Hope.

Falling
and feel it is beautiful
Falling off the cliff and
it feels wretchedly full

It was there, the least to say

It was and was celebrated.
In the zooming speed
things often get slipped
or water evaporates in the heat
naphthalene balls sublime over a season
But it vanishes too, I did not know
Love, disappears –

Evaporated, sublimed or slipped away
I do not know.
There isn’t a word
nor is there any sound
Oh please, mundane is all

There isn’t that shine in the eye
or even that eye that meets mine.

Wretchedly torn and split apart

That baked ground parched off water

For what is patience for an expectant?

Beyond those nine months!

Torn and beyond a stitch?

Well patchwork should work.
But the tailor must speak.
His scissors should work.

Hope. She’ll conceive again

Hope. The clouds might return some season

Hope. Those eyes might meet and shine.

Hope. Those words shall go beyond mundane
Hope. Hope stares but not now

Without that guard

Yes, O! Once bitten
and even Love is twice shy.
But what is shyness

If patted to comfort?

Media Policing

“Delhi gang-rape case: Would have burned my daughter alive for premarital sex, defence lawyer says” in bold letters headlined Times of India on the 14th of September 2013. The battle lines were always drawn fine and clear and the agenda, if one might want to call it, was clear. The case doesn’t end. They refuse to bury it. Refused when she succumbed in Singapore, refused when the convicts were nabbed, refused when one was put in juvenile home, refused again when the sentence was pronounced and now refuse to bury it when the defence lawyer passes his defence. And maybe this is one agenda that none have qualms with the media setting in. In fact, there comes a sharp remark on the other establishments of the country for failing in what they were supposed to do.

Pick up any newspaper any day and you won’t fail to miss at least a few ‘stories’ on sexual assault, harassment, molestation or even rape. As for statistics, National Crime Record Bureau says two women are raped in India every hour. Double in a decade. What is appalling that now it’s out in the open, which otherwise I would appreciate, but an open that’s far scarier than truth. Has the society degenerated? Are we crumbling by the day? It is tough to answer that. And perhaps even intensive research might fail to resolve the proposition. We have evolved as a society, have become far more open. Is it because many more cases are now reported that we feel we have stooped much lower? Whatever the case may be, the baton is with the media which is running a tireless lap fighting for half a lot. If, today’s newspaper, September 16^th headlined black flags for Akhilesh in Muzaffarnagar, right next to it on the front page is “4 year old raped in school bus.” Page 4: “Step-father held for torturing 3 year old girl.” Page 5: “No jeans or noodle straps: Karnataka to women employees” with an insert of Times View slapping the incident. Same page, number 5: “Mechanism to monitor child abuse cases.” Page 6: “Man abducts toddler, run over by train”, a Mumbai story where the police is now probing whether the girl was sexually assaulted. Page 7: “Robbers brutalize woman in Una dist. ...Insert coins, currency note in private parts.” This again has an insert: “Jawan held for rape attempt in train.”

These are reports in one newspaper on one day. If this wasn’t enough, the world media keeps a vigil right here. Many argued of the steaming up the issue, yet what remains is the account of what happened. “The story you never wanted to hear” – Michaela Cross, a US student on an exchange program to India, had her blog creating ripples across media around the world and dire consequences in India. All news channels and papers picked it up, wrote about it, spoke about it, discussed it and called in experts. But what came about it? Is this the first time a report as such has been released? Remember Scarlett? The much stretched case of Scarlett Keeling, a British teen, brutally raped in Goa and buried 5 years thence after a prolonged case between the British foreign office, Scarlett’s mother and the Goan  authorities, passing the buck as usual and in the process maligning the character of a fifteen year old girl. The first reports that surface are clear and bold: “British teen raped, killed on Goa beach” Mumbai, March 02, 2008, Hindustan Times. And then with the probe initiate the media’s agenda of setting thing right. In another case of the same bucket, Indian Express: “German girl rape: Goa minister’s son still at large” Panaji, October 15, 2008.

