It is 5.58 am and surely not the sanest hour to go on an esoteric overdrive. But, when has desire to express your mind been a dependent function of time.
And hence I write, inspired by an intriguing 4-hour conversation that’s not only kept me sleepless, but also awakened me to a new tangent of thought.
Is there something called a wrong path? Are right paths with wrong destinations any different?
They would have me believe that it’s not worth walking down either of the two barrels. Is the destination paramount? Does the experience of taking a walk down the wrong lane constitute regret?
Life always gives us two choices – one to subscribe to predictive behaviour, the other to be a rebel. I am a rebel of sorts. I choose to walk in wrong lanes, but not at the risk of trespassing.
Some of the most beautiful lanes have a point of divergence. I am walking down one of those paths, not alone, and it is a fascinating experience. Now, I see a point of divergence; was my path wrong only because it ends in separation.
What about the memories we made in the excursion down the lane? What about the whispers echoed on way to separation, what about those smiles we shared, the compliments we exchanged and the memories we created? Do they get divorced too at the point of inflexion?
Sticking to a path that leads you there is stereotypical, treading a path that leads you somewhere is exploratory. I am an explorer.
“Don’t walk down the wrong path. It’s not worth it!” they say. It’s better to walk down the aisle aware of consequences, than stand stationary at the edge as a preventive gesture. I am in the inertia of motion and I can’t stop walking. Let me trust the momentum to take me the distance.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Thank you September 11, 2001!
There is almost a sepia touch to the memories I have of the day when apocalypse hit America ten years ago. It was a pleasant evening, or so I remember, and my day was winding to a close. The lazy twilight across the horizon was such a misleading precursor to what lay ahead.
I have this uncanny habit of surfing through TV channels at the speed of light. And while that evening was expected to be no different, my dead heat race with TV channels was aborted as I stumbled upon Channel 29 on my TV list – NDTV.
The words were clear, the message was loud. America had been hit by terror, not once but twice in a span of seconds.
The horror sight of two planes crashing into the gigantic towers was there to stay; the wails of those witnessing destruction-in-motion were there to remain; the dance of death around the epicenter of life had been choreographed to haunt us for years.
For once, I’m sure most Americans wouldn’t mind the Alzheimer's syndrome if that’s what it takes to Ctrl+Alt+Del September 11 from their memories.
The sight of men and women freefalling from the twin towers in their miraculous bid to escape death could easily account for the scariest sight ever witnessed by the human eye.
What were they thinking on their flight down the towers to Ground Zero? Were their regrets, were their silent farewells?
In those 10 seconds before gravity did them in, was there a man saying a silent sorry to his wife for cheating on her; was there a woman saying ‘I’m proud of my children’; was there a 20-something whose lips whispered ‘I love you” one last time; was there a fearless sturdy man admitting to himself for the first time ever ‘I am scared’.
Between the top of the tower and the ground below lay a limitless expanse and in that vaccum of infinity, many words must have been said, many tears shed and many smiles broken. And in all of this, there was a larger acceptance – the acknowledgement that death is as much a reality as life is.
For me, the day enhanced the value of life. Now, I’m more aware than ever that what comes across as another day in my life may just be the only other day I have with me.
It’s only a moment you’d take to say sorry; only a moment to say I love you; only a brief second to say Thank you. On September 11, 2001, they had their ‘moments’ in their last flight down the WTC. You and I may have none -- for if climaxes were written according to plan, life would have been way too predictable.
I have this uncanny habit of surfing through TV channels at the speed of light. And while that evening was expected to be no different, my dead heat race with TV channels was aborted as I stumbled upon Channel 29 on my TV list – NDTV.
The words were clear, the message was loud. America had been hit by terror, not once but twice in a span of seconds.
The horror sight of two planes crashing into the gigantic towers was there to stay; the wails of those witnessing destruction-in-motion were there to remain; the dance of death around the epicenter of life had been choreographed to haunt us for years.
For once, I’m sure most Americans wouldn’t mind the Alzheimer's syndrome if that’s what it takes to Ctrl+Alt+Del September 11 from their memories.
