Posted in journey, Uncategorized

The king’s strength. 

I lie beside him, as he falls asleep, trying not to think about his confusion. I sit by the entrance to our cave, licking my paws lazily as he paces, agitated.

He feels trapped, even though he’s the king of the jungle. Even though he has been accepted by me as my king. He doesn’t understand why he is scared. I know exactly why. 

He’s scared that he’ll be trapped in the same cave all his life. What he doesn’t understand is that I am a hunter too. But I can’t say that to him. This is something he has to figure out by himself.
He lets out a roar every once in a while, scaring all the lesser beings around us, who for the love of their lives, cannot recognize it as his anguish. He sees the chaos he has caused around the otherwise calm jungle and lets out another roar. This one is lower, deeper and full of sorrow.
I slowly get on my all fours and saunter over to where he stands, radiating anger and fear, all at once. I want to roar back at him, to try and make him see reason… But he’s not ready.

So, I nuzzle at the side of his mane and purr softly, appealing to his protective side. He turns around, his eyes darting around wildly, scanning for threats. He finds none, then looks down at me, licking my nose. It tickles and I jump playfully. We get into a play session and he forgets what had him on the edge since the morning. 

All because he cares too much about me. 

Never mind that I already dragged the carcasses of the two hyenas across the cliff, when they’d dared to venture out here while he was sleeping early in the morning.

I bow down, as a sign of giving up, and he lets out a true; magnificent roar, befitting a true king, reeking of male dominance. Then he bows down, recognizing where his true strength comes from, and licks me as its acceptance. 

He walks over regally and settles beside me by the entrance of our cave, nuzzling protectively, and all is well in our little cave again. 

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Posted in journey, Uncategorized

Take Me Down. 

Kill me while I give you the chance. Stab me in the back, when I pretend to not notice that knife in your waistband. Let me bleed while I look away to help you absolve off the guilt.
Take me down; while I let you.

Because if I decide not to let you win, there’s no way in the seven seas, or a conspirator in your heaven or hell, that can help you lay a finger on me.
So, crush me while I still care. When I still smile at you, or at least until I make a pretense of believing your words laced with lies and false comforts.

Annihilate me if you can- Before you break the promises interwoven with both of our tongues. Until your thread of promise gives away and mine comes unravelled with it. 
I would not harm you until that point, to honour the promise I made to myself, of keeping you safe, even from myself. But once the unraveling starts, honey, all bets are off and its hunting season. 

Its a fair warning then, don’t you think? 

Cremate me while you can still get away with it. I might just look the other way after giving you a smile and my own dagger to do it. 

Posted in journey, Uncategorized

Another day. 

I feel like I’m floating, watching the clouds above and imitating them. Then I stop making an effort… It’s tough, working to stay afloat and barely managing to keep the water away from my nose. So I give up and I start sinking, almost as if I am floating, just in the wrong direction… 

It doesn’t hurt, my pain becomes a dull throb, which eventually numbs down. 

And I almost drown. 

But then I am pulled back. Myriad of hands, various colors, shapes and sizes, with different amounts and different spheres of strength, reach out to me. They pull me up. Some of them grab my hands, supporting me through the armpits and some dive deeper than I am, just to push me to the surface. A few are ready at the surface, to give me oxygen or to pump out the water… 
 And just like that, I survive another day. 

Posted in journey, Uncategorized

My muse.

Your poems lay forgotten in colorful papers you gave me. They gather dust in a way that only abandoned souls do. Your words written on the cards that I once held close to my heart show a stark difference to the ones you speak now.

I don’t blame you… At least not entirely. I was your muse and maintaining your interest in me was my responsibility. I failed to notice when the poems became shorter, bland and forced.

I was so busy in reaping benefits of having you as my muse, that I failed at being yours. The artist in you died when mine started thriving and that’s the case of art and motivation. Especially the case when two artists date, but in our scenario, the exception was that you could only write happy words, while I angled to write the truth, however dark it be. We were bound to fail, as one had to let go if the other was to dream.

You found a new muse and I will find mine soon. Until then, I will write our truth, my muse. I will write stories about you, about us and about every other muse you have…

After all, someone has to write about the artist with an unrealistic approach towards life. Somebody has to paint the painter who brings alive his muse or write about the poet who breathes life into his muse between the lines…

I will write about my muse who lost his muse. I will be the realist to your idealist. And in return, you will have to be the art that artists can only find in their muses and not in the depth of imagination.

My muse will never be lost, it will forever be locked in my art.

Posted in journey, Uncategorized

Medical seniority

Going to a medical college is a fest in its own right. No, I do not by any means, hope to endorse the gruelling hours of lectures, postings and practicals. Nor do I enjoy the plethora of homework which is still piling on my desk.

No, I mean the best thing there is, the joy of attaining lifelong seniority over your lovely juniors.

