Desert Rose

Some days I hear that voice. The unpretending harmony. But so rare are such days. Most days it is all about the pretentious. Isn’t that proof enough that she’s been missing something. She spends her mornings and nights in faith; submitting every bit of her to that omnipresent power. It is like she waits everyday for her greatest self to come and rescue her. When will she realize that she must go to her? You’re sincerely being nice to us and everyone. When will you be nice to yourself, woman? You breathing thing. That’s how life works – being a home to new life while being a memory to many. I am letting you be because without a shattered heart, you may not find the strength to build a life better that before. Oh but I am not letting you be forever. Let me whisper this into your ears. "You’re worth everything. Loving deeply and living fully. Because you’re here today and alive. That’s all the proof you need."   "It must be possible to s...

Bangalore mornings are on most days worth waking up to. I was out for my run at about 6am and the rays of the early morning sun pierced through a blanket of light fog. The wind was strong on my face and the green around was happy. Sleepy faces walking, jogging and running but most smiled as we crossed one another. The ground had a group of people with their mats laid out and doing yoga. I was not aware about the yoga day though. Later in the morning I was at the bus stop heading for work. The kids were there to catch their school bus and they were carrying mats too. Then the little girl told me it was yoga day. (Yeah. Ignorant me!) Usually on getting on to the bus, I spend about 10 minutes browsing on my phone – then I knew it was yoga day for sure. Thanks to the memes and trolls. Image Source: https://goo.gl/images/psgKUw It was a pleasant morning in the bus to watch all the kids and their parents waiting for their school bus with different colors of yoga mat. T...

It was indeed a long wait - the kind where almost the whole of the rest of the world had watched it. But we had to wait. I mean obviously – we can take item numbers with bizarre lyrics and objectification of women but the real facets – that is worth censoring, isn’t it? *Item number - A song that can be dropped anywhere in the film with no narrative justification. A scantily-clad woman appears, dances to a cheesy song, often with double meaning, and is never seen again. Oh and it is censor board friendly. More like a product placement (female body) to get the cash registers flowing at the box office. Ever since I walked out after watching Lipstick Under my Burkha, various perspectives have been going through my mind. The immediate reaction was all focused on the stalling performance by each artist and the story telling. It always fascinates me how the writers knit a whole lot of characters and experiences that they probably have met along their journey into a structur...

An encounter : An 8th standard girl who is expected to be all smiles and happy during her evening play hours caught my attention as she wasn’t doing the expected. She sat in a corner, fiddling with something and stared. Something about her disturbed me and I managed to befriend her. One day as I stood up to leave, she told me that her mother was strict and had no time to listen to her. And I smiled and assured her that I would listen whenever she needed. As I walked away, I said a prayer that let her not have anything that I fret to tell me. The very next day, as usual, after my work, I caught up with her. It was always more of a monologue. I kept talking about various things and she continued staring with occasional glances. That day when I stood up to say bye, she held my hand and said “I don’t like my father.” My heart sank because I dreaded something of this sort coming up. I held her close and the story she told me, I’d like to keep to myself. She is taken care of today. Oh,...

A year apart they were born. In the same neighborhood they belonged. Being the first to both parents, they were pampered and kept the apple of their eyes. Without a reason, some universal force made them first friends and first sisters to each other. They took their first steps, spoke their first words and sang their first rhymes almost around the same time. The parents and their little girls. Their bright red peddle - cycles with the rabbit face. The Barbie dolls. The alphabet shaped fridge magnets. It was colorful. There were smiles. Only smiles. They prayed to different Gods; Hailed from different towns. But they were girls who learnt to crawl together.  No history, no religion, no society or no ethnicity was going to change that.  Never mind any of it. Years rolled by. But not too many though. The innocence and tenderness was still very much the image the little girls portrayed.  Yet the colorful times happened to be...

I sit and look back to how far I can remember, and he was always there next to me. Every day he helped me grow up, And making me be the best that I can be. I sit and think of what it is now. Do I feel pain? No. Numb I am. I had never before seen so many shades of gray. Is everything well? It kind of is. But is something wrong? Of course it is. I wonder if people around notice… the solitary dash in my eyes. Can you? I sit at my desk and think; What do people do … When that one strong reason in your life weakens a bit? When that one reason that you exist is vulnerable? I don’t know but I know that this bond… It is profound, forever and the most reliable. I walk ahead with so much to look after; with so many leaning on me. As I walk, I know that I will come out of it; with him. Because from the moment a daughter‘s eyes meet her father’s, the two souls instantly become complete.