Rewinding in history a little might set the frame right. January 23^rd, 1996, a 25 year old law student, Priyadarshini Mattoo, was found raped and murdered at her house. And the time it took for her culprit to be framed guilty? A decade! On October 17, 2006, the Delhi High Court after a tedious and much profiled hearings, sentenced Santosh Kumar Singh, the son of a police inspector- general, guilty on both counts of rape and murder and later sentenced him to death. The case is of much significance as the 1999 acquittal of Santosh Kumar Singh led to massive public rage and outcry. Public pressure increased much so after the acquittal verdict of another murder, Jessica Lal case, where a politician’s son, Manu Sharma, was released, despite the incident occurring in the presence of dozens of people. NDTV led a campaign then fighting for Jessica. Priyadarshini’s case too caught the heat and public demonstrations accentuated the media pressure and turned the traditional lax pace of monthly hearings to day to day trail and a judgement was reached in 42 days. Santosh Kumar Singh was found guilty.

Bhanwari devi’s case is yet another example of endless pages of pain and humiliation. Allegedly gang raped by five men from her village Bhateri, 55 km from Jaipur, in 1992, she fought with an undying courage and commitment for justice. It is a story of brutal shocks and trauma and harassment and humiliation that refuse to end with the act of rape. She is shoved away from one police station to another, from one hospital to another for examining marks of being abused. Absence of female representatives in the medical or police departments and being asked to leave her ghagara (skirt) at the police station as evidence she was forced to walk back in her husband’s blood stained turban for 3Km at 1 in the night. Abandoned by the family and the village she fought for her dignity. October 2, 1992, Rajasthan Patrika, carried an editorial ‘kroor hadsa’ (Brutal Incident). This was followed by innumerable Hindi dailies from Rajasthan and the national ones covering her case. The case caught fire in the media and justice delivered, such that women’s organizations propagated the view that she attracted the ire of her rapists because of her work. Numerous such organizations filed Public Interest Litigations in the Supreme Court under a group name of Vishakha. The judgement of August 1997 gave basic definitions of sexual harassment at workplace. Bhanwari devi received much support nationally and internationally - United Nations Fourth World Conference on Women in Beijing , invited her. In 1994, she received Neerja Bhanot memorial award for extraordinary courage and commitment and in 2002, Chief Minister Ashok Gehlot allotted a residential plot to her and a grant of Rs.40, 000 for the construction of her house there.

Getting back to the defence lawyer’s curt remarks on the 14^th of September 2013, the much saddening and one of the most high profile, sordid cases of rape – that of a 23 year old physiotherapist intern in New Delhi was beaten and gang raped, brutally, in a moving bus, on 16 December 2012. The case caught attention nationally as well as internationally. The Delhi police was questioned and mass protests held across the length and breadth of the country. The media fought for her relentlessly making the case of prime importance. India’s daughter, as was the sobriquet or Nirbhaya as she was called by many news agencies fought for her survival, while the country prayed for her for over a fortnight. She was airlifted to Singapore. The media followed her there and guns were pointed towards the mute Manmohan Singh government. Sections of the media elaborated that the move was to avoid the uncontrollable public fury if the girl gave up within the country. News agencies across the country – vernacular and English were onto it and fought for her justice. One of the fastest cases solved, the four accused have been sentenced to death recently. In fact a Justice J S Verma committee was appointed by the central government to suggest amendments to the criminal law to sternly deal with sexual assault cases. The Criminal Law (Amendment) Ordinance, 2013 was promulgated by President Pranab Mukherjee, on 3 February 2013 which provides for amendment of Indian Penal Code, Indian Evidence Act, and Code of Criminal Procedure, 1973 on laws related to sexual offences. Had the media not reported and set its agenda in such aggression, it would have passed by as any other rape, reported daily in a daily’s page 6.

