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.