Lover's Cove Challenge - part III

Andy David initiated a brilliant poetry link up session called Lovers' Cove. And here I am trying to participate in the third round of fun and literature all of which can be read at http://apd-loverscove.blogspot.in/2012/07/lovers-cove-challenge-3-07262012.html. Here's my 15 word contribution that will ultimately meet with the sea of brilliance over at Andy's blog. 

"I drink your hues, merge into me, be born with me in a new color"

I hope that does justice

Credit 

Lovers' Cove Challenge

Lovers’ Cove Challenge #2  06-27-2012

Lover’s Cove set a writing challenge, which you can read about at  http://apd-loverscove.blogspot.com/   I continue from Sulekha's thought

I spent seven joyous years, besotted in the love of someone I knew not. How is this different then? Strangers both; One my past and the other my prospective future. 

Path to the Future

Lovers' Cove May Link Up

Andy David initiated a brilliant poetry link up session called Lovers' Cove. He gave us his first line which can be read at http://apd-loverscove.blogspot.in/2012/05/lovers-cove-challenge-1-05262012.html. I continue his thought with

But I bleed enjoying your thorns of love, rest awhile so I may breathe

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A Typical Morning for me

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I sail through scenes of a typical Gurgaon Monday morning – a scrawny guy comes out of a tin hut and scratches his behind sleepily, the corners of his mouth have stains of dried drool from his restless night, he stretches and yawns a jaw breaking yawn; the early morning commuter drives with blaring music to keep himself awake, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and shakes his head vehemently at the scenes of the day shaping up in his head; a dog stretches out and leaves his spot from the middle of the road to look for food and water; a prostitute comes out sheepishly from where she has been working and walks briskly towards the nearest auto rickshaw, tries to smoothen the ruffled hair, she probably was not given the time to get decent before she left. 

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I watch these scenes, as I tutor my daughter nonchalantly about farm animals – the topic of the week. I observe everything and return my attention to the interior of the car. I realize something about myself – that I look at the world like a spirit, as if I wasn’t there adding to the camaraderie, like my driver was not trying to avoid the speed breaker with furrowed brows, like the little child next to me wasn’t like thousands of sleepy children this morning, just craving to go back to their room and create a brand new shiny mess. 

We halt at a red light, a bike stops next to our car. The window on my side is rolled down so I can catch some of the morning air. I can hear the two men on the bike talking over the buzz of the traffic. It’s strange that they find it difficult to hear each other when I can hear them clearly at a distance! The driver curses his addiction to cigarettes. He compares smokes to “suicide bombers’. He points out that cigarettes burn themselves to kill the smoker. His friend disagrees; he says he only wishes it could be that spontaneous. The lights change leaving me with a thought.

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We only stop next in front of our destination, the school. I pick my daughter to take her off the car, smoothen her dress, ruffle her hair and then put it back in place again, kiss her a little too aggressively on both her cheeks and tell her to go and have fun, start conquering the world right from here and that I will be back to pick her up when she’s done. She gives me a hug and walks toward her school, I sense a loss already but shoo the feeling away as one of those useless silly ones that are meant to slow you down. As I am walking away, I meet a new friend. Someone I look forward to seeing in the school. I walk towards her with my usual “sup”… She says nothing except, “I am putting this away for much too long…” She notices my questioning face and says “didn’t you notice, I’m growing my hair” and then she lifts her tracks to show me her legs. I laugh and we walk together towards where our cars await us.

A year in Gurgaon and I already possess a world-full of things that have roots here. Memories of where I spent the last few years grow dimmer with every passing day. I have already started to forget the frequency of my favorite station. Here, if both my Queen friend and me are bored at the same time, we agree to meet to sail through time. I let him take over the conversation, so we don’t have to put the TV on to tide over the awkward silences. There are none when he is around and it’s pleasant. Lately though, he seems to be as busy as I am and when we meet its different. It was because of him that I could add a life lesson to my list. “No one wants to look you in the eye when you are trying to make money”. 

When that thought occurred to me, I urgently reached over for my laptop and double clicked on the word processor. I needed these thoughts to be processed – thank you Microsoft!! And here is what I wrote, “They say it’s a sin to pray for material gain. They also say I am a part of the machine called the universe. I should pray for the whole and forget petty things like my own gain. But how does the whole function smoothly if its parts are not well oiled. I take it upon me hence, to look after my well being. That is a task I take on for the well being of my whole, the universe. I do it for all of you and you should do it too.” I picture myself saying this to a crowd and what echoes back are giggles and an angry murmur. I smile, save the document and get ready for a shower. 

