I feel assaulted

I am not a published eminent author,so I want to be humble about my writing and be appreciative of every one.

And anyway, everyone has a right to write as they like.

But I want to ask the readers, is content more important than style?

I don't like the TV news readers who speaks Hindi with a Bihari accent. It distracts me from what he is saying.

I am able to get the sense of the short news pieces, however they are delivered. They need to appreciate that Twitter is their medium.

An analytical piece delivered badly just goes over my head.

Also, I have a problem which is more about the principle.

I believe too that people must have equal opportunity, but the arrogance of someone who refuses to learn, because it takes too long is irritating- and reminds me of the offspring of eminent people.

I see little children who have taken music lessons for three months, thrice a week, performing on stage - ostensibly to encourage them to learn.

IT PISSES ME OFF!!

The stage performance is the carrot for perfecting the art. If your child is not keen to learn, why must I listen to him croak in the name of music?

Premature babies must be incubated.

Handicapped persons must have equal opportunity, but there has to be a proportionate responsibility too. Would it be okay to have a blind person take a walk in the traffic?

I think when it is someone you love,it is difficult to be reasonable about these decisions.

And when you love yourself so much, it is difficult to have any sense of what others feel.

At this point I feel overwhelming self pity. No one loves me. I don't think I love myself too much.

People can be honest with me, and they are. It's awful to be there.

But I get this sense that I must be considerate. Because?

Yes, so you scratch my back and I scratch yours- and let quality be damned.

Unconditional love!!

Here we come, to mutilate that wonderful phrase, use it abuse it.

There is no plot here

Papa did not frighten me as a child, a very small child.

And then he stopped frightening me from when I was as high as I would get- which was about when I was a teenager.

I wish those years in between had been different.

The other day he said, "No one ever wanted to know who your father really was." He laughed as he said it, but I think he was very sad.

To me Papa has been the centre of any universe he occupied, but that maybe because my life revolves around him.

The reality is that he did have a rather fearful image which he built with great effort- it might have been easy to ask him questions in a less charged atmosphere.

I wonder why I did not feel afraid like the others.

Once his size stopped frightening me, I saw Papa like any motherless child. I had a mother and he did not. I never heard a story about the thriving relationship between the father and son before my mother's arrival in the family. I don't really remember Babbaji, Papa's father. But I have these impressions about him, which I have decided to call memory.

He came to stay with us for a while before he passed away, and it was a miracle of sorts.I was too small really. Around three years old.

I have concluded that Babbaji was worse off than Papa- as far as expression of love went.In Babbaji's days, fathers were not supposed to declare their interest in their children. To show love, women cooked, and men disciplined whoever they could.

"I love you" was reserved for films.

In the home- visible love was an embarrassment. I don't remember any baby talk around me.

"Poor Papa" was my response to his childhood, so what if everyone called him Raja.

Babbaji may have been a little overwhelmed with grandparent-hood. But I hear he liked my mother. She was respectful and caring. It must have helped to have a bridge between him and the son.

Babbaji could read stories from books, and my favourite story was the Russian tale about the cabbage that wanted to have a bath one morning. But by the time the cabbage was undressed, the sun had set.

I have often wondered what happened to the cabbage then? I mean, since it could not have the bath, did it have to put back the clothes ? Did it return for another attempt?
But anyway,I think it was a good story.

Sometimes one cannot get to the destination on time, and there was no mention of the cabbage being devastated.

Papa says he might tell me his story, and I am thinking of that cabbage. I think he has not made up his mind yet about the bath.

He is tentatively standing there, next to the water, testing the temperature and making up his mind.

I am game. I have enough material to write what I want to anyway. But I think I will tell him that it might be better to keep an eye on what I am doing, and if he helps me then he gets to have his say, plus a veto.

I did promise him I would wait till July 2010- but what the hell, I am allowed to surprise him some time, like now?

I am writing, and all he has to do is live to a happy ending.

I'm frightened now

Don't go popping off Papa- I haven't had my fill of you!! And you have promised to live in that family home with Amma for a couple of years at least.

This is a difficult time of the year, and I must make a beginning to get over the fear that grips me around this time. A fear of death. I can not make up mind who I am afraid of losing most. But I do know that I would rather be dead first than lose any more.

The urge to take matters into my own hands is so strong, I need to keep them busy till they cannot do anything wrong. Maybe I should just begin to create an infinity, an act that would keep me so occupied I would forget to be afraid. And as Papa and Amma shift into their new home there is every reason to feel hopeful.

