I had this feeling that i am going to die today. In my imagination i saw death today. There, in those dingy by-lanes of that world, it looked straight in my eyes. I can't say if i was afraid or not. May be i was. May be i was not. But the only thing that crossed my mind was the thought of these two people.
1. Him
2. Maa
There was this crazy sensation that ran through my veins. I found solace by looking at my watch. It saved me from the harsh clutches of this imaginary death.
(I did not write about the third thing that ran down me. It was about what will happen to my blog. )
~*~
By the time the day ended, I have sinned. I pray for strength, peace, and li'l bit of forgiveness. Hope i will be granted at least a small packet of each.
And so like this, footloose emotions and far from organized thoughts tangle forever with words. Not always they mean something. But at sudden burst of moments they mean the world to me. And so like this, today, with random and free-flowing juxtaposition of words, MyWhiteWindow celebrates her glorious sixth anniversary.
Thank you for being an integral part of my journey. Without you all, it would not have been this much memorable and worthwhile.
~*~
Word of the Day is:
Kintsukuroi: (Japanese) "to repair with gold"; the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken.
My blog stands as a witness to my Kintsukuroi moments. Rather it stands as my broken pottery repaired with gold.
The word has been suggested by Sri (Sridevi Datta) who blogs here atBhelpuri Unlimited. Thank you so much Sri.
~*~
Special Mention:
Corinne who blogs here at Everyday Gyan. This year blogging would not have been this much glorious without her efforts and best wishes. In terms of writing and blogging, this has been my best year. Thank you Corry.
P:S:Subinoy, a good friend of mine has gifted my blog her own domain name. So did you guys notice it? But in the process, I have lost all the Facebook likes and g+1 shares. This makes me sad indeed. Please guide me on how can I restore them back.
Love,
Pree
It was not an ordinary day anymore. Within a flash of second something had just changed. Some kind of magic was there in the air that got hold of us to cast its spell on. I felt it; you too. You knew it; I too. Next, the only thing I remember seeing is the flashes of lights even in the darkness around. And I was lost, the moment your trembling lips touched mine.
Amid the hustle and bustle of the chirping and cooing of birds, lingering frail scent of something 'morning' in the air, beads of softest sunlight, and a surprising faint trail of vehicles passing us; suddenly in those mysterious minutes we stole and sealed our moments of togetherness inside an auto that drove us through the bumpy roads of Saket to drop me home.
I wanted it; you too. And we did it.
In those two minutes I saw the moon, the stars and the sun together. I felt the power of the Cosmos within; from me it spreading its wings to you and then finally settling within us.
No kisses afterward could ever recreate the same magic. I still live it in my many memories and imaginations; and in the hearts of my heart the feeling it evokes is something that is beyond my ability to express in words. Words are still not fortunate enough to express these sweet nothings of life and everything that the heart feels and desires.
#Whlist1: That kiss. That very 1st kiss that we shared together. I want to live that for one more time. For real. And for real. I know that certain things can never be recreated and hence there lies the magic of it.
~*~
Madrugada(n) (Spanish):It means the time between midnight and dawn. It simply means early morning/dawn De Madrugada: At dawn. Lethologica: When you can't think of the word for something.
Preferably Non-English words that are untranslatable in English
Let's see, how can I include more varieties.
And in the process to self-discover myself.
Let me know what do you think about my choice of theme for this Seven days of Writing Festival.
Word suggestions are highly welcomed. So com'on bring it on. :)
P.S: This write-up was originally written on 25th July'13. It was just a scribble entry on my phone and I wanted to rewrite it before I post but due to time constraint and lack of creativity I am posting it as it is by making just a minor change to suit it to the theme and title of my post
One of the lines was originally written as 'Amid the hustle and bustle of trails of vehicles passing us, that late evening we stole and...'
In the draft copy the title of the post was Stolen Moments of Togetherness.
I am not able to write anything. My Muse is on leave and even after spending around two hours, I am unable to write. I have one Scintilla in mind which is not letting me to sleep but I guess it is still not the right time for it to take shape in words. But I promise to myself that I am going to do it soon. Unlike before I am not dumping my visions and ideas in the backyard of my heart anymore. Please wish me luck.
I am guilty of not writing my Day 4 post and more guilty of not being able to visit much blogs. My sincere apologies to you all and I promise that I will be visiting your blogs soon. After idling around for months, my life has suddenly become super fast and busy, and this had to happen in the mid of the Festival, sigh!
I am touched and overwhelmed beyond words by seeing the huge response and appreciation my Theme and the posts have received. Now all those sleepless nights I have spent writing them even amid neck-breaking work loads and health issues seems totally worthwhile. I thank each and every one from the bottom of my heart.
I am half asleep already, and my thoughts aren’t in synch with my body but as I don’t want to miss another day, I have decided to go easy on myelf by listing few things about me albeit in my wordy-nerdy style.
1. I am a Bibliophile(n) the lover of books. But off late I am guilty of 積ん読 i.e. Tsundoku (n.)(Japanese) the act of buying books and not reading them and/or letting books pile up unread on shelves or floors or nightstands.
2. I often suffer from Drapetomania: an overwhelming urge to run away. This word has a sad history behind it. It's a term derived in the slave days and was used to describe the "disease" in which the symptoms were "a slave that was addicted to attempting escape or escaping slavery..."
In my case, my heart and mind are always in the need of a holiday. And where does is want to go? of course to misty magical magnanimous mountains.
3. Tucked inside my heart are many Swevens (n) a vision seen in sleep; dream. And strangely all my swevens are related to a book or two I might pen in future. Will I? Who knows. And many if my posts here the the blog are a result of the swevens.