Later that evening, a friend calls to say he’s going to play a poker game. I grimace and exclaim “don’t you have anything better to do?” He replies “does that mean you don’t know how to play the game?” I am at a loss of words. And then I wonder how many times have I given myself away like that. Lately I have come to believe that my thoughts are visible. I am convinced that any person talking to me knows what I am thinking, even if I am enacting something vastly different. It’s not because I am an open book or anything. I believe this to be true of everybody in this world. Our body gives out signals of the truth, to warn or to compliment the listener. The listener should just listen with his/her soul. 

So I listen, I really listen these days. I hear the needs around me, the joy, the fear, the pride, the embarrassment, the annoyance, the exhilaration, the hurt and I cannot help but wonder… am I more receptive to myself now? Is that why these emotions feel free to open up to me? I feel like a vulnerable bunch of exposed nerves. But like I said I am a part of that Monday morning, the morning will protect me like it does all who are there in the scene. I will then wrap the scenes of Gurgaon around and walk straight into life. 

My Calling

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I hear a calling. I hear it as soon as I wake up in the morning and it lasts throughout the day. It’s a pleasant distraction in the quiet hours of the morning newspaper, an addictive humming during my commutes, a welcome mat when I return home and a lullaby when my eyelids get heavy. I see before me a path unfolding itself, opening out as I walk, green pastures or fields of marigold. I see myself armored in a desert – still walking, still humming that tune. I see myself create an inheritance for posterity, a foundation for the needy, a bridge for people separated. I hear the rumble of footsteps getting closer almost drowning the faint buzz of discontent! I hear the applaud of the gathered world while someone far away draws the curtain to keep the light away. I strain to hear the buzz, trace the unhappy. But I realize with joy that on this path I can only walk on one direction. I can look back but cannot retrace. I hear a voice telling me to focus and I do. I am headed towards www.socialpotpourri.com  

Have you ever felt this strongly about something? Do you think I should heed to the calling? 

A Mom Knows

I have been sharing each passing second of my daughter, Agni's, developments with friend and business partner Sulekha Rawat. The latest being the separation anxiety that sets in with the beginning of school. Let me be honest and confess here that this syndrome made much deeper impressions on me and my soul than Agni's. Nonetheless she suffers unimaginably. Sulekha Rawat, the most fantastic Mom and daughter ever, wrote this to comfort me and it touched the deepest corner of my heart! Here is what she wrote:

Mommy Don’t Leave…

I wake up with a heavy heart, 

Don’t like the morning time.

Dread opening my eyes,

Bury my head in the pillows, instead.

I know what happens next,

I drag myself into her room.

My angel sleeps so peacefully,

a smile on her rosy lips.

She puts her arms around me,

And wishes me a happy morning,

But then her face crumples up,

Courtesy

I can see terror in her eyes.   

She remembers its school-time now,

And mummy will take her there.

She feels threatened among the strangers,

In her heart there is a fear.

What if Mommy leaves her ,

And goes away for three hours?

How will she find her mommy,

in the crowd of strangers?

The little girl is scared to let go,

Of her mum’s hand,

She feels safe with her and,

has been her world for so long.

For two and a half years,

They have been a team.

Their bond solid yet so fragile,

Their love so comforting,

and supreme.

When mommy leaves her baby,

and walks away towards her car.

The desperate longing in the baby’s eyes,

Tears at her aching heart,

But they both have to be strong,

Be brave for each other.

It’s only a matter of time,

till the tables are reversed.

Now the mommy will cry,

when the baby sighs.

“I don’t want to go home,

I want to remain at school.

I want to play with my friends,

I like being here.

At home I get so bored,

So please leave me here.”

So cheer up Mommy and Baby,

You are in for a roller-coaster ride.

Enjoy the highs and lows,

Yell with glee and pride.

God bless you both and,

Sulekha Rawat (top left) with Mom and daughter
 long after their separation battles are over

I wish and pray,

That he keeps you safe,

night and day.

P.s. I know daddy loves his angel equally but this poem is about the mom’s experience at the school with the baby. So Daddy kindly understand J

Sulekha aka Lucks

Nurture to be Nurtured - duhhhh!!!!

