On the topic of

What is poetry, really? And where do we find it? 

Poetry, like water,  sometimes trickles down our eyes and blots itself into fragrant words on paper. 

Other times, it flits from the corners of our mouth like a kiss that is blown to our beloved, flying across smiling lips, ours to theirs. 

Poetry can create ripples of emotion. It can arouse waves of desire. It can form whirlpools of despair, drowning us bit by bit into the invisible depth of the ocean in our heart. 

Poetry is a tempest but it is also the lighthouse that saves us from the storm.  

It can kill us with its intensity but also revitalize us with hope.

Poetry is everywhere…in the soft tinkle of a child’s laughter, in the unbearable silence after a lovers tiff, in the beauty of changing seasons, in the pain of heartbreak, in the kindness of strangers, in the delicate arrangement of whorls of flower petals, in the colors of the rainbow, in the surreal  spectrum of the prism formed by a drop of dew on a tree leaf. Just like the fibonacci sequence is evident in nature, poetry too is all around us. 

And for that we must be grateful.

George Floyd and the Elephant #AllLivesMatter

Just when I thought the Coronavirus pandemic had succeeded in getting humans a little sensitive towards nature and other species, reality decided to prove me wrong. 

Take for instance the heinous crime against the innocent fifteen year old elephant in Palakkad, Kerala. 

It has been alleged that some unidentified locals fed the mute creature a pineapple stuffed with firecrackers. This resulted in her suffering from severe degree burns and excruciating pain in the mouth.

The pachyderm rushed to the nearby river where she stayed with her trunk and mouth dipped in the water. No amount of efforts from the forest officials could manage to get her out. 

She stood there silently, nursing her smarting wounds, hanging her head as if in shame at her faith in humans and their kindness. Until she breathed her last. 

Post mortem reports revealed she was pregnant. 

Cut to the far flung West, where an innocent man named George Floyd met a brutal death for no fault of his. Following a false allegation of theft/counterfeit for a petty supermarket expense, the police officer in charge arrested George needlessly and violently, pressing his knee into his neck. Handcuffed and bound in that vulnerable state, George kept gasping for breath, but his voice reached empty ears. The officer held him down for almost nine minutes...till he finally stopped breathing. 

The assault was caught on camera and has been a cause of widespread resentment ever since. All over the U.S, there have been violent protests and angry demonstrations from the black population. 

Why am I writing about both these incidents in the same piece?

My intention is not to compare the gravity of the two situations, no.

I’m aware that the murder of a human is a much more serious offence than the slaughter of any other mammal, at least in the book of law. 

However, recent happenings has forced me drawing parallels...between two incidents, in two unrelated parts of the world and yet linked by one common factor—-inhumanity. 

Today I grieve, for both, the Elephant in Kerala and George in Minneapolis. I grieve today, for the murder of their trust, their innocence, their vulnerability. At the hands of a diabolical and prejudiced mentality. 

The elephant had a tiny life growing within her. George had a family; a wife, children, an entire life ahead of him. 

Both were taken away before their time. Why? 

Does a life mean nothing to someone who is entrusted with the responsibility to guard it? 

In Pallakad, Kerala, it was the locals who considered themselves superior. In Minneapolis, the white officer found himself at a position of privilege. Does that mean they had the right to abuse this privilege...for their entertainment, to prove their supremacy? 

Both these instances were followed by mass social outrage.

All over India, animal activists cried hoarse over the elephant tragedy. They raked up old unresolved cases of similar nature and lambasted the Government.

Secular Americans did the same.

The Kerala Government pinned a reward to anybody who would identify the offenders. The NYPD sacked the officer from his post in the department. The protestors weren’t satisfied. Would that bring Floyd back? They wanted justice. They wanted the President to have their back, to promise them a society with no undercurrents of discrimination. Of course, it did not help that the POTUS switched off the lights and hid in the bunkers. 

Some demanded explanations. Some made it look like political propaganda. 

The excuses started to trickle in...excuses to cushion the savage nature of the murders, to explain that these deaths were not as intentional as they appeared to be.

Someone claimed the pineapple was a trap for wild boars and the elephant ate it accidentally. 

Forensics reported Floyd as Covid positive and although they did not dare to associate that as the direct reason for his death, they insinuated that his lungs had not been strong enough to take the strain of the knee-neck lock.

But isn’t that exactly what excuses are meant to do—-make it seem like the victim’s fault? 

What is to come out of all this then? 

A few weeks down and the chaos will settle. The activists will tire. The voices will fade. The protests will lose their energy...and our sorry lives will go on like they did before. 

OR

The offenders will be punished. People will realise that they cannot take the vulnerable for granted. The Government will know it is answerable to a public that votes for it...that it can run but it cannot cower down and hide. The public will understand they deserve more than they get and they have every right to ask for it.

One pregnant elephant. One black man. They can either be a statistic in the record or can change the entire face of history. 

However, it is only when we voice our opinion, when we take a stand for the injustice done to others that we can expect someone to voice their opinion against the injustice done to us.

Whether it is happening to a mute creature in a remote village in Kerala or it is happening to an innocent black man in Minnesota, Minneapolis, bullying is brutal and should be challenged not by silence but by confrontation, by awareness, by supporting the victims, by punishing the offenders.

Let’s make some noise about the issue. It’s time to wake up! 

The 'red' lipstick bias

All through my growing up years, whenever I entered a cosmetic store, there was one question that’d always spring to mind.
‘Why not the red lipstick?’

Back then, a woman wearing red lipstick was regarded no less than a pariah, an outcaste. Men would leer. Elders would frown. And her character would be speculated. Only the fallen were believed to colour their lips red...a sign of seduction that girls/women from 'good families' were not to experiment with.
Ergo, all through my teenage years, I went without the slightest trace of makeup.

However, as is the case of the forbidden fruit,  this ‘no make up’ abstinence period managed to trigger a deep seated curiosity inside me, which I got satiated first thing I turned 22 (yes, that was the first time I used a rose tinted chapstick. Late bloomer I know).

Cut to present day, I see my neighbour admonishing her teenage daughter on using the hardly used red lip colour in her make up box. I see the child wilt in front of her mother's wrath. She retreats in a shell as her mother keeps yelling.
“Do you want to go out looking like a whore?"