4. I am no doubt a Logastellus(n) a person whose love of words is greater than the knowledge of words. But off late I am turning fast towards Legolepsy,A fascination or obsession with words. And I am going nuts over Eutony, the pleasantness of a word’s sound.
5. I have this Scintilla of a story from one such non-english word. But i am not yet able to give it a shape with my words. Soon soon, pretty soon. Scintilla means a tiny, brilliant flash or spark; a small thing; a barely visible trace.
6. The most beautiful word that I learnt today is Aisling (n) a vision or a dream; an Irish poetic genre where Ireland appears to the poet in the form of a beautiful woman.
7. No matter what I will always believe in Meliorism, the belief that the world gets better; the belief that humans can improve the world. Because we all have Orenda in us i.e. a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to affect change in their own lives. Yes I just have proved this to myself. Yay!!
Phew!! That’s it for today.
Questions of the day,
1. Is there any genre where a country/city/town appears to the poet/writer in the form of a handsome and intelligent man?
2. Share with me your one Velleitie (n) a wish or a powerful desire for something that nonetheless is not or cannot be followed by actions meant to pursue it.
I can see a lot of things related to Dreams and Visions here. A news to me it is. I guess I am on the right track!
P.S: Please pardon mistakes and typos in this post.
And then mamma I was dragged there by my collars. It was a huge room with stars all around. I have never seen so many stars before.
But then baby, don’t you know stars reside only in the sky?
And that’s why I was scared mom, and you know I could even touch them.
Oh! I see! So did not your fingers get burnt?
Umm…. I do not remember that. Did it? But mom, that’s not important.
Ok! My darling, then what is it that’s important? Tell me sweetheart!
You interrupt so much that I tend to forget. Now shhh… and listen to me.
Shhhhhhhh!
There he was…. An alien with horns.
An alien with horns? Eh?
That’s what! A huge pair of horns and blinking red eyes.
But that’s how ghosts look like and not aliens! No?
But mom ghosts don’t keep remotes to close the spaceship's door. Or do they?
So it was some hi-tech ghost you mean, right?
And he had a spaceship. You know mom … lights like this coming out of it. I was scared and I closed my eyes. I wanted to shout. Shout out loud. But before I could, he abducted me. He, the alien. Like it happens in the TV.
And as soon as the audio recorder stopped with the sobbing sound of the child, the parents looked up at the psychiatrist for his much awaited verdict. They were bemused at the story but the slight marks that were present on various body parts of the child had definitely made them worried.
Paracosm it is, the doctor told them. A child’s mind is very imaginative, he continued, and it often lands them in their world of fantasy. As they are too young and innocent, they cannot differentiate between the two worlds. But there is nothing to worry about as with age it eases up.
But what about the body marks, doctor? They are of course not left by some imaginary alien!
Not at all! She must have hurt herself while imagining things. Remember that they cannot differentiate between the two worlds and unfortunately many a time end up hurting themselves. For them their la-la land is for real. Make sure she does not have access to harmful and sharp objects and better I advice you to not leave her alone, lest she harms herself again.
But she is scarred and ends up crying after telling her story? What to do about that?
Hmm, in the next session bring her along. I will......
***
Meanwhile, back at her cousin’s place, li’l Diksha was again abducted by that hi-tech alien. All of five, the poor child could not differentiate between the real stars and the glow-in-the-dark ones. The alien this time took extra care to leave no such marks on her petite body. While she was too scared to even attempt at making a feeble cry, he, his uncle kept on devouring her to satiate his filthy desires. While the khol mixed tears smeared her face, this way it was much easier for him to trample her innocence in the garb of paracosm.
~*~
"A paracosm is a detailed imaginary world, or fantasy world, involving humans and/or animals, or perhaps even fantasy or alien creations. Commonly having its own geography, history, and language, it is an experience that is often developed during childhood and continues over a long period of time: months or even years." Source: Wikipedia
Something suddenly pricks the heart, exactly right there where it happens to carry the feeling called saudade. A surge of indescribable pain and a heavy mist of worthless longings fill the room, surpassing every other feeling that resides there. The heart knows that the reality is different and accepts the harsh veracity that these longings will forever remain futile. The loss is too big to be ever filled by anything else; perhaps too close as well.
Brick by brick, the world turns concrete
Word by word, I still keep you alive
The surge, the pain, and the futile longings
Glints of bliss embedded within.
Misty mornings and the autumn leaves
The golden, the barren; merged in soil
Watered in tears and in silence.
In words, in clutters, and emptiness.
How not to love you; I find it hard
Why to hold on, I know not
Life goes on, over the rail tracks
With box full of memories tugged along
Ways of heart, O! How to comprehend
Tenho saudades tuas, it is the love that remains
~*~
"saudade [saw-oo-da-ji] (Noun) is a Portuguese and Galician word that has no direct translation in English. It is a deep emotional state of nostalgic or deeply melancholic longing for something or someone that was loved and then lost, with the knowledge that it or they might never return; “the love that remains”.
It brings sad and happy feelings all together, sadness for missing and happiness for having experienced the feeling.
In Portuguese,
"Tenho saudades tuas" (European Portuguese) or "Tenho saudades de você" (Brazilian Portuguese), translates as "I have saudade of you" meaning "I miss you", but carries a much stronger tone. In fact, one can have saudade of someone whom one is with, but have some feeling of loss towards the past or the future.
Saudade is seventh most difficult word to translate of all words in all languages and thus is, unsurprisingly, untranslatable.
Interestingly in Brazil, a Suadade Day is celebrated and the official Saudade Day is on January 30" Source: Wikipedia
I have saudade of many things. And I have tried to list seven of them here in this post.
1. My maternal Grandparents: Unfortunately I didn't have the luck to grow up in their laps for certain familial reasons. But whatever time I have spent, were priceless. My heart longs for them, for their love, care, and the innumerable rajkahinis. I wish I had them a li’l more.