The headline is a lesson more relevant to "Blogosphere" than life, but it really seems to spill over onto many situations in both. Okay I think I am going to cut the chase here and get to the point. It’s been a while I took my leave from Blogosphere – it’s been so long that I started wondering whether the agency actually had given me a one- way ticket. The feeling was gnawing and I started to fear my absence in that zone.

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Some of the nagging doubts seemed too close to being real – “What if my friends forget me there?”, “What if followers are too used to seeing that lock on 'howabouthis'?”, “What if I was labeled a sporadic wannabe without any loyalty?” The doubts created a nice and thick blanket of insecurity around me and I was just too scared of shedding it and buying that return ticket!

And then one day his voice reverberated in my head, the voice of ‘Blogos’, God of the blogging world. Nurture to be Nurtured – he said. I saw a vague vision of him – his lips curled into a smile, his lashes blinked and exposed kind large eyes swimming with words and knowledge! Then there was light and the darkness went away.  and the dawn matured into a beautiful autumn day. I felt needed rather than needy. And what a feeling that was. Nurture to Nurtured – duh – but of course I knew that one!

So to my 117 followers I return today with an apology and a promise. It’s a promise to always be there when you come knocking; a promise to be ready for you just in case, even if you are not planning a visit; a promise to visit you even if life here in this world takes over for it is you who make my blogging world and it is you who can take it away.

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Having said the above – here is a question. Is that being opportunistic in some level? Is that like a give and take? Is that saying I will not give if you don’t take or vice versa? Maybe not – because this is what Blogosphere is made of – a lifeline of support. There is nothing else that keeps us together and going. And after all if you need a plant to bloom into a flower you will have to make sure it survives.

I know not if this is a good return but it is one nonetheless and with this I have bought my ticket back. My door will be answered from this day onwards – I will eagerly wait to see you arriving.

Here's to Sulekha

I read an invitation to a tempting call to write at http://sulekkha.blogspot.com/ and this is what it said:

“Let's make a collage of articles.

"SOUL-MATES"
 Friends,
 You are invited to my collage making event. All you need to bring to the event is your article on soul mates. Do you believe in soul mates? How and where can you find your soul mate? Does everyone have one?
 If you are interested in helping me make this collage, then Please leave your name and blog link at the bottom of the page, before 7th September.”


How could I not respond to this call from someone who actually fits quite well into my imagination of a soulmate. Sulekha completes my sentences and thinks my thoughts for me. Check her blog out at sulekkha.blogspot.com. And here’s to her…

I am to Soulmates what an ant is to alphabets! I am told that soulmates as the name suggests is a mate of your soul – a mate that stays with you in one form or the other in every physical lifetime but is a constant lover in the ethereal world - a world that I have no remembrance of in this state of my existence.

So being the practical ant that I am, I seem to concentrate largely on my mate in this world; my lover and husband here in Earth. For the time being he is the be all and end all of my entire existence. And just in case he is not my Soulmate my heart and head asks me not to look for who is immediately. He will come when he has to and I will deal with him then.

Having said that, contrary to most romantic ideologies about soulmates, I am extremely nervous about meeting this guy. I like the warm and fuzzy feeling of comfort with my existing (let’s just say) “world mate”. I feel dizzy even imagining someone disrupting what we have here. I have put my heart and soul in this relationship – absolutely NOT to find out that my soul was only humoring me when we worked in partnership!! Surely it knew all along who its mate is. Was it actually laughing at my futile attempts then?? Was I really working on someone who was thrown my way to tide over this world only to return to someone else in the next???

Photo courtesy

Well it’s all very confusing to me. I just want to be with people I know and have learnt to love. I am not comfortable with drastic changes and believe that I may just abhor whoever my Soulmate is for disrupting my life like that. “Common SOULMATE – I HAVE A CHILD WITH THIS MAN!!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!?” What’s worse – apparently I won’t even be able stop myself from falling in love with this spoilt sport!

And here is another thought – an amateur in spirituality – I am led to believe that all human beings are a part of one great soul. DO I need to elaborate more on this? You get my drift right SM? We are one anyway – so stop looking for me. Please stay at peace knowing I am already you and you me. What’s more – my “World Mate” and baby are a part of you too. It may be an unfortunate thought to you but really we are all one. Let’s stand united in this belief okay?