The sight of men and women freefalling from the twin towers in their miraculous bid to escape death could easily account for the scariest sight ever witnessed by the human eye.
What were they thinking on their flight down the towers to Ground Zero? Were their regrets, were their silent farewells?
In those 10 seconds before gravity did them in, was there a man saying a silent sorry to his wife for cheating on her; was there a woman saying ‘I’m proud of my children’; was there a 20-something whose lips whispered ‘I love you” one last time; was there a fearless sturdy man admitting to himself for the first time ever ‘I am scared’.
Between the top of the tower and the ground below lay a limitless expanse and in that vaccum of infinity, many words must have been said, many tears shed and many smiles broken. And in all of this, there was a larger acceptance – the acknowledgement that death is as much a reality as life is.
For me, the day enhanced the value of life. Now, I’m more aware than ever that what comes across as another day in my life may just be the only other day I have with me.
It’s only a moment you’d take to say sorry; only a moment to say I love you; only a brief second to say Thank you. On September 11, 2001, they had their ‘moments’ in their last flight down the WTC. You and I may have none -- for if climaxes were written according to plan, life would have been way too predictable.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Tears that will be remembered for years
It’s not that I always engage in a discourse on my life. Too often I have shied away from opening the dark shades that shadow my past. But, you probed deep and gave me no inch to escape.
At a moment when I was supposedly strong, in rhythm and comfortably in my zone, you got me to divulge matters close to my heart. And as I spoke, your lips began to tremble; as I recalled darkness, the light around you turned dim, and when my tears came knocking, your eyes moistened and glistened with emotions. They turned red and you cried, you did what I had been dying to do for ages.
In your tears, I sobbed my tragedies, in them I vented my long-drawn anger; I experienced freedom, I saw relief. Through that twinkle in your tear-laden eyes, you stripped me off my inhibitions and set me free; your weak moment empowered me; your sense of emptiness gave me a rush of fulfillment. I was in a trance, I still am.
Decades later, when this piece is revisited, I hope it reminds us of a certain Saturday when facades were broken and hypocritical walls demolished.
And, for what got you to cry, the question is a mystery for now, and is likely to remain one forever!
At a moment when I was supposedly strong, in rhythm and comfortably in my zone, you got me to divulge matters close to my heart. And as I spoke, your lips began to tremble; as I recalled darkness, the light around you turned dim, and when my tears came knocking, your eyes moistened and glistened with emotions. They turned red and you cried, you did what I had been dying to do for ages.
In your tears, I sobbed my tragedies, in them I vented my long-drawn anger; I experienced freedom, I saw relief. Through that twinkle in your tear-laden eyes, you stripped me off my inhibitions and set me free; your weak moment empowered me; your sense of emptiness gave me a rush of fulfillment. I was in a trance, I still am.
Decades later, when this piece is revisited, I hope it reminds us of a certain Saturday when facades were broken and hypocritical walls demolished.
And, for what got you to cry, the question is a mystery for now, and is likely to remain one forever!
Monday, March 14, 2011
To the 20-somethings I met in Mumbai
Last week, I left a cold Delhi in anticipation of a warmer Mumbai. Away from the chill, my expectations of warmth stemmed from the excitement of meeting my sister after a long time.
There was a job to be done yes, but then there were larger rewards to redeem. Meeting my sister by the Marine Drive was perhaps the high point of the trip. My heart swelled with pride to see how a little girl, shy and scared, whom I left there a year ago, had graduated into a confident world beater. Brave and tall (metaphorically here, she's about 5 ft only :p) she stood strong, yet kept her childlike innocence intact. Meeting her friends, however, turned out to be the most embarrassing of interactions. Knowing that the brother-sister secrets I shared with her were secrets no more accounted for a ripe blush on the cheeks. Jokes notwithstanding, I must confess: those energetic kids made me feel secure and reassured that my little child is in safe hands.
The following day heralded a challenge and I set off for the battlefield early in the morning. And while the battle in its entirety may not merit a mention here, an individual with common aspirations surely does.
A crowd of eight all fighting for oneupmanship -- it was meant to be a warzone, but it ended up being anything but that. And while decibels competed for a higher pitch, a feebler voice stood out. Amid accents of varying degrees, all that I registered was that one voice — devoid of pretence and pompous show.
