edifices but these are much more than this. Ahead of the red sandstone structures are times gone by. From the Alai Darwaza to the Iltutmish tomb to the Khilji madarsa, the expertise of the then architects can be seen. It is true that visiting this place has truly inspired me as it has elevated my understanding of the cultural aspects of that period and why they are what they are.

Stepping inside the complex, I learnt about the true and the false/ corbel arch. Initially, to me, the curve meant to be just like another doorway. Alai Darwaza has the only true arch in the whole complex.

Moving further, the beautiful designs on the stone pillars in the Quwwat-ul -Islam complex interested me. Actually, the mosque was built, rather restructured, on the ruins of Hindu-Jain temples. Since Islam doesn’t allow Hindu symbols, many human figures were disfigured, especially the faces. The pillars outside the mosque are plain and the ones inside are ornate. The bell and ‘kalash’ motifs are prominent. The Alai Darwaza too is richly carved with geometrical inscriptions and the horse shoe arches are decorated with lotus bud motifs.

I remember, what had happened inside the Iltutmish tomb. I sat on the grave oblivion of the fact that it was the cenotaph which is to be revered. Ignorance rules the world. Isn’t it? For a layman, it is just a marble structure. Just in front of the cenotaph is a mihrab which is the doorway to ‘Jannat’. That’s why we say, “Life is lived forwards, but understood backwards.”

Terms like squinch and arabesque seemed alien to us before, but now we use them flamboyantly in our vocabulary. Efforts were made to amalgamate Hindu and Islamic architecture and the instances can be seen in the entire complex.

The heavily decorated interior of the Iltutmish tomb lies in sharp contrast to the Khilji tomb which appears to be in ruins. The presence of the grave and a symbolic mihrab shows that Aluddin khilji had detached him from the material culture.

Qutb Minar is a kind of face of Delhi. The very sight of Qutb Minar was amazing. The cylindrical shafts separated by balconies, honey comb designs, floral motifs, arabesque and other inscriptions make it no less beautiful. Even the “Lohe ki Laath” (the Iron Pillar) is incredible. The hallmark of Indian scientific technology, this magical rust free pillar goes back to 400 CE.

After visiting the monuments, I have developed a certain sense of understanding of our own identity and of course, the culture. In the metro my time passed reminiscing the walk. Now, next time if I go to Gurugram, the very spectacle of Qutb Minar is going to freshen up the history behind it!

“GENTLY FALLS THE BAKULA”

Well! Most probably in class 3, we had read a story of a boy whose parents gifted him a canary on his birthday. Initially, he nurtured the bird with utmost care but after a few days, his caring attitude shrunk to zero.  Alas! The poor animal died one day following the lad’s slackness.

Relationships are ditto. A “relationship” perishes when it is not cultivated well. Perseverance, patience, love, time and care are the ingredients required for a healthy relationship …“Gently Falls The Bakula” hinges on the same theme.  It’s a story of a marriage turned sour.

The prolific writer, Sudha Murthy, has precisely captured the reality of the society, in fact of the corporate world, in a book. The simple language laden with an intense theme adds additional stars to the beauty of the novel.

The novel lingers around Shrikant and Shrimati , who are neighbours . Also they are classmates and more than that, tough competitors. Bakula holds great significance in the novel as it is the bakula flower only which first attracts shrikant towards shrimati. Love blooms between   them during their higher studies. Shrikant pursues engineering from IIT, Bombay. But distance doesn’t diminish the love between ‘Shri’ and Shrimati. To put it better, the relationship stands the test of time and distance. Every time Shrimati writes to Shri, she attaches a bakula flower to the letter and these attachments are symbolic of the fact that the fragrance of their love would never go away. Though, the families of the two are engaged in a feud but still the love birds tie a knot.

But fate has something else in store for the couple. “Behind every man’s success, there is a woman.” This statement is true as far as the story is concerned.  Shrikant climbs the corporate ladder steadily whereas Shrimati acts like air under his wings. The horse vision of Shri makes him overlook Shrimati’s aspirations. Be it doing a job for the sake of her in-laws or putting on hold her studies; be it suppressing her motherly instinct or craving for Shri’s love and time…Shrimati bears it all. She curbs her own dreams; her love for History. But Shri just doesn’t acknowledge Shrimati’s silent support. Rather he uses her as a tool; a tool that is intelligent and who, he knows would never voice anything. True! “When favours are expected, then they are not appreciated” and henceforth, things are bound to go downhill.