Dad's Diary 19 - KICK BACK

He had a single name, Dukpa, which meant that he hailed from Bhutan; 'Druk' was Bhutan and 'pa', man. “That's all you need to identify your existence with,” he once explained to me, “with having or lacking a first name, you never have or lack anything extra.”

Dukpa was employed as a 'sahish', running after the horses hired out for fun riding to the tourists in a Himalayan resort by his employer who owned several of them.

Dukpa was a good horse-man; In fact calling him that was rather crude; a horse-whisperer was much nearer the point. His favorite was an aging mare; Pema, he had lovingly christened her.

His employer hired and fired him almost daily; hired him for his horse-sense, and fired him for his weakness in giving Pema as much food and rest as was possible. The net result was that the mare earned less and ate more. The employer resented this; and, in Dukpa's reckoning, had stooped so low as to declare Pema to be the ugliest one of his whole lot.

Dukpa didn't care one way or the other. But what really brought tears to his eyes was the rapacious employer's caprice of kicking the mare for no reason at all. To make up, he would buy colorful ribbons, show them to  the mare as if to assuage her feelings, and tie them on her mane, telling her in a soothing voice that she would go to heaven, and the employer to hell.

The day came when Dukpa decided that enough was enough. He maneuvered Pema in a particular position, and informed the owner that she could not work with injuries in her hind legs. The disbelieving employer came over to personally inspect the injuries. Dukpa tightened his grip on Pema's mane, and beseeched her, “Now baby, now.”

A snort later, Pema heaved up both the hoofs, equipped with new horse-shoes, with all her might, caught the employer under the ribcage, and threw him on to the concrete wall at the far end of the stable. “And that's what I call an ugly kick,” shouted Dukpa. Pema guffawed for the first time in her life.

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The employer was rushed to the hospital with multiple fractures, and Dukpa rushed Pema to safety. He rode Into a pre-arranged Buddhist monastery in a far flung area where the head Lama had agreed to take them in.

Dukpa took the robes and the vow of silence, and slept under the same shade built for Pema, taking care of the mare in her old age. The head Lama approved,  counseling Dukpa that that precisely was his way to salvation. Dukpa fulfilled his assurance to Pema that she would go to  heaven if there was one; the monastery indeed was Pema's heaven.  

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Dad's Diary 18 - The Boss

I crossed the threshold, and walked right into a shattered symphony. A symphony was indeed what wafted from Abdul's words and activities. Something had gone horribly wrong.

The one thing that Man Friday Abdul hated about his boss' demeanor was his indifference to improving the quality of home comforts. 

All the officers' quarters were equipped with calling bells fitted in the kitchen and the domestic-help-quarters except this house. He had made several fruitless requests to his boss. It was a matter of prestige that the bell should summon him instead of the officer's holler. It was too demeaning for him.

CREDIT - polyvore.com

In fact Abdul's persistence had led to the requisition of an electric bell from the government store. But, this being a government quarter, an electrical engineer had to oversee its installation by a departmental technician. The notorious 'red tape' had taken its toll; there was no trace of the engineer concerned. Abdul was in an explosive mood. 

In the boss' absence I offered to pay for a private electrician, and face the consequences later. An overjoyed Abdul ran out to make the necessary arrangements. The bell was fixed even before the boss' arrival back home. When he did arrive, 'krirring krirring' heralded his entry.

Next morning we waited in the living room for the cup that cheers, but there was no trace of Abdul with the tea pot. The boss lost his cool and shouted for Abdul to hurry with the tea, but to no avail. Ultimately we located him huddled up in a corner of the kitchen.

“How many times do I have to call you?” the irate boss fumed. And ignition reached the bomb-wick.

“I heard some undesirable noise,” retorted Abdul, “but I did not hear the bell ring,” adding that the bell switch was meant for the boss to push, not to add color to the wall.

“Yes, Sir,” the boss managed to say, somewhat startled. 

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Dad's Diary 17 - The Image

The boss' Man Friday Abdul had an extremely low opinion about  camera wielding visitors who did not take his photograph. There was another class of visitors to his boss' official quarter who “perhaps pretended” to take his photograph for he never received the promised prints. For them he had unmitigated contempt.

In his boss' absence he would tell the new visitors how shameless had the earlier ones been. Even that did not improve his situation when   one day I arrived on the unenviable spot without a camera. That qualified me as a more reliable confidant, and he poured out his heart rending woes laced with the choicest of vituperative.

