In Sleep

Somewhere deep

Where no voice can stir it awake

Where no hand can reach

Lies a dream

Somewhere deep

Where hope does not gleam

Where life does not seem

Lies a dream

Somewhere deep

The dream lies in its sleep…...

(Image: www.deviantart.com)

To Life....

“Are you getting my articles? Long time no see. I am sending you two of my new articles and a new poem. Hope you like them. Hope to see one of them published soon.”

Ankita never wrote long mails. She never wasted time nor did she waste space.

“Send them directly to me. I will try my best,” I wrote back.

I did not promise her anything but she never gave up. I could not get her articles published since the weekend pull-out for students had long been withdrawn from of the newspaper I work for. It was sometimes in June.

The first time I met her, Ankita was a bundle of energy; almost erupting in excitement in her chair. Her mother showed me around, showed me Ankita’s paintings, terracotta crafts and all the poems she ever wrote. That was four years back. She was 14 back then. And that was the only time I met her.

Back then, Ankita was the story I was writing for my newspaper; story of a 14 year old’s fight against a discriminatory system which refused her the right to study in a normal environment. She was the story of the indomitable human spirit. But yes, the first time, I met her she was just a story for me.

Born with scoliosis, a condition of the spine which had rendered her incapable of walking because of lower limb paralysis, Ankita always wanted to do what others of her age did and she more than excelled in everything she did.

“I want to meet President APJ Abdul Kalam. I have seen him on TV and read a lot about him. I also wrote to him,” she once wrote.

Ankita made it a point to send me each of her journals, poems and articles. Every New Year Day and each Diwali ever since I came to know her, I always found a mail from her in my inbox. And I always replied.

She once wrote how scared she was inside the operation threatre where she was waiting for her turn when a little girl, an accident victim, was rushed in. The experience has made me stronger, she said. By the time she was 14, she had undergone at least 16 surgeries for her condition.

It was mid-July this year when I received a mail from her. “This is my first dance video. Do send me your comments. Bye.” Like always, she did not waste any time nor any space.

I was then setting off for a week-long travel which promised to be hectic as well as chaotic. I decided to reply upon my return.

It was a Saturday and I was back to work.

When I reached office, my colleague asked me, “Do you remember Ankita?”

“Of course, I do. I have to reply her mail. It has been more than a week,” I said.

“She passed away two days ago. It was a cardiac arrest. I am carrying an obituary,” she said.

*******

A moment is a lifetime…but only for a moment….By the way, I was born on this day.

(Image: www.zastavki.com)

Wish & Rain

I wish it rained. This has been far too long a dry spell.

For quite some time, it’s raining fire. Everything appears so lifeless, so barren out here. It’s, as if, the world around me is crying out for the heavens to open up; for a sudden downpour which takes you by surprise but gives a pleasure which otherwise cannot be described or measured.

This dry spell sometimes is so reminiscent of the lives we live.

Parched earth. Parched life. Parched soul.

I wish it rained.

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum-trees in tremulous white;
Someday soon, there will come soft rains……

To Hope

Beyond hope, there is memory. Years back, I had read this line somewhere.

B and I. We rarely met. Whenever we did, we did not have time for each other. Just enough to exchange pleasantries. But I knew B well enough. He was a part of the extended branch of the family tree.

I have not met him in last three and a half years. He lives a few hundred miles away.

Last time I saw him, he was on a hospital bed, unable to move. An accident had left him immobile. Doctors said he had hurt a nerve somewhere along the cervical vertebrae.

B was a good student, did well for himself with a Government job. He was a better painter and a writer. He was passionate about his after-work life.

That January night, three years back, he was on his way back after a game of badminton when B met with an accident. Nobody noticed him though. He was lying by a desolate roadside for the next six hours till the day break when someone spotted him. There were some minor bruises on his body, ones which would not need any hospitalization. But he had hurt himself bad.

In the next few hours when he was rushed to the hospital, I saw him lying on his bed. He appeared normal. He felt no pain. He felt nothing below his neck. No sensation at all. In clinical terms, it’s called quadriplegic.

B was married just for seven months. I remember attending his wedding. He looked very happy that day.

His family worked very hard for him. He was put through severe physiotherapy regimes but there was little or very slow improvement. Sometimes, at low-levels of quadriplegia, limb functionality returns. Sometimes, when the degree is severe, it takes years. Sometimes, it just does not.

B’s improvement was slow. There were times when he, out of sheer desperation, would want his near and dear ones to leave him to die.  But his family never gave up on him. His wife M just did not.

I have not met B ever since.

A few days back, when I returned home, as usual after the mid-night, I saw a book lying on the table. It was short story collection and B was the author.

I turned the cover. The first page read: To M.  I owe this book to you. And, this life too.

