I promise

I promise,

till my last ounce of breath,
the last rush, through my freezing veins
the glisten of my last tear,

I promise, to love you.

With my last strand of hope,
with my last chime of belief,
with my last glow of pride,
my last wish, upon a star,

I promise, to love you.

With my last glimpse of the world,
with my last shiver of pain,
my last desire,
to be told,
it's a dream

I promise, to love you.

If ever, I have to part,
I promise, to love you,
till I can, no more.

You shall be,
in my last flicker of fading memories,
in my last heave of sigh,
in my last, unfinished prayer.

I, Wasteland

Dissatisfaction
is a curse.
It swells the more you feed it.

I write when I feel
the need to feel.
I write when all I wish
is to scream out loud
I write

Never was it, that I didn't have to
It was always because, I didn't want to
But I guess always has
an expiry date

I have stopped thinking
in rhythms and rhymes.
My mind plays a stage
for flashing faded
memories I shared with you.

Thousand thoughts
Million moments
Billions of broken emotions
in a forged, fragmented, reverie.

I thought

I thought I was a Sunflower,

and you were my Sunshine.

that you would gently wrap me, in your arms.

I thought I was, a forgotten fortress,

and you were my Sunshine.

that you would peep in and brighten my being.

I thought I was the Moon,

and you were my Sunshine.

that you would softly touch and make me beautiful.

I thought I was the Winter,

and you were my Sunshine.

that you would bring to my rescue, your warmth.

I thought I was the Rainbow,

and you were my Sunshine.

that I was none, but your vestige.

I thought..

How much I need you

As I open my eyes to the rays tumbling from my window
which makes tiny bright squares on my bed,
I long to hear your voice.

As I contemplate the painful day ahead,
I long to hear your voice.

Syncing my soul with monotony of life,
Perspiring to believe in colors,
as my monochromatic chores glare at me.
When my muscle cry out for a respite,
I long to hear your voice.

When I find a reason to smile,
An occassion to cherish the lightness of being,
In some divine hour, blessed with a moment to rejoice,
I long to hear your voice.

In sickness when I seek some soothing,
when pangs of lonliness scream from my hollow within,
In my selfish desire to share,
I long to hear your voice.

I frustration of pressing times,
in lethargy of eternal boredom,
in my urge to evoke my muse,
and paint life on my own canvas,
I long to hear your voice.

As I lay in dark silence of the night,
and see my sorrowful existence shine,
with the moonbeams,
I long to hear your voice.

It aches my heart,
how much I need you here, with me.
And once more,
I long to hear your voice.

Once more, if it is for the last time...
...and once more, as, it is for the last time.

Time is boundless!

here's a reality check for you!

We Are Like That Only

Chaturvedi ji : Arey Sharma ji, button toh dabaiye

Sharma ji : Arey sir, daba toh rahe hain. (in a low voice) par kuch hoyie nahi raha.

Sharma ji was laboriously pushing the button to the farthest it can get. The red circle around it was gleaming since it was pressed fifteen minutes ago. Sharma ji was now breaking into a sweat. Drops of perspiration could be seen dotting his upper lip. His bald head covered with four stands of hair that he had grown on one side and had combed across, was shining. Not just Sharma ji, all the other twelve passengers in the four by four lift were sweating. The smell of their deodorants and soaps, rising with fumes of their perspiration.

The metro station was supposedly air conditioned and it was not like, the air vents were not working. Still the little group of people were fighting summer, on one of the coldest Delhi January days.

The door of the lift stood ajar. Sharma ji now irritatedly, pushed the red circular button to level three in frantic thuds. Chaturvedi ji, stood packed between a young office goer and two orange clad, turbaned men and the mirrored wall at the back of the lift. He could have salvaged Sharma ji's soul had his hands not been jammed by the compression. All he could do now was wait patiently, and hear the low clamming of a silver wrist watch band against the metallic button board, as Sharma ji continuously coaxed the button with frustration to shut the door.

The young office goer, who stood beside Chaturvedi ji looked at his golden Titan. Chawla ji had gotten up late that day and was thus running late for his office. He never normally traveled by the lift. But today was different. Time constraint today had forced him to take the lift. He had thought, if he got lucky he would skip the escalators and save himself few minutes. But perhaps, his stars had other plans. Standing where he was, squeezed between a young lady and Chaturvedi ji, he gently comtemplated the consequences, if the door didn't shut within five more minutes. His handsome young face was covered with beads of water. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on the river which swiftly ran down from his right temple and vanished into his collar.

Mrs. Gupta had situated herself firmly at the far corner of the lift, as soon as the doors had opened. She was a wide woman. Her forty something age and eighty something weight now, did not permit her to take the stairs as she went to work every morning. And the escalators had a bad reputation with her. She had heard stories about how, many people had lost their valuable lives as they hitched a ride on these ghosts of chore conservation. She too stood waiting patiently like Chaturvedi ji, inhaling the faint, delicious smell of dal makhni she carried in her double Decker lunch box and dreaming of her office mates and the compliments that would be showered on her during that divine hour of lunch. They would all be curious about her secret recipe.

Bhumika stood with a grimace on her face as she now and then stole a glance at the two huge mustached, orange clad, turbaned men to keep a check on them and their perverse gazes. Her friend must be waiting for her at Rajiv Chowk metro station. They had decided to go shopping. Her friend had claimed she knew haunts at CP where they could get the best bargains on garments of latest designs. She was clutching her bright multicolored handbag on her left shoulder with her right arm, an indication of distrustful surrounding, and with the other she was absently twirling a lock of her artificially straightened burgundy hair.

Sharma ji knocked the button, now in little rhythmic beats. Mishra ji, an elderly gentleman in a white kurta pajama was trying to aid him in his endeavor as they stood side by side. He was pushing the button when Sharma was lifting his thumb off it. As if his touch would induce some magic in the little impotent object.

"lagta hai lift overload ho gaya hai". Chawla ji had finally said it. All this confusion had to have some reason behind it and Chawla ji had spotted it correctly now. The little yellow board titled 'instruction manual' in black paint hung above the button board. Seven rules were bulleted over it. It said under rule number 3, "Lift capacity is of maximum 8 persons. Kindly do not overload lift beyond capacity."

"oh" Said Sharma ji after two minutes. Chawla ji's words were now seeping in his interpretation. "Overload ho gaya hai". First he said it softly to himself. Then he said it loudly to Chaturvedi ji standing a little distance away from him, "Lift overload ho gaya hai sir". He said it, as if Chaturvedi ji could only hear Sharma ji and not Chawla ji who stood right beside him.
But oblivous to Sharma ji's flawed ideas about distances, Chaturvedi ji was devising a plan to make the lift door shut. Soon after, he came up with this very intelligent idea, "Kisi ko utarna padega".

"Haan, kisi ko utarna padega" Sharma ji's congratulatory voice rang across the lift to all the twelve passengers. Everybody stood with a pensive expression for the next fifteen minutes. Nobody moved.

A work of a muddled mind

Once upon our lifetimes, we stumble upon a high minded individual. Often it results in severe consequences. I consider myself lucky, for I am only being made to write this article for my readers to waste their labor on. I rather wish, H.G. Wells had invented the Time machine. So I may have gone a few days back and saved myself all this trouble.