Papa has mailed me this morning- and I should do what he says- relax. I know what will be will be. But I wish I could will some things. A spontaneous expression of love to a child is also something to be examined, analysed. And then let go of. I really see no need here.

I must stop seeking life.

Surely that will take away the fear of losing it.

Adrift

What would “I” be without the others?

As they joined me, I grew. With every departure I was reduced.

There are happy pictures, and there are the images of damage, loss. Reminders of pain, which comes back with an intensity that does not reduce with time. I could try and forget them, throw them away as it were. But the thing is that were I to remove every potential reminder of pain, I would have to be gone too.

For was I not the sharpest knife in my guts?

And I am not ready to begone. Not yet. Not until I know.

What was it that made me twist that knife so? What makes me do it periodically, even now? Some genetic trait, or my own choices? Can I stop? Or is there a pattern that I must accept as the blueprint of my life? Which was written for me, irrevocably as it were?

Although I have been more fortunate than many I know, I have done wonderful things; and yet my mind often seems to get clogged with the rotten-ness of ordinary life.

With the effort required for bare survival, I cannot say that life is easy. But there is a sense of victory in having survived the day. In going to bed safe.

Winning has been an important part of my life- almost an intrinsic one. And to win, it is important to get things right. Mistakes add to work. They are a drain on the limited resources.

But knowing right from wrong is not easy.

I consciously choose to live. Every day.

Not because life is worth it. But death is an unknown.

And what do I have to hold as mine, but the exhilaration - of the here and now. I don't trust anyone except myself to take care of me, because I am not sure I can take care of anyone.

Forgive them I suppose!!

The view under my microscope is beautiful only as long as I do not know what I have kept there.

How do I put that teaspoon of curd into my mouth now? I know it is life giving. I need it. I suppose I must. But hell! It crawls with live ugly creatures which make me want to throw up.

I know that the hair in that comb was part of my head a moment back- but I cannot accept it on my pillow any more. For that matter that poop in the commode was also in my body.

What is revulsion? A state of mind.

And what is acceptance? A matter of the heart. And yet, people advise me to not let my heart rule.

They really do not know what they say and do!!!

Women are under my microscope for now.

have I come full circle too?

प्रिय सुमति

क्षोभ अधिक है, लेकिन दुख जनित है।

बहुत दिनो तक दबा कर रखने ले लिये मजबूर किया तुमने इसीलिये तुमसे बात कम होती जाती है।

मेरी हर बात को तुमने तोड़ मरोड़ कर रख दिया है- हमारी मित्रता कितने दिन ऐसे चलेगी? तुम तो निभा ले जाओगी। लेकिन मैं किसी फूटी बॉटल पर हेमा मालिनी स्टाइल में नाचने के लिये तैयार नहीं- कम कम से कम तुम्हारे मन में बैठे imaginary गब्बर के लिये तो कतई नहीं।

किस लिये इतनी कुरबानियां दे रही हो थोड़ा सोच लो- फलाने जी ने बुरा बोला, तुमने निर्णय लिया कि कभी नहीं बात करोगी।

यार तुम्हारी ससुराल का कुत्ता भी माननीय है, पर यह सारे संसार को अपना घर इस तरह मत बनाओ. सीमा रेखा यूं न हो कि अपने घर का कूड़ा दूसरे के दरवाजे के सामने फेंक दिया और दरवाजा बन्द कर के बैठ गये।

थोड़ा विवेक तुम ही रख लो.

जो अपनी समस्याओं से थके चटे हैं वे दूसरों के लिये क्या कर सकते हैं- वही अादमी पहले पहल कितना भद्र व्यवहार करता था। मेहनती भी था। अब परेशान हो गया है- तो उसकी मदद करो। उसकी जिम्मेदारी किसे दे दी जाये यह सोचने की कोशिश करो।

कोई अागे अाकर बोझ बाँटने वाले हैं नहीं।शायद हमें भी थोड़ा हाथ झाड़ कर खड़े हो जाना चाहिये। मेरे कठोर बोलने पर गालियाँ पड़ती थीं- घर में भी और बाहर भी- इस बार तो सब ठीक चलता गया- तालियां बजी ना? तो तैयारी तो है ना? साबित तो कर दिया!!

