Lost in Thoughts

It was definitely a surprise for me as I booked an Uber that mellow Egyptian morning.My eye-brows hitched  as the driver’s profile popped up. She was most certainly a woman, wasn’t she? Indeed. A fair face framed with a neat hijab and a tight smile. Not going to be one of the rides that find me drooling in the back seat!                     I ride shotgun. Maneuvering deftly through the chaotic streets, she draws down the little shade overhead. I hadn’t noticed that I was unconsciously squinting through the sunlight. She adjusts the window to just the right level, so as to hold my hair intact. I smiled at the empathy. Women have their way of doing things. Not an empty phrase. “So...How long have you been driving?”, I ask. “25 years”, words tumble out with a hint of pride. “My own car”, she pats her baby with pride. “My gift to my-” A horns blares loud. She makes one sharp swerve.  A shiny car raced by in demonic speed, narrowly missing our vehicle. “-self.”, she co

            Today this little girl ran to me, her unruly hair still rebelling the worn blue ribbons. Her little fist was tightly closed behind her back. I caught a jagged piece of paper peeping out of it. I smiled and feigned surprise as she held out her sacred present to me. It was indeed a paper, ruled and smoky with graphite, torn hurriedly from her little notebook. She bobbed on her toes as I read those words. The words of a child, clinging hard to the printed blue lines, a few slipping here and there, then arduously heading back to near-perfection. It was a poem- About a cow and a dog. How an arrogant dog disturbs a depressed cow and ends up having the lesson of his life delivered via a nice, well-aimed kick. Not too impressive? For me though, it’s something I would recall as a ripe old granny, knitting uselessly by the fire-place, and smile.             She was a girl who had poverty riding on her shoulders, without actually knowing it. If she sagged under its weight at ti

           ‘Feminism’ has almost become a fancy word today. Intending no offense, it has certainly lost its meaning in the midst of people who brew their own lofty ideas, basing it on incomplete conversations heard at café fronts or a television show picked up from somewhere in the middle of an errant episode or on their own personal experiences, which fairly speaking, covers something but certainly not everything. Feminism is but an idea that has been brewed over centuries and centuries of events, wars, bloodshed, tears and triumphs. Women across kingdoms have carved niches and details which has lead to what it is today. Feminism is just a reminder of what women can do- what they have done-why they have a voice so gentle yet so strong. I can justify this claim by citing one woman. She had me shackled in chains of curiosity. As I read, she grew in her own shadow, a faceless woman whom the world has conveniently cast into obscurity.            Arsinoe. Dark? Beautiful? Tall? C

Low self-esteem. The fatal flaw of this generation. The industries have sniffed this out and the traps are all set. All that remains is for an unsuspecting millennial to walk into one. I nearly walked into one too. Here is that sketch.   Usual Sunday morning at the hair salon, wrapped in an apron, staring vacantly at the painted walls, contemplating life (that’s what you do at these places right?). When I reached that point where you realize contemplation is actually making you feel worse, I let my eyes loiter around the pristine interior. A model stared at me from somewhere to my right with her haughty olive eyes and a mocking smile. Her hair, a flawless shiny stream of a curious woody brown lay sprawled over her shoulder. They had apparently captured her as she was stroking it. “ Mocha Balayage”, it said with a code underneath. Hmmm…how would that look on me? My brain photoshopped instantly & flashed half a dozen images of me with the mocha-something on. Both my brai

I might, to you mean nothing, A mere speck of dust you brush aside, A lost trail your feet never tried, Yet, I am your everything. I am that light, Prancing through a blind man's iris, A sole spectrum of bliss, Alighting his path, lending sight. I am that sound, Picking its way through one deaf ear, An unheard church bell chimming a song so dear Unravelling rhythms long drowned. I am that stream, Trickling through one tender heart, Soothing that soul ripped and torn apart, Wiping blemishes off to a gleam. I am that spark, That sets aflame a dry, dead wood, Letting it sizzle & sputter as much as it could, To create its own subtle mark. I am the source and the strife, I am that very fate in disguise, In the end, when all your dreams scatter, It's only I that will matter. When your life tumbles down many a steep slope, Wield me as a warrior his sword, Slashing through tyranny that life may accord, I am that chance, your last one, Indeed I a

To me, every person is but a magnificent mosaic, perfect in their own imperfect sense. We break over and over again. Each time a different piece- a new shape, a finer edge, a bizarre shade. We break -in a million different ways until one point where everything fits in-Every one of those million pieces fits in, with such precise perfection that the final picture is nothing less than a masterpiece. A beholder's day-dream. The essence of that pleasure though lies in waiting. Of shedding tears but never dissolving; of breaking but never crumbling; of losing but never giving up. One day the sun will shine, the very rays that glared down at you shall light you up, lending every color of yours its own rainbow, you shall then be your own masterpiece. But till then learn to wait; to endure; to live...!