The cases are endless and so are the perpetrations. If it is not rape it is daily harassment and molestation that women and girls take it as a given that they’ll go through in the country. 14^th May 2013, Ghaziabad, a woman is slapped by male police officers for allegedly drinking and being in an obscene picture inside a car with a male companion, thrashed on camera, taken to the police station in the middle of the night in the absence of a female constable. So much so that a neighbourhood woman comes in and slaps the girl in police custody, while all this is being captured on national TV cameras, the boy from the car is standing pleasantly without being spoken to. Huge TV panels are set for the night on every TV channel and the clip is repeated over and over again. Many might pull a sharp remark on the sensationalism in the media, but it was this discussion that questioned the police and its duties, police forgetting its Indian Penal Code and the fundamentals of survival – right to be, freedom and expression. 

The agenda is right there, rightly set and right on track. How well are we delivering upon it, is yet to be seen. It needs persistence and involvement from all sections of the society.

You hear that patting?

You hear that patting?

That with the rolling thunder in between?
You smell that wet brick?
That mixed with the freshness of green?

I try listening to her

To what she wants to say

To what she wants me to hear

Her laughter, shrieks, cry or dare

 She comes, announces and lets

Everyone know of her being there

She talks of all she cared to hold

For long before being bare

Relieved and light

Heaving sighs she would leave

Drenching all, would she sometimes

Thank me with her colours and some sheen

Just that tears do not pat

And the moist eyes do not smell

Otherwise speak both together

And speak their rhetoric well

Smoke

It makes me sick. Slightly sick. Sometimes.

I wonder what is wrong and what is right. Conventionally, yes am being foolish and horribly stupid. But then what is right and what is wrong - the socially constructed rights and wrongs?

He said he isn't causing harm to or he isn't disturbing anyone.

“And you?” I asked.

He smiled. “It’s one’s free will how one wants to be.”

“The emotional pain you cause to others? Hurt?” I persisted.

“People should let people be. Go find your peace.”

Since then am on my way, trying to find it everywhere. Here and there, in theories and examples, in learning and fables, in myself and in him, in rejections and acceptances. I haven’t. I haven’t really found my peace. All I could manage to find is disrespect and insult.

I delivered his love two months ago. And the belly is almost level now. And his love delivered, consumes my energies day and nights. He does love me much. And we do plan to plant yet another seed. But it’s been four years and I have not been able to find an iota of that peace.

May be to accept him doing it, accepting it altogether is the ‘correct’ frame. I must accept it as okay. I have started hiding. Secretly and covertly, when he is out, sometimes in the loo, sometimes when he’s fallen asleep and sometimes when he isn't up yet. Sometimes I even share with him, jokingly, making fun of it. Sometimes. I feel sick. Slightly. Sometimes. I might be horribly stupid, but what is right and what is wrong?

I have taken to smoking so as to accept him smoking. My love, my peace. Smokes.

Agnipareeksha

 May be it had to come as a part of my course, an assignment. However here it comes. Bases the 1996 Deepa Mehta film, Fire. 17 years on, and hardly anything seems different.

Desire brings ruin, they say. But I desire to live.

Who sage does not desire to live? And then what are humans if they desire to live? Who has the authority to limit this desire unless I harm? Even He did not have the right to kill this desire once I’d passed my agnipareeksha.

Deepa Mehta’s astounding story on a simple, yet complex for intransigents, Fire burns and still smokes today. “It’s a sin in the eyes of God and man,” says Ahok (Kulbhushan Kharbanda). And it would be foolish, yet saddening to expect any lesser Ashoks today than then. The 1996 movie strokes those sensitive nerves that have mostly been avoided, those on homosexuality.

Radha (Shabana Azmi) and Sita (Nandita Das) are sisters in law, two women with tales of their own; two women wronged in their own right; two women (practically) unmarried to their husbands; two women who discover love, sadly in the societal structure, discover it in each other. Sadly, because Sita confesses that there’s no word to describe their relation. Hindi hardly provides a word except samlaingik for a same-sex relationship which is barely common usage unlike the English translation.