I am just another Alice who prefers to live in her wonderland, whose intellect stubbornly refuses to succumb to any material thoughts. Thus this demand, that I, employ my masterly mind in bringing a sensational change towards betterment of our already good lives, is but a hollow bargain. But my friend here chooses to emphasize, that it is my duty as a resident of the world, that I strive to contribute towards improving it. So I am hereby writing this article to give you, my practically no good ideas, in a great harangue.

Memories need messing so they may highlight things, you never knew existed. Pursued by my friend, as I sat down to question myself, "did I ever, in any point of my life, join hands with revolutionaries?", the answer was only in an affirmative. Back in time, when I had been struggling through my graduation, I had joined the theater society of my college.

I hoped to hog the lime light with some extra-curricular activities. Since I flopped bigtime in my academics, this was the only way, my professors could take notice of me. But my expectations were turned head over heels when I stepped into my first session. A young girl stood in middle of a vast room full of students, directing them as they sang Kajra re in chorus. It was then I learned, our theater society was a small group of students, and only students. (That throughout its seven year history, the society had fought to resist granting admittance to any of the staff members, teaching and non- teaching alike.) Another aspect of its intrigue, was the fact that, they invited students without any formality of auditions. Thus, the theater group was perhaps the only theater group on this planet where ninety percent of its members didn't know how to act. It was only after months that I realized that the theater was never interested in acting or bringing to the college, laurels from inter-college competitions. It only meant to give a platform to students, to rediscover themselves.

In course of my years in college, I discovered many dimensions of my character. It was in this theater, that I met students from different religious, cultural and economic backgrounds, who had different natures, abilities and ideas. I may not have experienced the world, but the exposure the theater gave, helped me fairly, to estimate my capabilities and limitations.

Nothing is devoid of glitches. You may say with such an assistance, all the students in our college were living in heavenly bliss. However, the truth is, the theater never got an overwhelming response. Many people stayed out of it, for they feared ridicule.

Can't blame them really. There are so many things I know I can't do. Take mathematics for example. I still need a calculator to do two plus two. I know its my little secret which if spilled in public will only buy me humiliation. I would never join a maths club, even if there were seven others like me there. I am just too scared.

Call it my oddly wired brain, I believe, had my college had, a club called "what you can't do" club, by the students, of the students, for the students, things would have been different. This club would invite students to any activity they felt they couldn't do. Shy students would spare time to perhaps practice some public speaking. The club would organize painting workshops to entertain students who felt they sucked at drawing. And genius mathematicians like me would be given some sums to palpitate upon. These activities held by the club would only aim at encouraging students to overcome their fears. To make them realize, they can do, what they think they can't.

Believe me, it is more fun to see people sync with your inabilities than what you think is your strength. This way, its easier to bond with people. Losers bond better than winners, for they have within themselves, no competition.

The WYCD club idea may sound fickle, but it is a better way of exposing students to the harsh realities of the world outside. Since overcoming their own fears, is the only way students can equip themselves to face the challenges of time, nothing I believe would work better than the WYCD club.

This is just a hypothesis. A work of my muddled mind. It would require a lot of patience, energy and time on the part of the volunteers to run a group like this. But I am sure, we all need an excuse to bunk classes. Don't we?

Specky

Every morning when I flip through the newspaper, the world seems, as the most depressing place to be. Every morning, when I step out of my house and set off on my daily pilgrimage to the University, I encounter the overwhelming garbage can on the way to the bus stop, bus conductors exchanging exotic verbal abuses as tokens of love, the crowd on wheels, Aunty jis swiftly kicking your shins with their vanity bags, Uncle jis trying their best to touch young women all over, flying dust shamelessly settling in the eyes and the horns of every frequency, blaring from every standing vehicle at the traffic signals. The world then confirms itself, as indeed, the most depressing place to be.

But life has a knack of letting us know, that happiness can be found in the darkest of places. After the tiresome day had commenced, in their hurry to reach home, three girls had taken the wrong metro by mistake and then, they became party to a little adventure.

It was the coldest day of the year. Though the big clock at the station struck half past two, fog lurked over the tree tops. As we stepped in the train while scanning the rows of people who sat with we-are-glued-here look on their faces, I spotted him. We had managed three seats for ourselves as it was astonishingly empty for a metro. My gaze tracked him as he entered the train with us and took a seat opposite where we sat ourselves.

He was a lean guy. Tall enough to be said he was tall. Complexioned as any man of the brown race is and was dressed as every other student of our age, only a little too casually. I noticed he wore a pair of tracksuit lowers over a pair of nike sports shoes. Not something everyone prefers over denims, when its freezing outside. Over a light blue shirt he wore a beige colored pullover. I could see the blue collar and cuffs peeping out elegantly from his sweater. He had on his lap, a black canvas bag which looked as if it contained nothing. Perhaps it was suggesting, he had an exam that day. He sat slightly slouching, with an air of a bright student who had done his best in the paper out of sheer habit and who now hardly cared what the outcome might be. Such pupil eventually topped the class.

When the train arrived at the next station, he moved slightly to make room for an old man who had walked in. They politely smiled at each other and spoke. I couldn't hear them. Soon after they fell silent and the old man got busy, ducking his balding head inside the boldly lettered red and white polythene bag he was carrying.

The train rattled ahead in super speed. The passengers who had companions were busy gossiping. Others sat lost in oblivion. A mobile phone somewhere was cracking into pieces a popular bollywood number and over the mutilated tune rang the regular two language recording - a list like the ten commandments, served in public interest by the metro authorities. He turned his attention from his aged co- traveler and suddenly his eyes fell on me.

I was so engrossed in my endeavor that it didn't occur to me, I had stopped blinking. My wide eyes had been on him ever since he had entered the coach. Now when his eyes lay on my face, I felt blood flush my skin. He had caught me staring at him. A small voice in the back of my head nervously said, "Shit".

He was exceptionally good looking. His long face bore a serene look which could instantly relax anyone who cared to look at it. A tuft of black hair shadowed his forehead. Underneath were a pair of mesmerizing eyes framed in thin square rimmed silver glasses. Nor elongated like an eagle's beak, neither was it flat like a mushroom. His nose was unusually, normal. Trailing below the nose I had found a pair of, a very kissable variety of lips and they completed his face with a very manly, pointed chin. He had a stark resemblance with someone I know. Someone very close. But at the moment's pause when he held my gaze, I felt my mind go numb with the strange uncomfortable feeling, called embarrassment.

I wondered, if I should remove my eyes from his face, look around a bit and pretend as if I was looking at him just as I was looking at everybody else. But then I had held his gaze in return for a time long enough to certify that I was caught leching. I decided not to fake. This decision then led me to a greater confusion. I now knew what not to do. But what to do, was still beyond my comprehension. My brain was still fighting its numbness.

Life has its own way of springing surprises when you are least expecting them. Miraculously, his face which had hardened to stone under tremendous pressure of analysis, broke into a handsome smile. I could see blood rush under his skin, as they had been rushing under mine.

It was as if my system had an auto-pilot program installed in it without my knowledge. My lips expanded on their own and I felt air on my teeth. The small voice in the back of my head was now praying to God, to whisk away any scrap of food that might be sticking between them.

The train jolted into a halt. The doors opened, and a little mob of unfortunate people tumbled in. They were unfortunate for they found no seats and were left standing. Their misfortune then fell on me, for they now guarded my view. He had vanished behind a mass of protruding bellies and gigantic handbags. I realized I had company beside me whom I had been ignoring since.