I hired a camera and volunteered to click. He mused for a while. Did I know how to handle the camera? Did I remember to buy a roll of film?For he was done with “fruitless modeling; poses were indeed important for posterity.” The interrogation over, he deferred the photo session till the next day ostensibly because I was tired.

With the boss' departure for office came the photo session time. Abdul turned up in an ill fitted suit and a tie with lopsided knot which I discreetly pointed out. He seated himself in the boss' chair in the study, and pulled the table close to cover the front of his unzip-able trouser. The right side of his lips hung in the process of working up a pout on his face “to look important.” I took several shots.

Next day as the boss was leaving for the office I was awe struck to see him in the same suit and tie as I saw in the photo session. It was a perfect fit for the boss. Abdul who stood opening the front door looked at me; a sly smile hovering on his entire countenance.

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE

Dad's Diary 16 - The Coop

Grapevine at home had it that government officers on deputation from other states to this Himalayan hamlet needed domestic help just like him. And Abdul loved to live daringly. So, he set out for a destination thousands of miles away where the services of a 'cook in particular-cum-all else in general' would extract a premium.

There was a foothold in a neighborhood uncle's den who had preceded him. Abdul posed the million dollar question: where was the market? He lost no time in stationing himself there to weigh up prospective employers. His searching eyes riveted onto the man in the chicken stall. He looked very authentic officer type, talking very very authoritatively.

Abdul had hit pay dirt. His inquiries revealed that this officer also lived alone having left his family back home to join his job on deputation. That made two of them in the same boat now.  He followed the officer to his car, and showing great dexterity, opened the door for him. That was three years ago, and neither looked back on the decision.

(courtesy www.mustee.com)

Man Friday Abdul was indispensable to his boss by dint of his hard work laced with an uncanny presence of mind. Abdul's chicken curry of a secret recipe was famous. He was a past master in dodging persistent inquiries about the recipe, even to the extent that he would commandeer the boss' car to travel to markets 15/20 miles away to buy 'special spices and herbs'.

The local grocers could not be relied upon to keep his marketing list a secret. However, his refusal to reveal the  recipe resulted in a steady flow of self-invited friends to the house virtually demanding chicken curry and rice.

The boss also had to guard against Abdul's possible abduction with inducement of higher salary by other officials. It led to the boss soft pedaling him on all other issues.

One day the boss' boss turned up for a chat,  stayed over till late night, and suggestively inquired what was there for dinner. Abdul, who was hovering around the room importantly, informed that chicken curry could be arranged if they agreed to have late dinner. 

(credit - www.ethnicindiancuisine.com)

Abdul went out of the back door, ran down hill to a house where he had noticed the owner was  fattening a chicken in a small coop in the open front yard. He broke open the coop, and decamped with the shrieking chicken at a speed that a minute later the inevitable pursuers had no chance of catching up.

(credit - www.lifeofanarchitect.com)

That night Abdul poured out his heart in cooking the chicken curry. Next day, when the episode came to light, the chicken owner bargained for and received an ample financial compensation to cover his loss.

I arrived there for a couple of days' stay shortly after the incident. There would be chicken curry tomorrow, the  boss informed me at the dinner table. “No, Sir, now,” quipped Abdul cryptically. The boss almost jumped up, chicken and panic having become synonymous for him,“Where did you get the chicken from?” Abdul handed him over the cash memo with a flourish for a chicken bought at the market. The boss heaved a sigh of relief.

Next morning I asked Abdul, “How come the chicken curry was doubly special that night?” He smiled slyly, “Because the chicken was marinated in adventure sauce, Sir, the same as last night's.”

“Last night's?” I asked in amazement. He had “lifted” the replacement chicken from the same coop, and handed his boss an old cash memo, he gleefully confessed. “Don't tell him, he is so chicken hearted!” he whispered.

       

BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE 

           

A World Without Books

"Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone" - Tribute to a Reader 

I read a quote by an unknown author somewhere that said “anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book”. I have experienced books change the person I am time and again. I have lived a thousand lives; survived travesties in some and died for my lover in the other; I am passionate and irrational in some and mighty scornful in others; I have been a fashion diva with stilettos that sound to kill in one lifetime and a dwarf who loved a princess in some other…

“Man does not live by bread alone” - When Pandora Poikilos (aka Dora) dished out this topic for me, for her delicious Blog-A-Licious Blog Tour, I couldn't think of anything else but the above picture. Look at it - its priceless! I captured this image during a leisurely satiating post dinner stroll on the streets of Uptown Manhattan. The image is of a homeless man's heavily treasured and protected area. All his possessions are what you see in it - A glass of water and books. I couldn't help but wonder about this man - what happened when his home was taken away from him - did he just hold on to his books and walk away? What happened when he lost the last bit of money he had - did he smile and turn the page? How did it matter to him what happened to Lisbeth Salander in Larsson's sordid descriptions or what John Adam's went through during George Washington's presidential rule, when all that he was left with was some print and water?? Life was not really over for him but I was sure it would be if someone took away the last of his possessions - Books. The world would actually end...