And I am gobsmacked! By the audacity of the statement. I wonder what repercussions that preposterous argument could have on that child's psychology. It also makes me think how scarred my neighbour might be to talk like that...had her own mother been equally brutal with words to create such a deep impression, I wonder.

And that gets me thinking...
We have come so far in terms of gender equality and feminism. Yet, I wonder, what about the red lip stick is so intimidating to people even today?

If you ask me, I think there is nothing as beautiful. A red lipstick represents strength and character. A bold combination of sass and power.
The colour red is one that can be interpreted in myriad ways. It is the colour of life...the colour that a woman bleeds when she brings another life in this world. Red is the colour of undiluted passion...of blissful romance...of unadulterated love. However, if rubbed the wrong way, red can represent anger and wrath too.
The vermilion in the hair of a married woman, the blush creeping up on the face of a coy bride, and the colour of Sidhur Khela...are all represented by red.

When a woman wears red on her lips, it is a reminder that she is a force to reckon with. That she has a voice of her own, and that she is not afraid to use it.
Fiery hot, unpredictable, aggressive - this shade is much more than just a passing fashion statement. It is a declaration...of confidence, of being capable to protect and defend oneself.
A piercing war cry as opposed to the subtlety of its timid contemporaries; the soft pinks, plums, maroons that promise to decently sit on your lips, blending in with your skin tone in less conspicuous ways.

“Garish”, “too loud”, “such bright shades don’t look good on dusky skin” are some of the excuses I have heard women come up with for looking down on the red lipstick. These are the same women who turn up their noses at other women who dare to wear something they themselves may be too insecure to wear.

One woman told me it had something to do with the vibe a woman wearing dark red lipstick sends across. What I thought to be confident and beautiful, she considered brazen and indecent.

“Besides, what will people say? I am too old to wear such shades.”

Red was clearly outside the comfort zone of her fashion.

Oh,. well!

I am aware a lot of women like me love the red lipstick. This post is directed to those who don’t.
Of course, we are entitled to our open opinions. I think a difference in opinion is completely fine.
But an illogical antipathy towards a certain vibe/look/attire different from ours only from fear of what others may think of us...how empowered does that make us really?

As women, we pride ourselves in being the more inclusive sex. But how inclusive are we really if we cannot open our mind to a different shade of cosmetic (leave alone character) on fellow humans?
A thought worth pondering on...

As for all you ladies sitting on the fence about this whole (non)issue, hesitant about that red lipstick you have been secretly stashing away in your dresser, unwillingly settling for some milder shade every time you step out, today is the day to break the bias.
Take out that red lipstick. Let it breathe. Wear it. Flaunt it. See how it makes you feel.

Too dark, too garish, too bold, who cares?!
If it makes you feel happy, stick with it. It’s called lip-stick for a reason.

So here’s to us, women, and our choices...
May we always have the independence, the courage, and the wisdom to live them, love them, and stand up for them.

More power to the red lipstick.
More power to us!

Towards a coloured sky

I recently watched ‘The sky is pink’, a touching reel life portrayal on the real life journey of Aisha Chaudhary and her family through her battle with a life threatening disorder.

 

This, however, is not a review.

This is about that one line that stayed with me all through the movie and then some more.
This is about ‘Moose’ (aka Priyanka Chopra) sharing an emotional moment with her onscreen son, wherein he complains to her about being rebuked by his school teacher and mocked by the other kids. Reason being; he had coloured the sky pink in his kindergarten drawing book.

That is when Moose tells him that he shouldn’t worry about it because contrary to what the teacher says, he wasn’t wrong.

“We are all given a piece of sky,” she says, mentally defending the choices she has made in her life.  “If you think the sky is pink, then it IS pink.”

That for me for much more than an ‘aww’ moment. What Moose said there was something I have always wished for, believed in, and to a great extent stuck by. Making the best out of the bit of sky that has been allotted to me.

Yet, a burning question remains...how do we colour to our heart’s content if society with its limited mentality makes sure our colour palette is limited too.
There is black and white, and a few other primary colours. But try and dip your brush in grey, or a few blended shades, and it will alienate you, ostracise you, make you feel like you don’t belong.
It’s a tale as old as time. Ideas are met with resistance. Creativity is challenged.  Bravado is mocked. Vincent Gogh, Oscar Wilde, Nelson Mandela, Mahatma Gandhi, all revolutionaries in their own rights, had to suffer strong criticism for their views, each in their own field. Even today, so many years later, the risk their modern day contemporaries have to face has only gotten worse.

Sometimes, I wonder how our skies would have been had we been offered a larger palette of colour.
I am sure everybody would have so much more to create, to display, to share.
But no! We have become a society of restrictions and rules. And breaking any of these laid down fundamentals is considered sacrilege.

So we stay within the limits that are drawn for us. We colour inside the lines. We laugh at different...discourage creativity...misinterpret genius.
And deem a pink sky preposterous...

We coerce ourselves into accepting that a sky of any colour other than blue will never find its rainbow. We keep reiterating it to ourselves...until it finally becomes our thought. Our belief. Our mindset.

Well, what we need is to change that mindset...to be inspired by the rebels...to break the stereotype, one step at a time.
For now, let’s start with ourselves. Let’s paint our bit of sky with the colour of our choice.
If our palette is not equipped with the hue we desire, let’s create it. Mix, match, bleed, blend—-until you achieve the perfect shade you always desired.
For complacency has to be broken.
For change has to begin somewhere...sometimeAnd if not now, when!

Ask me, and I’d choose alternating shades of purple and yellow to colour the canopy of my sky.
How would you paint your firmament?

BE-YOU-TIFUL

I was watching TV the other day when it struck me how majority of our commercials ranging from soap detergent to diesel oil feature a fair, slim, attractive woman promoting the said product.
India, the land of changing trends has, since time immemorial, been obsessed with size zero, fair skin and silky straight hair.. From mythology to matrimony. From fantasy to fiction. While in reality, the common Indian woman often has to bear the brunt of these expectations.
So it was indeed a refreshing change when a leading beauty brand, like Naturals hair and beauty salon, decided to welcome and celebrate the real Indian woman,.

However, as I set pen to paper, I found my own self stuck for inspiration.
Who was the one woman who could encapsulate all that I wanted to say the beauty?

