The Blessed Unrest

I found a farewell poem.

It is in times of chaos, that we come to harmonize with ourselves, our aura. Escaping may seem a wiser choice at first because it brings about the gratification of our immediate needs. However, it will be courage and courage itself that will help us face our fallacies. If not so, we will become prey to the claws of our very own souls as they struggle to break free from the confines of a constitution that has now been defiled. The elemental turmoil will lead us to our mirth. Discord will induce accord. The initial unrest will indeed be blessed. 

I came across this exceptionally beautiful poem by Misao Fujimura and I really feel that it is worth a read.

Delicate line between heaven and earth…

The calm of the ages,

all the world’s worth.

Such minuscule measure,

while we think it so grand…

Just five specks of smallness,

This soft quiet land.

So frail and so fleeting,

in the end you will see

Simple dreams were Horatio's philosophy.

For all the truth,

all creation,

all secrets of yore

Can be told in an instant,

by then they’re no more.

Ah, The Unexplainable

All worries unsettled,

heartache unresolved…

All questions unanswered,

with death, shall be solved.

We already teeter,

this sheer cliff so high.

When we fall to corruption,

insecurities die.

To end is to start;

to surrender is to know.

Despair and depression,

together they grow.

Hope shall meet hopeless

when there’s nowhere to go.

Planting An Onion

Growing a plant has its parallels with raising a child.

As part of a biology experiment based on mitotic divisions in cells, we had to collect root tip samples. Our teacher advised us to choose onions for the same. And thus, I set out on this mission with high hopes of obtaining something magical in the end. This could probably be blamed on the fairy tales that we had grown up listening to. The child in me obviously envisioned the enormous plant right out of 'Jack and the Beanstalk'. The Freudian ego dismissed the idea as a silly one immediately, and so I was back on track.

After having removed the outer flaky covering, I pulled off some loose, dead ends and placed the onion on the brim of a glass full of water, so that the water surface just touched the root tips. Anticipating a surprise, I went off to bed extremely excited. In the ensuing weeks, I would go stand next to my little friend talking to it, encouraging it to grow up already. It was science and maybe my motivation that propelled the baby onion which finally grew some roots on the thirteenth day. Not so unlucky after all, right? The florescent green bulbils provided me unforeseen joy. They were exquisite young wonders that rolled unto themselves like a sleeping infant. It was difficult to picture that these shoots belonged to the same plant that would often bring down cooks to tears as they managed to dice onions of all shapes and sizes for the meal being prepared.

My resolve to see this plant mature completely, had been strengthened. A few more shoots sprouted in the days that followed. It was just like seeing a small pink baby blossoming into a playful child.

I observed that the leaves kept growing taller each day. Suddenly it was time for the kid to move out. The onion had to be transplanted, for the glass did not provide enough room for the roots any longer. So we dug up a hole, a new home to be more precise. With a loving pat on the ground close by, I watered my new responsibility. I distinctly remember that sleep seemed a bit more sweeter and much deeper that night.

I made sure that I sprinkled the plant as and when required. Of course the thought of losing the plant to a fate of no water was intolerable or to another miserable prospect - watering it too much. I discovered a different elation as I watched dew drops roll off its leaves on some early morning inspections. I got busy in the upcoming examinations but never forgot to visit the onion plant.

Then one day as I retraced my way back to the garden, I saw the prettiest bud that had ever blossomed. My delight knew no bounds. That bud eventually transformed into a magnificent flower. The only disappointment was that no onions could be reaped. I suppose, the possibility of that expectation was as absurd as the expectation itself.

It has been a long time since then. The flower now rests in a cherished old book of my mum's. She had collected it before it was shed off and I am glad she did. The plant withered in the due course of time. Its remains blended into the very ground that it sprung from. The child had finally returned home. I consider myself fortunate to have become a spectator of this chronicle of a convoluted life from a distance this close.

As for the biology experiment, well, that's a whole other story.

No Words Spoken

Post examination chick-flick overdose can hamper thought processes to a precarious extent.

His eyes are a level above yours. His nose a straight slope that turns upwards slightly when he smiles his brilliant smile. A smile so shy that exposes those perfectly aligned teeth. 

His eyes have the worldly sensuousness of chocolate, and when he smiles at you, they seem to shimmer. They are gentle, almost fairy-like; enchanting like those of a gazelle and you look away. You let his eyes run over you a little. And then you come back to find them, slightly breathless. You realise that you are breathless as well, robbed off your ability to speak. Any words uttered are rendered useless; they don’t seem to make any sense. Not perfect enough for this moment.