“Women without husbands are like boiled rice, bland and unappetizing” and pat Radha replies, “I like being boiled rice.” However Radha would want to be independent, a woman’s life boils down to being around her man. The gender rules as they are in India, and in many parts of the world, revolve around men and their fancies. While Sita’s husband Jatin (Jawed Jaffery)is candid about his romantic affair with another woman, he goes unquestioned by everyone in  the family. Ashok under his esteemed swami’s directives pledges of celibacy for he’s told that sex’s sole role is reproduction and Radha couldn’t reproduce. Her role is reduced to supporting him in the endeavor. The men have their right to work upon their whims and fancies. The women are ordered and constantly reminded of their ‘duties’ towards their husbands – be it helping them resist temptations or fasting for such who hardly make a marriage to their wives. Leave alone the rights of men and women with alternate sexualities.

 

Duties delivered upon, ironically are all forgotten or made null upon the revelation of fundamental truths. For all her life for a ll her devotion that she took care of her, cleaned her, bathed her, dressed her, fed her, her mother in law, all that Radha gets is spit in her face. 

Radha and Sita, contextually are two women whose fate met no justice. And interestingly the two names have been used for the leads. Two women worshiped for their love, devotion and purity. Ironies in India that despite chaste, women are required to answer and clarify. It’s fascinating to the extent that the names have been reversed for the two characters. Being a Radha to Ashok, bound by love (duty), she ends up taking the agneepariksha. While our Sita waits, waits for her love. Love has its way through fire.

What more is the desire to live, after all, than the right to?

At the seas together

Been standing there for long
before the seas
seas, vast and endless
distances vast and endless
facing them
smiling, or just glaring
distances between us
waiting to sail
sails to be set free
for what dents? standing still
facing the seas
the two
standing still

Waiting together

Photo Credits: Kanav Bakshi
http://www.facebook.com/kanav.bakshi?fref=ts

for that sail together

through those greens and that froth
to rescue over the blues and the chops

sailing together for a while

sailing together till there is time

for they'd stand still again

still, staring at the sands so fine

or the vast seas, 

your and mine

that beach that is

The waves come crashing by

Relentlessly and endlessly

The rocks keep still
Still eternally

At times they are generous enough
And offer a crater to fill in the water

At others they stay there, still

But wonder I as I sit at the bay
For how long would the sea be
For how long would the rocks betray
For I do see a sea that sees its sands
and that soft beach then reflects
as even as it remains as one

As even as it bears itself
as so as bears my footprints

The kettle of warm milk

She was gone. Yes I knew it when I woke up. Her closet was open which she usually takes enough care to shut. The lights of the porch were still on. I shrugged my head in disapproval. It was hardly anything. It was silly. I know it was silly. You know how these things end up. It was nothing, and frankly, I don’t remember what it was. One thing led to another. I ignored. She said I do not even make an attempt at it; an attempt at understanding her. A shout here and higher decibel in return, that’s how a nuclear chain breaks open. I knew she was gone to her mum’s place; she left the milk hot in the kettle for me. She thinks I can’t manage a cup of milk in her absence?




The loop in my head has already been sparked. What exactly had I said? All those uttered in the higher decibels… What was that mess about? I can see the clutter again. The traffic is uncannily chaotic at the square before the work and the air-conditioning hardly can be passed as efficient.



The car right behind has been driving me insane, it just wont stop honking. Swearing released it, my frustration. It does. And I get it back from him, in stares. It hardly makes sense. There’s my left and I park the car. While in the confusion her bitter words from last year come back haunting. She always ends up doing it.



It happened last year as well when she claimed I did not understand her. I did not understand what that meant. “Well then it’s better as your mother understands you better.” She packed right away. It was about the usual finances. She always ends up cribbing about it. It was my personal savings that I’d been throwing away as she said. I wasn’t disturbing the home savings, my contribution, or anything that would disturb our system. The loan EMIs are paid in time. The ration works well, there are savings in a good account, and she has her purse. Do I not have this much liberty? For which she says she’s concerned for me. I dashed out rolled my car out and the house was abandoned. There was not much love left anyway.