Khalil Gibran’s words came to mind.
“Beauty is not in the face. Beauty is a light in the heart.”

It was just then that my maid saw me frowning, biting the tip of my pen...something I often do when I’m thinking hard.
Malati has been working at my place for the past eight years, and by now knows to read into my every expression.

“Something wrong, didi?” she asked.

I thought I’d just take a breather and talk with her for a while. She always managed to get me smiling with her uninhibited enthusiasm.

“Umm...I’m trying to write about someone who is truly beautiful. But I can’t seem to decide who...” I told her, keeping my writing pad and  pen aside.

Malti looked at me for a second. Then a strange expression lit up her face.

“Then you can write about me, didi,” she laughed, tossing back her head.

And in that precise moment, Malti’s life flashed in front of my eyes.
What Malti had said in casual jest, was not a joke but the absolute truth.

Who else could represent real beauty better than this warrior-woman standing in front of me. In no way could I say that she was conventionally beautiful, in fact she was far from the superficial standards of good looks. But there was something about her that stood out. Draped in an old yet freshly washed sari, her hair neatly oiled back, her dark skin glistening with confidence, her eyes shining with hope, her laughter infectious,  smiling through the odds life had thrown her way, Malati glowed from within.

She did not possess much, but made the most out of what she had, ‘sans’  complaints. And that was what made her beautiful.

Looking at a Malati made me reflect on what beauty is really about. True beauty is not something that could be obtained by cosmetics and hair products. It cannot be attained from pampering and polishing the outside. Beauty parlours and skin spas can undeniably make you feel better about yourself, and look good, but only for a while (maybe until  your next hair wash or facial).

But real beauty runs deeper than skin. It lies in the core of a woman’s bones, in the spine that she  possesses, in the gut that she reveals in difficult situations. True beauty comes from humility, from courage, from kindness and compassion, from integrity and self assurance.
And I could see all these traits in Malati.

Image source: Google

I recalled the first time I met Malati. She must have been hardly twenty one in search of work, fragile and faint, with a child on her hips, trying hard to conceal the bruises left on her skin by an abusive husband.

While most people in her situation would have gladly accepted the monetary help that was proffered to them, Malti had kept her eyes on the floor, and refused to touch the money.

“No didi,” she had said. “Give me work instead.”

Then realizing that I had noticed the bruises on her arm and back, she looked up at me and said.
“I am not going back to him.”

There was a kind of finality in the way she said it. A confidence in her voice that told me that here was a woman who had made up her mind. I asked her if she knew house work and would work at my home, and she readily agreed.

Since then, she has been working for us. She had been attentive and quick to learn and soon managed to impress us with her dedication towards her job. In the last eight years, she made a place not just in our home but in our hearts as well. She almost feels like family now.

Malati represents the indomitable spirit of the common Indian woman, who has had to face more than her fair share of troubles...from bullying to street harassment to financial strain. But not once did she allow herself to break. Her positivity is  inspirational.

I have seen Malti grow up to be an assertive, strong, and independant woman.
I have witnessed her sensitive side when her baby was burning with fever and she rushed to my house late at night and asked me to see him. I have witnessed her integrity and dedication when she worked extra hours for some home industry after leaving my home every evening, in order to earn a few extra bucks but refused any kind of monetary assistance from others. I have felt her pain when her child was denied admission at an English Medium school, and have shared her pride when they ultimately relented because she stood her ground firmly and demanded to know why they wouldn’t accept him.

Malati is someone who is well aware of her rights as a human, as a voting citizen. She discusses the news with me. She can now talk complete sentences in English and this has boosted her confidence to a large extent as well.
She attends every open house meeting at her child’s school with her head held high. And understands and respects the need for a woman to be financially independent in today’s world.

On days when I’m feeling low, she even lectures me on what I’d once taught her.

As I reflected upon the trajectory of her life, I realized that here was a fighter, a winner, a mother, and most importantly a woman...an embodiment of Stree Shakti, someone who had proved her mettle in all her different roles and has made adversity bite the dust.

“Life is too short, didi,” she recently told me, “to keep thinking about the mistakes of the past.”

Malati is dedicated, doting, and self reliant. She is a survivor, a warrior,  a rising Phoenix who does not believe in looking back at her ashes.

Malati may not have lustrous hair and clear skin. But those are tangibles that can be easily fixed. What she has within her, however, is an intangible beauty...the virtue of living unapologetically and loving herself just the way she is. Imperfectly perfect!

I believe every woman has TRUE BEAUTY within her in all the roles she plays. For over 18 years across 650 plus salons across the country, Naturals has been helping the Beautiful Indian Woman get more Beautiful.
Today Naturals Salutes the Beautiful Indian Woman.
Presenting Naturals TRUE BEAUTY…http://bit.ly/naturalsOF

...true beauty that lies in the strength to brave the storm, show off every scar as a badge of victory and lead your life with dignity.

Over time, Malati has persevered to change her every vulnerability into virtue. From the timid twenty one year old to a feisty young woman who fights her battles alone, she has come a very long way.

When I look at Malati, I don’t see just a woman, but a powerhouse of positivity. She is kind, diligent,and honest. An epitome of courage and empowerment.

“Malati, you are right,” I said to her. “You are indeed truly beautiful.”

“I was only joking, didi,” she grins, a little embarrassed..

“But I am not, Malati. You are beautiful in the way your eyes light up when you talk about your baby, in your uninhibited laughter when you are happy. When most women are afraid to bare their soul, you believe in voicing your opinions without pretense or manipulation. You are beautiful in the way you make others around you smile with your infectious vibe. And what impresses me most is your relentless thirst or knowledge and perseverance, and that is what makes you truly beautiful. “

Malati smiled. She did not say anything. But her moist eyes spoke for her.

Then when she thought I wasn’t looking, she beamed at herself in the looking glass on my dressing table.
I smiled, hoping she saw in it, not just the reflection of her face but also the sparkle of her soul.

Of truth and trauma

"Keep the child within you alive.”

Her timeline was flooded with similar tweets and messages. All of a sudden, everybody wanted to be a kid again.
14th November, the day when everyone reminisced about their childhood days, the good old days like they called it, the days of glory.

She cringed at the mention. Try as she might to avoid it, she was forced to temporarily relive her past on this one blasted day every year.