I remember when I was a fresher. Scared out of my wits, hiding away from our seniors in corners, head down, walking at a brisk pace… Yet they used to come out of hidden places, naturally, since they knew the college better than we did. I can’t remember the number of times we gave our intro’s, wished them every time we saw each of them individually; it didn’t matter if it were only a few minutes before… And danced or sang, sometimes we even completed their files.

The result? We have lifelong relationships with them. They were our friends, caretakers, saviors, teachers and in some cases, the elders in our college family.

But it doesn’t stop there.

When I look at some of my juniors now, I feel proud to be acquainted with them. They’re brilliant, carefree and where with medical seniority you tend to lose the childish side of yourself, they bring it back allright.

The bond between seniors and juniors is as real as any other relationship out there. Even stronger, if I daresay. We learn together, enjoy together and basically have the best years together. We look out for each other and that, that is something really pure.

Every other college gets over the seniority issues real quick. But we people, the medicos, we stay as seniors for life. It is something really magical. And fulfilling.😉

Posted in Uncategorized

Explosion

This day became too special at early 6 in the morning. With the first ray of sun, came the explosion that shook my very core.

I had always loved this ideal man, the imperfect tall, dark and handsome specimen, we romanticize sometimes because they’re the opposite of us or the life we have. Or maybe women like us are just drawn to them like moths to a flame… But what I had failed to see was that I was as far from the ideal woman as I could be.

Today, I was again a moth attracted to a flame. To the flames of the explosion that was igniting a fire deep within me from inside. Nobody heard it, nobody saw me clawing at myself, but when I gave in, my exterior fell off, peeled layer by layer, leaving me raw and exposed. It hurt for a while, leaving me vulnerable but I knew no one had to know.

I was the one I had always romaticized and idealized and it became clear that all I needed was the short, fair and smart version of my regular self to keep me satisfied.

Dusting off the soot from my dreams and my own ashes of unrequired hassles, I was the explosion really to ignite a thousand hearts.

.

Posted in Humor, Uncategorized

Thadi issues.

So, a funny thing happened. I met a foreign national yesterday. God bless his poor soul, out of the all the normal English speaking Indians, he bumped into me. I had no clue that it was just his first day here, when he asked for a little guidance.
After I had informed him of the basics, he asked me a question so difficult that I was stumped.

“What is this?” He asked, after pointing at a thadi. “I’ve seen this everywhere!”

Empty and small inverted oil drums around a makeshift stove, with tea boiling over it, they even seemed to offer snacks with the tea.
I couldn’t help myself then.

“This? Hey, this is a national chain of roadside cafés, they’re meant to provide the visitors authentic rural experience even in an urban environment! They’re way cheaper and their food and drinks are super fresh. They even endorse the open kitchen philosophy, see, we can see their head chef as he cooks! They even take great care each morning, getting ready to look like that.”

You can say that he was giddy with excitement and we ended up sitting on the drums; sipping tea, eating toast and talking about Trump, though he wasn’t an American.

And sometime after, the good thadi chef even provided with a complimentary Samosa (Indian Patties).

Needless to say, the proud Indian chef didn’t accept money from us.

Posted in Uncategorized

The Messiah week.

So it’s the Valentine’s week again. Or as it is known in India as, the Social messiah reinstated week.

I’m reminiscing here a few instances where I have felt quite humiliated on being a twenty first century girl. Here it goes.

I was sitting in a car with my boyfriend, soon to be fiancé actually. We were having coffee after a long day at our individual work places and this was our catching-up time. And what could two individuals, who are desperately in love with not one’s body, but soul do? They talk.

That’s what we were doing. Holding hands, drinking coffee out of travel mugs and talking.

All of a sudden, two guys in their thirties, well clothed and well financed, judging from their bikes, came and stopped right in front of our car. We were confused as to why weren’t they turning their lights off; when all of a sudden, my partner let out a curse and put the car in reverse. They had thrown a huge brick, right at our windshield.

The brick had narrowly missed it and after we drove away, real fast let me tell you, we started the inspection. After kilometers of drive back to our home, with a dent in our car and coffee all over our expensive suits, we felt safe enough to recount our experience to our parents.

They were furious, informing us that it was illegal in any state or condition for them to attack us. That’s an attempt to murder charge, right there. They could’ve broken the shield and endangered our lives. I think the social messiahs are kind of lacking in their studies, choosing to be so reckless.

We got married a few years later, not celebrating this Messiah week as we began calling it.The very year we got married, my best friend decided that he should also get married and called me, seeking my expertise in planning a proposal for his girlfriend.

We planned the entire thing and after purchasing everything, from a bouquet to the ring, we called her. While waiting for her to arrive, we decided to sit by the stairs in the mall. I cannot tell how strange it was then, when a few men, adorned in the white kurta’s and holding huge sticks came to us and pulled my friend up. They began pushing everyone away from their girls, without thinking about their relationships. It was a chaos that day, making me feel unsafe when a few of these social messiahs came close to me, leering as he pretended to be going the God’s work. My friend had to show them my ring and pretend as if we’re married to make them leave us alone.

