"Paimona"

He placed his massive hands on the table and bent down...and the first thing he laid his eyes on was her. She sat there fairly composed, with the perpetual smile playing on her lips. Something told him it was for him alone. And in that flickering moment, all other faces took on a haze...all in a mesmerizing veil of shadow...stranded in some other world. White, grey, red, green, all smudged...like on a rain washed street...

His eyes exuded warmth...burning flames...he wanted to take her and burn away...into purgation. He smiled. And she blushed. There was intoxication. The traditional Pathani suit spoke of his tribal values...zar, zan and zameen...and the idea tingled her somewhere. Rubab...someone was playing it. Her soul was whirling to it...whirling in a white wave of passion and love. The dance of the wounded. Shukriya, he said. She was still looking into him. Hmm? she wondered...Shukriya he said, his deep set eyes penetrating her. A smile...almost mocking her innocence...

She could smell him now...he wreaked of the mountains, of horses, of honour and of swords...she could see their ruggedness in the firm setting of his jaw...His eyes twinkled with affection...like stars on a clear sky blanketing desert sands on a never traversed landscape. Raisins, soft cooked mutton, pomegranates, the warmth of the tandoor...yes that is what it was...the perfect concoction of strength and warmth...

She was lost...lost in the intoxication of that perfect blend...

Paimona bedah key khumar astam
Bring me the glass so I may lose my self

Paimona bedah key khumar astam
Bring me the glass so I may lose my self

Man ashiq e chasm e mast e yaar astam
I am in love with my beloved’s intoxicating eyes

Man ashiq e chasm e mast e yaar astam
I am in love with my beloved’s intoxicating eyes

Bedeh bedeh kay khumar astam
Bring bring so I may lose myself

The world revolved oblivious around them...but the secret had been shared between...

Acknowledgement of a bond between two souls...

A flickering moment....And his eyes...

The Brother that wasn't...

She hid her face in the pillow...and left patches of moist. Such occasions were often, almost symbolic her age. Perpetually misunderstood by parents, joker of the class at school, non existent love life. Nothing ever seemed right. Then of course, there was the change in ideology or rather the development of one, general rebellion against convention and the struggle of an individual to stand out. All in all life was miserable. If only, she thought, if only she had an elder brother whom she could hug and cry...who would know what she was going through...in whose strong arms she would become stronger...feel protected, loved...if only...

He would have to be strong, yes, that was necessary. And he would be heavily into music. He would play a guitar for sure and he would have wonderful, warm arms. He would have to be sensitive and charming. He would crack jokes at her cost and yet be very protective about her. He would have to stand by her side and hold her hand. He would have to be the coolest brother on the planet. But in spite of all this, the fact remained that her very birth proved that she would never have the elder brother she craved for...not ever. She knew this. And yet in every relationship she had she searched for the brother of her dreams...the man who was going to stand by her and tell her it was alright even if she failed...and be proud of her.

Subtlety was not his last name. He was outspoken and straight forward. He told people exactly what he thought of them. Sensitive, well, you wouldn't want to rub him wrong. His colleagues shivered when he faced them and bitched behind...not that he cared. He reminded her of a Chieftain on horseback...a black horse for sure wielding his sword and at whoever's neck the sword rested died of sheer panic, even before the sword could perform the needful. She exuded independence. Having gotten over adolescence had also made her get over that craving for a male figure. And yet something quivered inside her everytime he smiled or cracked a joke at her expense. It was almost as if the Chieftain let his sword do the speaking and had marked his territory. He loved fighter planes and ships. She loved them too. He loved camping. And so did she. He hated egg plant. She was allergic to them. They wanted to see the same places. They enjoyed the sweetness of doing nothing. They enjoyed reading in windy balconies. No, it was not love. It was plain identification. People bitched. Playing favourites he was. He did not care. Neither did she. When things were made difficult for her, he stood by her, rock solid like the Chieftain guarding his territory and no one wanted to be at the receiving end of the sword. She often looked at his arms and wondered how it would be to snuggle into them. He could not help but touch her gently on the cheek. He was a hardened general but to her he was a teddy bear. If he did not look at her one day, she could have torn the world apart. He would scold her for not doing what she was meant to do. She would do anything to make him proud. And when she would, he would declare it to the world like a King declaring the birth of his heir. And no, they were not in love. He was a brother and he meant it. And she was his little sister.

(dedicated to Bhai Huzoor...)

The Return

"Something is dying...little by little...I feel it every time I return...dying..."

I want it to be new every time I return. I want it to be fresh, blossoming...I want to breathe in the air I was born in and say I have returned...to MY city. When I left, I left with childish dreams of pastures that looked greener...almost like a nomad, only to realise that I was childish and I was dreaming. This time when I was returning, I had dreams again, or rather hopes that I would be appreciating chaos and madness...only to realise that I no longer existed in that chaos...only a faint shadow did...growing fainter by the day...