2. Bicycle: No matter how big I grow up this acute urge to go to school riding my own Ladybird with books and bunch of flowers in its front basket can never leave my soul alone. My heart cries to realize that I never got this chance to fulfill this dream. This unfulfilled desire follows me relentlessly.
3. Yellow Butterfly: I was very small back then. And there she was fluttering on the floor, the smallish butterfly I have ever seen. Bright yellow in color. My mother and sister woke me up so that I can look at it. I saw and it was an instant love. I don’t know what hit me; I cupped my hands over it, lest it flies away. The yellowish powder from its wings were stuck on my palm. And there she was-DEAD. In my innocence to protect it, I killed it. The guilt remains and unlike that yellow butterfly it refuses to die. I have loved it with all my heart. Now the love and the guilt follow me together.
4. Bayzid: My closest friend from school, who one day left me just like that. Not even a note he left for me. Why? May be someday he will come back to answer.
5. My Diary and that sketchbook: I was never into diary writing. But I had one diary which was filled with scribbling, doodles, and yes stickers and stick-stones. There I had written one epic love letter (Anthony Gonsalvis to her Roopmati), using titles of many Hindi cinemas. It was my top notch piece of fiction letter and as it was written in those days when I had yet not taken up writing, was very close to my heart. Somehow it got leaked and I am proud to say that it made me quite famous in school and even my teachers could not resist smiling while reading it. About my sketchbook, well I can still visualize those strokes of pencils. The one that was my favorite was the one where I had sketched myself. I was sitting on bed with my legs stretched straight and the sketchbook on my lap. From my feet, I started to sketch myself and reached up to my neck and then there was some errand bunch of hair.
I don’t sketch any more. Nor do I decorate the pages of my diary. Sigh!
6. Pets: The love and bond I shared with them have surely surpassed the time. I pray wherever they are, they stay good.
7. Green Crocodile: I was never a doll person, nor did I ever like the extravagant toys. Rather I love small toys that we can find on traffic signals and in small toy-stores. The story dates back to my college days when I had crossed the age of playing with toys. One day my aunt bought this crocodile for his son. But the moment I saw it I knew it was mine. I did not cared a bit about my cousin's feeling and grabbed hold of it. It was meant to be mine forever and it was mine. Green in color; it used to crawl when the key was churned on. While crawling, its mouth used to open and close in perfect rhythm. The handle of the key was also in the shape of a crocodile; a smallish green crocodile. Then on one day, I found it broken. Needless to say my heart broke too.
I found the same toy in Haridwar, but my mom didn't buy it for me, saying that she will buy it from the next shop as the quality here is tad bad. Next, in no toy shop it was available. Few months back, I found a similar toy which was being sold in the traffic light area of Chirag Delhi. It was big in size and was multicolored. Again I Could not buy it.
Till date my heart and my eyes search for that green crocodile in every toy store. No luck yet. Sigh!
This list is in-exhaustive and I chose not to write about certain people and things.
I am sorry for a very long post again. I could not control my feelings. Who knew that this festival and this theme will let me discover myself?
Today I heartily celebrated my 1st official Saudade Day.
~*~
Now dear readers, if you are still reading, do tell me what do you have saudade of?May you all celebrate a bit of your Saudade Day too, right here in MyWhiteWindow
Let me know what do you think about my choice of theme for this Seven days of Writing Festival.
Word suggestions are highly welcomed. So com'on bring it on. :)
Look what I found while researching for Saudade, a beautiful collection of songs from an album called Saudade. Listen to them here at http://www.stereomood.com/activity/saudade#
"Meraki [may-rah-kee] (adjective)
This is a word that modern Greeks often use to describe doing something with soul, creativity, or love — when you put “something of yourself” into what you’re doing, whatever it may be. Meraki is often used to describe cooking or preparing a meal, but it can also mean arranging a room, choosing decorations, or setting an elegant table.
There is no English equivalent for this word. Meraki is, unsurprisingly, untranslatable."
May-rah-kee! Did I pronounce it right? I love it how my head swings left and right while I sing-song the Greek word may-rah-kee.
One fine day, I found this beautiful word on Facebook and it took me no second thought to share it on my Timeline. As fast I shared it, I moved ahead with other things on Facebook. In my daily life I easily get bored and then head towards all those thoughts that suggest me how I am wasting my life by living a pretty mundane and monotonous life. I am a big time procrastinator and the after-effects of it kill me bit by bit every day. Past couple of months were difficult. What made it worst is the fact that I was insecure and I even lost my sleep in the hands of regular nightmares.
A mail from him was waiting in my inbox. It was just a line or two and written in response to one of the posts I have shared on my Timeline. Initially I was upset to find such a smallish mail as he was writing to me after a gap of two days.
You might have shared it just like that but subconsciously you must be aware that this is how you are. But let me reiterate it to you in loud and bold letters....this is how you are...this is how you love to do things for those whom you love... this is how you do things that are close to your heart... you put all your heart, soul, creativity, and love. In a nutshell you put ‘something of yourself’ in the things you do... and this is exactly how you love me too. Yes I am talking about the word MERAKI and for me the symbol of Meraki is no one but you... yes you, my Greek Goddess. :D
Rest all is fine and the ship ain't rolling no more. :)
It would be an understatement to say that the mail made me happy. It was much beyond the thing called happiness. I wondered is it really true? I happen to be a person who highly underestimates herself and thus is harsh on herself most of the time. With a mug of hot lemon tea spiced with cinnamon, I realized that may be he has exaggerated the whole thing but whatever he has written holds ample amount of truth too.
I am just an ordinary girl with some above average talents but yes, I realized that I do them exactly the way he has mentioned. I am by nature an introvert and my social circle is very limited. But those I love, I love with all my heart and soul. Yes, it is true. And it made me feel at the top of the world.
