iMother ;)

I love her, like a mother would, her child. 

Even after 2-3 readings of Stephenie Meyer’s The Host, the concept of maternal love that engulfs a complete stranger for another complete stranger was... let’s just say it was strange to me. Of course, as a 16 year old, obviously I wouldn’t understand. I would know the other end of it, the love of a child for his or her mother. But mother to child...? I know that it is that kind of love where the usage of the word “magnitude” itself would be derogatory to the bond. The depth of the love is unfathomable...

And with that mentality, AishU was travelling to another city, to meet a few people very very close to her. Like I said, I’m a 16 year old. My mother was extremely worried about my safety... In the very beginning, the worries were more general: AishU, make sure you know who is picking you up, keep their cell phone numbers with you, if there’s any issue, you know whom to call, etc, etc, etc... Justified. Then came the more primal, more human worries... Don’t talk to strangers, don’t get too familiar with anyone, all of that.

They say man is a social animal... I agree. I think the ‘social’ trait was hammered into me by God way more than it was hammered into others, in as much as, I just can’t keep quiet, and listen to music on a 12 hour train journey. In fact, not talking is closest to impossible for me! xD

Add to it, the people in my compartment: Two aunties, three kids... AishU. Two aunties. Three kids. Don’t talk. What the HELL! They just didn’t go together. J

The kid I first set my eyes upon... Her eyes the colour of night, her skin the colour of milk, and her beautiful curls the most beautiful brown I’ve ever seen... She’s beautiful because I love her, and not the other way round... She’s beautiful because I love her. I couldn’t get my eyes off her, and I couldn’t stop smiling, as I watched her play, give flying kisses, and blink shyly... I’ve never had the urge to look at anyone the way I did want to look at this baby. The best part is that the urge didn’t seem wrong. It seemed to come from every cell inside of me. I wanted to hold her, that Angel. I wanted to hold her just to feel that this was real, she was real. And when she smiled at me, the heavens above had conspired to make me happy. When she played with me, like there was nothing else I wanted from life. And when I held her, I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve that contentment. It was exactly what my dad has warned me against: don’t get too familiar. And yet, I did. I’d broken every barrier and fallen in love with this Angel. I cared for her from that instant like I  knew her all my life.

It is extremely hard for me to fall asleep in trains, especially because of all the shaking and the speed... I’d tired myself out that day so that I could sleep in the train. And yet, when I saw this two and a half year old, I felt all my energy return to every part of me. Only when she fell asleep did I actually feel the first sparks of worry, as I’d realised that I was so energised and refreshed just by playing with her and holding her that I wouldn’t have been able to sleep... And when I lay down that night, I knew I wouldn’t sleep... It wasn’t the journey ahead that occupied my mind, but thoughts of this little girl sleeping in the berth opposite to mine. I was worried... worried more for her. I hoped that she’d sleep well, wake up fully charged for whatever she was to do that next day... I hoped she’d get the milk she was so craving for in the evening...

And I did fall asleep. I slept while listening to her rhythmic breath. I felt like there couldn’t be a more beautiful sound than that. In that minute, which I’ll hold dear to me for Eternity, I understood, in the truest sense, what 

music is. Its this baby’s breath...

And the next morning when I woke up, my eyes ached for her sight. And I was blessed. She was right there, in the berth opposite to me. A wave of relief washed over me. Just that she was safe, although there wasn’t any need to be worried, made me elated. Happy. Out of the world...

When she woke up, I said, “Good Morning!” with the hugest ever smile on my face, and every bit of me meant it. When I asked her whether she slept well, every fibre of me was concerned. If only they could feel the warmth of my concern, they’d be baking.

So here I was, with concern emanating from me for an absolute stranger... It wasn’t ‘this’ baby. MY baby. Not in the possessive sense, but in as much as... Love.

This wasn’t some love where one feels guilty, gets hurt, expects... It was pure, ethereal, blessed. It wasn’t where I could feel the pain of separation, because the fact that we met in the first place made me feel contented.

When we got off the train, her mother asked me to hold her for a while. And no one on earth, no one could’ve ever felt happier. More honoured. With her in my arms, I felt safe. I felt like I’d let go of her, only if I knew for sure, every atom in the Universe promised to me that they’d take care of her. Bless her.

And there I  understood... That was my version of maternal love. The love I’d developed for this Angel, this Child of God... Clean and deep...

I love her, like a mother would, her child. J

Connecting Dots

So suddenly, almost unnaturally it seems, I’d shifted from Prose to Poetry... And almost immediately, though over one year it has been, I’m shifting back to Prose again.

Of course, I did write Prose in between too... One post a month or less. I always felt like there was a huge Void inside of Me when I didn’t write Prose, although without as much Poetry as before, it doesn’t feel so Empty. As it stands, Prose gave Me the kick to Write, in the first place.

Oh, its been about 2 years since I first felt My Passion for Writing.