Shrimati’s life takes a somersault when she gains deeper insight into the fact as how she makes her husband’s dream hers and in the process digresses from her own path and loses not only her identity but her self-esteem as well!!

So, what do you think she does next?

Does she carry on with her deplorable life or does she break free?

Does she chase her passion for History?

What becomes of her relationship with Shrikant whom she had loved so much?

Whatsoever happens in end, one thing that is obvious is that Sudha Murthy etches her characters wonderfully and the message in her books leaves you introspecting and brooding. The bakula tree whose flowers once stood for the love between Shrikant and Shrimati collapses sadly. The fragrance of their love disappears. And hence, the bakula gently falls!!

Harshita Kaushik

“ Vision without action is merely a Dream;

Action without vision is merely passing Time;

But Vision and Action together can bring about a Revolution.”

Once upon a time there was a poor man, Manjhi,who carved out a road from the mountain single-handedly with a hammer and a chisel. He took 22 years to do this incredible feat. He was bitten by snake; he victimized femine ; survived on grass and weeds....Doesn’t it sound like a grandmother tale? But it is not! A true saga of a pitiable man who lost his wife, which remarked the beginning of his venture.

 If you are fired from within and vehement to achieve something, then the whole universe conspires in helping you achieve that. Dashrath Manjhi has become an epitome of single-minded focus and sturdy will power. One comes away gob spanked at the sheer grit, undeterred determination and faith of the Mountain Man who simply refused to give up. It is unfallaciously true that one just cannot beat the person who never gives up! A mammoth inspiration for the populace, Manjhi’s story is also one of conviction and valour. Doggedly chiseling away the formidable rock is not having a piece of cake.

Next time if you find any task challenging or a hard nut, just conjure Manjhi’s image and recall his words, “ …pahaad todne se bhi mushkil hai kya?”

Saandaar Jabarjast Jindabad !!

 “If you want to shine like a sun, then burn like sun” – the exemplar, Mr. APJ Abdul Kalam truly lived his own words. The former President was not born with a ‘silver spoon’ in his mouth; yet he was born with a great ‘incentive spoon’ which drove him to the crest of the wave.

A lad eked out a living by selling newspapers and today news and obituaries of the same fellow have occupied the newspapers! Ironical. Isn’t it? The hapless newspaper vendor rose like the Phoenix from the abyss of poverty to the pinnacle of success and demonstrated the world that if you have strong determination, colossal dreams and the strength and will to achieve them, then no soul can clip your wings. The dreamer and the visionary carved his own destiny from very humble origins to the summit which was not a low hanging fruit.

In the fictitious world of the novel “A Woman of Substance”, a bildungsroman by Barbara Taylor Bradford, Emma Harte was born to an impoverished Yorkshire family who rose from rags to riches; from servant girl to become one of the richest women in the world. It was only her unshakable faith and implacable will power to achieve something that made her unbolt the portals of success. The phrase - nothing succeeds like success –seems apt for the protagonist.

Anyway, before I digress all the way off the cliff, let me get to the point. I recall Einstein’s words about Gandhi ji and further dedicate them to Kamaal Kalam ji, “Generations to come will scarce believe that such man ever walked upon this Earth.” The news of the demise of the Missile Man was bolt from the blue to millions. A pall of gloom enshrouded the territory. Bharat has lost a ‘Ratna’ ; the Ratna who radiated light throughout his life and would continue to do so, enabling the posterity to bask in his goodness!

People remember Mr. Kalam as their former President, scientist, writer etc., but for me he was a complete teacher. The sweetheart of students , he was rightly hailed the People’s President. In fact, the great man once said, “If people remember me as a good teacher that will be the biggest honour for me.” Perhaps, his one of the last wishes would have been to breathe his last while teaching and it did fulfill. Dr. Kalam never compromised on his penchant for teaching. He repeatedly urged the kids to never hesitate asking questions. In fact, while running short of time, he could not take doubts from all students on his visits to various educational institutions. But he made sure to give his e-mail id to them and responding to their e-mails in a couple of days. He had amalgamated the honesty of a child with the energy of a teenager and the maturity of an adult. A mourner said , “He had a childlike curiosity and wisdom of a sage.”   In truth, Kalam ji was neither a Muslim nor Hindu; he was a learner with a down-to-earth approach.

Few lines directly from the heart for the nation’s great son:

“Chamka jahan mein tu bankar atal sitara,

Ae Kalam tujhsa hoga nahi dobara…”

KALAM KO SALAAM !