Both my friends were now deep in conversation. When I tried to jump in with my contribution, they broke apart and mischievously smiled at me. "wassup?"
I knew, that they knew exactly what was going on.

"you too?", I asked both of them, amazed.

"who? That Specky?"

"yes"

And we giggled our guts out. Each of us had separately ogled at him and each of us were aware not to let the others know of their fancy. It was only when I flaunted the confusion on my face they had learned, we were eggs of the same basket. After all, we had taken that wrong metro together and it had not dawned on us until we hit the terminus station.

photograph courtsey : Pietersen Rahul.

Missed spellings

Every man is bestowed with an unique talent. Beethoven's music, Picasso's paintings, Shakespeare's words, Newton's laws of gravity and Michael Jackson's ways of defying gravity on the dance floor are evidence that rigorous practice evolves that talent, into genius. History embraces them as men the world has known and cherished. However, there are few more, who still lay hidden from recognition. Their talent, lay undiscovered. I know of such a great figure, who over the years, with her immense bravery protested order and by so doing, has perfected her art. It is her contribution that will one day enable language to break its petty boundaries and focus on concerns more grave. She is, me. My genius, is my creativity with spellings.

I first held a pen when I was two years old. I had lifted it from my dad's pocket and scribbled all over his shoulder. My mother had given up on the stains after trying three different brands of washing powder. That was my first encounter with writing. Later, when I began schooling, my notebooks held millions of wobbly letters, etched into their pages with stubby pencils. My pencil box had particular enmity towards erasers. It just refused to contain them. So I was forced to either loose them, cut them into pieces with a ruler, barter them for marbles or simply eat them up. I apologize for my grotesque humor, but I confess, I had a knack of biting into erasers, specially the ones that came in shapes and had a kind of sweet fragrance.

No erasers, meant no erasing of misplaced letters. I let my letters be where they felt most comfortable and slowly it grew on me as a habit. It had its advantage. It saved me time. Among all my classmates, I was always the first one to submit my classwork. My classwork was always neat when I submitted them. However to my despair, they came back, smacked red across their faces. No matter how hard my mother made me practice, I could never bring her laurels from any dictation test.

It amazed me when my teacher and my mother, made such a huge fuss over spellings. I mean, if I wrote "I will see you tomorrow" as "I will see you tommorow" they would still know what I am wanting to say. There was absolutely no need to enamor my 'tommorow' with a red circle and strike out marks.

I believe, everyone must be given the freedom to spell a word as they desire. It is my 'accomodate". I should be the one who decides whether or not it should accommodate an extra 'm' and it is me who should be allowed to decide whether it is 'acceptible' or 'acceptable' to me. After all, who decides what is the right way to write a word? You may say, tradition. In that case, when the tradition of Sati could be abolished, Slavery could be abolished, isn't it easy enough to make a minuscule reformation as this?

In my later years at school, my teachers would yell from behind the desk, "This girl got atrocious spellings". Some of them joked that I should sponsor balm for their headaches. My friends sniggered while they borrowed my notebooks. They had experienced me so much that they could have written an essay in my honour, and title it "The Tragedy of miss spelling." I would have grinned and clapped modestly, while they would have received, the Pulitzer for it.

Throughout the three years of my graduation, my professors have lifted marks for my spellings.

It is my record, that till date, I have not been able to unveil the mystery behind all the hullabaloo over right spellings. Also, I have never managed one composition without signing it with what, you might call, mistakes and I might call, my signature spellings.

This is a cruel world. I have to hide my creative spellings under the cloak of typing error while chatting online. While blogging, Blogger's spell check, wipes all my creativity.

This is a photograph of my recent achievement. A test paper from a course in Linguistics itself.

"Good, Better, Best,
Never let yourself rest,
Till your Good is Better,
and your Better, Best."

Red Sneakers

As I sat wondering whether my act of bunking the first lecture was wise, my watch gave a faint beep. The seconds on the digital dial paused at double zero besides the two digits of number ten. There was, a narrow chance of me making it to the next lecture. I turned in search for the bus conductor. He must have been somewhere there collecting ticket revenue from the passengers at the back. I couldn't see him. All my glance caught, was some portion of a bulging blue velvety jacket.

Flipping the five rupee coin between my fingers, I stared blankly at the behind of the head in front of me. It belonged to an aunty, a woman in her early forties. Neatly oiled and combed, the aunty had plaited her hair and fixed it in a bun with a fancy hairpin. And a lovely hairpin that was. It had an elaborate floral design. Multicoloured plastic beads glowed from within each flower. The golden flowers burnt in the morning sun.

I sat staring at the hairpin for a long time. The bus was making very slow progress, almost mistaking every stop for its home. I was wondering whether I would make it on time. On second thoughts it struck me, I might just not get out of the bus, alive, considering that it was overwhelming with people today. The girl who stood holding my seat was pushing into me every time the bus gave a jolt. Once a lock of my hair got accidentally caught in between her grasp and the seat railing causing a sudden painful tug. Thankfully I still found the lock attached to my scalp. The thought of loosing it was far more painful than the pain from the tug. The girl was obnoxious, but to my relief, she smelt of fresh lime. Something I desperately needed this morning, to survive in the stuffy hell on wheels.

"lal quile, bus adda, purani dilli" the conductor was shouting from somewhere far behind. I felt the bus slow down. This must have been a stop for suddenly people behind the lime lady were hurrying. In her haste, a stout woman pushed hard into the lime lady to make way for herself. Unable to resist the aftermath, the lime lady tumbled onto me. I would have continued to suffer silently had she not stepped on my red sneakers with her high heels.

"Ooowww" I yelped.

Some people turned their heads in our direction. The girl steadied herself. Embarrassed she adjusted her moss green dupatta and smiled an apology towards me. I looked down at my feet. My red sneakers stared back at me. How inefficient they were. Couldn't even protect me from a heeled blow. I had bought them at a discount two years back. My best friend Apoorva had accompanied me to the sale where she selected another pair for herself, exactly of the same design, only three size bigger. Though I was skeptical about the idea, she had sweared solemnly that she wouldn't wear them to college on the same day as me. Later she had broken that promise and worn them every single day like I did.

I love my red sneakers. I team them up practically with every outfit I wear. They are cool. They hold within themselves, memories of me and my best friend. These days I can spot holes in my red sneakers. The red has faded to dusty red. But I still insist hanging onto them. It aches to even think of replacing them. However at this very instance I couldn't help but curse the flimsy pair. I was sympathizing with my poor feet. Perhaps I needed stronger covering. A pair that would protect me from ladies heels, cold, backaches. In short, from all calamities.

I finally reached my stop. I jostled my way through passengers and heroically emerged from the bus, alive. My lime lady had taken the seat, the moment my behinds had left it.

The bus zoomed away. A cloud of dust rose behind it, then subsided in my hair and face. Some of it even went through my nostrils. I sneezed and pulled a muscle. The bus stop was deserted. I looked around. Not a soul could be seen. Except, across the road a rickshawala paddled away wearily. I had to catch that rickshaw if I was to make it on time for the class. I yelled for the man, but he was across the road. He was singing loudly as if he was, the next Indian Idol. He couldn't hear me. I made a move to cross the road.

Something under me flapped. I noticed the laces on my left feet were undone. The rickshawala was paddling away. I knew I wouldn't catch him unless I rushed across the double lane road, made a stunt over the divider. I looked down at my feet. "should I do the lace and then rush for the rickshaw or should I take the rickshaw and then do the lace". "To be or not to be" my thoughts quoted Hamlet. "Literature runs in my very veins" I snorted over my own humor. Logic agreed to stop the rickshaw first, for it was now gliding away from me. Disgusted, I turned to look at my sneaker for the last time.

