Something old...

Possession. Not of people but of inanimate things. We all possess a million things since the time we are born up till the time we die. We use, over use, discard and forget. Sometimes buy, never use and then forget. But we never think about what happened to those things or try to dig into their side of the story. This reminds me of the staple autobiography grammar exercises that introduced us to the autobiography of a rupee or a railway platform. Those were like the Johny-Johny's of autobiographies, every one had read them at a certain point in life. They were among the first's to give us an insight into the perspectives of things.

All of us have felt this strange sort of pleasure in unintentionally finding a note in some old book, or even an old book lost for years, a symbolic currency, an old piece of cloth, or a vehicle that we once rode and all those things that were so dear. It some how stimulates immense joy. It is like meeting an old friend that you have been loyal to for long but had to part ways or like a lover that time and space took away from you. It is never about the object that reminds you of an older time, a simpler time and then leads you into an abyss of thought, more thought, a chain of thoughts that begin with the irrelevant thing but soon jumps to How you were then ? What were you doing in life all those years ago ? but about people. People you love or once loved and looking at it reminds you again of how the memories associated with those people are still fresh in your mind and you have completely washed away all the negativity while not even trying to do it. It all comes down to the fact that the times that people generally remember or ever wish to remember are the happy ones. All sad memories are dependent on both time and space and eventually fade. Like Prophet Mohammad said, "reconciliation is the biggest charity" not only to others but to your own selves.

Coming back to the value-less, memory-rich findings. All things that you use from the laptop, to the mobile phone, even to a diary that once was the only "hidden-treasure" you possessed or a pen given by someone you love/d, share a story. They have a story that we share with them. They are constantly a part of our whole. Each used eraser reminds me of a sketch that I once made and clothes well they just remind me that I once did fit in them.  ;) I love the idea of ruins. No wonder the whole world is after antiques which are both historically and culturally loaded. 

The monuments(can't help it) are also the biggest example of the same fact. They remind us of the stories of the ones who owned it and left them for us to make our own stories in them. Have you ever come across a tree that had a very thick bark, thick enough to bar you from being able to hug it ?
I am sure you have. Have you ever thought about all the history that it must have witnessed. In fact it must have seen an undivided India, a tree that is in Pakistan right now could have been planted in India or summers that weren't so hot and winters that didn't lock you inside. Not yet ? Now do, Think about it's memory bank and all the silences that it has maintained. Such is the beauty of old objects and ruins, they are beautiful with all their faded colors and blunt edges. In all their deformities they are still loved an are always dear.

The Unexpected

Today let me tell you all a story of a Hindu and a Muslim. Story telling, a dying occupation ? Let's revive it.

It was a bright summer afternoon in the Capital. They were somewhere in North Delhi. She, along with a few friends came near a small tea-stall on some road near some street in some place in North Delhi. (Names of people, places, spots, roads, etc. are not important!) She, in a long colourful Pakistani kurta, long enough to touch her calves, came and stood at the tea stall, her back faced him. He looked at the beautiful shape her back was forming right in front of his eyes, he looked passingly and then turned to look again. All he could see were dense, long curls covering one of the most shapely backs he had ever seen. He wanted to look more. His eyes followed her as she passed along and finally stood with a bunch of her friends laughing. He had not heard such a ringing laugh before. The voice of a laughter that stayed with him. He wished to look at the face of this beautiful body and his wish was granted. She was so animated, in a moment she is here and now there, meanwhile he stole a glance at that, much desired face.

He saw a forehead that deserved at least a hundred years of praise and then her eyes. Her's were the most beautiful pair of eyes he had ever seen. They were a pair of round almonds pointed at the edges as if carved by a sculptor who had  beautifully clad them with black kohl and decorated the lids with a turquoise glitter. He thought he could look at them forever. Her lips, he thought were how heaven must look like. She wore turquoise earrings. Her hands and feet looked like the clouds. They could disappear the moment you try to touch them. There was something celestial in her beauty. He thought she was magic. She looked like a hyderabadi princess. He had noticed all this about her in a minute's time and now all he wanted was to get to talk to her. But, how ? It was somewhere in the 1980's. You couldn't just go and talk to a girl then. Talking was out of the question so he made the most of his time trying to make eternity pass while he gazed at her from the corner of his eye.