JAI HIND…

‘I am a peaceful soul’

A few moons ago, leafing through a book, I came across an effectual poem whose lines detained my pupils:

“…We move faster than the lions,

Cut through the skies above,

Dive so deeply in the ocean…

…Something is missing

…We created all the boundaries,

Yet we wonder where the peace has gone.”

At times, my heart sinks in gloom on beholding the rupture of human values, mad rush in life, people treading lives in jet speed, unscrupulously. The world is plunging deeper and deeper in mire of crisis. Like the spider caught in its own web, the individual becomes intertwined in the nets which are consequences of the hassle’ful’ life. But ‘yoga’  is like the light in the tunnel that rekindles the soul and opens the eyes of wisdom one can see the peaceful future rising like a Phoenix from the ashes of perplexities.

Yoga is similar to the sorcerer’s stone which leads to the transformation of the self. Nowadays even schools are laying emphasis on yoga. Ramdev baba, the yoga guru, is a mammoth inspiration for millions of people, lending them an invisible helping hand to live in peace by crossing the serpentine life effectively.

The other day, I happened to watch the ‘Art of living’ programmed on TV while flipping through the various anxiety laden channels. The two golden words, Om Shanti, seemed to give an inner satisfaction and pacification. The soft voice of Brahamkumari Shivani is still lingering in my ear drums. One thing I understood is that yoga s not self-improvement, it is about self-acceptance. Accepting that, I, the soul, exist in peace is much like bolting doors for unnecessary sufferings. To steer better I life and build ourselves physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually, yoga is an elixir. Robert Frost’s poetry, The Road Not Taken, helicopters around the dilemma a person confronts in the process of decision making. Our mind is like sand dunes shaped by the wind of choices and wise decisions which can be made through yoga.

So allow yourself to see deeper into your inner self. Let the outer world continue in its own way. Untether the rope of thoughts for a few moments and feel the feather weight of your soul…......OM SHANTI

A child is a lamp to be lighted not a vessel to be filled…

“A child is a father of man.’’ This famous line is from William Wordsworth poem, The Rainbow, which refers to the importance of a child for the development of the human race. Childhood is the time to garner the best physical, intellectual and emotional capacity to fulfill the duty towards the nation and to one’s own self. However this simple rule of nature has been crippled by the ever growing menace of child labour.

“Fight for the future of young lives. Who knows we may find the next President working in a hotel…”

Child abuse is one of the most heinous and inhumane crimes done against humanity. It means to maltreat a child psychologically and emotionally. In the modern era of machine and technological advancement, children in every country are callously exploited. In our own country, for making crackers and ‘bidis’  , small kids are engaged because of their nimble fingers. In fact, India has a high threshold when it comes to child labour.

These children need to spend their days in the fantasy world of fairy lands and should weave the garden of dreams, but the irony of fate is that they are either working in the dingy cells of factories or working on roadside ‘dhabas’ just to scratch a few coins in their hands!

Can we weed-out this stigma of the society? Though it is a desirable goal but the eradication of child labour seems to be a herculean task in the current scenario. The Indian government is committed to the task of ensuring that no child remains illiterate, hungry and sans medical care. When this ideal will be achieved is a million dollar question!

Poverty is the root cause of all evils. Affording even one square meal a day is like climbing Everest for the poor and deprived families who then compel their children to work. In the process, the childhood of these children is stolen, who roll with the situation and chip off bits of them to prop up the family members economically. Households may have to suffer pangs of hunger if the children are withdrawn from work.

Let’s have an action replay. 1954 film, Boot Polish, had clear glimpses of child labour and also, how children lose out on their childhood. No doubt, India has so many children but very little childhood!  “…nanhe-munne bachche teri muththi me kya hai?....muththi me hai taqdeer hamari…”  is one of the songs in the movie which compel me to cook a question – is the destiny of the victims of this cruelty really in their own hands?  In the matter-of-fact, their ‘taqdeer’ is in the hands of the employers of child labour.

The movie ends on a happy note as the young protagonists (who acted as cobblers) are adopted by someone. From their clothes to education to the pettiest of things...everything is taken care of by their new parents.  But in real life, not in the reel one, things are not so welcoming and bright!