Innocently it blinked back at me. "do me up" it said. A mystic force grabbed me. What happened then is still beyond my comprehension. I squatted on the dust and started to tie the loose ends of the lace together.

Like lightening, it was caused as if in a split second's time. At that very moment, I was violently pushed out of my trance. A loud screeching of brakes filled the still morning air and then it ended in a bang. Not more than a yard away, a speeding car had hit a motorcycle. The motorcycle was trying to take an U turn form the cut in the divider when the sumo rammed into it. Though the driver had hit the brakes, the huge vehicle couldn't help but knock the biker off his machine. The motorcycle now lay, dented, a few yards away from where the rider lay holding his leg, screaming.

Next minute, a crowd had gathered around the accident area blocking the guilty and the victim from the view. I have absolutely no idea, from where so many people appeared on the road which till now, lay desolate . The atmosphere was heavy with animation. I could see the rickshaw stand, alone, at a distance from the gathering. For the rickshawala was the first one to reach to the biker's aid. A group of laborers who were heading for work, now stood on their tip toe and shamelessly attempted to peep over the crowd at the accident spot.

I sat motionless on the dust. The loose ends of my red sneaker's laces, held in my hands.

How I ran away

"Go, get yourself a walk" Dad yelled behind me. I ran past the elevator as two red buttons glowed moronically at me. The numbers on the display flashed one by one in descending. It would be another few minutes before it flashed eight. I couldn't wait. Dad's gleaming face at the doorway was killing me.

It was hurting to see, how much he was enjoying the show, that I was giving him.
Angry tears smothered my cold cheeks. I promised him in a bloodcurdling growl, I would not return to him, ever. Fluttering the loose straps of my sandals, I took the stairs. Wanting at every step, to yell out the sobs. Muffling them in the next, as I heard low voices and footsteps from the other flats around me.

Life was light on my nerves. I spent my days, moving pages, surfing through pictures of happy familiar faces with exotic locations in the background, witty status messages, cut copied pasted, messages in my inbox, old friends who have grown up, new ones I had never known, bad bad server, no donuts for you. It is, a world of my own. A world which does not demand humongous efforts from me. Which does not punish me with sarcasm, for my failures. A world which does not care who I am. Instead, makes me fall in love with myself. All I need to do is set up a photoshop tampered profile picture and then bask in hollow compliments.

Life was light on my nerves, until today, when he took the warm blanket of my addiction away from me. Dad was desperate to salvage my soul, that I had signed in blood, to world wide web. I patiently waited for him to come around. I tried my best to negotiate. Then finally broke out in retaliation. What was it? A divine intervention that made it dawn upon my father? I have no idea. All I know is that, today he was suddenly adamant about wrenching me away from my deprecated laptop, my Mephistopheles.

I walked into the cold November night in my cotton pajamas. As I had ended on the last step, the air hit me. I realized, it was a mistake to have stormed out without my jacket. I had also left my cellphone behind. The loose sandals were frantically attempting to escape. I bent down and fastened the Velcro. The blue uniformed security guard eyed me. What was he looking at? Maybe my hair. I had forgotten to tie them. They now fell on my face and shoulders in curls, went haywire in the wind. I knew I could not stand at his gaze for long. Rubbing my wet face with my hands, I stepped into the mist and disappeared from the watchman's view.

The night was silent. Far in the distance I could see the tall, shadowy trees swaying to the breeze. Their leaves rustled in heavy melancholy. A hoot shocked and then, faded in the dark as the owl glided past over me. I halted my pace near the huge park. I had seen this park, always bubble with little excited faces. Today, the park lay as silent as the night, bathed in the Moonshine. I spotted a bench. It seemed to empathize with my loneliness. I walked towards it and rested my warm flesh on the cold iron.
A toad croaked a ballad, in a bush somewhere behind me. Crickets had joined it in chorus. Few stars twinkled gloomily in the sky. I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed my palms over my sleeves. An empty swing across the park was catching up with some rest. A night of tired contemplation was ahead of me.

I shook my head in dejection. Life is so unfair. It sets up challenges and offers us a choice, either to face its monsters bravely or hide our necks in the sand and pretend they are gone. What we fail to notice is the smartness with which life offers us the choices. We can only choose but to face our monsters. For running away from them will only lead us back to them, eventually.
The choice that life offers, is merely an illusion.

I choked. Sitting on the cold, hard bench, I knew, I was trapped. All this while, I had been running in circles. The world which existed in my laptop, where it was so easy for my dreams to come true, was a beautiful mirage I was chasing, with dedication. Now as I sat on the bench, alone and desolate, that mirage was gone and before me stood my life demanding an explanation for its wretched condition. I am a failure. However, there is a little hope. But the mere thought of how much has to be done to salvage that hope, rattled my bones. I didn't want to think anymore then. I wanted to go back to that mirage. But what was the point?

My anger didn't ebb. I was angry with myself. More I thought about my situation, more it bloated.

I looked up towards the huge building. Several square frames were lit by fluorescent light. The breeze collected laughters from them, and bore them down until they vanished in the silence of the night. I curled myself, held my knees together with my hands and buried my chin in them. "So this is how it feels, to be stranded" I thought. Tears crossed my cheeks again and got lost in my pajamas. I felt pathetic.

I wished Mum and Dad would come soon and collect me. Running away from home was not a good idea. My situation was like a bird who had lived in a cage all its life. I knew I couldn't fly. Then what if they never came? I might have been agitated at the state of my life, and stranded, and lonely, but there was no way I was going to give up on the rebellion, I had started back at home. Then again, if they never came to take me back, where will I go? I shivered, when the owl flew past me again. "kick-yourself kick-yourself" it sounded. "I ought to kick myself for the brilliantly stupid idea of running away" I thought.

And it was then I decided to kick myself. The owl was right. I needed to kick. I made a move, got my behinds off the bench, turned and swiftly past the park exit. Moonbeams flooded the lane which was lined on one side by glistening Cars and crouching trees on the other. I walked the length in oblivion. The Moon walked with me.

I had never been out at this hour of the night. I climbed the boundary wall and stood leaning on the wrought iron railing for a long time. The wind was stronger at this height. My hair batted frantically against my face. Far in the distance the road lay silently. The sodium streetlamps, stood on guard, like one eyed cyclops. They hung their heads and brooded over the road.

Before me, lay a vast stretch of the abandoned plot. Up from my balcony, it looked like some old man's bald scalp. But I realized from over the boundary railings, it was not a bald patch, but a dreamland. It was covered in knee high yellow grass, which now shimmered in the Moonlight. Between the shining grass grew, tiny white flowers which had turned their delicate petals towards the Moon, as if waiting to be kissed. A bougainvillea tree stood near the boundary and leaned against the railing like me. I wondered, if my touching the bough will startle the fairies who were fast asleep in the blossoms.

I got down from wall and broke a thin dry branch from the bougainvillea tree. Brandishing it in the air like a sword, I fought a moth, who was rushing home.

Once again I stopped at the park. This time I was tempted to nudge the dozing swing. Life may be unfair. We might be obligated to face our fears. But there is one choice life offers us in all its innocence. Its the choice of how we wished to face our fears. Our fears are no big deal if we chose to face them head on. It felt as if, my life will find its way out, on its own. All I needed to do was, walk.

