Savouring Independence?

Parade- the red fort- flowers- Jana gana mana- and obviously 'The National Flag';
It soars high.

Right hands perpendicular to your forehead, and eyes squinting under the sunlight to see waves formed by the passing air on the tricolour fabric.

And then what?

You get home, do a few posts on your Facebook to let your 'friend list' know that you are aware of what the heck this Independence Day is all about.

And get back to whatever you were doing.

Oh and right, you do a few intellect-clad debates on Gandhiji and Netaji.

What about the other freedom fighters?

Masterda Surya Sen is not just a metro station, nor is 'Shahid Khudiram'.

Ever cared to know who are these Binoy Badal Dinesh, BBD Bagh is named after?
Or who is Matangini Hazra?

You know Matangini Hazra marched with the flag held tight, even after being shot thrice. Even after falling down, she refused to let go of the national flag; clutched on it tightly with her last breath.

You know Khudiram Bose was hanged when he was only 18 years old; younger than most of us.

Benoy, Badal and Dinesh (Yes, The two Bs and D of B.B.D. Bag) preferred to take a cyanide pill and shoot themselves than surrendering  to the British officials.

With Bhagat Singh, Sj. Shivaram Rajguru and Sj. Sukhdeva were hanged, who had equal contribution in the Indian independence movement.

Abadi Bano Begum was the first Muslim female to address an audience, speaking from behind a purdah.

Velu Nachiyar, the former princess of Ramanathapuram, was the first queen to wage a war against the British, even before the sepoy mutiny.

Tirupur Kumaran, was found dead holding the national flag, in his last protest march against the colonial government in 1932.
A decade later, Kanaklata Barua was shot down for proudly holding up the national flag.

Gour Hari Das, fought against the British rule, and then had to fight for 30 more years to get his freedom fighter certificate.
A perfect way to repay someone who gave us our independence, isn't it?

How ironic, that we often admire revolutionists of other countries, as style icons, but forget about our own country people.

And the list continues.

I don't know how we can ever repay them, expect remembering them with pride and tears.

So, how about doing something unconventional this Independence Day?
How about finding out who this 'Independence' actually belongs to, that we claim to be our own?

And well, don’t forget to savour the INDEPENDENCE that you got for free.

Happy Independence.
JAY HIND!

Love, in slices.

Planning for a walk today? Saved money for a gift, for your boyfriend?

Going with your fiancé for the latest movie that released? Can’t decide how to make this day very special for your spouse?

Well, when the whole world is celebrating love, let us, for a moment, bend our thoughts on some lesser talked upon ways of love, which are not much celebrated, and yet are much strongly tied with bandages of attachment.

·        The little girl, who is crying at the funeral of his grand mom, perhaps realizes now, what bond she had with the silver-haired woman. She can still feel the moist imprints of her lips on her forehead.

·        The man in his late 40s, miserably stuck in the gears of life, is right now, frantically searching that shirt, whose pocket retained the last tram ride’s ticket that he took with his college’s best mate.

·        The old man wakes up every day, to the first rays of the morning sun, to touch his dead wife’s spectacles, carefully placed beside his pillow.

·        Those little puppy eyes, that the working woman looks up to, every time she gets back home. What she does not know, is that, all day the little puppy sits beside the main door with a scarf of hers, waiting for her to return.

·        Inside the confines of the old age home, the old mother still treasures the tiny wool socks that she made for her son, when he could barely walk.

·        The soldier, risking his life in front of gun barrels every other day, for the sake of his country, finds security in the dull, tattered ‘rakhi’ that his sister sent him last year.

·        The husband went missing in an aeroplane crash ten years back. The wrinkled hands of the old lady, still puts vermillion on her forehead, in belief of his return.

·        The little boy, still living with the illusion, that dead people become stars, talk to the sky every night, wishing someday his father would reply back.

                                     We see uncountable instances of such unsaid love around the planet. The planet that experiences blasts in Gaza, and terrorist attacks on Charlie hebdo, also experiences a beggar sharing his worn out blanket with a street dog. Love does exist.

                                       Perhaps, the beauty of this unconditional love lies in the fact that, they don’t need a day to be celebrated, for they are felt every day, in every moment of our lives.

So, today, run to your parents and give them a surprise hug, take a walk down the road with your pet, help your grand mom with her braid, and spend the afternoon with your grand dad.

For, these ways of love sees no fall. They are always there, caressing you with good vibes and hope, throughout your life.

You know it all

The trembling of leaves that soothe you in summer, the way the wind rustles through the perforated leaves into your hair and makes you feel alive, the smell of wet soil after the first rainfall of monsoon, that cold ceiling that a huge canopy provides you in summer, Tell me, don't you love them?

Obviously you do.

And then, like brilliant hypocrites, you go around and buy a carved wood-made bed, to decorate your home.