Hours later, when the entire world around me was jostling to cram that every inch of Indian politics and geography, she stood out – calm, serene, almost unfazed. I chose the serene company over the hustle and bustle and that marked the beginning of the few most momentous hours of the day.
Lunch followed. I masticated the delicious food, but digested something else -- her constant reprimands for being a novice at self-serving food. “You’re funny” was what resonated on the dinner table.
After a hungry stomach wiped clean the plate, it was time to wash hands. Incidentally, Mumbai’s tap ran dry on that day and water was too precious to waste on cleaning hands. “You want to use some wet tissues,” she asked.
And often i'd hear that ignorance is bliss. True to that moment, i was convinced. My lack of knowledge about the purpose and efficiency of the tissues budgeted for some light moments, a wacky mock and a few senseless jokes. And if anything, it only broke the shield of formal discomfort and granted a more informal comfortable texture to the interaction.
They say it's in the lesser striking moments that a person's most striking persona comes through. In the age of wannabes, when people wear faces to fit into groups, there was this individual with zilch pretence. "Watched the King's Speech?" I asked.
"I don't watch Holywood movies!" she replied. Between the question and the answer, there was much more than what was asked and far more than what was told. It is the pride in one's originality that shapes characters and it takes immense confidence to beat the stereotype. Kudos to you! On my scale of 1 to 10, you scored an impressive 9.
Not may people leave a lingering impression and for those few who do, every bit of credit needs to be given. As this write up draws to a close, it leaves massive space for speculation and conjecture. My two cents: Read only as much of what is written here, and not beyond!
And when the tap runs dry the next time, you know what to do. :)
There was a job to be done yes, but then there were larger rewards to redeem. Meeting my sister by the Marine Drive was perhaps the high point of the trip. My heart swelled with pride to see how a little girl, shy and scared, whom I left there a year ago, had graduated into a confident world beater. Brave and tall (metaphorically here, she's about 5 ft only :p) she stood strong, yet kept her childlike innocence intact. Meeting her friends, however, turned out to be the most embarrassing of interactions. Knowing that the brother-sister secrets I shared with her were secrets no more accounted for a ripe blush on the cheeks. Jokes notwithstanding, I must confess: those energetic kids made me feel secure and reassured that my little child is in safe hands.
The following day heralded a challenge and I set off for the battlefield early in the morning. And while the battle in its entirety may not merit a mention here, an individual with common aspirations surely does.
A crowd of eight all fighting for oneupmanship -- it was meant to be a warzone, but it ended up being anything but that. And while decibels competed for a higher pitch, a feebler voice stood out. Amid accents of varying degrees, all that I registered was that one voice — devoid of pretence and pompous show.
Hours later, when the entire world around me was jostling to cram that every inch of Indian politics and geography, she stood out – calm, serene, almost unfazed. I chose the serene company over the hustle and bustle and that marked the beginning of the few most momentous hours of the day.
Lunch followed. I masticated the delicious food, but digested something else -- her constant reprimands for being a novice at self-serving food. “You’re funny” was what resonated on the dinner table.
After a hungry stomach wiped clean the plate, it was time to wash hands. Incidentally, Mumbai’s tap ran dry on that day and water was too precious to waste on cleaning hands. “You want to use some wet tissues,” she asked.
And often i'd hear that ignorance is bliss. True to that moment, i was convinced. My lack of knowledge about the purpose and efficiency of the tissues budgeted for some light moments, a wacky mock and a few senseless jokes. And if anything, it only broke the shield of formal discomfort and granted a more informal comfortable texture to the interaction.
They say it's in the lesser striking moments that a person's most striking persona comes through. In the age of wannabes, when people wear faces to fit into groups, there was this individual with zilch pretence. "Watched the King's Speech?" I asked.
"I don't watch Holywood movies!" she replied. Between the question and the answer, there was much more than what was asked and far more than what was told. It is the pride in one's originality that shapes characters and it takes immense confidence to beat the stereotype. Kudos to you! On my scale of 1 to 10, you scored an impressive 9.