I kicked the ground and in the next moment I was in the air, while all my worries stood waiting for me somewhere behind. I cherished the moment, as I hung, almost horizontally, in the air. I cherished the moment, for I knew how it felt, minutes ago, when I was on the ground. I cherished the moment because, I knew, what it will be like, when I will be on the ground again.

A chubby man with a pretty woman at his side, approached me from the distance. My happiness knew no bounds. Mum and Dad were smiling menacingly at me. I was hungry, cold and my knee ached from a bruise. I threw some tantrums. Then skipped down the moving swing and walked back towards home, where my dinner was waiting, warm, for me.

I hate Pink

I hate pink. Practically all shades, bright and subtle. I am hating my life these days, less because exams are waiting round the corner and more because my mom and my Gran mom are busy stuffing my room with pink. When we got this house four years back, two of the bedrooms were painted yellow and blue. The third bedroom however, was painted strictly in obedience to my mother's choice for her daughter. She got the tiny corner of the house drowned in pink for me.

I remember, I had objected. I wanted the navy blue room. The colour is strong and dark. But, this barn of cotton candy would have then gone to my brother and he had sarcastically said he would absolutely love being a pussy. Since then i am living a blessed life in my pink room. I have desperately tried to plaster the walls with Metallica posters but it is still, a long way to my salvation. The pink background makes Metallica, look like Backstreet Boys [I wish Metallica members and fans not read this].

You are now wondering, am I one of those pretending-to-be boys. Well, if you are my friend, you would know, I am a girl and am very proud to be one. But If I am so proud a female, then why do I hate pink so much? I had once leisurely flipped through a book called Colours tell who you are. I found it stacked with other self-helps in a dingy little bookstore. It said, the colour pink, is liked by those who constantly desire to assert their femininity. Pink is a Girl colour.

These days with my Gran mom doing all knitting stitching in pink, for my room and my mom buying exotic variety of linen in pink, I am doing a lot of thinking about pink. If I ever have a daughter, I will be firm about not dressing her in pink before she learns a preference for it. When she is old enough to show desire for pink things, then fine, I'll accommodate her. However, while it's my decision, she will wear neutral stuff and live in rooms painted in neutral colours.

But really, why am I so against pink?

The major pink delivery device for little girls is the Barbie doll. As a feminist, I've been trained to hate Barbie morphing little girls' view of what a woman should look like. I don't like what Barbie has done to the female notion of beauty. That bitch seems to have everything. Looks, fans, boyfriend, nice shoes. Everything, as the only things a girl "should" want.

Fifty or so years ago, men and women were split along a definitive line. Women stayed at home, didn't get educated (or got educated as only teachers, secretaries, or nurses), cooked meals, enjoyed love songs, disliked sex, and were physically weak, nurturing, and unassertive. Men went to work, got degrees, drank martinis, played golf, had sex with secretaries, were buff, gruff and aggressive. Women were viewed as second-class citizens, along with everything associated with women.

Now we have had many women blaze the trail towards equality. Women can now be viewed as workers, assertive, athletic, intelligent – all of those things that men were. We've abandoned those "womanly" things because they were associated with the time when women were considered the weaker. Nowadays, if one wants to be a nurse, people ask why she doesn't want to be a doctor – we know that nurses don't make near as much as doctors, though it is a noble career. When she wants to be a stay-at-home mom to nurture her children, we wonder why she's abandoning her career. We say women are getting to be equal citizens, but we still treat traditionally womanly things as abominable

How often do you hear "cry like a girl" or "throw like a girl?" Girls are weak. How often do you see boys or men wear pink? Pink is a girl's color, therefore symbolic of fragility. In female attempt to attain liberty from oppression, we have broken out of every aspect that is tagged feminine. Now if its a good thing or bad, I have absolutely no idea. I love my femininity but not if that tags me as weak.

If a man uses skin care products, gets a manicure, takes a bubble bath, collects teddy bears, enjoys romance movies, and cooks with an apron, he's considered gay. A man who does not lech at women is a gay. A man who earns less than his girl or practically lives on his girl's money is a loser.

Thinking is stunted to categorization and the definition of liberty is not breaking out of this categorization but merely shifting your place within it. A man needs to do all "man things" to be a man. A woman needs to disregard the womanly things to be liberated like a man.

I hate it when I am asked to cook while my brother is asked to book train tickets. The fact that I am not allowed to ride a bike while he is prematurely given driving lessons, makes me hate my driving license. I hate it when they ask me to listen to softer music instead of the screeching guitar solos and drum thrashings. It is then, I hate my pink room.
It is not that I don't want to do the things that I am told to do. I just hate them because they are labelled as things which are not good enough for my brother, for a boy. I just hate being tagged "the inferior". I want to be a girl and succumb to womanly duties and preferences, too. But I don't because, I don't want them to know me as a girl - A delicate, crying, poor-throwing, Barbie-playing, pink-wearing sub-human.

Shakespeare said in one of his plays, "fraility, they name is woman". I would like to think he had said that in sarcasm.

I wonder if its a man problem or a woman problem. Its true we as women get more choices due to this situation sprouting from this stunted definition of liberty. As a kid I could play with cars and air guns as well as my dolls. I can watch both Die Hard and PS I Love You and no one would care. But if a guy has to watch PS I Love You, he will have to wear that she-dragged-me-here-look throughout the movie. People raise their eyebrows at a male nurse but not at a female doctor.

Then again, if Harry Potter was Harriet potter, would he be as famous? Then again, how do we accept the "womanly" things in life? When will we actually decide that playing house, chick flicks, and dolls aren't bad?

Pink is a wretched colour. Let us hate pink for its a wretched colour.

The Dream

This masterpiece marks the origin of that epic journey, undertaken by a great writer, poet, scholar and an intense philosopher. I, wrote this when I was eight years old. Herge's Adventures of Tintin : Explorers on Moon, was the inspiration. I was absolutely smitten with the comic series. There had to be a way I could go to The Moon with Tintin, captain Haddock and Professor Calculus.

Then the idea had struck me, one clear summer morning, as I sat in the bathroom with my head lost in clouds. That sparkling little vision was turned into a rhyme soon, and memorized. Once out of the bathroom, I had written it down in one of the back pages of a notebook Dad had got me, to practice maths in. I remember I had then run to him with the scribble. Dad to this day, is still the first one to read all my compositions. May be some day, he will be the first one to read my first novel. May be some day, I will have written my first novel, and may be some day, many more novels will follow my first novel.

Later that day, I had read the poem to my uncle, when he got home from the market, carrying bulging bags with spinach peeping out of them. I had read it to my Grandmother, who nodded rhythmically with the recitation while she hunched and laboured over the stone spice-grinder in the kitchen. I had then read it to my mother, in a high voice, from outside the bathroom door and she listened to it while she poured water over herself.

I had read it to my brother, who had merely spread his baby limbs on the bed and slept through the poem. His stomach heavy with milk went up and down as if in sync with the melodic lines.

I had read the poem to our maid, who I hardly believed had caught any essence of it. She had blankly smiled at me and was surprized when my recitation ended in so few lines. I might have read Milton's 'Paradise Lost' to her. At least it would have lasted until she had herself full with my lipsy speaking, which she liked so much.

The neighbour's dog had understood the poem better than our maid. It had enthusiastically, appreciated the rhyme, after I had finished. I so wished I could understand whoof language. The regret stays cosy in my heart even today. A writer needs good critics. I had lost on one.