Had you been the tree, in what language would you have sworn to them, who you provide shelter, calmness, and most importantly oxygen, and then they stab your skin with big sharp objects, cut you slowly, tearing your skin apart, ignoring the fact that you have a life inside you, and carves on your skin with pathetic sharp objects, and sell you?

And, not just that, they let you breathe. Trust me on this, you would be dead, had they not exhaled oxygen for you. Your lungs are thankful to them, but you are not.

Wow!

And, do you know how their roots soak in the rainwater, so that the water table is full enough to provide you with enough water for bathing, cooking, and flushing your toilet?

Obviously you do. You know it all.

and, then like brilliant hypocrites, you go around and cut a tree.

Perfect!

Do you know the earth is warming up every second?

Do you know, soon the icebergs will melt to rise the sea level enough, and drown you?

Obviously you do.

And then you go around and see a tree being cut, and like a sincere observer, you enjoy the view, or even worse, you ignore and walk away.

Awesome!

Don't you realise it is the high time that we stop being hypocrites.

If not for the sincere friends that care enough for your conversion of oxygen to carbondioxide,  but at least for our own sake.

We would soon be dead.

Do you know how fast the forests are disappearing?

And with forest, the birds and animals are losing their home?

How would you have reacted, if you woke up one fine morning, and find the ceiling of your room gone, just because someone else needed the bricks?

And. do you know, with the loss of habitat, our earth is losing out most of its endangered animals?

And, that is affecting our food chain?

Obviously you know. You know it all.

But, tell me, what is the point of knowing so much, if we don't know how to stand against it, especially when we have the clock ticking, towards our doom day?

Dear hypocrite folks, its HIGH time. Let us stand against it. Let us stop killing our oxygen-providers with such pathetic sharp objects. Not just because, they have a life, but because, we won't have a life, without them.

So, for once, let's be selfish, and save ourselves.

200 Rupees

10’o clock:

Polka dotted bra. Check.

Black panty. Check.

Red petticoat. Check.

Netted blouse. Check.

Pink glossy silk. Check.

Damn. Show a bit more skin. Push a bit of your waist out. Show more cleavage.

Red lipstick. Check.

That cheap perfume, that has enough strength to bring to you, sex-wanting men.

Check.

Flowers around your oiled hair. Check.

CHECK!

SHOW A BIT MORE CLEAVAGE.

Now, here I am, in my light-blinded lane, scanning for customers.

12’o clock:

My eyes hurt.

Half of my city, that I don’t have access to, is sleeping.

And here in my lane, the halogen lights burn my eyeballs.

A drunkyard, come from somewhere, and grope me.

I turn around to face him,’ 2ooRs.’

Straight faced.

12:30’o clock:

My inner garments are torn down. My lipstick smudged. My eyes teary from his inhuman grips, all over my body.

He feeds on my flesh.

Make-up decked flesh.

1’o clock:

This unknown composition of flesh sleeps on my bed.

I, on the floor, munching pills.

Naked.

200Rs, tight in my grip.

The floor, between my legs, is flooded with blood.

1:30’o clock:

I lie outside my room, in my blouse and petticoat.

My body, crippled.

The blinding halogen lights, shut my eyelids.

200Rs, still tight in my grip.

Mornings don’t happen in my lane.

The sun left, long back.

And, I lie here, questioning my father, who sold me 5 years back,

“Is this a life, your 17 year old daughter deserves, Baba?”

Pretty little pleasures

Day 1:

My mood was screwed already, and every goddamn little thing contributed to ruining my mood.

The alarm was so loud, that I literally left bed with a heavy head. The breakfast was oh-so-hot that it burnt my tongue. My dog ate half of my new bought slippers. And then I missed the train. I mean I was this close, running, when it left the platform.

Wow!

And then, through sweat, screams, and crowd in the ladies compartment of the next train, I made it to Dumdum. ATLAST!

But then, through the subway, as I walked to the metro rail ticket counter, I saw her.

A mother, with two babies. One, lying on the ground, sleeping. The other, she was breast-feeding.

An empty bowl, left infront of her.

As I dropped a coin, she smiled. And, with the sound of the coin falling in the bowl, the baby woke up, and smiled at me.

And then, leaning on the wall, a flute-seller was playing a flute.

I paused the music playing in my ears for a while, to listen to him.

In seconds, my alarm-made headache was gone.

Day 2:

The same sweaty crowd of the train. I dragged myself in. Some ladies screaming to place complains, as to why I pushed them, why I tipped on their feet, and much more.

And then, as the train dragged itself forward, I peeped through the window, to see the slums lying beside the tracks.

And then, I saw something.

This little kid from the slum, barely clothed, waving at the train.

No one from the train waved back, but he kept jumping and waving.

Such fun, seeing the compartments move on wheels.

Innocence still exists.