I have tried to list few things that I do with Meraki. There are many more but the top few are here in the list below:
Well can you guess them by looking at the pictures???
1. Writing: I am sure the day I and my writings are no longer together, I would be as good as a dead body, may be worse than that. I know, I can’t churn write-ups after write-up yet and that I frequently take long breaks, and yes truth be told that I procrastinate a lot too; but writing makes me what I am, even though my writing abilities are very mediocre and it is seldom that I am happy/satisfied with them. I don’t know who and how I will be if I were never this close to weaving words. I don’t even want to imagine a life like that. Along with the way I love my people, if there is something else where I am true to myself and pour my heart and soul in to it, it has to be Writing. My words reflect the real me. The things that even I am not aware about myself are weaved through my words. I am thankful to God for blessing me with the ability to write, to write with Meraki.
2. If you are my person, I will love you and be there for you in every thick and thin. I would cook for you, weave words for you, and yes my gifts to you will always contain something handmade. I know there are few people who can vouch for it. And from them only I have learnt that, I do take time to come close, but once you are my person, love and compassion come easy to me. Meraki it is. Isn’t it?
3. Cooking: I seldom cook. But when I do, I put my heart into it. It is pure ‘meraki’ when I cook for my dad. And it would be so when I would occasionally cook for him in future.
4. Paper and paper works and of course colours: I am a passionate Quiller. I love the fact that just by rolling a strip of paper, how wonderfully I can let my creativity loose. If I am found quilling, it is sure that I must have lost track of time and place and nothing could make me come out of my reverie till I finish doing it. Just like me he is totally into origami and I too would pick it up soon.
5. Peepal leaf paintings: I got hooked to it when I was in high school and since then I am mad about it. I learnt it on my own. The extremely pungent procedure can never drive me away, even when my whole family is ready to kill me.
These handmade things then form a formidable part of my gift packages to the people I love. If you are my person, sooner or later you would receive something hand made from me along with few written words.
6. Losing myself in the lap of hill-station: I do that with elan and with complete meraki. I wish that one fine day I will have my very own wooden cottage in the solitude of misty nature, green valleys, lines of pine tress, cascading waterfalls, sky full of twinkling stars, color splashed sunrise and sunset, piping hot soups, and majestic snow-capped mountains.
7. The way I love my Soulmate: No amount of words, exquisite or plain, can never to justice to this and hence I surrender.
Meraki! This is how I share myself with myself and to those whom I love and to my readers via my blog. I leave a piece of myself behind with the hope that its presence will be forever there for you to feel. I want to linger in your good memories and wish to be your smile in your dry and rainy days. This is how I want to live on.
"It is his memories that help me feel his presence. And the sublime fragrances of those memories make me fall in love with him again and again." , Dated: 7th Jan, 1985
Bluish ink was strewn on one of the pages of your old tattered diary. Was it your attempt to demolish the monument of some of your memories? Word by word you must have raised a castle with wide open windows and it took you just a splash of some ink to bury it in the coffin of time forever. A pale green dried peepal leaf rests on it. A tombstone may be.
The ink and the peepal leaf were both engulfed in the mist of time. Time! I have always strongly felt that time has its very own fragrance which seems different to different beings. How the combined fragrance of them all can always teleport me to an era where I was a fountain pen connoisseur and my nights were the passionate strokes of colors on the mesh of peepal leaves!
You, who have not mentioned your name in any of the pages, how dare you remind me of someone who is long gone, leaving behind the box full of fountain pens and tethered peepal leaf paintings to stay with? I can smell the fragrances of your nameless existence in these dried, tethered, and old ink blots, words, pages, and this leaf. Please don’t take me to down memory lane anymore. Sometimes it hurts too much.
On a page dated 31st august, 1985, you have written how much in love you were with this corner of your house.
“This corner of the puja ghar is my own li’l world. Today, I hand painted it with my amateurish childlike strokes to give it an aesthetic look. Ochre yellow, black, and hints of red. Maa dismissed it at her very first glance. Said, I just ruined the whole look. Oh! How my heart sank. Poor Maa, she doesn't know a thing about Modern Day Art. Ok, See, I just got this small table from the store room. So from now on it is going to be your new King-size bed. Don’t you worry; I will pamper you lavishly with new fountain pen, leaves, and loads of flowers. Do you want me to paint your case as well, dear Diary?”
Well, I love the way you write. Nothing so great about it... but its simplicity kind of connects me to you. I wish I could touch you. I wish I could smell you... from beyond the pages of your diary. But what is it with the usage of the words ‘amateur’ and ‘childlike’ together? I am pretty sure, you, girl, are in love with redundancy. Yes, pretty much just like me.
Ironically, your ‘corner’ which was once a part of your pujaghar, is now an ignored corner of my store room. I have simply stashed every box of my memories up there. Locked, per say. Your Modern(Day) Art still exists, deep buried in the layers of dust and cobwebs. Your diary’s king-size bed is now dilapidated beyond recognition. Will you be fine, if I tell you that now in place of your diary, her small antique kerosene lamp is rusting on it? I just don’t go there anymore. The leftover kerosene smell invokes dizziness in me. It’s lethal as it frantically makes me search for her. One fine day she just disappeared. Just like that. Tell me please; is it really this easy to leave everything behind... just to be with the clouds? It’s dangerously haunting. And I have just caged them in that room. I am sorry, if I have hurt you. But that’s how your words make me feel sometimes. Your words lack the basic quality to comfort a rugged soul. I am pretty sure you were a dangerous woman, just like her.