And afterwards, you stand there alone with him, amidst the ever so slight drizzle. He puts his coat over your shoulders, forging an everlasting promise to be there for you beyond forever.

The faint fragrance of the coat envelopes you, providing you comfort and warmth, and bringing alive the memories of his soft and melodious voice.

It is in this moment that you feel alive; with him, a little taller than you, a tad expressive but no bolder than you, standing there, the innocent genius, a kind soul.

And that is how the charming conversation ends.

With no words spoken.

Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes

In the battle of blood and brawn, the one with the thirst for blood must always lose.

New Delhi has an old story that is narrated time and time again. With the ongoing changes in the weather, I suppose everyone was getting ready for the wave of sweltering heat that was to hit us in the months ahead. In this land of extremities, thanks to its strategic geographical location, Delhites get to become lab rats for an experiment so callously performed by mother nature. They say constant exposure to a stimulus eventually leads to the development of tolerance. So with wonderful food to aid us during such tumultuous times, we have become used to bearing these conditions the "Delhi way". 

While weather becomes a conversation starter in our everyday lives, we tend to ignore the evil lurking in the shadows. The evil that has evolved and developed at a rate that is "blood-curdling" more than alarming. Dear reader I am talking about these Mutant Ninja Mosquitoes or MNMs, as they will be referred to through the rest of this post.

Each morning as I open the door I expect to step into the ever so slight and pacifying breeze and to the chirping of little birdies. Instead I see a scourge of these MNMs, buzzing around as if they had been polishing their ninja moves while they waited for the enemy. Even if I were to shut the door in the tenth of a second in an effort to prevent their entry into the house, this malicious insect species would find a way to have a few of their comrades infiltrate into our territory. An almost perfect beginning to a brilliant day soiled by an army of miniature vampires.

Just like vampires, they disappear into thin air as the sun shines upon our kind like a blessing. But mind you reader, this joy does not last forever. the few moments of bliss are destroyed mercilessly when the sun subsides and the stars shine in their full glory.

Akin to the real MnMs ( the world famous candy) they may look different from the outside but deep within their diabolic frames rests the same genetic material. The DNA that makes their irritability quotient go off the charts. The DNA with the uncanny ability to make the tyrant detect blood. Even though we are very well aware of the fact that only female mosquitoes bite, I refuse to accept that they are the only ones present in our homes. The males, I presume, are no less a part of the troublemaker brigade.

These pesky attention seekers can cross boundaries incomprehensible to quench their eternal thirst.

Imagine sitting in the most comfortable position you ever sat in; doing your job, minding your own business, totally focused, at peace with yourself, almost close to achieving nirvana and ZOOM comes the horrifying buzz of an MNM. That was my plight. I waved my hands around my head like a crazed fan-girl. I switched on the mosquito repellent with the an evil grin, thinking it would be the end. Thinking it would lead to the successful elimination of the adversary, only to realize that my mini-celebration had hit rock bottom. 

I found not only one, but three more MNMs buzzing in my sacred space. The traditional swatting had lost its charm. I turned the house upside down and dug up the prized bottle of the most pungent and loathsome mosquito spray. I underwent the agony of having to stand and breathe in those noxious fumes as they worked their magic. I could no let any of these little tyrants escape.

My mission was on the brink of attaining success, naturally I was happy. But my plan was smashed to smithereens when I saw those motionless bodies revive. I had an epiphany as the buzzing of translucent wings reverberated throughout the room. This enemy just could not be beaten. A harrowing co existence was the only reality.

Once again we had been beaten by just another species of mutant ninjas.

What She Tells Me

Talking does not do away with the enigma, rather it deepens it further.

She does not like to confer too much. She loves to hear others talk to her.She wants them to speak about the earth that is a mystery to her.

She wants to explore. She spends her time dreaming of skies up high and worlds far away.

She prefers books over movies. She reasons that they let her create.

She loves to sing, dance,  move around. She likes birds for the same reason. She wants wings. Wings that can help her soar over the tallest mountains and away from these boundaries. She wants roots. Roots that will bind her with her beloved, the people she truly admires.

She wants to see the back-lit lanes. She wishes to touch the drifting bits of endless dust that reflect the visual energy. She wants all the flickering lights, tiny specks of fluttering rays. She wants the city glitters that shimmer from a distance. She wants to light a candle on the way of every glinting and bleeping solemn road. She wants to print glowing circuses that linger while she sleeps.

She wants an orchestra of sweeping sounds. She wants tunes that sway like star crossed lovers.