“Dollar Bahu”

“Experience has taught me that honesty is not the mark of any particular class nor is it related to education or wealth….It cannot be taught at any university. In most people, it springs naturally from the heart.” Sudha Murthy fits quite well in these lines written by none other than her only. Honest thoughts ooze out from her tales and this thing arrests readers’ interests in her books. She leaves no stone unturned in making her writings absorbing and also in adding fervour of authenticity and originality which steal the hearts of the people. This prolific writer is praiseworthy whose works are always laden with some or the other social message.
 If ever in life you feel drained of inspiration, pick up her books, read them as they are the slimmest and trimmest source of inspiration especially “Wise & Otherwise”. You will get so wrapped up in Murthy’s books that you would not realise that flies have started hunting your disheveled, tangled hair and hover  over your head. To tidy up yourself (which you didn’t because of the engrossing stuff), you will have to put down the book which would be no cake walk….The statement does not seem to be exaggerated! “Dollar Bahu” – one of Murthy’s attention-grabbing pieces, is a beautifully scripted story of how life gets higgledy-piggledy in the process of reaping money at the cost of relationships; how money (Dollar) rules somebody’s ideas, perspectives and demeanour and creates gaps; how gold is mistaken for copper and copper for gold!
 A good girl with a soft heart, Vinuta, ties knot with Girish, a bank clerk. She adapts herself to the air of the house and as a docile ‘bahu’ takes care of everyone with heart and soul. Gauramma, the typical Indian ‘saas’ reeks of hunger for money and consequently, gives more preference to her elder daughter-in-law, Jamuna, who lives in US with her hubby, Chandru. As a token of financial help, both send Dollars to India and that’s why Jamuna is an apple of Gauramma’s eye. The mother-in-law makes constant comparison between the two ‘bahus’ and this takes toll on Vinuta’s physical and mental health. But time is dear to none and is mightiest of all. The cruel realities of life flash before Girish’s mother one by one whose morale had quake in front of Dollar. It dawned upon her that everything that glitters is not gold.  The story, laid down in Karnataka, specifically doesn’t only paint the scenario in Karnataka, rather it can be implemented to all parts of India. It also eyes the NRIs who leave their homelands to scratch a few Dollars in their hands. They actually transform into “Never Returning Indians”. This is a big problem the country is facing as the brains get drained into some other nation. In fact, this thing often keeps, the children who live on foreign lands, in a fix as which culture to adopt. They oscillate between Indian and western culture.  The story is effective and proves that-“Man alone has a choice between good and evil, and he reaps his rewards according to what he chooses.”

“Girl”

Jamaica Kincaid was a very powerful writer whose writings compel the readers to ponder gravely on the subject matter. Her works are slammed for its simplicity and anger. Kincaid’s strong piece, “Girl”, hinges on femininity in which the mother tries to nail into her daughter the values of responsibility as the latter is ascending in the first flush of youth.

“Girl” is so capsule that it ends in a blink but the impression it leaves on the readers’ minds is profound. The honest thoughts run in a single string which keeps the readers engripped throughout causing them anguish, frustration and frown on the sheer lopsidedness of the society.

The story blooms with the caustic and razor sharp advice of the mother to her daughter, who according to the former is hard bent upon becoming a ‘slut’. The way the mother conditions her child about things to do or not to do, make the write-up no less impactful.

No matter, the story was penned-down almost four decades back, but the matter can be fitted in the present scenario as well. The readers can relate themselves to the characters. The language used is simple, nothing ornate, yet the sense of isolation and detachment from emotions is tangible. Also, the words are stinging which leave the readers stifled.

In various households, girls are often castigated as how to live. Their very way of living is defined by the parents, especially the mother. No doubt, the prejudices are hidden in the roots of the society. The anonymous mother in “Girl” too speaks in a similar tone, thus dictating so-called sense of decorum to her teenage girl.

“…you must not speak to wharf-rat boys…this is how to make a good medicine to throw away a child before it becomes a child…” These lines depict how insecure the mother is about her child. Through her long unending breath, she is trying hard to reinforce her past experiences on her daughter. She expects her to have the strength of her mother…ironically the strength that came from experiences, not instructions!

In W.B. Yeats poetry, “A Prayer for My Daughter,” the poet thinks her daughter to be a plain slate on which he can scribble anything he wishes irrespective of the girl’s choices and desires. Throughout the poem, any number of things has been rubbed against the ‘bud’ that has just entered the world. And this is why, the poem is deemed offensive. Hence, it may be chalked-out that ‘Girl’ and ‘A…Daughter’, both raise a question on gender equality. For one thing or the other, the catapults are aimed at the ‘fair-sex’ only. In both pieces, it is the ‘girl’ who is subjected to so many conditioning. Why could it not be a boy? Why is it always the girl who has to suffer? Why are the morals of a girl challenged most of the time?

Think.

Think wisely.

Think sincerely.

Think impartially…to change the picture!