She had managed to slay the monster from under her bed.
But every once in a while, someone would reminded her of that ugly phase in her life. She would then feel it fresh in her bones, in the blood of her veins...that ghost of a memory that devoured her entire childhood or whatever she had ever loved of it.

Unlike the others swinging back and forth in nostalgic meanderings, she never wished to go back. How she hated the kind of wishful thinking her friends indulged in—-the kind about time machines and hypothetical travel that can transport one through time back to their childhood. What was the big hype about cotton candy and hop scotch anyway? They missed the innocence of childhood, they’d say. And she’d stay silent, not wanting to argue any further, because they wouldn’t understand. They hadn’t had to live with her demons.

They hadn’t had to go to bed every night, terrified wondering whether the monster from under her bed would come atop of it. They hadn’t had to go through the agony a nine year old felt when a middle aged male violated her fragile body. They hadn’t had to lay beneath him afraid of being crushed to death by his weight, his palm blocking out their shrieks until they could feel nothing but the wish to die before the next morning.

They hadn’t had to wake up to the disappointment of  seeing another day, to the helplessness of knowing they wouldn’t be believed, to the dread that they would have to bear the same excruciating pain again that night and God-forbid so many innumerable nights in the future, and to the insurmountable anger and disgust at having to acknowledge the man their mother loved and depended on as the monster who visited them in the dark, as the demon who raped them when all else were sleeping, as their ‘Dad’.

Yes, she was glad she wasn’t a child anymore. It had taken her years to fight the cutting, the drug dependency, the suicidal urges.

And now she was finally here. She had fought through the ghosts of her childhood to reach where she was today.

It had taken forever to kill the child within her. The scared, trembling, fragile child whose vulnerabilities had made her a victim for far too long.

Today on Children’s day, she felt a protective urge towards all those who might be going through the same experiences as her.

“Keep the child within you alive.” flashed the message on her timeline.

She knew the message meant well, but she did not need it.
She had cleansed herself from the toxic effects of her  ruined childhood, killed off the demons.
Now if only she could exorcise the ghosts!

——————————————————————-

Author's note:  Those who undergo the trauma of childhood abuse often tend to internalize such incidents and suffer internally for years after.

If you are one of them, please remember; YOU are strong. YOU are resilient. YOU have survived it. And most importantly, IT IS OVER!

Fiction to reality #TheBlindList

As adults, our favorite travel destination are often those that we as children dreamed of visiting.

When I was a child, I'd often get asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. My answers would keep changing. Sometimes, a sailor, a pilot, a musician, a singer...depending on the mood and the reasons, my response to that question varied.

Eventually, I ended up being a doctor (since that was what stuck with me for a very long time. However, what went unnoticed back then was that it was the books I read that primarily influenced my decisions and instilled in me the fear of missing out. There was so much to be, and so little time. 

As I grew older, I developed another addiction of sorts that was synonymous with my addiction of books. I had developed 'armchair wanderlust'.

The term is pretty self explanatory. Armchair-wanderlust is just your typical wanderlust, but one you can satisfy, sitting at home in an armchair.  Bibliophiles would agree with me on this.

Being a book dragon (I have always hated being labelled a meek little bookworm) since an early age, and one who suffered from travel sickness during most of her childhood, my only resort to travel was through my books and stories. However, I had no reason to complain since my books allowed me to visit wonderful places that perhaps never even existed in the real world, but which I could travel to and stay at as long as I wanted, inside my head. As I read about the whereabouts of my favorite fictional characters, I found myself day taking a boat ride to the most amazing islands, trekking up snow clad mountains, and strolling down lanes, both real and imaginary.
All this was so much fun that when my motion sickness did eventually improve, I was a tad disappointed. This meant I had no excuse to sit back and enjoy my travails within the confines of my bed room. I was saddened by the thought that I'd be now roped into some real time traveling and be forced to cut down on my armchair wanderlust. But addicted as I was, I could never give up the company of my books and all the places they took me to. Instead, I compounded the effect by taking up writing. While I did manage the occasional mandatory family tour, I often tried my luck at inventing new excuses to miss long distance travel. Irate cousins often called me a 'cooped up chicken', which sounds even worse in Konkani, because it translates as 'ghar kombdi'.
I'd ignore them. I had planes to catch, places to go, in my secret kingdoom queendom of books.

Then growing up happened, and the castles I had built started collapsing brick by crick. Reading was no longer a day dreaming activity.
Life makes robots out of us. Mechanical, unimaginative, boring adults who often forget what it means to dream anymore. However, the dreams that we once saw stay with us forever. Somewhere down the line, the innocence of childhood takes a backseat and a sense of practicality sets in...until something out of the blues springs up and reminds you of those good old days once again.
For me, this someone happened to be Indiblogger and Lufthansa  coming up with this brilliant idea of a blind date with the world. No sooner had I read about it, my mind immediately jumped back to a wish list I had created years ago, during my childhood.
"If the world had to actually take me out on a date now, it would have to satisfy a reader's imagination and a writer's childhood fantasies," I grinned.  "Serves it right for taking so long to ask."

I was hoping my date would be an enriching experience. 

Thus started #TheBlindList...a first hand account of all that happened on my date with the world. 

Pic source: Google

We started close to home. RK Narayan's fictional town of Malgudi was the perfect first stop.

Somewhere within me, I was still fascinated by this childhood dream of a town. Sitting by the Sarayu river, where Swami, Mani and Rajan played, I let myself drift back to those lovely childhood memories I made with them. How I had loved being the fly on the wall, peeping at Raju, the holy man in 'Guide' as he fasted on the banks of the Sarayu, praying for it to rain. 

I relived every memory, this time for real. I walked down Kabir Street with its Lavely extension. I visited the Malgudi Medical Centre and instinctively submitted a job application there, hoping I'd hear from them. How wonderful it would be to work and live in Malgudi. Later, the world and I sat and had a wonderful lively discussion on the same, as we sipped on hot Chai and gorged on garma-garam snacks at 'Boardless', Malgudi's popular restaurant.  Until it was time to say goodbye and move towards our next date-destination. But not without visiting the Mempi forest. On our return trip, we hopped on a train from Malgudi railway station, a constant fixture of Narayan;'s stories and my childhood imagination. We traveled to reality just for a little while...to Agumbe in Karnataka in order to draw parallels between the fictional town of Malgudi and its onscreen version. (Agumbe in Shimoga district was where the TV series was shot.). 