Day 3:

Metro rail had screwed up its reputation big time. Yesterday, it had stopped midway, walked into a tunnel, carrying some 600 passengers and made them sick, by confining them there, for a couple of hours.

So, today the crowd in metro was slim.

By the time, I reached Rabindra Sarobar, there were only 3 people in the ladies zone.

I scrutinised the lady sitting opposite to me.

The way she was wearing the saree.

Creases at places, heavy oxidised earrings, a big red bindi, and the pallu loosely done.

And , there was something so amazing about her. Like a lady wears a saree.

I mean, that’s so beautiful.

Day 4:

A cold war with a very close friend, and we were not talking. In ways, my mood was in knots.

And then this goddamn heat. I was sweating like anything, and was running behind time.

Damn!

And then, suddenly it started to drizzle.

The sun up there, and the drizzle diffusing the heat.

The wind drying away my sweat, leaving this cold moist imprints on my skin. The rain drops falling, felt like bliss.

Orgasmic. Trust me. ORGASMIC!

Four random days, and that restored my faith in finding happiness around me!

H.A.P.P.Y.

Angels and Demons

19^th July,2011.

Monsoon was in her brightest colours. I, sitted , seat-belted, was looking outside, through the rain-smoked windows of the car. The trees passed by, the rain drops drew new lines on the glass, as it trickled down the window. The world outside unfolded, as I scrolled the window down. The rain drops hit my face, and the old message from last to last night, reminded me again, ‘Your boyfriend left you.’

‘Close the window. You are getting wet. Fever’s common these days’, the driver uncle, glanced at me.

‘It’s the year’s first rain. I can’t afford to close the window and not get wet’, I smiled back, forcibly.

Leaving the New town roads behind, the car accelerated forward. That’s when, through the smoked glass of my driver uncle’s window, I saw the spiral structure placed on the building, beside Swissotel.

‘Stop the car. I want to go there.’

In minutes, ignoring the frown of driver uncle, I was walking through the heavy drops, hitting my head, into City Centre 2. Onto the escalator, into crossword bookstore, I was. Obviously, a dream place for any bookaholic, like me. I searched my purse. My year long saving, a thousand I had.

Angels & demons- by Dan Brown.

Not the story line, but the name described my mental state. Two nights ago, less than forty-eight hours ago, my boyfriend left me through an sms, sleeping pills and anti-depression pills for the last two nights, and there I was holding something, to buy for me, with my own savings. A voice screamed inside my heart, ‘Forgive and forget. LOVE YOURSELF. You are amazing.’

My first Dan Brown read, owned. As I walked back through the sky salivating on me, I found an awkward peace spread inside.

My first break up, My first moving-on, My happiness and cries, nostalgia and RAIN.

The Angels and Demons stand witness to it.

S H E : Almost Oxygen.

After a sleepless night of extreme sadness and envy of some sort, the next morning, my text read- “ Girl, I’m sad. I wish I could meet you up. But your exams.”

It didn’t take her a minute to reply back- “Screw exams. Coming up, bitch.”

That’s, well, proudly HER.

The girl I shared my school seat with, my Tiffin- break laughs with, my exam answers, my sadness, my audacity, my madness, long walks, and all the sins.

And then one day she fell in love, with my brother.

“Bitch, I’m in love. Mind making me your sister-in-law for future?”

I couldn’t come up with anything except “I love you, my future sister-in-law.”

Obviously, the story didn’t go like the happy endings they show in movies. But extreme tragedy. The after effects are something like our families gave away with the tight relation they had.

Result- No meeting each other for the next two years. Class 11 and 12, all we did was, text each other up, saying,

“Have you turned fat? 

“Send me a picture.”

“Come online, ass.”

“When can I see you up? :’( ”

“Give me a call when your parents are not around.”

And sadness followed consolations like,

 “Bitch, Karma’s gonna be good to us. Chill. ”

“THIS TOO SHALL PASS.”

Aah, YES!

Now when we sit through the summer heat somewhere, all we do is consider us lucky, proudly. And yes, we are mad. We touch wood at almost every good thing we say about us.

Two best friends can never stay sane, when they are together.

HAhahahha!!

But she is some extreme level of craziness, and so are her friends.

When I couldn’t make a friend for myself in college, what she did was, she made me meet up her equally mad friends.

‘My friends, your friends.’ She said, smiling.

I am not writing this because I want to pamper her or something. Obviously, the first thing, she’s going to say, when she sees this will be, ‘Bitch, I love you.’

I am writing this, because I love writing, and I love her, so basically writing about her gives a high, and loads of peace, right now!

(Ignore the gibberish logic, if you don’t understand the emotion and love hidden in it.)

STATUTORY  WARNING :

People who believe ‘Girls can never be best friends’,

 PLEASE STAY OUT.

I have a very small list of people in the world who have my acclamation of owning me.

She almost tops the list.


* Touch wood*, Dear Bitch.