Sunrise in my tea-cup, Its vivid pink tinting the pastel brown, A tranquil wisp of steam curling up, Shimmering and threatning to drown. A soothing stillness sinks in, As I lean against the window pane, Watching the dark winding lane, With its puffing jogger & his aching shin. Then, I grow afraid -to breathe , Lest this magic should cease! Gingerly, my fingers shift the cup a little, Making barely a ripple. I don't know for how long I stand there, With the tea in my hands growing cold, As my heart sighs with the wind & lays bare, I watch my soul gently unfold. My watch ticks in, pulling me back with a jerk, Letting this bizarre spell vaporize, I hastily drain my cup with its sunrise, And rush to work.

Don't be that person who longs for the rains during yellow summers and cowers, wincing under his umbrella when the grey skies open up. Let the drops freckle every inch of your skin; let them run down your nose and sneak through your lips, their earthly taste tingling the tips of your tongue. Run a hand through your damp hair, tangled & matted with clear flecks, whirl around, scattering a million of them helter skelter. Laugh-laugh through the dampness blanketing you, loud and clear enough for the wind to deliver- somewhere miles afar, to an unknown someone, who thinks, he might, never again smile. Jump around, splash about, fling your umbrellas away. It's raining. It can mean just one thing- Go out; get wet. Don't go scowling about in summers. Get tanned. Turn your skin this magnificent warm brown, glistening with sweat.  Feel the sun on your skin, as it seers it way through burning away your darkness and insecurities. Be your own sunshine- bright, boundless and be

I was afraid of the woods, the huddled trees looked menacing, as if hissing and scowling at me, threatening me to keep out. There were reptiles by the dank ponds too. Sometimes they would slither over my feet, sending chills down my spine. An occasional gleam of a panther's iris, would find me dashing back home. Then one day, my mother led me by arms, humming softly as we walked through the trees, let me run my fingers over their scared barks, plucked for me a flower hanging off a branch. The trees were quite generous, I thought, they didn't mind it even when I carved deep, my name, into their trunks. The snakes didn't hurt me unless I them. My mother patted my head and said, "No creature would ever hurt you, unless you do them wrong!" "Because", she smiled as she continued, "Every being is a child of God, just as graceful." I didn't know then that, She was wrong about one. From then I

Here’s what I love about villages. They actually give time for your whirling mind to slow down to leisurely paces, creating a soothing effect, one can find nowhere else. Ramanathapuram is one such place. Upon stepping out of the train, I thought it to be a bland, boring town which it appeared to be. Appearances could be deceptive? Yes, very deceptive. I didn’t know that over the next few days this seemingly hum ble settlement would make me go “wow”! One could spend a whole day loitering about the streets. If pick your way through the main bazaar, you will reach a regal gateway that stands out majestically, a stark contrast to the feeble kutcha houses flanking it. The temple elephant smiles fondly at you, its bells tinkling merrily in the breeze. If you are brave enough, you can let it touch your heads. And there stands The Ramalinga Vilas - a proud historic point of this town. This supposedly was the residence of the Sethupathi Kings who ruled this part of the town. 

We all have friends. Some whom we have literally lived entire eternities with. Some whom we never seemed to have enough time to be with. The latter just whiz by, as quickly as the sigh of the wind, nevertheless leaving a mark behind.    I still remember her. Her oval bindi, of bright crimson, a stark contrast to her unusually fair skin, which bore visible hints of lavish servings of turmeric. Her locks were thick and lustrous, and coiled like a thick rope down to her hips. When she walked, it was with the music of her anklets. A tiny nose ring usually winked at the beholder. This ring, changed its colours to compliment the outfits she wore. She was slight as a reed dancing in the wind. I would tell her one day she would be swept away by a wind too strong.   She was one of the first (and probably the only) friends I got when I changed schools. I thought I knew everything about the town I grew up in since childhood. God probably giggled at my ignorance. Put in a public school, I wa