Hmmm... so, you girl, are an ardent lover of mogra flowers. How uncanny! The more I explore your diary, the more I am scared. People associate the fragrance of it with love, romance, and piousness. I, for that matter have always been allergic to it. But, you know, I can’t deny that even today when the vine in my balcony blossoms and the fragrance fills the air, her presence engulfs me in a very sweet way. It reminds me of how passionately we have been in love with each other. I guess we still are. It’s just that there are layers of unknown worlds in between that separate the two of us and that we both simply cannot cross it. How much I want to; perhaps she as well. But it does not matter.
Well, you! Girl, I just want to say sorry to you for invading your personal diary. It was my serendipity to be able to put my hands on this treasure trove. The rag-picker, I am sure would not have valued it ever and so please be sure that I will take care of it till my last breath.
Today I am in mood of sheer honesty and hence this is what I want to tell you,
It is your diary, girl, which made me live through her memories. And the sublime fragrances of your memories tied together in words make me fall in love with her again and again. My tears are a proof of that. And my occasional flash of feeble smiles...well, I just don’t know what meaning to give them. I wonder if I am nearing towards her.
Today is just an ordinary day. Nothing special... as far as I dig deep. Still felt like wearing this mauve colored shirt. May be I will prepare some favorite green tea with loads of ginger and black pepper. She used to pour in a generous dash of lemon juice in it. When she was around, I never liked it a bit. But with the passage of time, her absence made me to admire the tangy taste of it. Strange, no? I know it is strange. That is the irony of human life. Huh!
You know, the truth is I still don’t like the taste of it. What! you just called me a lier? Listen then, It is the fragrance of it.... of ginger, lemon, black pepper, sugar, and green tea- all mingled together to raise a heavenly concoction, that I am mad for. Actually we first dated over cups of such a heavenly green tea on the bylanes of Saket, Delhi.
While she gulped cups after cups of it, I, for your information, dived deep in the lethal aroma of her.
One more thing, girl, there is a secret for why I wore this mauve colored favourite shirt of hers today. And I guess you deserve to know it. I just read one of the pages of your diary. And can’t get those lines out of my mind. Perhaps I don’t want it to. Yes, it soothed me in a very pensive way.
Thank you, Nameless Girl.
तेरी कमीज़ की सिलवटों मे आज भी 'मोहब्बत' बसी है
पलको में छिपाए जूस्तज़ु कई, हम उसमे 'महका' करते है
Mansi and I share a bond that got built over the bridges of words. She is one rare writer whom I adore to the core of my heart. What makes her so special to me is the way i feel connected to her via her words. Every time i read her i am in awe of her and what's more mysterious is the truth that i feel as if she is speaking my heart albeit in a much better and beautiful way. She is my darling and it's a pity that like my other good friend Mithe, she too seldom writes. Oh! dear girls, tell me what do I do to make you girls write?
Mansi blogs here at 'Let your heart do some talking...' Please visit and read her blog and I am sure you would be happily lost in her beautiful world of myriad thoughts.
And now, here comes my dearest Mansi to grace my White Window! Thank you dearest. :)
From Mansi's pen,
So here's my version ...Dont know you will like it or not....
The White Window reminds me of all those things that come to my mind when I think of a love-struck 'Heart'-emotions- feelings of love, compassion, longings, creative imagination, of fantasies, in a vividly captured world of some of the best moments of introspection one could have. As I am a fan of emotions too, of those random feelings which sway away, hiding from me, leaving me as fast as they could, but end up becoming part of my scribbles, I like how the White Window opens itself every time to a self confessed tale of a believer, who holds strong to trust, love and the smallest tid-bits which make life beautiful. Haven't been able to catch up lately, I wish Preety a lot of success and love in everything she touches.
Now, as I have the honor of writing a guest post ( I seriously don't have a clue how did I get here), I would love to write randomly as always. About anything that will cross my mind by the time I finish this sentence.
So, it would be some lines about a girl looking at the moon, peeking through her White Window.
No luck with the book, I heave a sigh and get up the chair,
A gaze at the clock, I put on my sleep robe, comb my hair.
Switch off the lights, it’s time to think off the day today,
A quick gaze at the moon tonight, and my thoughts vanish away.
It’s still not dark with those lights off,
while the moonlit sky over through my window shows off.
A staircase unfolds over my window, probably it's time,
The moon smiles while I blush like the Cinderella of a nursery rhyme.
It’s a whole new world, all bright and blue,
A dew drop on my window moves, and I take the clue.
As I climb, I feel so different, so new,
Love is what I feel inside,
as I take the dream flight.
The moon blinks and so do I,
Still staring out, I blink and smile, waving goodbye.
And I now know, what I was missing all day long,
A smile and for the while, my dreams tucked all along.
"Once you land here, you can feel that
everything smells of rain. I come here only to get drenched in this pure rain.
A new Me is born whenever…"
"Shhhh…Let the clouds of pain that are
hovering in your eyes take the shape of rain today.
Let you say, a true me is born today."
~*~
P.S: I am again hit by the writer's as well as reader's block and hence I am M.I.A. Dug this very old write-up ( may be about 4 yrs old ) out of my draft folder and decided to finally post it because I can't give it a miss when it is a prompt by Vidya on Write Tribe.
Vidya has written an amazing 55 Fiction Tutorial there on Write Tribe. And do not you dare to miss it.
Atrocities of human mind know no bound. It is really unfortunate to see that we humans have become sadists and thus derive some goddamn pleasure by inflicting pain upon others, be it on animals or on our fellow human beings. Else how could we, the self considered superior race can label the people of some other communities as Born Criminals?
India is surely a strange place where strangely a man’s value is judged by the caste he is born into. It does not matter how much of talent, caliber, and humanity you posses, what matters is your caste to decide your virtues.
As if the caste system was not enough, here, we have a large number of human communities, who belong to the lower ends of the caste hierarchy, labelled as Born Criminals.
