Sunday, 15 June 2014

There's a feeling of despair,  a feeling of self doubt,
Is there ever such a feeling as being cared for so much,
That one feels uncared for.

Loved ones push, and push, high pressure and all,
In the hopes of turning me from a coal into a diamond,
One wonders, do they forget,
Not all coal turns to diamond,
Some get crushed, turn into soot,
Trampled and discarded.

The diamonds, they shine on.
The soot, lay on the ground.
Many bemoan the loss.
Few ever asked it, what is it that it wanted to become.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

An essential ingredient in the Metamorphosis to a butterfly

"Papaaaa", screamed the little girl of four as she jumped from, what to her seemed liked a mountain of a bed. Her father, a handsome young man of thirty five, used to her antics simply reached out his arms to 'rescue' her.

Years on, the girl, then a ten year old, swallowed the lump in her throat as she attempted to execute the tear free farewell she had been mentally preparing herself for. But seeing her father walk away, beyond the gates of her boarding school was too much for her. She ran, as fast as her little limbs could go, to hug him just one more time.There was no controlling her tears anymore. And like always, there was her father, to reassure her, with his warm hug and gentle voice, telling her that it would all be okay. And like always, she believed him.

The letters her father wrote to her were not the usual "how are you doing, we are good" kinds that she got from everyone else, instead, his were filled with words of wisdom, of lessons to learn in life.

As the little caterpillar metamorphised into a butterfly, she was guided by the love of her father. It was not merely his reassuring words, it was in seeing his whole life in perspective. He was a police officer of integrity, who believed in changing lives for the better. Wherever he was posted, he would do all he could to make a difference to those around him.

The girl sought to emulate her father in deed and action, to remember the priceless lessons he has taught her over the years. She knew that if she could be half the person he was, she would go far in life.

Years on, as I look into the mirror, I see a daughter who thinks the world of her father, for he has helped her through the ups and downs of her life, he has given to her the wings to pursue the dreams she has dreamed, and the zeal needed to achieve them.

He has been the essential ingredient in her metamorphosis to a young butterfly, with goals to achieve.

I am writing about <a title="#MyRoleModel Activity" href="" target="_blank">#MyRoleModel</a> as a part of the activity by <a title="Gillette India" href="" target="_blank">Gillette India</a> in association with <a href="" target="_blank"></a>.

Sunday, 1 June 2014

The frail old lady in A4 #myRoleModel

When people pass by Room A4 in the Government hospital of Imphal, they will see an old frail lady, surrounded by her closest kin. Weak as she is, she gives all those who visit her, her full attention. She asks each one how they are doing and whether all is well at home.
She greets the doctors and nurses with a smile, thanking them for visiting her.

My grandmother, or Boma as I call her, from the earliest of my memory has always been like this. She has survived it all, be it the Second World War, her being married off to a stranger at the tender age of 12, or raising all of her eight children by herself;  and most importantly she has done it with grace. When I think of role models,  she is the first that comes to mind, with her mind blowing strength and spirit of sacrifice.

Boma has not had the happiest life,  and not a day goes by without me wishing her sorrow and worries would magically disappear. Surely,  a kind hearted person like her doesn't deserve a fraction of all that she has been put through. 

And yet, the way she handles each barrier put in front of her, is a life lesson for all. With her unquestioned faith in God and all that He has in store for her, she has gracefully handled an abusive husband and having to support her ever growing family of three generations.
When I ask her how she does it all, how she's able to smile and live through it all, all she says is that this is her destiny, and she is thankful for all that He has given her. Such is my grandmother,  an epitome of faith and positivity.

It's her belief in me that keeps me motivated, her lifelong dream of seeing me with flying colours that keeps me focused. It is all that she has  been through that makes me strive to give her the life that she deserves.
My grandmother is not just my role model, she is my friend and my guide.