Pic source: Google

The next stop was 'Emerald city', another childhood favorite I insisted we visit. 

The 'Wizard Of Oz' was one of the earliest books I'd read. I remember being completely besotted by Emerald City and the adventures young Dorothy and her friends had in Munchkin Country.

Even though Dorothy might have figured it was all a dream, I never woke up from it.
Somewhere in some corner of my mind, I was still walking down the yellow brick road, searching for answers to questions that life often threw at me. Agreed this journey of self exploration, had made me more open minded to the world, but there was a still a part of me wanting to leave everything behind and slip away on an unplanned trip, an impromptu experience.
On my date, I did not allow life to come between the world and me. For once, I forget about the questions, and took everything the world had to offer at face value. How else could one enjoy Emerald City otherwise?

Next in tow was the magical Narnia. Although I was hardly a kid when this was released, I was so impressed with the series that it got me crossing my fingers and tapping on the inside of my wardrobe on a couple of occasions. Whaat?! A woman is allowed to believe in a little bit of magic at times, isn't she?
So we traveled to the mystical world of Narnia next, but only after booking an appointment with Aslan...
The world had a lot to discuss with him. I watched them converse and connect. The creator and his creation. I don't know why, but this connection made me feel happy from within. Maybe because I was convinced the world wasn't such bad company after all. Aslan believed in the world. And that made me believe too.

By the time we were done, it was rather late. I was curious about Gotham City, but I'd dare to venture there only if Batman accompanied me. Then there was the Shire, Hogwarts, Wonderland, 21 B Baker Street.....my thoughts were suddenly halted by a realization.
What was I doing reliving my childhood fantasies when I had a chance to know reality up close and personal?

"Next place, your choice," I smiled sheepishly at the world. "I will go anywhere you will take me."
I was shocked at my own words. When did I start trusting the world so much?

Out came a blindfold. As I nervously allowed myself to be led by the world, I felt as if I was floating in thin air.
"Where are we going?" I smiled, quite enjoying the journey already.
"The second star to the right, and straight on til morning," the world whispered.

'Neverland', I almost screamed, exultant at the surprise. What better end to a perfect date than this? How did the world know exactly what I wanted?

Pic source: Google

I had always been fascinated by Neverland. So often I had wished not to grow up that growing up decided to greet me a little quicker than it had met the others.
In life where most things are temporary, I would give anything to embrace that moment of perfection (fleeting though it may be) in a place I have always wanted to live...a land with no boundaries, where dreams are remembered and love is never forgotten.
I met my childhood friends, Peter Pan and Tinker Bell there, and introduced them to my world. In turn they introduced me to theirs. We danced all night. Peter with Tinker. The world with me.

All of a sudden, I had a sinking feeling...our date was coming to an end. I quickly proceeded to have a last Waltz with the world. One dance to remember for eternity. Lea Salonga's 'A whole new world' was playing softly in the backdrop.
As the world twirled me around, the sky above me changed into a giant 360 degrees slideshow of views I had never seen, places I had never visited. Beauty that was far beyond my dreams and imagination.

"Have you seen a reality as special as fiction?" the world asked me.

The screenshots were changing at rapid speed, but I managed to get snatches of a spell binding reality...some of the most magnificent sights in the world. I caught a glimpse of the Palawan Island in Phillipines, the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, the Antelope Canyon in Arizona,
I saw spring with trees covered with cherry blossoms in Japan, the pristine white beauty of Santorini in Greece, the architecture of basilicas in Rome and Paris.

"Unbelievable sights
Indescribable feeling
Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling
Through an endless diamond sky,"  the song played on...

By the time the music faded, there was the rich display of the breathtaking Aurora borealis lighting up the sky. In a matter of a few magical minutes, the world made me witness a slideshow of its bewitching beauty, and overwhelming me with its irresistible charm, as if trying to prove to me that reality could be more glorious than fiction, if only I gave it a fair chance.
#SayYesToTheWorld, a voice within me screamed.

And in that moment of complete happiness, I wished my date with the world would go on forever.

My wish could have been granted. We were in Neverland after all, where time stops and nobody ages. But to have another equally mesmerizing date with the world, it was necessary for this one to end.
A date through the realm of fiction had opened my eyes to the miracles of reality. This blind date with the world had proved to be a kind of trust exercise.
I was now ready for adventure...adventure outside books and imagination. I was ready to go wherever the world would take me.

Every end from now on would be a new beginning. 
Every journey would be an adventure. 
For I had said Yes to the world



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This post has been written as an entry for a contest by Indiblogger and Lufthansa, titled '#TheBlindList -A blind date with the world.' If you liked what you read, do vote for me here.

Reflect

I was reading a bit on clairvoyance the other day, and it made me think on a tangent.
Honestly, I believe every one of us has a little bit of clairvoyance hidden within us.
A sixth sense of sorts, an extra sensory perception, an ability to foretell or see a little of our own future. But we are so stuck up in considering ourselves ordinary, that we pay no heed to this tiny voice struggling to be heard.

“I never saw it coming,” is a phrase commonly used by people from all generations. But so is “I told you so.”

Ever noticed how these two juxtaposed phrases always alternate? The former is more often than not, always used with reference to the self while the latter with regard to someone else. The order seldom changes.
So how is it that we hardly realize the consequences of our behavior when we can easily tell what impact somebody else’s action will bring about?

Well, the reason is pretty much the same as why we always manage to notice the pimple on someone else’s nose and not ours...until of course we stand in front of a mirror.
Some people find this mirror in a friend, a confidante.
Some may find it in meditation. Others in instrospection. While a few may never find it at all, never discovering their self-clairvoyant abilities, believing that they are and will forever remain flawless.

Have you found your mirror yet?

All for the best (a microstory)

Only a fool would offer a gypsy a home to live, expecting him to never leave.
And she was one!

He was always the wandering kind. Fickle as a cloud. And she, sturdy as a tree stood tall, gripping the soil below her firmly planted feet.
When she met him, her roots only grew stronger. She bloomed with self-confidence in his presence, showering him with her fragrant flowers every now and then, thinking that would make him stay.