These people belong to the Nomadic and De-notified Tribes of India. However, till date, barring only a handful, most of them lead a life where they are denied of every basic right and that includes Dignity too.
But really, can criminality ever be a hereditary problem?
What was started by British government, visibly for their own benefits, we the Indians are successfully but stupidly carrying it with us as a legacy. Such a shame!
A li’l Google Search told me that British came up with the Criminal Tribes Act in 1871 because,
1) They have participated in the Revolt of 1857 and many tribal chiefs were labelled traitors who through their acts of rebellion caused constant trouble to the British Government. (Source: Wikipedia)
2) Their way of living did not fall under the British notion of civilized living. (Source: Wikipedia)
Cruel isn't it? But more than the British, we mainstream Indians are cruel who blindly believed that their own brothers and sisters are Born Criminals. No wonder that the infamous Divide & Rule policy actually worked on us. It did not take us much time to forget how they have been a part of us and how they had made our life easier and kept us entertained.
Today we have the easy access to modern means and amenities and the source of our entertainment too has gone hi-tech, but have we truly forgotten that there were days when we were dependent on them?
Even today I can see many nomadic settlements over the pavements, where people go to buy cheap but reliable and sturdy utensils, tools, simple machines, home decor items, and even BBQ Grillers. But the way they lead their lives is something very hard to imagine. Life on the move and over the pavements is very vulnerable and hard. They have nothing to make their lives even a wee-bit hygienic. It gives me shiver to think that how unsafe their women and children are, especially the young girls.
We have snatched their livelihoods but have forgotten or better say have not cared to provide them an alternate option so that they can earn at least the bare minimum to feed and cover themselves up. It is disheartening to know that days after day they go without food. We should be ashamed that it is because of us that they have succumbed to stealing, begging, and even prostitution.
We can shout at the top of our voices discussing about how pathetic a certain tribe is where wives and daughters are thrown into prostitution by their own men. I remember reading a related article in a newspaper sometime back. Like everybody else I too was cursing the men without even bothering to look deep in to the matter. Is not it important to know why this is happening and how we can eradicate it?
Even after 67 years of independence, these people have not been accepted by us. Such is the plight that they are not even recognized by the government.
In Mittal Patel’s own words,
"More than four million nomads reside in Gujarat and approximately 60 million exist in the country. It was shocking to find there was no data or information available on them even in the government departments. Though the government is aware of certain communities, to avail of the benefits, people are supposed to submit a number of documents. These, unfortunately, they did not possess."
Mittal Patel, a young journalist, is no less than a God send to these unfortunate nomads and de-notified tribes. She has gone against the government, the bureaucracy, the caste system, and yes, of course a society that has many in-ethical values and norms deeply rooted in it.
It is because of her that today I know how badly these people have been treated by us for like ages. I was completely unaware of their life and their plight and I feel so ashamed of myself now. Had I not gone through her inspiring TedTalk I would have never known how millions of people in my own country are denied of their every right. What is more shocking and heart breaking is the fact that not only their livelihood has been snatched away from them but in reality, for the Government, they do not even exist. The only place however they exist is in police records that too for crimes they may or may not have committed. Such is their plight. Sigh!
It is Mittal Patel, the fearless and selfless young lady, who has gone against age old norms to provide many of them the thing called a Voter ID card. And you can imagine how difficult it must have been for her to do that because these nomads have no birth certificate, no ration card, no land deeds, nothing. Not a single piece of paper to prove they're part of the Indian population. And to top it there is our great bureaucracy and the caste mindset.
Deeply distressed by the plight of these nomads and de-notified tribes, she not only quit her job but formed her own NGO called Vicharta Samuday Samarthan Manch(VSSM) with the hope to make these outcast people a part of mainstream society. Today due to her sheer determination, grit, and her urge to give back to the society, she has managed to provide 20,000 people of the tribe with their own voter ID cards and respectful employments to nearly 5000. She and her team have also made education accessible to them by setting several schools in various parts of Gujarat. After years of oppression and neglect it is heartening to know that now they too can learn and dream and work towards a better future. A voter ID card- for many of us, is just another address proof because it’s seldom that we put it to its right use i.e to vote. But what it gives to these people is something priceless. Yes it gives them their identity of which they have been ruthlessly denied ever since.
Mittal and her NGO has successfully intervened and managed to save many girls/ women of the Saraniya community in Vadia village of Gujarat from the heinous clutches of flesh trade by arranging for their engagement and marriage. What could be more beautiful than to save these children and women from being crushed so brutally? Such in the mettle of this young lady that she has helped them to blossom into a flower in such a respectful manner.
Mittal is keeping her promise to give back to the society by working towards the betterment of it. But it is our turn now too to join her in her crusade. The very first step that we all have to take is to change our demented outlook which is nothing but narrow as well as shallow. The moment we accept that they too are a part of our mainstream society and start to give them their due respect, the next steps would not be impossible to achieve. What they deserve is respect and acceptance. I remember reading an article where it was written that The British government has never allowed Indians to eat mangoes in and around their vicinity because they abhorred the sight of a man squatting and enjoying his mango while the juice drips and soils all his hand till his elbow. For them it was an uncivilized act. So did we stop eating mangoes? No. Then why carry their perception here by calling these nomads with all such names and by ostracizing and denying them their rights?