Again dear readers this topic and my write up is a part of the Blog-A-Licious Tour by Pandora Poikilos. Please stay tuned to the following blogs for more on this topic... Sonia's  post follows mine and I am so looking forward to it.

• 
   Dora - http://peacefrompieces.blogspot.com/
   Sonia Rumzi - http://soniarumzi.com/
   Paula - http://hardlineselfhelp.com/
   Kate & Ashley - http://backofthebookreviews.com/
   Roy - http://royd-spiltmilk.blogspot.com/
   Shaeeza - http://shaeeza.blogspot.com/
   Anna - http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/
   Lisa - http://misclisa.blogspot.com/
  Jessica - http://findingonesway.com/
  Corinne - http://www.everydaygyaan.com/
  Nicole - http://riverarunsthroughit.blogspot.com/
  Tosh - http://totsymae.com/
  Desiree - http://www.desireeholttellsall.com/
  Shelley - http://bookfare.blogspot.com/
  Tessa - http://tessadick.blogspot.com/
  DK Levick - http://dklevick.wordpress.com/
  La Vonya - http://www.Battered-not-broken.blogspot.com/
  Janet - http://jlbcreatives.blogspot.com/
  Jim - http://holesinmysoles.blogspot.com/
  Linda - http://bookorbust.blogspot.com/
  Sibylla - http://divaluscious.com/category/mad-moms-manifesto/
  Amber - http://wosushi.wordpress.com/
  Lori - http://www.girlparker.typepad.com/
  Neil - http://www.neilostroff.blogspot.com/
  Tina - http://tinahoggatt.wordpress.com/
  Babz - http://lovebabz.blogspot.com/
  John - http://jmountswritteninblood.com/
  Violet - http://rhiannonpaille.blogspot.com/-
   Dora - http://blogaliciousblogs.blogspot.com/

She Walked On

pic - chasintheshade.blogspot.com 

She walks on – so what if her legs tremble – she walks on. She chews on an Orbit to take her mind away from disastrous destinations and instead focus on innovations of rolling a gum a 100 different ways in her mouth. Smoothen it with the tongue till it feels like a stretched out cling wrap. Destroy it by chewing on it till every ridge of your teeth has made its mark on it. Then repeat, repeat and repeat. Concentrate just on that, even if it makes you look more like a cow intent on digesting half the grass in its mouth itself. “Life will unfold anyway” – she tells herself – “whether I think about it or not. Orbits are great!” She closed her eyes and visualized her jaws shaping with every bite – shuddered at the picture of herself as a Moose lookalike. She walked on and chewed still.

There is a pitfall in being preoccupied. You reach your destination far sooner than expected – a boon if you like it. Read a book from Gurgaon to Delhi and you don’t even notice the traffic (of course do not hazard this if you are driving. Hiring a chauffeur is a pre-requisite.). If you are trying to memorize the roads, the journey takes double the time you were expecting it to. What’s worse – the amount of time you have to wait at a red light  makes you forget what you had learnt so far – and then you lose interest and read some more… But I digress.

She was there. Her reality faced her like a gnawing fear – she wondered why she was chewing bitter gourd for so long and spat out a white ball as if it were poison! After her bath, she had wet some tissue paper with which she stroked the bathroom floor gently. The shed hair from her head, that were doomed to live a life of banishment after their fall, clinged on to the paper hopefully. She had grinned at her efficiency and flicked the roll into the bin. Presently she thrust this sordid image of herself towards the exit sign in her brain and straightened herself. If you threw a dog into water it swims to survive – even if it never swam before. She knocked on the door, gritted her teeth and brought a sparkle in her eyes. This was it.