But soon enough, she realized he wasn’t happy. The far-away look in his eyes made her sad. He wasn’t looking for safety. He wanted to walk on the edge. He didn’t care about her flowers. He was born to chase the wind.
Because gypsies did not need firmly rooted trees for company. They needed caravans that would move with them on all their adventures.

She, who always took pride in her stability, realized that sometimes consistency was not enough. Change was the only thing that could make him hers. And she was incapable of change. For what was a tree if not strong and sturdy. If it changed, it would be a tree no more.

She knew she had to let him go. They weren’t meant for each other.
He was meant to travel.
She, to stand her ground...


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 I am taking my Alexa rank to the next level with Blogchatter.

Also, linking this blog post to #MondayMusings by Corinne Rodrigues of Everyday Gyaan

Nothing personal, Mr Twain! #FridayReflections

Mark Twain once said, "The two most important days in your life are the day you were born, and the day you find out why."

My views on this, however, are slightly differ. Allow me to explain.

To begin with, how can one ever be sure of what one is born to do or be? Man is a constantly evolving animal. As we evolve, our choices evolve too. So do our decisions, our outlook. Our needs and desires. Our goals and aspirations. 

How then is it possible to know for sure that you want to do that one thing or be that one  for the rest of your life?

For me, I have never wanted to know. I want to keep trying to find out. I want to spend every single moment of my life in oblivion of that one thing that is capable of binding me down from discovering my full potential. 

If I am sure of what I'm meant to be doing, I'd probably lose the driving force that propels me to be a better version of myself each day, the force that pushes me to explore, introspect, understand myself, the urge to change the things I can and accept the things I cannot...the want to be the best version of myself only the day I die.

If we realize why we am put on this earth while we are still young and able, the monotony would make us lethargic. It would only push us into concentrating all our energy towards that one thing every day for the rest of my life, because we'd believe that's what we are meant to do. 

We'd never bother to find out if there was something else we excelled at, or perhaps something that we didn't excel at but would love to try anyway. No! Every attempt at anything (other than the discovered goal) would seem like a waste of time. 

So, I say, why not live each moment as if it were all we were meant to live? Why not treat every job we do like it was the only thing we were meant to be doing, like it was what we were born to do?

Just like no dream is ever too big, no job is ever too small. The problem, however, is that we are too busy trying to figure out our dream, that we fail to put in our best in what we're doing and miss the bus of small pleasures.

It's a vicious cycle really, this pursuit of happiness. We keep running around in circles, never really satisfied with the chase...

However, the day we are completely satisfied with ourselves, we will cease to improve. And that will the end of the story, of us. As long as we don't know what exactly we are capable of, the world is full of possibilities. We can be anyone we want. We can covet anything we like. We can set higher targets every day, reach for the stars and strive towards them. We can celebrate our successes and learn from our mistakes, all the while without the pressure of our discovered life-mission.

The moment we'd learn what we are meant to be, everything freezes. Fears set in. Deadlines loom. Now that we'd know what we're supposed to do, we'd want to get there fast. The greed of the winning flag would push us to run on that one track road, without stopping to look elsewhere. We wouldn't stop to smell the flowers. We wouldn't have the patience to enjoy the journey. Because we'd know where it's supposed to end. We'd know the destination, and we'd be in a hurry to get there.

All the above said and realized, I wouldn't consider it important to know what I am born for. 

Because I believe there is no just one reason. 

However, it is just one life, and I want to squeeze every last drop of enthusiasm, of energy, of desire, of effort, and last but not the least, of satisfaction from it. 

So for all it's worth, there is no one day that holds special importance for me. Neither the day I was born (Heck! I didn't choose it, but now that I'm here, I might as well make the most of it), nor the day I discover why I war born, nor the innumerable times I feel re-born, nor the day I will die.  

I'd simply say every day is equally important. Because when you don't know where you're going, you look forward to every step of the way...

Linking this post to #FridayReflections by Shalini and Corinne here.

Are you a bookworm too?

The 'Bookworm Bingo' tag has been doing the rounds on Instagram, and so I decided to bring it onto the Blogosphere as well. 

Below is the original tag and my pictorial edited version. I have also included a customized description of my choices, because for someone who loves words, I just could't restrict myself to ticks and crosses. 

The original tag

My choices --- guilty and proud!

#1 - Cancelled plans to read a book - Guilty. On several occasions actually. Honestly I find a good book to be better company than most people.
I have cancelled plans to finish (reading) a book and have cancelled plans to finish (writing) a book. Sigh! I guess most would just call me a ‘plan canceller’ .
So, guilty...guilty...terribly guilty!

#2 - Can name a book that changed your life - Guilty.
I can name a few that did. But if I had to stick to one, it would have to be ‘Noddy and his new car’. That was the first book my parents introduced me too (at least the first one I can remember). I remember being so fascinated by it. That book triggered off the spark of reading in me. After that, there was no looking back!
So yes, while most would quote Ulysses or some such epic, I’d say it was ‘Noddy’ that changed my life by introducing me to the wonder of books.

#3- On a first name basis with the librarian - Not Guilty! 
Not my fault actually, small towns like Goa have frequently changing librarians. They never really stayed long enough to know them on a first name basis. Also I must confess it’s tough to see beyond books when you are at the library.

#4 - There's always a book in your bag - Not Guilty!
I find the concept of carrying an entire library along more fascinating. So usually have my iPad in my bag during holidays and staycations. Or the reading app on my phone for normal days.

#5 - Read until the sun came up - Guilty, Guilty, Guilty! 
Almost every second day for this one.
I normally prefer reading in the night. And now with reading devices having their own inbuilt light, it gets even better.

#6 - Wept over a tragic plot twist - Guilty! 
‘My sisters keeper’ by Jodi Picoult, 'Love story' by Erich Segal, 'The boy in the striped pajamas' by John Boyne (just to name a few). Yeah, yeah! I know. I am a book-keeper and a book-weeper. *facepalm*\

#7 - Posted a book review online - Guilty!
A lot many times...
Writing, reading, and discussing books make me happy!