Lack of awareness is the mother of many such problems and atrocities. And no, ignorance is not a bliss always. Sometimes we need to stand up for humanity's sake. It is absolutely important & necessary to spread the awareness as much as possible. And in this era of social networking, this surely is a not a big deal. Education should be designed and imparted in such a way that it instills human values and compassion. One must learn to respect every other being. The Corporates must understand that they have a responsibility towards the society. And they mustn't ever turn their backs to the social and environmental responsibilities. During my summer internship in Parle, I got to know that they have tie-ups with several NGOs in order to do their wee-bit to give back to the society and the environment. Franklin Templeton, by arranging such TedTalks, tells me that it is doing its bit too towards the upliftment of the society. More and more Corporates must come out and join hands for the upliftment of mankind. They should learn to value and practice giving back to the society also.
Donations are a huge help but not all are comfortable with it due to various reasons. It's your choice to extend help via it. But let’s at least help them by buying their handicrafts. More and more associations should come up with cultural events to provide a platform for these people to perform and showcase their art, culture, dance, and music. This way we also can save/protect these age old traditions from getting extinct as well. After all they do make our country culturally rich. It would be a great help too if we all could work as volunteers at some point or the other. I am sure our li’l steps would cumulatively make a huge difference. I had volunteered myself as a teacher for Teach for India Campaign. And the happiness it has provided to me was immense. As I did my li’l bit to give back to the society, no matter how small the step was, I have felt my heart growing bigger and larger to accommodate more compassion in it.
By ignoring such a large part of our population we are doing no good towards the growth of our country as well. Just imagine how big a workforce it is and how much they can contribute towards the GDP of our country.
For long they have been suppressed, oppressed, and ostracized. They have been inflicted upon with highest degree of loathe and insult by being labelled as Born Criminals by us which even denied them their identity. We have snatched their everything and have denied them their right to be called an Indian Citizen as well. Still they are moving on with their nomadic lives with no expectation whatsoever. History stands as the sole witness how important their services have been to us.
We are indebted to them and it is our time to pay back the debt.
A little compassion, a little empathy and a whole lot of acceptance and respect would surely make a big difference in their lives. And in return our society would turn more beautiful. And when a society grows and develops holistically, can the World remain far behind? Goodness and Happiness spread leaps and bounds even with minimum efforts.
So the next time if you locate a Saraniya (knife sharpener), Kangsia (bangle sellers and traders), Nat and Nataniya (performers - bards, musicians, acrobats, dancers, fire-eaters and so on), Vansfoda (works with bamboo and sell bamboo products), Vadi (snake charmer), Madaris (work with monkeys), etc. Please do not cringe. They are not Born Criminals; No one is. To call someone a born criminal is an insult to humanity. Not to forget, it is because of us that they have succumbed to stealing, begging, and even prostitution. So if anyone rightly deserves to be called one, it is us, the skewed society.
You can’t help them, fine, but do change your perception towards them. If you can do so, in a way you are helping Mittal and her NGO in her mission.
I repeat Mittal’s words once again,
"We are indebted to them and it is our time to pay back the debt."
This post is written for “Idea Caravan” a joint initiative of Indiblogger and Franklin Templeton Investments (Franklin Templeton Investments partnered the TEDxGateway Mumbai in December 2012). I am thankful to all of them for such a great initiative.
Dear Readers, I would love to know your interpretations on the above Haiku I have written. Esp. about your thoughts on the mention of 'Cuckoo chuckles'. I t would be wonderful to know what image did the Haiku create in your mind.
Haiku and other Japanese form of poetry have always been my favorites and this way I get to keep myself associated with Japan, a place I don't know why I love so much.
My happiness knew no bound when in this week's prompt in Write Tribe, we decided to celebrate Haiku. Ruchira has written an amazing Guest Post there on Haiku which also serves the purpose of a great Haiku Tutorial. It's Haiku season in Write Tribe and needless to say it took me back to those golden days of blogging when we so much used to celebrate writing a Haiku. I remember it spread around at a lightning speed like viral fever. And after many years it's almost the same scenario again. Such is the charm of a humble Haiku. It's contagious, I tell you!
And now in Ruchira's word,
We will use a “Kigo” as our prompt. And since it’s the rainy season (at least here in India!) what better prompt can there be! So write a Haiku, with some element of the Rains in it. Your “Kigo” can be anything, clouds, raindrops, frogs, paper boats …. Let your imagination soar!
Blossoms of carnations cannot distract me anymore. For long they have kind of replaced your memories. Or should I say they've made your memories to blossom in the courtyard of my heart? You said that you were a mirage. A frivolous soul precisely! Whose existence would hold no importance in anyone’s life. Perhaps you were right as I carried on pretty well without you.
Through the window, like a gush of wild wind you entered one day and upturned the pitcher of my heart. It’s good that I lost you. How would I've treasured you in my numerous poems otherwise?
This is in response to The Write Tribe Prompt
This week's prompt: Lost Treasure by Bhavya
The day is about to break. And just before the sun is to appear on stage, an orange sheen has engulfed the azure sky. Birds frolicking by and she, yet half asleep is all set to practice for her music competition.
Even on the final day she is far from perfecting the song her teacher has selected for her. Scared and nervous and with tears in her eyes she requests to change the song. A vehement 'No' from him falls on her ear with a loud thud.
How could you chicken out as a loser at the last minute? Don’t you know that more difficult the song is; higher is your chance to win the competition! Can’t you feel the pathos of the song? Shame on you!
Meekly she helps herself with the harmonium. Stream of tears rolls down her cheeks and leaves behind a trail of leftover kaajal. Closing her eyes in order to gather strength, she picks up her lines again from the beginning. In the other room her courtesan mother burns an incense stick to bring good-luck to her child.
The essence of her imperfect voice fills the room. Yet she continues,
Piya tora kaisa abhimaan.....
Here the day is windy and holding her pooja thali she stands by her window to witness the sunrise. It is a ritual by now and in those moments of solitude she in fact waits for something unknown to hit her hard and pierce her soul. An unlit earthen lamp along with few marigolds, chandan, incense sticks and some mishri dana adorns her plate. Her stoned eyes explore the widespread ghat. People are yet to come out to take a holy dip to attain salvation. And in this odd hour when the ghat is accompanied by quietude, she finds it to be the most beautiful.