A tiring excel has caught me at work, as the images from last year flash in my head. There’s hardly any love anywhere. Neither bosses have for their subordinates, nor employees for their bosses. You don’t talk of love there, but right over my laptop I can see the little mutual respect too evaporating. Love? What love for liberty? No one is free in this free world to take a step as one would wish to. Neither men can go about as they fancied nor women can tread as they wished. Newspapers are evidence. Leave alone love, there is no respect for God sake. And God, He causes much of mutual respect among mortals down the drain. I’d dashed towards my car and I dashed it in the compound wall. She was gone for good two months then. We wanted our liberty.



The day is drudging by with complaints, carps and cavils. What our liberty was to us. Whoa! That bottle of scotch and no tab on it, she wasn’t at home. Oh and I smoked like a chimney. It was my freedom to be the way I wanted to be without being nagged for little correctness here and little correctness there. I hated my job anyway, and they relieved me. I sat home with more cricket, more bottles and more smoke.



It’s disgusting to see you they’re shouting over a piece of paper and I feel so gutted. It’s nothing less of a sarkari daftar. My files keep piling and the laborious excel is getting on to my nerve.

Jaitley then began to intrude and took her space. “Stop smoking, would you?” I started hating him. I was free to do so. It went on for quite some time. I loved my independence.



And Jaitley walks by, done for the day. “Aye, where are you lost? Get going chap.” He gave his wonderful beam, bright as ever. I look on. I look at him. He pauses and up goes his right eyebrow for a passing second. His lips start stretching again, faintly and nicely. I still look at him, I look on.

It pulled me back to the present. Jaitley had intruded then only to take me to the hospital. It was all ending there. The house was in a mess, she’d gone forever, my lungs threatened to leave too, I lost my job and I lost my passion. I’d gained my space and time. He did it again; Jaitley, just with his pleasantness. Gathering myself back, I laugh at my state, shut the bugging laptop and dart out. A sudden sense of ecstasy is taking me in. Children run out of school as the day ends, I run to be the first one in the elevator and drive out. May be am wrong but I see a couple of them laugh and smile as they see me race, see me grinning.



She works only a few blocks away. The race is to catch her before she leaves. No, I do not need roses, nor do I need solitaires. I need me to be there. I’d lost her and much, that included my mother, to my freedom last year. She lost her five month heavy tummy to it. I rather smile away last night, and accelerate.



The euphoria of a free road when you want it the most. The spiral inverted and my joy starts compounding. Down there as I wait in the car, with my pounding heart my cheeks are laboriously managing to keep the fine file of thirty two whites concealed. And there she’s walking out, her eyes fixed on the car. Oh! Such peculiar of her; she tosses her head and gently breaks open into a smile. I love it each time; for it takes time to get that glint in her eye. I know her. I understood her, and should have right in the morning at that kettle of hot milk.

Four in every minute!

I remember a time, somewhere in 2002 or 2003, an ardent debater in middle school, I was picked up for the upcoming inter-school debate competition. My mother, who usually prepared me, helping me write the speech, rehearse it and think about it, asked my younger brother to leave the room. She wanted to discuss the motion with me and thought his age wasn’t appropriate to be party to it; the rise of rape! I must confess here that I knew much about the birds and bees before as she thought she was informing me.

However, I understood the sensitivity of the subject and the debate began. I’d often remember some powerful openings of my speeches for years. And this one I never forget.

Over 8000 women were burnt alive for dowry in a single year
Over 30% of women have their first sexual experience in a forced encounter
Every hour a woman is raped
Every minute a woman is harassed
Every minute four women are molested

I remember uttering these words at the dais, and I hear these words in disbelief every day; every day, for the figures make no sense today. Every day at least four rape cases are on national television. As for statistics, National Crime Record Bureau says two women are raped in India every hour. Double in a decade. What is appalling that now it’s out in the open, which otherwise I would appreciate, but an open that’s far scarier than truth.