#8 - Owned an item of lit-inspired clothing - Guilty
I once owned a T-shirt with 'REDRUM' written on the front and the back of it. Until one day, I accidentally spilled some ketchup on it and it had to be discarded.
Honestly, I had a good mind to leave it unwashed and leave it lying around---to ward off unwanted visitors.

#9 - Spent way more on books than planned - Guilty
This used to happen all the bloody time, until e-shopping (for books) came along to keep my book budget in check.
Yet, even now when I enter a book store, it's like the whole Mamma Mia song running in my head....



#10 - Joined a book club - Guilty
I've been an ardent fan and regular member of 'Between the lines', a monthly book club with an eclectic set of members in Panjim's Fontainhas, and although the club did not hold up as long I'd wished or expected (that is forever), it was still great as long as it lasted.
Currently, I am a member of several equally interesting online book clubs.
After all, online or offline, as long as there are books and bibliophiles, little else matters...

#11 -Wish list consists mainly of book titles - Guilty
I include as many new books as possible....because who doesn't love the self-fulfilling feeling that comes with ticking off things in your wish list?

#12 - Utilised randoom items as an emergency bookmark - Guilty
I have used things as random as ballpoint-pen caps, ticket stubs, boarding passes, candy wrappers, dried leaves, and chopsticks (Yeah, beat that?). Desperate times call for desperate bookmarks!

#13 - Maxed out your library card - Guilty
I'd always max out my library card back in the good old school and college days. I don't visit the library as often now. Technology and age has changed that!

#14 - Guilty of book-sniffing - Guilty
Irresistible...but only if the book is brand new or ancient!

#15 - Owned a signed copy - Guilty 
I usually tend to shy away from teeming crowds that crash upon the author's space (or so I tend to feel) for a signed copy. But there have been those rare occasions wherein I've waited for a ghost of a smile from a Jeet Thayil or Ruskin Bond or Geetha Hariharan in my direction, and jumped for the kill  autograph.

#16 - Tried to write a book - Guilty
Tried, succeeded and plan to try again!

#17 - Reccomend books frequently - Guilty
I think that is a default feature of every bibliophile. I recommend only when asked though, but once I start, there is no guarantee I'll stop.

#18 - Secretly judged someone's literary tastes - Guilty
Err...I won't name the authors. Some of them are...err..in my friend list.

#19 - Followed authors on social media - Guilty
Sure. Some because I really like their writing. And some because, they follow me! *facepalm*

#20 - Read in an odd location - Guilty 
I've done it for a couple of family functions I was obliged to attend.
When would smart phone reading-apps come in handy otherwise? *grins*

#21 - Have a nook in a bookstore you consider 'yours'- Not guilty 
Duh! I have a reading nook in my home that I consider mine...

#22 - Pre-ordered an upcoming book - Guilty 
Currently pre-ordered 'Sea prayer' by Khaled Hosseini.

#23 - Fell in love with a character - Guilty
Heathcliff (don't ask), Atticus Finch, Hassan (the kite runner), Will Turner.

#24 - "The book was better" - Guilty 
No movie adaptation till date has been able to match the picture painted (in our mind) by the printed word.

With that, we come to the end of the 'Bookworm Bingo' tag. If you are a bibliophile, feel free to take it up...
And do leave a comment so that I come over to read you.

Cheers! :)

The looking glass

If mirrors could talk, I'd demand to know
Why it stays mum when I wear my make up too loud
My lipstick too red, my kohl too dark
Why doesn’t it tell me that I am still beautiful
Without that layer of white-wash on my face
That appearances do not define me, it is what
Lies inside me that does, why doesn’t it tell me
I do not need to prove myself to the world
That there is a whole universe inside me
Waiting to be discovered, why doesn’t it tell me
I needn't be ashamed of the scars on my face
That the blotches, spots and acne in this case
Are temporary but the blow to my self esteem may be not
That the 18 hour lip color is easier to wipe away
Than the tears springing from my eyes
While I am worried even then about
The mascara ruining my plastic-doll lies
If mirrors could talk, I'd demand to know
Why it fears so much to show
A reflection of me that truly matters!

~ Priyanka Naik aka Pri
(Originally written and published at Story Mirror)

Movie review of 'Nude'

Have you ever witnessed an exhibition of nude paintings? What is your first reaction? Do you lower your gaze and turn away out of fear of appearing too brazen? Do you look around to observe reactions from people around you before voicing your own? Or do you stand in silence, lost in reverance for the splendid creation the human body is, a fact that you might have otherwise taken for granted, had it not been for such art?
But how many of you wonder about the model posing for the portrait? About their feelings? Their life? Their experiences and expectations? How many would imagine what it would be like to step into the mind of the artist to understand what he perceives?

I remember the first time I saw a nude painting. I was around thirteen or fourteen then. My parents had enrolled me in this recreational art program during my summer vacations, and that was where I knew Samit, (name changed) a shy and extremely talented boy, a real crackerjack in art class. So when this shy, bespectacled boy with the kind eyes and toothy grin sketched an almost life-like picture of a nude woman, I was shocked.
While a few of the bemused boys in the batch got busy discussing who his inspiration could be, I recall we girls had been embarrassed to even look in the direction of the sketch.
I, who would normally appreciate his paintings had refrained from commenting on that particular work of art. The boy definitely had an artistic bone in him, but this kind of audacity was unexpected. He was stretching it too far, I thought. The news spread and soon enough all the girls (including me) attending the summer program refrained from talking to him. I would often feel guilty of cutting off like that, but the verdict had been passed. Samit was branded a pervert. Ergo I too restricted my interaction with him to the occasional smiles and hellos. A couple of weeks down the line, he stopped attending class. We heard his dad got transferred to another city. The summer vacation ended, and I never saw or heard of Samit after that.

Cut to present day. Facebook tells me that the same 'audacious' boy has made his way into the art world, and is the talk of many art circles in London where he currently resides. He still sketches women, many of them in the nude. But as opposed to giggles and glares from classmates back then, receives accolades and praises now. And I wonder, if all the girls from that summer program are feeling as guilt ridden as me for our behaviour towards him back then. After all, what was his fault really? Was one misunderstood sketch enough to tarnish his otherwise spotless reputation? We'd have never known what went on in his mind back then. He was much too well-mannered to react to our petulance anyway.
Young and easily impressionable, art to us, was black and white, and even the slightest bit of grey (especially from someone of the same age group) was unwelcome.
Luckily (at least for me), over the years, I managed to break out of that mentality...