*****

One need not always hold on to memory. Beyond hope, I believe, there is still hope. Even in the depths of hopelessness when every light of faith and belief flickers out, there is still hope. We just need to know where to look. I am sure B did find out.

 

To B. And, to Hope.

(Image:  http://www.manywallpapers.com)

Smiley Girl

The one with an ear-to-ear grin, another sulking and a third one shedding tear drops like a dark bulbous cloud bursts into rain were the smileys she used most; the first being her clear favourite. I never thought internet icons could actually define anyone but the smileys did characterise her in a strange way.

Like the smileys, she seemed to laugh heartily. Just like a child. Sometimes, she appeared to be crying inconsolably too. As a child would, after losing the doll she loved most. Now she would be on cloud nine and the next moment, she would be lost somewhere.

She was completely in love with life even though she seemingly had no clue of it sometimes and tried very hard to pull herself together to stand up to it. No matter if the odds were stacked against her. That's what I liked about her. She never seemed to give up on hope even in the depths of hopelessness.

******

"Are you writing some short-story or what?" I asked as I read through the lines standing quietly behind him on the computer last evening.

"Why do you ask?" he replied without bothering to look at me. Incorrigible is probably what he wanted to say but didn't. He knew I had this tendency of barging in. He did not try to stop me. It would have been futile. So, he got back to the keyboard like I did not exist.

******

Last time, I caught hold of her online she was pulling her hair out in frustration over some office work she had not been able to wrap up. The computer ‘hanged’ one time too many, she complained before realizing and correcting herself - ‘it hung.’ She did that often and I always pointed it out.

Sometimes I thought she used smileys with such frequency that the mis-spellings were anything but natural despite her possessing a fine flair for writing. Mamma made a ‘yummg’ curry, she said the other night before making amends for it – Ooops! It was ‘yummy.’ I guess ‘yummg’ is yummier than ‘yummy,’ I told her. The ear-to-ear grinning icon was back.

******

“Will you tell me what this is about,” I was getting curious and clearly losing patience. “Is this some kind of dedication or what?” I shot another query.

“No. I had promised I would write about her once in my website before she went away,” he said.

“Where is she going? What do you mean by ‘before she went away?’ ” I followed up with more.

“I can’t tell you everything, can I? All I can say is she will be gone soon.” He got back to writing.

******

It’s a tough phase for her. Defining, perhaps. And she was sacrificing a lot for it. Still she foresaw herself in disasters sometimes. For a 20-something, it must have been unsettling but she never complained.

“I am worried about you,” I told her once. “Even I am worried about myself,” she replied.

“I wish I could do something beyond praying for you.”

“Prayers are all I need,” she said.

One more smiley followed. This one was immersed in deep thoughts.

But for these few...

I remember telling T, “You say so much yet with so few words.” I had just finished reading his blog post.

“Pithy has become a wasted art these days. I’d like to say I practice it,” he replied. I had to agree. I was never a man of few words.

T practiced it. But there are times when people want to say so much and end up saying so little. I noticed, it mostly happens when they really want to say something. The words may not appear significant and you could almost pass them off as ordinary on any other day. Not always though. There are times when they stay with you.

Some of the “so-few saying so-much” words that I will always remember.

“Eat on time.” That’s what Ma says every time I am traveling. She could replace the three words with so many but she fails to.

“Thank you for everything,” she said. It was a tough phase and I just happened to be by her side.

“Talking to you is therapeutic,” said someone who had chosen not to talk to me.

“Stupid fool,” said Sonya. It was after a long conversation about my life. She and I have not met each other in ten years.

“Life has been a series of crutches. You are the softest one,” said I. I and I have been friends since college days. Communication through phones or mails doesn’t really matter for us. We work for the same company, at two difference places though.

“I don’t believe in your nonsense,” That’s SN. At it again.

"Time you got married," my colleague K can't hide her disappointment.

“Don’t call me. Boss is at crease.” MK is superstitious about a cricketer named Sachin Tendulkar. He doesn’t forget to call me when India is playing Down Under. At 4 in the morning.

The text said: "Wil miss u." She was leaving.

Now, my turn, I guess.

I told her: “I want you to stay happy. Always.”

White Noise

There is something about hospitals that I could never quite bring myself to like. Not that I am one among those who dread the place because it reminds the grim realities of sickness, pain, old age and death. Some even don’t like the smell of medicine that hospitals are so typified with. Some are scared of catching infections. Not me. I believe hospitals are where people get new life and, new ways for life. But something about hospitals always bothered me.

As I sat by M inside the intensive care unit, I started pondering about it all over again. I could see the trace of pain in her lovely face as she tried to get herself some sleep – she was almost wired up – with the oxygen mask, catheter, drips and a dozen other pipes entangling her. She looked considerably weak and I spoke next to nothing. I just looked at the walls, the ceiling, the curtains and the bed-sheets. There is this whiteness about hospitals that always got me.