14^th May 2013, Ghaziabad, a woman is slapped by male police officers for allegedly drinking and being in an obscene picture inside a car with a male companion, thrashed on camera, taken to the police station in the middle of the night.

As many would want to go by the book, it is a legal crime to drink in public, so she be fined. The book also prohibits the police to arrest a woman after sunset in the absence of a woman police officer. Follow the book? So follow it to the T. But the question goes far beyond. Even ignoring the fact of being taken in police custody in the absence of female police staff, beating a woman, or for that matter anyone, is justified? Lawful? Or moral at the least? She’s called obscene for her clothes. Oh yes! Back to basics and back to where I join the dots.

If there were statistics to prove that visible skin provokes/incites libido, I would sit hush. Women clad in modest salwaar kameez see the same fear as the one in a spaghetti top and skirt would see. A Pink trouser and a white top, was what she sported. The neighbourhood complained of nuisance and a lady in a salwaar kameez comes in abusing and slaps the girl in the police custody. Where is the book? Oh and in the entire episode the male companion is all left out with the legal charges slapped on him.

I guess mamma should have asked my brother to be in the room. Out in the open as I say, it’s essential that we realize it’s gone somewhere wrong how we’re bred. I use the word we as a collective. Sensitivity needs to be instilled, for we including me, my brother and my friends would at some point somewhere be guilty of ideas or words that would poke our female friends who (too as bred) take it without protest. It’s a long way and surely a difficult one, for the hefty aunty in the green salwaar kameez on that tape would still call a woman in pants a slut. For the head of the women’s force of the police department would still say, “children need to be taught. And the rod is okay if need be.”  For the police who need to protect would continue to harass.

I guess mamma should have let him stay, and I insist the teachers at my school take it up when we’re young. It has to be now out in the open for the book clearly does not work, lest in another ten years’ time a debate would start with more horrific figures.

In question of mourning

It hits you when all is silent. A very heart wrenching version of Anuradha Podwal’s Gayatri Mantra is playing. The room smells of roses and yes the agarbattis. The thin ribbon of smoke from the incense sticks rises up in front of her picture - bright purple saree, healthy and that evergreen smile. They say the picture should reflect the personality, what better than this? My eyes steel on her face and reels of memories flash.

Everyone knows all about it – Death! Much has always been spoken about it, written about it and thought about it. Yet we refrain from talking about it. Always by the side wife, caring mother of six girls, a loving grandmother of ten and a super great-grand mom of seven. What a life, what legacy. And with all that I know of her for twenty five years, I’m left with a cheerful image with that smile frozen in my head. I’ve seen her cry and have seen her unwell. I've seen her angry and have seen her worried. But these images are retrieved only on purposeful scanning. She’s always been here. Here, there, over the phone. Even when sick, which in her number of years she’s gone through a lot, her spirit has lifted her up, oh and yes with that graceful smile. And then one fine day, she’s gone. There’s grief. Much called for.

But I wonder what mourning is. Do we mourn for the one who’s gone, or for the society, or is it for our own selves? Those who've gone are gone because they were supposed to be gone. It is quite a repetition to say this that everyone needs to move on to the next stage. Do we cry for their purpose is done? Their roles have been played? All theories, philosophies – dharma, karma, cause and effect – all speak of how a soul gets going. Do we want to send them to their next purposes, ventures, crying? Would our crying help them?