But, they say somethings are meant to be. So was this. She looked towards them and waved. He stood there numb questioning reality for a second on watching her wave in his direction until he realized she knew his friend. She went across to meet the friend who introduced them. They met. She saw him, there was something magnetic. At once she had an urge to talk to him. But didn't. She did not want to seem too forward, or too interested. He was just another guy after all. Just another boy, who had the deepest eyes and the naughtiest smile. He did not look like a good boy. He was one of those who break hearts, or so his appearance said. People who don't take life too seriously, she thought. Yet, there was an inexplicable magnetism in that mischievous smile. But, just another boy. She had noticed him looking at her and being blessed with the heavenly quality of being a woman, in a moment she realized his inclination. The friend urged them to sit for coffee and they all did just that.

On a square table they sat beside each other. She thought he was a Hindu Rajput and he couldn't dare to think of her as anything other than a Hyderabadi Muslim princess. They exchanged names only to find out that all this while they were thinking the exact opposite of each other. She was a Hindu girl and he a Muslim boy. It's funny how looks deceive, they laughed. He kept her engaged in his talks and poetry, somehow everything he said seemed like a sonnet to her. Everyone else disappeared from the palace of warmth they were creating with each passing moment. She began drowning in his eyes, her mind stopped her with the fear of letting her out too soon. Even then, she was drowning and he knew he couldn't ever let her go.She seemed to him as one of those finely groomed ladies that men eye but hardly get. She was a treasure. All he wanted was to continue talking to her. He asked her out on a date for the very next day. For a second, the invitation shocked her but going completely against what her mind and morals said, she agreed.

The very next day, they met again. She saw him sitting on the boundary of the first floor of her college building looking at her, while she talked to her friends, their eyes met and she was so drawn towards him that she dodged the conversation and immediately walked to meet him. They smiled. His smile had posed the question and her smile had given the answer. He asked, "shall we?" and she said "Yes". Since then, there hasn't been a looking back. They are together and in love. Love happened the moment they saw each other and there was a connection, like they had always known each other.


Where is the Hindu Muslim drama? Not all Hindu and Muslim stories have to be tragic. Sometimes love overpowers them all.
                                       
                                           

Breaking through: Living Alone blues

I am Twenty two. I live alone in an apartment in the Capital. As soon as people hear this, they bombard me with questions.Questions concerning my securities, fears of living alone in an apparently carnivorous city like Delhi where men see you as meat, then, they mellow it down to how do I manage my food or 'kill' my time, etc. etc. Thankfully, I face no issues in dealing with any of the above posed problems. In fact, living alone was a very conscious choice. It wasn't the first of course, but, when circumstances lead to it and I moved in an apartment alone, I questioned myself for not having thought about it earlier. Living alone is bliss. More so for people like me who are greedy for their own space and company.

The struggle is not the fear of a paranormal activity, robbery, theft or molestation. The concern arises during times when all I long for is a human company to bring me back into the real world from the parallel world I am then inhabiting or a chain of thoughts that has led me way too astray, into the real. It arises at times when you spend hours sitting in the same position, thinking, and you don't realise the amount of time that passed meanwhile. When a soul shaking idea recurs in your head and all you want is something to protect you from it or at least distract you. And there is no one. It is a fit of loneliness that either brings along restlessness or leaves you dazed. I crave to concentrate all my energies and thoughts in one place but pertaining to my womanly multi tasker mind, I can't. My mind wanders away in thoughts and places that I fear the most. I want to sleep it off but either insomnia hits or my overtly active subconscious keeps a dream picture of the same thought ready to haunt my sleep.

Those moments are horrifying but I HAVE to cope with them on my own. I have to wipe my tears off after an uncontrollable session of crying. When one cries, mostly there is someone to ask them not to but crying alone is a commitment. You know you will cry your heart out and then will have to shut yourself up. But when it's over you know you won't cry again. You learn to wipe your own tears and get back to work. You don't starve yourself too long because there is no one to offer you food or force you to eat. You have to help yourself. You are your own friend, the one who never leaves your side. It's really a fight between the conscious and subconscious. When your fears that reside in your subconscious overrule your stability by entering the conscious mind, you break. If you succeed in holding yourself together and act as a dam against the flowing in depression, you have mastered the art of living alone and if you fail, you will learn soon. Just don't give up.

Living alone makes you strong. It is frightening, challenging, back-breaking and demanding but, it helps you discover yourself. It is an experience, it's like your den, people come and visit but you're the one that lives and rules. If you're a lion/ lioness you will survive and your problems will fear you or become your meal ! And we all know "food" is always welcome, we know we shall finish it !

After all, there is always yellow light(I like yellow more) at the end of the tunnel.