A man whose face read profound and impatient opened the door. His salt and pepper beard deliciously trimmed to suit the shape of his face. His round rimless glasses shone in the sunlight but the piercing blue eyes beat it and penetrated her very being.  He moved aside to let her in – a hint of a smile in his lips. She would be judged and tested. Her stoic attitude fortified her and she walked in with confidence. This was a man she would happily sacrifice her right arm to be with but today she felt hollow.

A world champion chess player was going to sit opposite her today – life separating them instead of a board. Today was the day she would be humiliated and cast aside by a man she longed for forever. Go away, she said – to the image of the cow chewing grass again.

The day rolled by. Many who believed rumors of the man inviting amateurs to his house to play got anxious. Was a 16 year old nobody going to beat the very epitome of a genius mind? Online bloggers had started anticipating a diversion in trend; people’s imagination started running wild; event management companies drafted entire proposals for a celebrity appearance from a 19 year old genius; Cereal companies called urgent meetings to draw a budget for her to endorse them – it was as if a tornado warning had been announced and people were hustling to prepare for it.

But she came out only the next day – arms intertwined with her father after a tearful reconciliation! A union after 16 years during which she was forbidden to meet the man who had left her mother precariously stranded because of another relationship.

pic- filipspagnoli.wordpress.com

She had struggled years together wanting to meet this man. She had dreamed of a meeting in which she demanded answers of a teary eyed loser. She had drawn pictures of herself with him - walking hand in hand in a park. She dreamt of winning the screaming match and leaving him feeling sorry for himself…. She had dreamt of winning him over with a hug and bringing him home to a hating ex-wife.

She noticed a filthy black soft ball on the side of the driveway where she had discarded her comforting friend the day earlier. She smiled at the waiting press and said “He beat me.”

Dad's Diary 15 - Himalayan Inebriation

India abounds in Himalayan resorts of various altitudes, shapes and sizes. They have different life styles. But a common enough signature that attracts attention is the high incidence of drinking alcoholic beverages.

One such resort boasted of a politician who reached the pinnacle of his career because of, and not in spite of, his inalienable inebriation. Dev was handsome, charismatic, and sported an attractive flourish of his own in whatever he did.

Dev refused to call himself a bachelor, and chose to maintain his status as 'unmarried.' To him, a bachelor conveyed the idea of one eligible for marriage which he avowedly was not. Again, unmarried should connote that he was married, though unofficially. He did not marry his live in partner so as not to pull her into the “minister today, jailbird tomorrow” kind of political vortex.   

He wanted those of the generation next to call him 'kaka,' and not 'mama,' though both the words mean 'uncle.' He refused to discuss the subtlety behind such an assertion.

One of his inner circle friends later decoded the relational nuances involved. A kaka is father's brother, and a mama is mother's brother. Conceptually, one can forge a fonder relationship with a sister-in-law even if it could spur off qualms of conscious; but for the sister it had to be an unmixed affection.

Photo - www.superstock.com

Throughout Dev's tumultuous sojourn from being a trade union leader to general secretary of a political party to a legislator for the state and finally, to a cabinet minister, the bottle was his constant companion. He had no compunction about making it a public affair.

The bottle came under the most intensive scanner during the run up to the last election he fought. The rival candidates filled up the campaign trail with damaging posters and paintings of a sozzled man sleeping in a gutter, and in many other similar poses.

Dev had a tough time controlling his volunteers from tearing off the posters. His instruction was to make sure that the defaming posters remained intact till the day of the polling. “Guard them with your life,” he pleaded. None knew what ace-strategy he had up his sleeves.

This threw the rival camp into utter confusion. Unable to fathom what was going on, they tried to retract. Now the defamed were hell bent on protecting the insulting posters, and the paster were equally desperate to remove them.

On the last day of campaign Dev approached the microphone with a leonine swagger, and greeted the massive congregation.

The gist of the relevant portion of his speech : 'Look around yourself; look at those posters; I have been defamed and insulted for drinking. But I will not apologize. We are the Himalayas; we have a distinct lifestyle of our own. Some overdo it, some don't. I was a heavy drinker when five years ago you reposed your faith in me. Now look at those posters again, and ask yourselves, have you not been defamed and insulted?

Photo - The Himalayan Beacon

Now here is my last appeal: let only the drinkers vote for me; teetotalers vote for the rival candidates.'

Dev won the election by a thumping majority polling the highest number of votes of his career. What better strategy could there be in a constituency where an overwhelming segment of the voters not only drank, but loved to drink?! 








BY TAPAS MUKHERJEE