Not may people leave a lingering impression and for those few who do, every bit of credit needs to be given. As this write up draws to a close, it leaves massive space for speculation and conjecture. My two cents: Read only as much of what is written here, and not beyond!
And when the tap runs dry the next time, you know what to do. :)
Friday, February 11, 2011
A writer is dead?
A lot of water has passed under the bridge since the days you inspired my writing. Remember the time when i'd write poetry to woo you or use eloquence to serenade you, days when your smile inspired sonnets after sonnets.
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tainted in Green!
AS Pakistan recovers from one of its worst on-field Test defeats and an even worse on-field loss of credibility, it is time we see the matter from a different perspective. Yes, the tabloids would splash braver editorial expressions than those used earlier – “Pakistan's Darkest Sunday” or “Messy Board Gets Messier” – but can we for a moment introspect on the little-addressed issue here.
Imagine a Mohammad Amir growing up in a non-descript lane of Pakistan: steaming in with a tennis ball in hand and bowling down the stumps with invariable ease, imagine the chant “Hamara Wasim Akram” reverberating every time he knocks down a player's off stump or sends one whizzing past the nose. For a nation that treats cricket with the same devotion as ours, we need to understand the magnitude of frustration expected to creep in -- we are talking of a country endowed with the most prodigious cricketing talent that's there. And I say this with confidence: dig through the annals of cricketing history and name me a better bowler at 18 years than Mr Amir.
But, can you continue to bowl at that fiery pace with a groaning stomach or harbour a cricketing dream in a thatched house. Perhaps yes, but not when players (read bowlers), inferior to you in your neighbouring country (read India) do ads on Amarpali apartments and own plush bungalows with all the state-of-the art facilities. And all those with one-tenth the talent that you have. Grossly unfair, isn't it?
Heard of casting couch? Beautiful girls asked to provide extraneous service, better termed as 'compromise', in order to make it big? Is there a difference between a Mohammad Amir, if proven guilty of match fixing, and a wannabe model who sees a 100 bedrooms with 100 different men before landing a short role onscreen. And why do they – the Amirs, the models and actresses – make the compromise? The tragic reality is: Abundant talent that convinces you that you are destined for greatness, but opportunity, or the lack of it, that evades you till your desperation takes you on the wrong lane.
I have my sympathies for the men in green. And it's not that I condone match-fixing of any kind, because that truly demeans the very spirit of the gentleman's game. But, when you do not have an international match hosted in your country in three years, when you have to depend on the benevolence of an England and Wales Cricket Board to host your 'home' matches, there is not much hope that you are giving the tailormade-for-cricket youngsters.
There can't be a grosser injustice than this: A catch taken by Munaf Patel (and it's almost comical to imagine Munaf as a fielder) in the Indian Premier leage fetches him Rs 1 lakh, but a five wicket-haul taken by Amir and the subsequent man of the match award wins him a poultry Rs 30,000. Cricket in India is not the same as Cricket in Pakistan. Here, a good performance means multi-million dollar endorsements, there a good performance means little in terms of money. Here, cricket pays for your life, there cricket plays with your life, if you decide to depend on your on-field exploits to fund your off-field expenses.
If we eulogised Irfan Pathan when he tamed the ball in the air to trap those LBWs, if we showered commendations on Ishant Sharma when he tailed the ball in and out to show Ricky Ponting the doors in the Perth Test, we could just as well recognise the superaltive talent of the world's best find for a left arm fast bowler. If only our companies had the will and gesture to absorb the talent on that side of the border in their multi-dollar deals, I am sure we would hear little of the kind of darkness we have so naturally come to associate with the men in green.
The world needs Pakistan to keep cricket alive and Pakistan cricket needs the world to keep breathing. Let more Mohammad Amir's take up cricket with an assurance, that if not their own country, a neighbouring country would ensure the returns for their contribution, as Gentlemen, to the Gentlemen's Game.
Imagine a Mohammad Amir growing up in a non-descript lane of Pakistan: steaming in with a tennis ball in hand and bowling down the stumps with invariable ease, imagine the chant “Hamara Wasim Akram” reverberating every time he knocks down a player's off stump or sends one whizzing past the nose. For a nation that treats cricket with the same devotion as ours, we need to understand the magnitude of frustration expected to creep in -- we are talking of a country endowed with the most prodigious cricketing talent that's there. And I say this with confidence: dig through the annals of cricketing history and name me a better bowler at 18 years than Mr Amir.