My purpose of return is almost hazy now...its usually because I have vacations and everyone returns during vacation and yes my parents...I must see them. I miss my mother sometimes, more than I would have myself believe or admit. No one else matters much. I had a long list of friends I would always want to meet up initially...but now I seem to figure less and less in their lives. They have their families, their jobs, their boy friends...and I have lost all patience for them. I cannot even identify myself with people I have spent years of my life with. I don't blame them. No one is indispensible. Neither am I. My list has boiled down to just two.

I returned for one of the biggest festivals in my city...I wanted to smell it like I always did...I wanted to be a part of it...taste it...bathe in it. I failed. I simply failed and I have no clue why. No sooner had I set foot on my soil that I wanted to turn away and leave. Run. I wanted to come back in spite of the home cooked food, the luxury of having to do nothing and the comfort. Come back. My 'Return' has become just a 'Visit' now. Because I always want to come back...I want to come back to my books...to my people...to the place where I am not just a redundant shadow but a functional member of a group, where I am bombarded with assignments and work, where people are expecting me...expecting me to come back...expecting me to Return...

I have been shuffling through all the stuff that I have written through the years to find something appropriate for a publication in my school's magazine and funnily there is nothing that I have ever written about school or anything that remotely mentions it. But I could not live with the idea of not having written anything for my school's Diamond Jubilee publication...the school where I have spent 15 years of my life. Anything that I write will not be enough to actually paint all those wonderful years but here is an attempt to at least try and narrate what school life has meant to me.

Although the memory is all blurry now and only in pieces, but I remember first walking in through those green gates in a red-checked apron...the year would be 1991. I was only 5 and I never cried like other kids did...possibly because somewhere I already knew that this was a home outside home. I remember making green flowers on a pink page of my scrapbook and the teacher telling me that flowers are never green. She didn't realise that I had made green flowers because a red, pink or an orange flower would not look as nice on a pink page! Those were the days when we were making butterflies with toffee wrappers. I remember going up to my classmate, Anuradha during lunch time and asking for one french fry from her lunch box and she gave me just one. Little did either of us know that we were to become best friends for life. We still laugh about our little 'introductory incident'. L.K.G had colourful wooden desks and chairs in those days and U.K.G had plastic ones. We would sit 6 to each large square desk. I can still name all the people who sat on mine...some I am still in touch with and some I have no clue about. I remember never managing to take down everything the teacher wrote on the board in class 1 because I was always so busy talking. I never quite shut up after that.

There was so much excitement when we got to wear skirts in class 2. It felt like we had really grown up and there were certain things that I didn't like about growing up. Like when my best friend became best friends with someone else or when the class formed little groups based on what language they studied as their vernacular. But I remained quite a joker of the class through out.

School made me realise a lot of my potentials. By the time I was in the 5th standard I just knew that I wanted to study English Literature which I actually did and loved. I did music. I painted. I did plays, although no one has ever been able to make me dance. While I was experimenting with the all new things, I realised that I couldn't sing all that well but I kept singing throughout my school life. I was in the choir and played the key board on the school band. We went for competitions to other schools. Some we won. Some we didn't. But it was always great fun, working together as a team. I loved all the celebrations that we had in school...be it Independence day or Saraswati Puja or the Annual Function. There was always so much to do. And I was always a part of whatever my school did. I couldn't help but. It was my school and I was so proud of belonging there. I still am. I still remember all the songs that we sang on these occasions. I remember how I would run away from make up before a play or a performance and Mrs.Ghosh would chase me all over with a lipstick in hand. I loved Sports Day too...not that I was good at any but I loved being a part of the Florence Nightingale House and hoping and praying that we would win. I loved the excitement and the tension.

School changed a lot while I was there and I saw myself as a part of the progress. We got new uniforms. The green walls became blue, which I hated. The school started a band and a magazine. We also started having compulsory extra curricular activities and computer education. The auditorium got air conditioned. And nowadays when I go back to school, I can hardly believe that this is the same place I entered back in 1991.

School, I think ended too fast. There should have been more years of celebrations and activities, of art exhibitions and excursions. School left its indelible marks on me though. I still cannot make myself see someone use a mobile phone in class without wanting to confiscate it and I still cannot bring myself to bunk university. And I guess it was the habit of being a part of everything that I developed in school, that I am still very actively involved anything that doesn't involve studies.

I did not cry while leaving school either because I felt that I needed to leave home with a smile and I knew I would keep coming back to it...And while writing about school today, I realise why I never wrote about such an important part of my life before...it is because I never wanted to spoil or adulterate the emotion that surrounds it by trying to put it into words...I hope to have failed.