Later, when school commenced after the vacations, I had gathered all my courage and produced the poem to my English teacher. She had read it first from my notebook with some serious expression and then turned and asked me to recite it to the whole class. I had then shamelessly tortured my friends with my recitation which by now I had mastered with all the practice. I now barely needed to look at the notebook. When I had finished, they all cheered. Many of them personally complimented me. I still remember each of those compliments. They were not tainted with any obligations as they often are today, but were presented to my honour in pure admiration.

I remember, next day I was asked to recite the poem in the morning assembly, in front of the entire school. When I had stolen a glance at our principal, I noticed Father D'souza. His grace, in spotless white, angelic robe, was smiling encouragingly at his little Wordsworth. I still remember that smile.

Fourteen long years have passed but it all seems like yesterday. Those few rhyming lines are still etched in my memory. I have written many poems in all these years, but none is as special, as that eight line dreamscape. For it now holds memories. It now glistens with the hope and aspirations of an eight year old, who as she embarked on her journey to eternal literary glory, felt her dream, bubble in her insides. Who, every time she was appreciated with surprised nods, baby snores, echoing applauses, smiles, claps, compliments and whoofs, realised, she was magnanimously blessed by all those, she held, closest.


The Dream

Once I saw a very big rocket,
Suddenly I stood up, with hands in my pocket.

The professor told me to go to The Moon.
I was very happy, to hear it soon.

The rocket was launched and I was in the sky.
I saw Mars and Jupiter, flying and passing by.

Suddenly there was a crash and I shouted and screamed.
And fell down from my bed and realised, it was a dream.

A Stranger On the Table

It happened at half past ten in the morning, on one fresh September Monday. After, a swift walk past the garbage bin which benevolently, without fail, everyday, wishes good morning with its aura of divine fragrance, after a spectacular marathon and acrobatics display to catch one of the killer blue line buses [as the newspapers declare them to be] and after being rigorously tossed about in the Metro, by a crowd of holy souls, We had reached the University at nine, just in time for the class.

When I say 'we', consider two souls, lost in oblivion, as they brave the mesmerizing journey to the campus, in monotony. When I say 'we', one person is I, me, myself. The other is my beautiful partner in crime, my friend, my companion, my co-sufferer, Dhaarna, who successfully attends her classes between sick leaves.

I love my subject. It is for the first time in this masterpiece I am not saying in sarcasm. English Literature has always been my facination, and I have been good at it from the very day I was, perhaps, conceived by my parents. But somehow every morning, the very thought of attending classes leaves me paralysed to the core, with enormous lethargy. It is then I look forward to my pretty Dhaarna's guest appearances. Her mere presence, in class, by my side, pacifies my mind which otherwise is inflamed with indignation at being the only one who was forced to sacrifice her sleep. We enjoyed our nine O'clock class today, as we rested ourselves on rickety wooden chairs and waited impatiently for it to end, being meanwhile scorched with whooping magnitudes of wisdom.

After what seemed a wondrous hundred years, the professor obliged us with his absence, and it was at this half past ten on this fresh September Monday, we sat on our wobbly chairs and gossiped ten million female subjects.

"I am sick of this pimple on my forehead, it sits there all day with its ugly face." I was grumbling as usual. "Use some face pack. Papaya is best y'know, for skin and all." Dhaarna modestly suggested while fiddling with her phone which under her care, by this date had survived many disasters with just a crack on its screen. "Oh Gawd! why is he not calling me. I have been messaging since we arrived here." "Don't worry, He must be sleeping. Hey what excuse did he invent today for bunking by the way?"

"Cheek Bite!"

"hmmm, nice one." And then this line was followed with some giggles. "why doesn't he see a dentist. This is a recycled excuse, things must be serious." "yeah, he said he will see one today. I think the appointment has held him back."
Akhil aka Kurt aka many other cute names bestowed on him by his sweetheart, his admirers, his fellow rockers and some insane aquaintences, is our third. We are Athos, Porthos and the missing musketeer. Swine flu, ongoing discounts at music land, the overflowing metro feeder and the strong sun, often hold him home. Today he had bitten his cheek.

"yaar, I think I will go mad. There is so much to do this year. We haven't got the notes for the classes we bunked last Tuesday. Who do you suggest do we ask for help?" I was sliding into some budding concerns which were expected to bloom into severe headaches by November, with exams round the corner. "No idea. There are so few who have opted for that course. May be I can ask Anu. But can't do that alone this time. You will have to come with me." Dhaarna said with some thought. "Sure." I encouraged.

Her pensive face was slightly struck with disappointment. The concerns which had taken me now had started to cast their spell on her. She turned and stared blankly at the lecturer's desk, with the dilapidated white board in background. Suddenly her expressions changed. Her eyes widened, her lips twitched to make room for an excited smile. "what is that?"

A glass tumbler was on the table today. The microphone crouched over it as if it was dying to kiss the tumbler. the tumbler however stood firmly, as if dismissing the microphone's perverse approaches. It contained a strange flurocent fluid, of a colour which was mostly yellow with a hint of green in it. Its glow pierced its way through the eyes of the onlooker.

"what is that." I repeated her question, perplexed. "Dunno" she replied, her eyes still fixed on our object of facination. "that wasn't there before". The next moment I wished those were not my words. Had that been there before, we would have known what exactly that was. "Do you reckon its a drink?" I asked, so as to hurriedly mask my stupid earlier line.

She was silent, as if she was conversing with the tumbler in telepathy. Then she turned and grinned widely. Jerking her hands in circular motion, she said, "maybe it is radium sherbet, it makes one glow in the dark." This was ulimate humour. The best line of the day. I couldn't help but laugh out loud. The concerns about notes, bunked classes, exams, all then vanished in the cool September air.

"But who is it for. All students of this class are already so bright. Seven question to the professor with such obvious answers today. remember? Sure they don't need it." I said adding on to the joke. "for dumbos like us." She said in equal interest. "Brightening solution. Hey, don't tell me you were actually counting the questions." " I sure was. What do you expect can help me hold on to my sanity while I so desperately wanted to scream?" Another round of giggles, and then it subsided.

"yuks! what colour! Seriously, what do you think it is?" My friend was now probing into the matter. She was no longer joking. I had to help her with all my knowledge. " I once went to Connaut Place you know. There they sell pineapple juice in one shop, near Janpath that is. for five bucks. Its of this colour. Flurocent yellow. I wonder if even pineapple's 'P' exists in the drink."

"Is it tasty?"

"yeah, I had it once. It almost churned my insides out."

"do you think its that drink?"

"No idea yaar, I don't think such a drink is available anywhere here, and who in their right mind will bring one all the way from South Delhi to North campus to place it on the lecturer's desk at the arts faculty?"

"Hell! then what is it?"

I was falling short on my resources. She seemed to be bothered now. That intriguing drink sat motionless, and stared down at us coldly from the lecturer's desk.

"Do you think if it gets spilled on the table, it will burn a hole?" I was now steering the subject away from dangerous waters of understanding into the safety of imagination.
"May be it will. It will perhaps react and give fumes" She seemed to fall for my trick.
"flames? do you think there will be any?" I asked with mock astonishment. "might be", She shrugged.
"I wish I could pour some over Kumar's head. he is such a bore. He will mess up all the four topics he is given and then by the end of the year we will be left soaked to our bones, in tears."
"Good idea".. Giggles ended the conversation.