But, can you continue to bowl at that fiery pace with a groaning stomach or harbour a cricketing dream in a thatched house. Perhaps yes, but not when players (read bowlers), inferior to you in your neighbouring country (read India) do ads on Amarpali apartments and own plush bungalows with all the state-of-the art facilities. And all those with one-tenth the talent that you have. Grossly unfair, isn't it?
Heard of casting couch? Beautiful girls asked to provide extraneous service, better termed as 'compromise', in order to make it big? Is there a difference between a Mohammad Amir, if proven guilty of match fixing, and a wannabe model who sees a 100 bedrooms with 100 different men before landing a short role onscreen. And why do they – the Amirs, the models and actresses – make the compromise? The tragic reality is: Abundant talent that convinces you that you are destined for greatness, but opportunity, or the lack of it, that evades you till your desperation takes you on the wrong lane.
I have my sympathies for the men in green. And it's not that I condone match-fixing of any kind, because that truly demeans the very spirit of the gentleman's game. But, when you do not have an international match hosted in your country in three years, when you have to depend on the benevolence of an England and Wales Cricket Board to host your 'home' matches, there is not much hope that you are giving the tailormade-for-cricket youngsters.
There can't be a grosser injustice than this: A catch taken by Munaf Patel (and it's almost comical to imagine Munaf as a fielder) in the Indian Premier leage fetches him Rs 1 lakh, but a five wicket-haul taken by Amir and the subsequent man of the match award wins him a poultry Rs 30,000. Cricket in India is not the same as Cricket in Pakistan. Here, a good performance means multi-million dollar endorsements, there a good performance means little in terms of money. Here, cricket pays for your life, there cricket plays with your life, if you decide to depend on your on-field exploits to fund your off-field expenses.
If we eulogised Irfan Pathan when he tamed the ball in the air to trap those LBWs, if we showered commendations on Ishant Sharma when he tailed the ball in and out to show Ricky Ponting the doors in the Perth Test, we could just as well recognise the superaltive talent of the world's best find for a left arm fast bowler. If only our companies had the will and gesture to absorb the talent on that side of the border in their multi-dollar deals, I am sure we would hear little of the kind of darkness we have so naturally come to associate with the men in green.
The world needs Pakistan to keep cricket alive and Pakistan cricket needs the world to keep breathing. Let more Mohammad Amir's take up cricket with an assurance, that if not their own country, a neighbouring country would ensure the returns for their contribution, as Gentlemen, to the Gentlemen's Game.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
I love you Maa, you know na!
I love you Maa, you know na!
It is one of those days when I am sitting before a computer with the sole intent of killing time -- staring more at the clock on the bottom right of the screen than using the internet for any eventful purpose. Yes it is just one of those days!
Sitting in this dingy cyber cafe outside Sri Venkateswara College in South campus (where my sister is writing an exam), I have very little on my mind to scribble about. But then, since when have we started depending on the mind to be our ideation chamber? I have a heart too..equally thoughtful, perhaps more so today considering it is just 'one of those days' when a certain lady in everybody's life is remembered with extra special gratitude and warmth.
The 9th of May is indeed a very special day! Celebrate it with hugs, cheers and kisses...and leave no stone unturned in letting that one angel know what she means to you. I also wish I could do something more special than just making a trunk call to say "I love you maa!" It is 'One of those days' I wish I could barter my limited human capabilities with Superman -- say "Up up and Away" and fly the 2,300-odd kms that separates my mother and I.
How I wish I could hug her and let her aging hands hold me with the same protective spirit I had felt 23 years ago when a doctor separated our umbilical connection and placed me on her palms. Maa I know I have gained a bit in size and form, and so if need be, I am ready to be dwarfed if that lets me fit into your lap -- the only place on earth that feels like heaven.