Salvation! Is there anything called salvation at all? She has spent almost her whole life here on the banks of Ganges taking regular holy dips and at the stairs of the temples, cleaning them with utmost sincerity and devotion. Yet she doubts attaining even a part of it!
A sudden gush of wild wind hits her face and forces her out of her reverie. The adamant wind doesn’t stop there and shows the audacity to slide down the aanchal that covered her head.. Disturbed, she shuts the window close and reaches the corner of her room where a torn calendar adorns her wall. It reminds her that it’s Ekadashi today and is one of those days when she observes fasts for the peace of the departed soul. It would help her to attain salvation, that's what people told her.
Inside the four walls of the dingy ashram room, her place looks surprisingly tidy. Simply because there is nothing enough to make it look otherwise. Dragging open her little wooden box she sits on the floor to explore the bygone days of her life. With her feeble hands she takes out a saree from it and spreads it on her lap. Her fingers cannot resist exploring the uncountable creases on it. She notices that even after so many years, the mark still remains. The gold ring was long gone but the mark of it has never left her skin.
Safely tucked inside the folds of her saree are her only treasures. They are carefully wrapped in an old newspaper. She unfolds it neatly and a lock of jet black hair falls at her feet. She gently picks it up and on her palms it looked like a piece of vagabond dark cloud which is about to burst any moment. A sepia toned postcard and a notebook full of songs which she once sang remain still inside the newspaper folds. The ink on the postcard has given up and has fallen apart. It was his last letter to her where he had vehemently asked her to stop singing forever. After that he never came back but his dead body wrapped in white. Afterwards she was ruthlessly bereaved of everything.
Her heart skipped a beat thinking about the songs on the pages of the notebook. She was afraid to touch her most treasured item for she knew that opening it will unchain her forever.
With a bang she shuts the box close and hastily moves on to the banks of Ganges. By the time she reaches, herds of people have already accumulated to take holy dips. She is wearing the saree that she has kept caged inside the box for many years. It is the same saree which wrapped her body once she was bereaved of every color. It is the same saree which she wore the day when her in-laws blamed her for their son’s loss and refused to take her responsibility anymore. She was wearing the same saree on one such Ekadashi when her own brother handed her a coin and threw her in the massive pool of people gathered on the banks of Ganga. They never looked back and she hardy moved on.
But today something made her adamant to attain her holy salvation. Once the innumerable holy dips could not salvage her, she, with her trembling wet hands tore apart the postcard into million pieces and let them go with the waves of holy Ganga. From the corner of her saree she untied the same coin and paid her last homage to the deity by throwing it in the sacred water. This time she did not adjust the headcover anymore when the wild wind exposed her bereaved head.
Wrapped in her wet saree, Vrinda steps out of the water. Drops of water streamed down from her wet body and formed a pool around her feet. Stepping on to it she finally chooses the path of her salvation. Not towards the temple but towards an unknown horizon of freedom and self-love. Her notebook being her only companion.
At the same time in another part of the world, a courtesan mother burns incense sticks for the success of her child. After a long wait it’s her turn to be on stage. Sheepishly she adjusts the mike as well as the harmonium. She is nervous and felt as if her throat has dried up. But she was adamant not to give up. Perhaps her mother’s prayers were accepted by her God and hence a sudden courage engulfed her from within. Just at the last minute she forsakes the song she has practiced for more than a month and decides to go with the song that her heart has always proclaimed to her. Next, the vibrancy and the essence of her flawed voice fill up every nook and corner of the surrounding. The vigour of the song spreads around and the whole crowd joins her. Kusum knows that she is not getting the words and tunes correct and yet she does not stop. She continues to sing with all her heart while touching the chord of someone’s heart somewhere in the universe.
Mann ke manjeere aaj khanakne lage
Bhoole the chalna, kadam thirakne lage
Ang ang baaje mrudang sa, sur mere jaage
Saans saans mein baans baans mein,
dhun koi saaje
Gaaye re, Dil ye gaane laga hai,
Mujhko aane laga hai
Khud pe hi aitbaar
Sun lo.. Ab na akeli hoon main,
Apni saheli hoon main,
Saathi hoon apni main.
~*~
This is in response to a contest hosted by Corinne, at WriteTribe. In this week's prompt we need to write a piece/a story/ a poem incorporating the following 7 words in random order : postcard, coin, tidy, wild, help, calendar, responsibility.
P.S:
Piya tora kaisa abhimaan and Mann ke manjeere, are songs sung by the legendary singer Ms. Subha Mudgal. Both the songs are very close to my heart.
This is a story of a girl who is waiting for her beloved to come back. They have decided and promised that he would write songs about the faces, places, and the traces he encounters and she would give music to his words and vice-versa. Hence even amid this temporary separation, this way they would find each other in their very own magical realms. Which can be referred as their Home.
But a woman's mood has a brain of its own and thus there are times when she proudly adorns her crown of a Drama Queen. So this lady in question, in order to want her beloved to come back soon, innocently (?) declares that she would not write any new song nor would she create new tunes till he comes back.
Only to do that yet again. And again.
For music and the words bind them Together- Mighty and Strong.
She can be termed as a true Indiblogeshwari with all the नाज़ and नखरा embedded in her in all their glories.
~*~
This post is written for Indiblogeswari's #ThatTuesdayThingy contest 1- an attempt to stop by and challenge ourselves to go that extra mile to tell our tales!
In this week's prompt I have to write about how Rahul Sharma's 'Time Traveller' has spoken to my soul. I hope I am able to connect to it in my own unique way. Wish me Good luck.