मेरी तैयारी है, और मुझे समझने की दूसरों में भी है या उन्हें बनानी होगी।

जो मुझे मिला है जब वह चुक जायेगा तो ही नया कुछ अच्छा होगा। तब तक बीच बीच में गड़बड़ होगी ही। पूर्व जन्म के पाप तो सबके होते हैं यार- मैं बुरा बोलती हूँ तो जो सुनते हैं उनका भी तो कोई प्रारब्ध है? क्यों किसीको मेरी गाली भी मीठी लगती है, और किसीको प्रेम पाश फाँसी का फन्दा? वे भी तो अात्म विवेचन करें।

लेकिन तुम्हारा क्या करें सुमति?

तुम तो भजन में नहीं अातीं कि लोग गाते अच्छा नहीं और मुझे ठीक ढंग से बोलना नहीं अाता इसलिये चुप रहने को कहती हो।
सुमति, तुम्हारा तरीका अच्छा तो है, पर दुनिया अागे बढ़ गई। कम से कम मैं तो बढ़ ही गई- तुम्हारा ही योगदान है। अब तो कबिरा खड़ा बाजार में- जहाँ देखती हूँ बाजार ही तो है- बच्चों को वन्दे मातरम गाने के लिये चाकलेट का प्रलोभन , समन्विता क्लब में अाओ या नहीं ५०/- देने का सुझाव।

मेरा हिसाब थोड़ा अलग है, मैं तो अारती में भी गा कर सोचती हूँ कि मैने अारती के पैसे नहीं दिये तो भगवान समझता है कि मेरा भाव सेवा का है।

फिर भगवान की भी तो कोई जिम्मेदारी है मेरे प्रति कि नहीं? गलत कहती हूँ तो बोलने से रोकता क्यों नहीं?

जिसे अपनी भावना पर विश्वास नहीं, वह चुप रह सकता है- मेरे लिये यह संभव नहीं।

तुम ठीक नहीं कर रहीं - अब तुम्हें भी नहीं बक्शूंगी। :)

अकेले में तुमने मेरा साथ इतना नहीं दिया कि मैं तु्म्हारे सहारे चल सकूँ- अौर अब तुम्हें दोष नहीं देती- जितने साथ की मुझे अावश्यकता है भगवान देता है।

अति हो चली.

सही गलत तो अब सब के सामने तय होगा।

हम तो सड़क पर ही सुरक्षित हैं - कम से कम वहाँ ससुरालिया ढोंग बाजी नहीं होती और गौरा का पीहर नहीं होता- जितना कमाई करेंगे उतना खायेंगे- बाकी भीख है।

मरोगी तो तुम भी हम भी। हमें विश्वास नहीं कि इस सोसायटी में कोई हमारे लिये कुछ करेगा। देखो, तुमने फोन करके अमेरिका में वन्दना की सास की बाबत खबर की- लेकिन समन्विता क्लब में उनके लिये मौन तभी रखा गया जब महीनों बाद मैं अाई.

खुद ही सब कुछ नहीं कर सकता कोई भी। क्लब की मीटिंग तो हुई थीं , जब श्रीमती ढींगरा को श्रद्धांजली नहीं दी गई तो किसकी जिम्मेदारी थी? तुमने उसे चेताया? उसने माफी क्यों नहीं मांगी? सार्वजनिक रूप से? value education में ये जिम्मेदारी नहीं होती क्या?

अगर तुम्हारी अहिंसा से कोई समझ नहीं रहा तो कुछ तो अात्म विवेचन तुम्हें भी करना होगा। गान्धी को भी सतत प्रयत्न करना होता था- तुम तो रोटी पानी में ही लगी रहती हो। लेकिन तुम करो भी क्या। मजबूरी है तुम्हारी। मोरारी बापू को सुनने का काम बहुएं करती हों तो सास को रोटी में लगना ही होता है।

लगे रहो मुन्ना भाई कहती हो!! तुम बहुत चूक रही हो सुमति।

अाशा है कि मुझे गलत साबित करोगी।

सस्नेह

स्मिता

On republic day - from a poet after my own heart!!

REAL GLIMPSE OF AN IMAGINARY BASTAR- by Nidheesh Tyagi

Each day the naxal and the cop wake up alive next to their guns in a rainy Bastar morning find the jungles shrinking the tribal of their extinct as the state clears forests through contractors of development and greed of profiteers..

Forests will thin so much that the naxal and the cop will kill each other with Kalashnikovs and landmines

Geography teachers will lie in their classes about Bastar.
Bastar would see development.
Bastar would be main stream.

After smell of gunfire, burnt flesh, clotted blood are wiped, there would be no evident scenes of crime for witnesses.

No one will sing and dance for the naxal and the jawaan on the live Doordarshan telecast of Republic Day Celebrations, showing a real glimpse of imaginary Bastar at India Gate