Just your memories maa have made this cyber cafe look so much more bearable now -- in the last 25 minutes that I have spent penning my thoughts about you, I swear I haven’t looked at the bottom-right (clock) of the screen even once. Just your remembrance maa has made this "one of those days" seem so much better..so much more pleasant.
And as I see the greenery outside (very rare in Delhi!), I miss walking the green fields of Golf Links with you. The 'chicken' and meat shop outside this cafe reminds me of my 14-day tryst with 'Chicken' Pox two years ago, when you broke all rules of quarantine to be by my side when others, for their own good (lol!), had deserted me. I miss you to no ends maa..I realy do!!
It's a strange coincidence then that to further my thoughts on this very special day, I reflect on the work of a man who today celebrates his 150th birth anniversary -- one of India's most prodigious sons, Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore.
If I may be forgiven, I have tailored his eternally inspiring piece 'Where The Mind is Without Fear', to put into perspective just what I feel for my mother.
Where Mankind Is Without Tear
WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where love flows free
Where my world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls
Where your words come out from the depth of truth
Where my craving stretches its arms towards you
Where the scream of treason has not found its way
Into your caring habit
Where your life is led forward by me
Into that ever-widening thought and action
Into that priceless lap, my mother, let my mind awake.
Heartfelt prayers and oodles of wishes for all mothers..Happy Mother's Day!! And finally, I look at the bottom right of the screen again. It is time to rush to office. Much love!
PS: The original piece
Where The Mind is Without Fear
WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Rabindranath Tagore
It is one of those days when I am sitting before a computer with the sole intent of killing time -- staring more at the clock on the bottom right of the screen than using the internet for any eventful purpose. Yes it is just one of those days!
Sitting in this dingy cyber cafe outside Sri Venkateswara College in South campus (where my sister is writing an exam), I have very little on my mind to scribble about. But then, since when have we started depending on the mind to be our ideation chamber? I have a heart too..equally thoughtful, perhaps more so today considering it is just 'one of those days' when a certain lady in everybody's life is remembered with extra special gratitude and warmth.
The 9th of May is indeed a very special day! Celebrate it with hugs, cheers and kisses...and leave no stone unturned in letting that one angel know what she means to you. I also wish I could do something more special than just making a trunk call to say "I love you maa!" It is 'One of those days' I wish I could barter my limited human capabilities with Superman -- say "Up up and Away" and fly the 2,300-odd kms that separates my mother and I.
How I wish I could hug her and let her aging hands hold me with the same protective spirit I had felt 23 years ago when a doctor separated our umbilical connection and placed me on her palms. Maa I know I have gained a bit in size and form, and so if need be, I am ready to be dwarfed if that lets me fit into your lap -- the only place on earth that feels like heaven.
Just your memories maa have made this cyber cafe look so much more bearable now -- in the last 25 minutes that I have spent penning my thoughts about you, I swear I haven’t looked at the bottom-right (clock) of the screen even once. Just your remembrance maa has made this "one of those days" seem so much better..so much more pleasant.
And as I see the greenery outside (very rare in Delhi!), I miss walking the green fields of Golf Links with you. The 'chicken' and meat shop outside this cafe reminds me of my 14-day tryst with 'Chicken' Pox two years ago, when you broke all rules of quarantine to be by my side when others, for their own good (lol!), had deserted me. I miss you to no ends maa..I realy do!!
It's a strange coincidence then that to further my thoughts on this very special day, I reflect on the work of a man who today celebrates his 150th birth anniversary -- one of India's most prodigious sons, Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore.
If I may be forgiven, I have tailored his eternally inspiring piece 'Where The Mind is Without Fear', to put into perspective just what I feel for my mother.
Where Mankind Is Without Tear
WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where love flows free
Where my world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls
Where your words come out from the depth of truth
Where my craving stretches its arms towards you
Where the scream of treason has not found its way
Into your caring habit
Where your life is led forward by me
Into that ever-widening thought and action
Into that priceless lap, my mother, let my mind awake.
Heartfelt prayers and oodles of wishes for all mothers..Happy Mother's Day!! And finally, I look at the bottom right of the screen again. It is time to rush to office. Much love!
PS: The original piece
Where The Mind is Without Fear
WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Rabindranath Tagore
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