We could marry someone, have friends as good as brothers but some people just don’t stop bothering or judging us.

The Messiah week has made sure that I stay inside for at least 7 days and to host parties at my place if I want to stay sane, yet social at the same time.

Let’s face it guys, no God or country has said that we cannot express love. You people, acting as vigilante’s, claiming to uphold the society’s reputation are the worst ones out there. You leer at other people’s wives but don’t look at your own. You say you’re religious, but you act as monsters, forgetting about your own Lord Krishna.

You attack people, sometimes even manage to hurt them, yet pretend to be doing good for the society? What is society actually? Who makes it? We do. And if a smaller portion is spoiling the way we live, shouldn’t we do something about it? Like imprisoning you for an attempt to murder ?

I’m going to get a liscenced gun or a stick of my own, if that keeps me safe while celebrating the week of love with my husband without it getting turned into the Messiah week.

I swear, at the rate this is going, when my daughter grows up and decides to date someone, I’ll have to set up a damn cafe in my own house to keep her safe when she goes on dates.

Posted in Uncategorized

Empathetic violence.

One of these days, I’m going to grab a stick lying on the road and hit someone for a long time. 

It’s no longer an issue about my personal safety, or about the safety of my friends and sisters. It has now become an issue much greater. Now, it is about my daughter’s well being.

Women have always been depicted as the soft ones, the ones who are tasked with maintaining the balance of empathy with the men’s age-old love for violence. I won’t be amongst those hardcore females who are distorting and shaming the ideals of feminism. I agree that we women, even the coldest and cruelest ones, we do have the gift of empathy.

But I swear in the names of all the Gods; in all the religions, spread across the entire globe, that if I see one more XY chromosome specimen looking at my daughter like she’s a piece of meat which he can have, I’m going to take the law in my own hands.

I’m going to grab the nearest stick lying on the road and hit him. I’m going to beat some sense into him. The sense that his family, this society, or the law failed to do.

Because now, the issue is about my daughter’s safety. And no one in this entire world can stop me from protecting her.

Posted in Uncategorized

The actual teacher.

Last month had me looking at the type of teachers out there. And I found there’s this one type in particular that I like.

The actual teacher. There is this one type, or should I daresay the only type of teacher who manages to tickle your senses and reach inside your head and shake you to the core of your mind. I know such a person and this one is about him, for him.

That fine morning, I was running late for class. As I panted after a brisk walk on that chilly morning, my professor smiled at me. That was a smile that would’ve been creepy if he wasn’t a decade older than me. But I knew him too well, he was my older, masculine version. That’s why his smile scared me.

I had straightened up immediately and was itching my feet closer to my desk, avoiding his gaze. Like others my age who have this art down to the point, I had too. The art of pretending that if you don’t look at the teacher, he won’t point you out.

But he did anyway. Not by calling out my name, no; because that would’ve been too mainstream. He laughed instead.  When I looked at him sheepishly, he beckoned me over. 

“Let’s take a walk.”

Walking at a leisured pace, out we went. Out of our class, the college building, to the ever cold and still sleeping garden.

“I’ve been noticing you for a while now.”

 The words were enough to scare the girl in me. My senses went on high alert when he turned around to face me. I had never seen him serious before.

“You’re different.” He said to me. I was ready to bolt by now. “And I don’t like it one bit that you’re changing yourself for the sake of untalented rookies around you. They have nothing on you. You are the real deal.”

I was speechless. He was still serious and clearly not done.

“Don’t let go of who you already are in the quest of becoming who you want to be.”

He had walked ahead and I was still standing there, rooted on the spot. He had stopped beside a rose bush and I hurried forward.

“If I pluck out this flower, the petals wouldn’t survive for long and the only thing left in it would be the thorns. But if it stays in the bush, it would bloom for a long time and nobody would even notice the thorns. And then in its place, another flower would bloom.”

I was looking at him like a child would. And I was a child to him, this discovery made me feel special and a bit regretful of my earlier baseless fear.

“Petals and thorns are equally important, kiddo. But if you let go of your life, they’re of no use. Treasure your hobbies, your lifelines and your thoughts. They define you. You can be anyone in this life, but only if you excel at being a good human. Rest just follows.”

I nodded fervently. His eyes were back to the twinkling ones I knew. The ones that made him seem younger than even the people my age.

“Good. Now you head back and I’ll go through the back door to scare the pants off our H.O.D. He’s been playing the karaoke game since the morning.”

He was off before I could even laugh properly.

He made me learn the toughest subject in my final year so easily that I couldn’t believe it myself.He had such a presence that it wouldn’t matter if Tom Cruise entered the room, he would still own it.

He wasn’t just a teacher, he was the teacher. Because what good is a teacher if he cannot motivate you to study?

You can probably know my devotion by the mere fact that I want to be good in my chosen field, not because I want to be great. But because I want to work with the great.

 Because I want to work with and for my teacher.