She feels the silken leaves as they murmur and reach out to her. She holds them close to her heart. She does not want to lose them.

She fears faltering. She fears fear itself.

She is seldom seen around. Her appearances are a celebration and existence an inspiration.

She tells me she wants to be a rain drop. She does not mind falling as long as she is not alone.

And rain drops are never alone.

An Awkward Question

It  is better to start a conversation than to remain sitting in awkwardness.

A personal commitment left me with no other option than to commute in the metro on a daily basis.

Frankly speaking, I had this notion that these one hour rides would be mundane and tedious. Yes of course, I had thought of reading or listening to music, but believe me, it just did not work. The frequent stops would make reading a book a “mind-boggling” experience. Mind-boggling, I say because the feeling of nausea that would eventually develop after a fifty-or-so pages was intolerable. The consequences of continuing with the practice were uninviting and repulsive to say the least. Music in loudspeakers was obviously an absolute no-no ; and putting on headphones for an hour? No thank you, I know better. An intact head is much preferred over a stir-fried stew of neurons and cerebrospinal fluid. It was an unfortunate end to two awesome and fantastic possibilities. 

The next measure involved, looking out of the windows, searching for the new, the unseen. The view was often hindered by passengers as everyone squeezed in for space. Looking at the window behind me was, well, uncomfortable. Nevertheless, I got used to the view pretty quickly,  so much so, that I wished different routes could be taken each day. Sadly, that was impractical. 

Another dream had been shattered. I was running out of ideas. 

Edison has famously said that necessity is the mother of invention. In my case, it was my desperation that brought forth my awkward self. A figment that unconsciously pushed me on to ask what I wanted to ask. So I smiled a very innocent smile and asked the lady sitting next to me for a game called – Atlas. For those of you who are not aware of the game, it comprises of a person mentioning the name of any place and the next person having to come up with a place whose name starts with last letter of the previously mentioned place. Yes, not as difficult as it sounds. 

This game was so enthusiastically played in the school bus on rides back home. Thankfully, she agreed. A gesture generated out of politeness, I assumed. A part of me jumped with joy, having conquered this initial obstacle of uncertainty. I fully immersed myself in the game. The lady too, as it turned out, was coming up with quick responses ardently. An uncle prompted me when I got stuck. Another lady came to the rescue of my opponent. In a matter of minutes, the number of players switched from two to three, then five and eight. Whether it was our devotion or zeal that captured others’ attention, I cannot say with confidence. 

However, the fact was that a really humble game had cut across ages and broken the barriers of anonymity. It had urged people to interact and bond over something small yet precious. We all had a great time and got off the train with bright smiles on their faces. The laughter had pumped up each one of us, providing an unequivocal assurance of a great day ahead. 

An awkward question had furnished me with a beautiful answer.

A Yellow Bus

A yellow bus is a store house of joy.

Today morning, the wild and frenzied energy returned to our household.

My brother was busy getting all ready for the first day of a new session with a pretty casual stance. I suppose everyone could hear my mother nagging him to quicken his pace. 

Naturally, the kitchen was the most happening place right then. Pots and pans steamed, the mixer whirred and the toaster would pop up every now and then. The smell of food was heavenly and intoxicating, making it difficult to stay away from the kitchen boundaries. Unfortunately, mumma had made it very clear that the entry for organisms of any kind was absolutely prohibited. Be it us, daddy or anyone else who could muster the courage to interfere with her morning routine. I always wonder where would we be without her? I mean seriously, hats off to mothers all around the world who pack so much love and warmth so very preciously in these lunchboxes that are devoured during recesses.

The dressing table or the bathrooms for that matter were not very far behind. Showers, soaps and shampoos dominated the bathroom. Tousled and tangled hair were set straight. With his bed made and the table organised, my brother finally sat down for breakfast. 

Apart from the ticking clock telling him to hasten, mumma and daddy wished him luck as they left for work. He finally made it to the bus stop in the nick of time and I waved him good bye as the yellow mechanical giant moved to the stop ahead. 

No, I did not get on the bus today. 

And I probably never will, Just like many other batch mates of mine. We will not greet each other with the demented and uncontrolled laughter at school. We will not catch up as if we hadn’t met for an eternity. Nor will we search for our new classroom with great gusto as if it were the famed “One Piece”. We will no longer have the class introductions with our teachers, the interminable morning assemblies, barren classrooms to decorate, confusing time-tables to be copied or duties to be distributed. No we will not have the first day of school ever again.