When you pass by Room A4, I ask only this, please don't merely see the frail old lady, but see the victory in the struggle for life she epitomizes.  See the hurdles she has so successfully crossed. See the three generations of human beings she raised, teaching them all the life lessons of grace and humanity, of inner strength and poise.

I am writing about <a title="#MyRoleModel Activity" href="" target="_blank">#MyRoleModel</a> as a part of the activity by <a title="Gillette India" href="" target="_blank">Gillette India</a> in association with <a href="" target="_blank"></a>.

Saturday, 17 May 2014

State of mind.

I had dreams once,
But they withered away.
Spawning slowly but surely,
Squashed they were,
By the soles of ambitious shoes.

The shoes they guide,
To promises of happily ever after,
Opportunities of getting all that's to be gotten.

And yet no one turned around,
While dragging my tired limbs to this utopian land,
'What's it that you wanted, little one.'

Instead all they do is tug and tug,
Mistaking me for a soulless wanderer.
And with each passing step,  my dreams and hopes die a little.
I fear the day all that will be left is an empty cocoon,
Where I flew away to, no one will know not.

Tuesday, 15 April 2014

Caws of the crow

Don't laugh at me, or think that I have become slightly looney,
But of late, I have realised there's beauty in even crows.
That beauty unappreciated by most.
Back where I come from,
The cawing of crows is bad omen,
A sign that death approaches.
Here in Delhi, they seem to command a little bit of indifference.


What it was,
Would never be known.
Was it a reciprocated one,
Or one of the more common,
That of the unrequited sort.

Touched by tragic beauty,
Of the impossibility,
There was a longing,
And a sense of despair.

Song lyrics exchanged,
Each leading to a frantic decoding,
Of words unsaid.
Were words unspoken,
Or was it just a dying man's grasp.
That would remain unknown, undecoded.

Each meeting led to a reawakening,
Of something deep within.
Each awakening hastily suppressed,
Lest it turned the soul into hollowness.

With each glance, a silent goodbye.
And a hope, for clarity.
Kindred spirits we are, they say.
Or is it because of the unknown.
Lest things are unravelled,
And beauty be lost.
Let it stay amidst shadows,
Forever unspoken.

Thursday, 10 April 2014

Where the mind is without fear.. Of encounters of the smelly kind..

The air was stifling, as though someone had sucked up all the air in the atmosphere with a straw and left only a vacuum; sweltering heat ensured that the concrete I walked on roasted my feet through the thin flipflops I was wearing. A typical summer day in Delhi, of which enough poems of anguish are not written about.

Just as I was thinking my day could not get any worse, I crossed a gaggle of people;
And there it was, as I dodged my way past swinging arms, charging torsos and stamping feet, I was greeted with a concoction of odours, the kind that made me wish I owned a nose plug, a face mask, or even, was part of an ad campaign.. You know, one of those ads where the protagonist is armed with a bottle of deodorant and can thereby eliminate all the putrid stinks of the world, and attract the cool chicks and dudes.

Then again, life is not a movie, or an ad campaign; and while I wished for the first time in my life that I was blessed by the Lord with a blocked nose, my nasal parts were functioning just fine, inhaling the worst that mankind has to offer to those with noses.

Sometimes, on days when I feel philosophical, I wonder.. do these people like the rancid odour they emanate, does it make them feel alive? I mean, with an odour comparable to a fermenting, decomposing pile of garbage, surely one would feel the protests of the nasal area..

I wonder, have they ever heard of soaps, the variety of which increases with every passing day, each soap promising a world of celebrities sniffing you up in admiration, of dances under waterfalls, and of bathtubs filled with rose petals. Have they not seen how a single spray of certain deodorants can bring swarms of the bikini models and hunks charging towards you like you're freebies being handed out on christmas day?
Or perhaps, there is a sadistic pleasure to be had in torturing the living creatures of the world, of making people feel like passing out with a single whiff of breeze.