Well, then does the society ask us to mourn? It’s essential that we talk of death and talk why. There’s a gathering immediately. They are all here to pay homage to the one who’s moved on. But as we mortals are – all experts we start with our interpretations of life and death. Our interpretations of Gita! Is mourning individual or is it societal compulsion? There are blurring lines. Why does one need to be worried how many attended one’s father’s mourning meet? Why do I see a few relatives always popping their heads to see if the gathering has increased or not? Why is it that festivals aren't celebrated for a year? If I am in grief I obviously won’t celebrate, on the contrary shouldn't one be pulled out of grief? Agreed that festivals are forceful agents of sorrow, reminders of loss, but they are also a chance to remember them happily and move on. Moreover, if otherwise one has moved on has made peace with oneself and one’s loss but doesn't celebrate for what would the people around say. Is it only to show to the society that we are sad? And how imperative is it for the society to see us sad? Where is the effort of bringing people back to normalcy? Sadly, this pushes us into the cauldron; men and their morals. We, including me who writes this, end up constructing the same society. We raise our eyebrows when one moves on rather quickly from any parting.

Then we perhaps mourn for our own selves. We understand the theories and the philosophies yet we feel sad. There are times when no words can console the ones who remain behind. I wonder then what aspect of death hits us. And it is almost obnoxious to say it point blank. But it is selfish. We cry for selfish reasons – for we find it difficult to part with loved ones. We cry because we find it difficult to live on. It is never that the gone soul misses anything on this mortal land.

People never leave; they are always here in their past and present lives. The Koran (Do not say in the name of Allah, they are dead; for they are alive even though you cannot see them. - 2:154) and the Bible tell us. Then why would we want to trouble them, mourning? We refrain from talking uncomfortable subjects. For non-believers there’s another urge. Why can’t we put our individual grief of parting aside and be happy for those who have left the land of countless suffering, for those who have moved on?

Philosophies keep changing, changing as the time carries us ahead. Life and its purpose? They are deep conversations. Soul and Body? Avoidable again. What remains is a life of love - given in abundance and you receive it in abundance.

The Reverse Closet

A homeless man lives on a pavement opposite a bar. He notices two men walk out of the bar. They seem to be talking loudly and animatedly, but not a word is issuing out of their mouths. They turn into an isolated alley next to the bar. He knows the alley. There’s no other exit. People who walk inside it never walk out. He’s been here for ages and yet never seen a soul walk out of the alley. Yet he sees the same people in the outside world. Time and again they walk into the alley and disappear. When he sees them in the outside world, he sees them in various emotional states. Sometimes he sees them happy. Sad, depressed, ecstatic, lost, way faring, he’s seen the entire roller-coaster of their lives sitting on this pavement.

He sees people go in everyday and never walk out. His curiosity finally gets the better of him and he goes behind these two guys. He only enters the alley to find it deserted, but hears the snap of a door closing. Baffled he looks around, and sees that there is a cupboard stationed at the end of the alley. It is a small closet, barely large enough to hide one person, forget two! But there’s no other possibility, there’s no escape. With mild confusion, he walks towards the cupboard and as he moves a jittery hand to open the cupboard, a man barks from behind, warning him not to do it. He warns him that it is a dangerous cupboard, that it is the work of Satan, that anybody who opens gets sucked inside, anybody who ever opened never came back out of it. He said that only weird people opened it. And though they never came out of it from this door, they could be seen frolicking around in the world and getting weirder! And others, whom he called normal people, others, he had heard, who opened it, were pulled inside by gnawing and clawing hands and were never seen it. This last part scared him, but those two who went ahead of him seemed perfectly normal, he thought. Were they sucked inside as the man with the barking voice mentioned? In that case, shouldn’t he help them? That man had already disappeared after issuing his warning.