Suddenly a girl walked past the table. Her slender waist hit the corner. The table gave a loud screech. "Owww" She exclaimed as she massaged the side of her tummy. "Oho" Dhaarna exclaimed and puckered her face in shock. Few people turned from their own conversations and looked around for the source of all the noise. "Are you ok?" A sharp girl voice yelled from somewhere behind us. The hurt student slightly nodded her head and feebly smiled. Pain still hung to her expressions.

With the sudden chaos, we were jolted out from our cosy fantasy. As some people began entering the room in haste, we realised the next class has begun. I stooped to fetch my bag from under the desk. Dhaarna rummaged in her own bag for a while and then bent towards me to whisper in my ear, "do you have an extra pen?" I dug in my bag and found my notebook, a photocopied version of the text and pens for both me and my lovely partner.

As we settled down for the class and finally moved our gaze towards the professor who was now adjusting the microphone to her lip, we noticed the glass tumbler with the yellow liquid.
It was now in animation. Two surfaces now criss-crossed each other as we observed from our chairs. The fluorecent yellow was steady. What danced to rythmic speaking of the, graying lady, was the transparent water inside.

One Summer Afternoon.

As the announcement rang through the empty platform the train smoothly glided and screeched halt. An unruly crowd got down from the train and rushed towards the exit.

It was a summer afternoon. The sun was shining with all its might at the zenith. Duppattas, hair, ties, loose ends of sarees and turbans were fluttering westwards with the hot wind. No one was smiling. No one could have smiled in such a weather. Everything there was, was silent, except for the announcement box which played away its two language recording in monotony.
A dry gloom set on the metro platform as the digital clock above struck two, in angry red, blocklike numbers.

As the doors closed and the train rattled away from the terminus, the crowd hurried down, jamming all stairs and the few escalators that did not have yellow "under maintainence" boards on them. Far in the air conditioned glass boxes, the clerks who, to valourize their corporate worth take pleasure in calling themselves 'metro assistants', sat with their emblems of sophistication hanging from their crisp collars and stretched with boredom. The security guards had lay their AK 47s down to relax with gossips and power naps. An electrician was fiddling in a corner with a passage box and a screwdriver. A bald passenger who had wished to make an enquiry, frowned in his moment's despair. He had wadded his way through the sea of people, to the customer care only to find the office vacant and impotent.

Beautiful women are not rare a sight at the metro station. A girl dressed in a white and pink salwaar kameez was walking down the stairs that faced the deserted customer care. She was tall and fairly young of age, was slim and dusky in her demeanor. Her eyes were heavily lined with kohl and upon her ears dangled long but beautifully crafted pieces of silver metal. Lusturous locks of her long loose hair batted in random, against her face and the light pink dupatta draped stylishly around her, showed ripples, as the weather played in it.

Far in a corner stood one of the metro assistants in vigilance, his hands on his hips. He stood in front of one of the glass boxes and surveyed the crowd as they placed their cards and tokens on the electronic passageways and made their exit. On his face it wasn't hidden that the heat was slowly taking a toll on him. Subconciously he envied his fellow workers who sat in the glass boxes and with determination fought his desire to rip off the piece of his uniform which hanged from his neck, which in the sweltering heat was suffocating him.

He stood there in vigilance, but all that he was really doing was gawking at the girl. Nobody seemed to notice her as she quitely decended the steps. "What a charm." he was thinking to himself, as he stood there lost in his longing for one such woman, to favour him. Cursing in the next moment, that in reality his dream seemed but so very distant.
"I wish I had a chance to talk to her. Look at her, she is ice cream", and he didnot even realise what desires had come across in his perverse subconcious.

Mirculously in the dullness of the afternoon, his luck had heard his sighs and his pleas.
At first he couldn't believe his eyes. Did she actually all of a sudden halt midway on the stairs? She was indeed standing on the stairs, supporting lightly her head with her free hand, as if she would loose her balance and fall. She stood there, in that position with an expression on her lovely face of something that had suddenly dawned upon her. Something unbearable.

He was praying to his stars for something to happen which would give him a chance to talk to her. He had already had the whiff of the mild possibility.

She sat down on the stairs. Unable to hold onto her weakness anymore, she had burried her face in her hands. "This is it". He was triumphant. Luck had granted him more than he had asked for. He wanted a chance to talk to her, but now he could snub her from the little authority that his office had bestowed upon him as a metro assistant. She was here, flouting a rule. The magic wand had given him all the power that her beauty and distance was commanding over him so far.

With his best airs, he walked over to the ailing girl and said, bending over her to the stretch civility allows, " Excuse me, sitting on the stairs is not allowed". There were no fears now. He was the shark. She was the little fish.

But the girl didnot move. She sat there like stone, upon the stairs. He cleared his throat, and this time turning the volume of his authority a little higher, he repeated his sentence. The girl still didnot move.

He was little disturbed and not to mention a little hurt at his self esteem. An anger seemed brew from his wound. This time he tapped her bony shoulder curtly with his index finger and repeated his objection for the third time. Within he shivered with excitement for the matter was now going but little out of hands. She could fling up and start a fight. He secretly wished to create a scene. A quarrel with a beautiful customer is much of a flaunting, more so if you are in for the rule that she is flouting.

But, in answer to his tap, she merely raised her head and stared blankly at him, as if she was clueless where she was and who he is. Her face was lined with tears marks and molten black of the kohl. She was gently crying.

That gaze in her eyes conveyed to his insides, that tremendous pain that she was in. It is difficut to tell whether his humanity or his professionalism provoked him, he tonned himself down and voiced one of the softer lines his training provided to his vocabulary, "can I help you".

Her expressions darkened. She tried to say something to him but her words were drowned in the sudden noise. A shrill siren of the next train rang through the empty platform above.

.. and I apologise to my readers.... This was when I had reached the passageway, as I stood in the line of the exiting passengers. I hurriedly pressed my wallet to the sensor. The impatient mob had began yelling at me, from behind.

The Silent Promise.

Once, in Zenny's bedroom, on a wooden shelf sat two very beautiful toys. One of them was Kaloo, a teddy bear, the fattest, the cudliest, the cutest of them all. His large body was covered with dark fur and he had tiny black twinkling eyes which often complimented his lovingly huge smile.

Beside him sat his best friend, Rainbow. Rainbow had come as a birthday gift to Zenny from her uncle who lived in the city. Zenny had decided to call her Rainbow for her pretty dress which had almost all the colours of a Rainbow.

However, Kaloo thought otherwise. Rainbow was a porcelain doll who had the fairest of complexions and round rosy cheeks. Her luxurious dark hair was tied in two long braids which fell on the front adding to her dress the one colour that was missing. But most beautiful of her were the eyes. Kaloo was often amazed by the sheer variety of emotions they could exhuberate. Rainbow was never without animation on her face. All the time Kaloo noticed her, she was either smiling or blushing, either lost in dreams or her eyes would shine with innocent mischief. Rainbow had come to Kaloo as a blessing in his bland, uneventful life. She was the one who brought him colours for his yellowing canvas. She was one reason Kaloo had, to look forward to each day.

Initially when Rainbow was first brought to the shelf where Kaloo sat, she had been skeptical about the big bear. He was silent and ugly as she thought and made awful noises while he slept. It was on that occasion when one night while dozing on their shelf, Rainbow had a nightmare and she screamed. That made Kaloo jump out of his sleep only to find her falling off the shelf. Kaloo had caught her just in time and comforted her as she sobbed away, her face hidden in his arms. Since then, she had been indebted to Kaloo and they had held each other every night as they slept. Since then and forever, they had been best of friends.