To the living souls of the world, hatched out of eggs with the notion of changing the world and saving the world, Arise and awake. Begin the day with a bath, douse thyselves in perfumes or deodorants; do some good to the world; it's bad enough there is murder, and poverty, and terrorism and god knows what else; in the 21st century, bad odour should not be added to our list of world problems.

I end this with a poem by the Great man himself-

Where the mind is without fear (of encounters of the smelly kind) and the head is held high,
Where fragrances are free, 
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments 
By narrow domestic walls (such as Fragrant people, and Stinky people),
Where words come out from the depth of truth 
Where tireless striving (of soaping and scrubbing) stretches its arms towards perfection 
Where the clear stream of reason (or maybe water) has not lost its way 
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit (of living with the stink),
Where the mind is led forward by thee 
Into ever-widening thought and action (Of knowing when to bathe and clean)
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake...

Note: The above poem has been slightly tweaked to fit in the situation.

Friday, 21 March 2014

The Princess of Kingdom far far away, A 21st century fairytale

(The kingdom's tailors were pretty lousy)
Once upon a time, In a kingdom far far away,
Lived a beautiful princess, untouched by technology.
Her clothes were stitched by the kingdom's tailors,
And shoes hand-crafted by the cobbler who lived by the palace.

One fine day, a dashing nerd driving a Smart car stumbled upon the Kingdom, Armed with his laptop and debit cards.
He fell into a spell of love on seeing the princess,
And decided to rescue her from the drab wardrobe and shoes.

He whipped out his laptop, and guided her vision to the world that lay within,
Needless to say, she was enchanted,
She turned to him and said- Take me away, my knight with shining armour,
Take me away to the world where beauty can be summoned with the click of a mouse.

The young man marvelled at her innocence,
And a feeling of sympathy boiled in him for her deprivement.
How was a naive lass like her to know,
These goods of beauty lay at her beck and call.

All her life she had lived on the blind side,
Unaware of Jabong, Flipkart and Cash-on-Delivery,
Of their Coupons, and bargains, and cashbacks.
A feeling of benovalence took over him,
He swore his princess would never go without these necessities of life again.

And so the princess and her prince,
Lived happily ever after, In their kingdom far far away,
Spending their days shopping together.
You know what they say,
Couples who shop together, stay together,
Forever and always.

The end.

This post is a part of the Shop, only to Save More! Activity by in association with

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

The Smelly and the Fragrant- A documentary

*White Noise*
*Documentary a la Discovery Channel style begins*

Though the species have evolved over decades, and have to an extent learned to create a killer concoction of odours which include some perpetually-on-sale-deodorants, they have still not learned to use the necessities provided by well wishing brands to the best of the other kind's advantage.

And so, both kinds live on, very much aware of the other's existence (unfortunately), separated by the black and white line of good odour and bad odour.
Most of the smelly kind look on, longingly to the Fragrant for they can never understand how the latter could have mastered the use of Water and soap to remain bearable to those who co-exist in their habitat.
Some of the Smellies, however, ignorant beings that they are, remain unaware of the living hazards their existence poses on their neighbours and unfortunate near-and-dears.

*Shot cuts to the other side of the concrete jungle- where people bathe under water falls and fancy showers, refreshed looks on their faces, singing fresh songs; epitomy of happiness and the good life*

The Fragrant live on, drunk on their good fortune (of having discovered, well, good odours); and yet once a while they glance towards their lessers; whisper to themselves #WhatsThatSmellBoss, toss soaps and bucketfulls of water, and what not towards said lessers, but the lesson is often never learned.

Ignorance has proven to not be a bliss, for both the Smelly Kind and the Fragrant Kind (for they possess noses, you know) and there still remains a wistful thinking in the minds of most- that one day, in the near future (very near future preferred), the Smellies will awake and arise to their circumstances.. That they will go in pursuit of water and soap, and use these to procure the basic fundamental right which is guaranteed to all- the Right to a Life, free from bad odour and all.

*Documentary fades out*
*Raccold Water heater advert plays*
*White Noise*