Why are hospitals mostly coloured white? Is white not monotonous and gloomy? And depressing too? Why can’t vibrant colours – or even soothing ones – be in place of white? Or is it because white symbolizes peace, innocence and purity that health facilities are painted so? Medical science probably does not overtly endorse white for hospitals but the colour stands for cleanliness and hence so much in practice.

Interestingly, in Western culture, the bridal wear is white, while in India and in many Asian countries, white is associated with mourning and death. For someone whose favourite colour has always been white, I was always unsettled by the whiteness in the hospitals. I am yet to find out why.

I would have liked to ask M if she liked the never-ending white all around her. I didn’t. In her 60s, M has not been keeping good health lately, and my question, I am sure, would make no sense to her when she is struggling even to breathe. May be I will find out when I am there.

I know my friend Sonya (that's what I addressed her as, much to her chagrin) would say that I am looking at the wrong side of it. But it's not as if I hate hospitals. Tell you something? It's here in the hospitals that I had found some unforgettable persons. Hey, I love hospitals, people.

Egg-xample of life

SN hates philosophy. To be honest, he despises it. THE reason he hates my blog space is he thinks I am philosophizing. “You are wasting your time in life. Instead, start living it.” That is his common refrain.

Expectedly, I differ. Always. I keep telling him I am just talking to myself. This is my way of a conversation with the self. Leave it or take it. Of course, he would leave it. In fact, he once did leave a comment – the only time – saying “Stop bullshitting.”

Yesterday, SN appeared agitated. His wifey has banned eggs from his plate. “I can live without booze (he quit it earlier this year after a two decade-long intense love affair. He would swear by Nicolas Cage’s character in Leaving Las Vegas). I can do without meat. But eggs!!!!! God, No.” SN was virtually yelling at me when I asked what the reason was.

I did quit non-veg in January. But I am still on eggs. SN probably is nursing a grudge – That he can’t have eggs and I can.

“Is that it? In life, you can’t have everything all the time. As life progresses, you will learn that you have to do without a lot of things you like. That’s life.” I was attempting to assure SN in a tone that almost smacked of philosophy.

“You might be happy philosophising loss in life. But I am not interested. I am worried about the eggs,” he said. I wanted to tell him there is a connection.

Like with egg, you got to break life open and see what’s inside. Life is never on the surface. What appears is not what it is. What you get and what you do with it defines your life.

Some want life restrained. Just the egg white in omelette. Some want it straight and are relaxed about it. The yolk makes its way to the pan with the white. Some want it all spiced up, with all kinds of reds, greens and frills. Like a Spanish omelette. I even had a south Indian friend who used to make paratha out of omelette. And some want it in full size. Boiled.

Besides, like eggs, life too comes in different sizes.

But I didn’t tell SN all this. I knew what his reaction would be. “How on the earth can you connect egg with philosophy,” his already-damaged lungs stuck out of his mouth.

The Flip Side

Life is amazingly paradoxical. One side of it is dark and intriguing. The other, sparklingly bright and inspiring.

The Naxal ambush on a mine-protected vehicle (MPV) carrying 17 security personnel in Eastern Indian state Orissa's southern district Malkangiri on July 16 was distressful. The Left Wing ultras found a ghastly way of telling the world that Rifle is the only way to bring revolution or change. Everytime, you want to sympathise with them, they surprise you with blood and gore. As if they are the Merchants of Death. Coming to think of it, even a 15 tonne heavily armoured vehicle could not save the policemen from a ghastly end. Howsoever hard one may try, if death has to take you, it will (sounds like Murphy's Law, doesn't it?).

Well, no. Look at 23-year-old Supratim Dutta of Delhi. The HCL executive sat in his car, his body pierced with an angle iron measuring about 5 ft in length and weighing close to 6 kg, waiting for help to arrive. The angle had to be cut - even as he sat for an hour and half inside his car which had rammed into Metro barricade along MG Road - with gas-cutters so that Supratim could be rushed to AIIMS Trauma care. It took the stunned doctors six hours to remove the angle that impaled the youth through the upper part of the body as his heart and spine escaped unhurt. It was probably for the first time that I remained glued to India TV (sic) as the channel kept beaming the videos of the surgery.

Supratim has to live. Some say, it's a second life for him. I believe this is his life. Sometimes, it can dumbfound you with something called hope. I believe you can kill someone but can't possibly take away that flickering hope to live till he finally dies. Why did it not happen with the 17 securitymen is something I can't understand though. May be, it did.

I remember the impeccable Tom Hanks saying in his Oscar winning Forrest Gump: Mama always said dying was a part of life. It probably is.