It was summer vacations. Zenny's aunt with her daughter came to spend few days at her sisters. Cherry, Zenny's cousin, who was only but two years younger to Zenny loved to spend her vacations with her cousin. It was always fun as they would play dolls all day, go swimming, picnic their afternoons away under the shade of the tree in the garden. Spending the summer together was a bliss for these young girls as they were so fond of each other.

It had never occured to Cherry but this summer when she came to visit, she found herself completely lost with Kaloo. All summer she had adored Kaloo as he sat majestically on his shelf. On the day she bade goodbye, she sweetly asked Zenny with an embarassed hope, if she would want to part with him. To Zenny however, it came as a mild surprize. She was happy that she could do something for her cousin who was so but nice to her. So Cherry had Kaloo to take him with her home and Kaloo with tears blurring his tiny eyes, bade a sad farewell to his Rainbow and left with Cherry to a new life.

Life at Cherry's was however very different from what Kaloo had expected. Cherry had a large room. Much larger than Zenny's which only accomodated a bed, a study table, a shelf and many books. Cherry's room was vast in stature and as magnificient. It had a large bed in a corner with many coloured quilt making it look more cosy. Large shelves covered the remaining walls and they were brimming with toys. There were several more soft figures like Kaloo himself. Though they were not teddy bears, they were bunnys with long ears and red carrots in their mouths, elephants with cute trunks and white tusks. There were plastic dolls with fair hair and blue eyes. A toy train which could hoot, Cars of many sizes, furry clockwork pups and kittys, Bounce balls, skip ropes, skettles. There was an entire troop of men dressed in red and carrying musical instruments.
On one of the walls, was a large mirror in which Kaloo observed how odd he looked with the new background, but nevertheless Cherry always made sure that he never felt out of place.

Cherry unlike Zenny took immense care to give Kaloo all possible comforts. He was her companion everywhere she went. To the supermarket, to the playground, to the family outings. Sometimes even to lay beside her in bed. She even sneaked him to her school once and Kaloo was amazed by the blackboard, the neatly dressed students and the glossy eyes of the stern looking but kind teacher. With Cherry Kaloo saw the world he had never known. He experienced realms which were but beyond his imagination.

Absorved in his new life, Kaloo never for once thought about what he had left behind. He lived here so happy and content that there was nothing he missed, until the blossoms in the garden began to shed their finery and the sun began to shine mightier than ever. It was time Cherry visited her sister again, and indeed they went back to Zenny's together. Cherry and her mother took the evening train, thus by the time they reached, it was almost bedtime. After supper the girls and Kaloo were tucked in bed, when Kaloo began looking around his old home. Everything there was still the same, Kaloo thought. The bed had not been moved, the table was now piled with a few more books, the shelf still had the exact number of toys. How few they now appeared to Kaloo and how very dusty. Suddenly it dawned on him. Wait a minute, there was a little change. Where was the little doll who should have been sitting on that top shelf? On the top shelf were Rainbow should have been sitting sat a pink piggy bank. Rainbow was gone.

The world seemed to turn in Kaloo's mind and it began making him dizzy. The dizzier he was guiltier he felt. How could he have ever forgotten his little girl. How could he have ever ditched his best friend. She had brought him happiness when he had been sitting on the shelf for years in despair. How could he now let go of her love for a little chance of material mirth. How could he become so selfish.

Kaloo shed tears of bitterness. He cried and cried. For the first time since he had left Zenny's room, he realised the incompleteness of his life. But perhaps it was too late. He tried to think but couldnot in his mind dare to even contemplate what must have happened to Rainbow.

The clock out in the dining hall struck twelve. The girls must be in deep sleep by now, Kaloo thought. He freed himself from Cherry's grasp and softly slid down the bed. There was very little possibility that Rainbow would be around, but kaloo had to take a chance. Else he would have had to stay for the rest of his life regreting his mistake. With enormous hope for the slightest miracle he began walking around the room. He checked under the bed. Lifted the table cloth with great caution, so as to avoid the great pile of books sliding over him, and gazed under the study table. With a heavy heart he peered into the dustbin, praying each time he removed a piece of garbage there. He searched for a long time but with hard luck. Rainbow was nowhere to be found.

Tired, Kaloo sat down on the floor. Cursing himself he held his head in his chubby palms and wept. A gloom began to fall around him. Life would no longer be fun for him he thought. His heart was stinging with severe ache. Suddenly he heard faint sobs. Kaloo first thought his sadness was driving him insane but then, the sobs echoed again through the silent room. Kaloo's heart lept with joy. "Rainbow Rainbow" Kaloo began whispering in the still air. He strained his ears and listened carefully.

While Kaloo was gone, Rainbow spent her days sitting on the shelf heartbroken. She missed him every second the big clock in the dinner hall ticked away. Her face began to wear off all the animation. Her eyes lost their shine and slowly she forgot how she once smiled. one night while she was sleeping, rainbow dreamt of Kaloo and that he was falling in a deep dark pit. She saw herself screaming his name, stretching out her little hands to hold his but alas he fell and went far far away from her. She lost him in the darkness of the pit.

Rainbow had indeed screamed as she felt the nightmare shake her bones. But there was no one to hold her. Since then she had spent her life in the cabinet under the shelf, hidden away from the eyes of Zenny's mother, hidden away from the sun.

She stared strangely in to Kaloo's tear soaked happy face, as if she was trying hard not to believe this was a dream. As Kaloo found her lying in the cabinet he was shocked. There was a large ugly crack on the side of her face. Her fine nose was now bruised flat and a large chunk was missing from her knee and her porcelain dress of many colours. Stuffed away in the cabinet, Rainbow had lost all her charms but very myteriously, her presence in the cabinet gave the dark place a pleasant aura. Kaloo held her in his arms. He wanted to apologise with all his heart but only found his voice was choked in his throat. Rainbow had buried her cracked vanity and her hurt soul in his large furry chest. And Once again, they sat together in the darkness, as silent as the moonbeams were, in the lawn outside.

Howling At The North Pole

I am howling.
All night.
Beyond the figures,
whose colours mingle with the dark.
Beyond the routinely round,
serenly shining, Moon.

I am howling.
At the North Pole.
Where I sit on my mound,
Which is but majestically white.
Where the starry snow flakes,
glide their way through the velvety sky.

I am howling.
But alone.
No one ever sits here with me.
No one I have, to celebrate,
my howling record with.
No one I have,
to put a warm hand around me,
and guard me against the chill.

And, I donot wish to share my mound.
For they would throw me off it, If I do.
I donot wish to share my records.
For they would get the green serpents, If I do.
I donot wish the warmth,
I donot wish to be indebted forever.

I am howling,
and I am happy.
Even if, they care but to stay away,
I am happy, at least they care.


I am cherishing.
This pleasure of calm.
As I blow my lungs with the air,
and howl away this long night.

A king without subjects I am,
Upon my throne.

At the Wide White North Pole.
Stale and Hopeless.

I am getting Lazy.

This is Lame but I just had to upload this. If you have had the E-mail you would know these are Cakes. And If you have had the skills of judging you would know these are of those amazing kinds ... Anyways, Flip back to read my posts .. Cheers!