My dearest Cousin Prashanth, a photojournalist, was my daily chat buddy J We used to talk about everything, literally. I was His “Daily Dose of Entertainment” as He was My “Daily Dose of Wisdom”, My very mellow Reality Check. It sounds awkward, crazy even, that someone should suggest a phrase such as a Mellow Reality Check, cause they’re always supposed to be rough Jolts that kick You in your a** so hard, you just are more aware of things around You. But Prashanth, goodness! He was the opposite of a rough kick, he was the warmest Embrace. The funny part is He was a Warm Embrace of Reality! Like someone soothing You and yet making You realise that the World’s not that pretty a place.

It was in those days (feels like eons ago now) that I’d forever check his blog, as hearing from him was not a Hobby, it had become a process to Learn, to Grow... To Live, even! It was the Piece He wrote of His Grandfather that was My Warmest Embrace... My Reality. It was when I read it that I realised that THIS was Who I looked up to, this was how I wanted to write, this is what I wanted to BE. But I never realised HOW... The Destination seemed so clear, the Path very clouded. And on the 26^th of November, 2008, when Terror seemed to show the Ugliest Part of its Face to Mumbai... I found it in Me. I found that weeping Part of Me that Wrote.

I finally understood why Prashanth’s piece on his Grandfather inspired Me so. Because it was so True. From Within. Not an inch of frivolousness or Pretence. And so with this... My Love for Writing Strengthened. After this Day... He was My Guru, My everything when it came to writing. When it came to anything at all, in the first place...

And thus, He was the first Object of My Poetry. It seemed so Natural that the First Piece of Poetry from Me was written for Prashanth. My Gift for His 26^th Birthday was a Poem, the first ever that I wrote...

Now when I look back, everything seems to connect. The dots are making Sense. I was a Harsh writer then, I am one now too, even though Prashanth always said: You’re good, but you need to mellow down a bit...

Months after I’d written for Prashanth, Poetry became a Daily Thing for Me. An inevitability. The day ended only if I wrote. My blog entries lessened as Poetry seemed to rush out of Me... Like Love, Hatred, Anger, Disappointment... Like all My emotions had found a new outlet: Not My Eyes, My Hands.

The more I wrote, the more I wanted to write. All thoughts of Everything forgotten, I simply wrote. Slammed down one Poem, 3 pages long a day till My Reality Check came in again. This time it was not Prashanth’s warm Embrace, it was my Uncle’s harsh kick. My very first Criticism on My Inability to Rhyme and thus my absolute failure at being a Poet.

From then on I practised and practised till my Emotions weren’t restrained in anyway, but channelled, yes.

But, also, from that day, My Readership was Limited. Not because My writing sucked (which it maybe did and does) but because I restricted it. First off, my blog became a diary entry. Second, my Poetry was given to a Select few. People who belonged to the Select Few, who READ what  I Write support my restricted Audience. In a way, I’m glad too. Somehow, this gives Me more Joy. I need no Motive to Write as when My Audience was restricted, My writing seemed to be more for itself, for ME.

I remember that the first time I was criticised, all the activity that My eyes did was to replace dried tears almost as soon as they dried... I thought of how a Critic could be hiding a Cynic within. Now when I look back, I realise I have no right to accuse. Back then, I was an Idealist. But with two absolutely varying Reality Checks I’d received, becoming a Cynic was inevitable.

Some people who read what I write find it melancholic, sad... Depressing, mostly. But that’s what pushes every inner cell of Me to write, these days. My Prose and Poetry, both come out through Channels, unlike the open rivers which used to gush out in full force.

But My First, Eternal Guru for Writing will always be My Daily Dose of Wisdom...

In His absence My writing had turned less of a Vocabulary Sea and more of a Reflection of Me...
But every word I write, every word I will EVER write will always belong with Him, who taught Me that writing is everything to Me, and so it shall always remain.

Death and All His Friends

“Death is terrifying because it is so Ordinary. It happens all the time.”

My grandma was the All-Knowing, Ever-Forgiving, Ever-Kind and the most Selfless person I’ve ever had the Fortune to Know...
While People talk of Karma and good deeds morning through Night, most Evenings I’m beside My grandma thinking, “What bullshit.” My gran’s 85, and I’ve seen the past 16 years of Her Life.


She was seeing Her Life’s Eve as I was viewing My Dawn with the same words echoing throughout Me, “What Bullshit.”

When I saw her a year ago, She was, for Me, a Warrior Princess. She fought Death valiantly, with the Force and Bravery of a Warrior who has seen Death’s Ugly Face a million times and fought it, coming out Unscathed. But today, I see her with complete Inability to Fight. Or was it...?

They say when you accept Death, it becomes easier... It was when I saw her shivering in Her bed, not saying Anything to her nurse and calmly undergoing all the medical procedures which would’ve left someone like You and Me begging for Mercy with a benign Smile, that I saw she wasn’t Weak. She was the perfect antonym of Weak. She was Strong. She embraced Death in whatsoever way it revealed itself to Her...

She’s the Perfect, Flawless, Beautiful Woman... But for Me, she’s God’s way of showing Me what Strength lies in, in Reality. Not to fight Death, but to Embrace it like an Old Buddy...

“Death is terrifying because it is so Ordinary. It happens all the time.”