With a steely resolve, he moved towards the closet once again. There is a dead silence in the alley, as if he’s walked too far from civilization. Cars can be seen passing through the road where he just came from, but no sound reaches here. As if there’s an invisible membrane. His hands shake as he opens the door of the closet. The door has an air of antiquity; it looks rickety yet as good as new. It doesn’t open with a creaking noise as he had expected, but with a dignified silence, but as it slowly opens, there rises in his ear a hum, which gradually increases. He’s scared, but the hum doesn’t seem to go past that invisible membrane. Only he can hear it. As the sound settles in his ear, he realizes that it is the sound of an infinite people talking, chatting, singing, dancing and going about their daily business. But it is pitch dark inside. He finds courage to enter the closet, and the moment he does, he can see. Maybe a light has switched on, he thought, but soon he realizes that only his eyes have slowly got accustomed. Inside it is the same world that is outside. The same people. The same cars, the same roads. He is standing in the same alley. It has the same things, and now that the initial air of familiarity has subsided, he notices that the clouds in the sky are different. They are darker, gloomier. There’s an air of melancholy, as if an elegy is being played. He spots the two people he had come chasing. They still seem deep in an animated conversation. But this time, he can hear them. He again sees the man who warned him and goes to tell him that his warning was unnecessary. But the other man sees through him and turns a deaf ear to his words.

The two men notice him finally. They see him making an effort to talk to a man who is ignoring him. They come and tell him that he would not see him nor listen to him. It’s his choice. He has chosen to do so. He tells him that he has entered a closet inhabited by those who are different from the others. They tell him that they are homosexuals. But they are not the only people who are different. Everyone who has entered this closet is different from those on the other side of the door. They tell him that you could see yourself as normal, but by choosing to enter this space, you have differentiated yourself from them as they don’t recognize us. They choose to ignore us, our rights, our very existence. And it’s worse when they do recognize us. Then they pelt us with stones. We see them but they don’t see us. It is them who have a limited field of view. It is them who have to come out of the closet. The homeless man looks back at the closet. It opened the other way.

By Shikhar Singh

http://www.facebook.com/shikharhaven?fref=ts

This Taj of mine

It shines sometimes,

Sometimes in yellow and

Sometimes in white;

Stands in darkness

Which it knows would

Move by.

It stands and stares

Or even smiles,

Over the journey gurgling by

A journey quite long

Here, calmly drifting away.

Reflections here

And reflections there

Shadows dark

And shadows light

O! This heart of mine leaves its

Reflections on the life moving by                 

O! This Taj of mine casts its

Shadows; be it day

Or be it night.

hues for a happy song

Look up

Up into the blues

Deep as they spread

Flashing their strokes of white

Blank at times

Or even wines.

Colours of wine and orange in it

Reds, or blank at times.

Blank and vast, silent

Look up

Colours that inspire

Inspire a happy song

A happy note

Gaze out

Out into those greens

Dense as they grow

Blooming their own shades

Dark, light or bright

Flashy or dull, or blank

Blank with none hanging

Or maybe yellows

That would fall

Their murmurs

Just a matter of gazing out

Hues that cheer up

Cheer for a happy song

Song, o! What a tune

Its just a matter of peeping down

Down into another blue

May be green added to it

Or dark, Or changing colour

With every new member of it

From light to dark,

Blue to green

Dark or white

With a silver sheen

Bouncing, gurgling

Frothing or lazing away

Just a matter of peeping down

Ripples that fade away

Fade glum for a happy song

Yes, such rhythm.

O! just a matter of searching out

Or even within

With hues plenty

And yes, their tints

Dark they remain

Eyes what they see or

Ears what they hear.

Its within, dark I

Perceive or hum

Little cheer

Colours plenty to

Paint a happy song

Just so many words

Just a matter of searching out

Out or even within,

Hues for a happy song

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves

In the autumn sun

Have left me dry,

Bare, my bone and skull.

Red, orange

And mostly yellow

They fall,

Sometimes one or in a pair

Listlessly drifting

Floating,

And carefully perching on the ground.

Sometimes many of them

As rain would pat;

Rain though many dodge

Often under my arms;

This rain they seem to enjoy

My fall.

Smile so many, shout out

Its sheer beauty,

My fallen is a yellow mat

And crisp, crunch

They rustle,

My fall.

They leave me

Bare, my bone and skull

All gone red, orange

And mostly yellow.

They pick one

Collect and keep.

Call it beauty

Even that I shed

Ere I don the new,

My green they look in awe

And also ogle eyes

Such love

Ogle eyes at my dry

Bare bone and skull

My fall.