Growing up came with myriad types of interactions and experiences, which played an important part in  changing my world view and broadening my perspective. Also, discovering my passion for writing made me realise and acknowledge the need to express freely by all other art forms as well...

And Ravi Jadhav's movie, 'Nude', explores the struggle to preserve this very freedom of creative expression.

Yamuna (played by Kalyanee Mulay), a woman who has been ashamed and abandoned by her philandering husband leaves the village and arrives in Mumbai with a teenage son in tow. Seeking shelter with the tough and brazen Kaveri akka (played by Chhaya Kadam), she struggles to find employment, but in vain. Until she discovers her akka's  dark secret; she has been posing as a nude model at the JJ school of arts since the last thirty years. When Yamuna confronts her about it, Kaveri explains to her in a wonderful discourse on the artist’s gaze and perspective, on how the artist sees his muse as a sacred subject of study and worship, until Yamuna is convinced that beyond the surface of the job is genuine intent to preserve the sanctity of art and free expression.

Tempted by the remuneration and discretion the job offers, Yamuna agrees to pose for the students, and soon enough earns not just their respect but their friendship too. However, the clandestine nature of the job proves to become the millstone around her neck. Her son, who is her only reason for living, misunderstands the nature of the job, leaving Yamuna bereft that he never will.

Through ‘Nude’, Ravi Jadhav has explored the nuances of art and human nature. There are a few cliched lines (quipped by Naseeruddin Shah who is obviously playing MF Hussain), but they too manage to move something inside you when heard in context.

The actors have done a commendable job. Chhaya Kadam is brilliant as the staunch and sensible Kaveri Akka, while Kalyanee has played her transformation with finesse. Om Bhutkar has proved his acting prowess, by provoking the audience with his insensitive and perverted character representation. Madan Deodhar does justice to his role, but Kishore Kadam and Neha Joshi are wasted.

Check out this haunting melody, depicting the life of a nude model, sung, written and composed by Sayali Khare...

The film is aided with brilliant and equally sensitive cinematography, from the private art room in the institute to cramped and crowded shanties to the penultimate scene on the beach which with its hard hitting dialogue and intensity manages to leave you with goosebumps.
Personally, I thought the movie should have ended there for maximum effect. In fact, I was quite expecting the credits to roll, leaving the audience in stunned silence. But that didn’t happen.

The last bit could have been avoided as it distracted from the impact the beach scene managed to create. But I guess the director thought differently.
Nevertheless, ‘Nude’ provides that essential glimpse inside the soul of an artist, on the true meaning of art often misinterpreted by a merciless society that is too quick to judge.

I rate it 4 out of 5

Of choices and illusions

I was reading an article in the newspaper, when my eyes fell on this one particular line that stood out like a sore thumb.
“Our lives are defined by the choices we make,” it read, in bold, right at the center

of the printed piece.

And that got me thinking. Is it fair to call every decision a choice? There may be a number of factors that contribute in the making of a decision.
Not everyone is emotionally adept in recognising and milking an opportunity. Sometimes the timing may not be appropriate. At other times, it may be our frame of mind.
Too soon, too late, too quick, too slick, so many reasons and the chance just passes us by.

So what do we do then when we realise that we have given up on one such moment or conversely when the moment has given up on us? 

Eternal optimists who believe everything is a choice, would recommend chasing the opportunity. Keep running and you will catch up with it someday, they’d say.
But what when the moment is gone for good and what we are chasing is just a mirage? How can we tell the real from the illusory?

It is imperative in such cases to realise that no matter how precious, all moments come with a shelf life. So do all relationships...
And the best thing one can do in such cases is step back, accept that it has run its course, and wave a dignified goodbye.

Because farewells are painful. But running after butterflies will only tire us out! 

#OpenNTalk: That's the way the cookie crumbles

Imagine this enticingly gorgeous Black-Forest cake (complete with dark chocolate glaze dripping et al) sitting coyly in your fridge, waiting to be devoured. You have recently discovered and confessed your love for Black-Forest, and your possessiveness is at its zenith, forbidding everyone else from enjoying it, because, well, you’re a crazy cookie who tends to go bat-shit-obsessive in love.
Anyway, moving on...

Days turn into weeks. Everyday, you have a slice of that sinfully delicious cake. Every night you remind yourself how lucky you are to have such a decadent treat all to yourself. Every time you see your friends in confusion on which pastry to pick, you convince yourself how lucky you are to love something without a doubt. Then you go home and have that customary bite of your Black-Forest (BF) cake in the fridge. The cake that is always there...

Weeks turn into months.  By now, everyone is convinced of your sheer love and loyalty towards BF. Your friends and family never miss on getting it along whenever you join them. It’s amusing (and mildly irritating too), you think, how wherever you go, BF tends to follow...

And then, one fine morning you wake up. Brush your teeth as usual. Perform your daily ablutions as usual. Check your email, read the news, get dressed,  as usual. And just before leaving for work, you open the fridge, expecting your black forest cake to be there, waiting for you like always.
And bammm!! It’s gone! Vanished without a trace.

However, instead of feeling shock and remorse, you are actually happy. You feel liberated of the pressure of having to keep up with your alleged passion for BF. So glad are you, that you don't even bother finding out what happened. Maybe someone got tempted and ate it without your knowledge, or maybe it sprung feet and walked out of the fridge all by itself.
"It was time for a detox anyway," you say to yourself, experiencing a strange sort of relief.

And that, my friends, is exactly how falling out of love feels like...

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This post is published for #OpenNTalk Blogger's League hosted by Dipika Singh of Gleefulblogger
Ruchie Verma - Wigglingpen in association with SummerBarn, Vedantika Herbals, Nyassa, Explore Kids World.

#OpenNTalk is a bloggers league wherein forty selected bloggers are divided into eight teams. Each team has five members, who will blog on varied topics during the month of June. Each blogger will post a series of four posts, one post every week. 

My team for the Bloggers League is #CrossBorderSisters, and blogging with me are four other wonderful bloggers. 
1: Aditi:  Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

2: Manisha: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram
3. Anagha: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram
4: Bhawna: Blog| Facebook | Twitter | Instagram