Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Only If


 I still remember the day they came home. Every minute details. Everytime I think of it these details seem to compete with my pain to get noticed. It is not the day, but details. All that I heard. My feelings. What it smelt like. And all that I had seen.
The clear sky. The clouds scattered all around. The knock on the wooden door. They asked for you. You. They did not know, maybe, that you were never home. Except for a few nights I saw Ma weeping. You, the sole breadwinner. Still Ma stood up for you, to make the void you left filled. And that was the last day I had a family. I had hidden myself under the cot. Camouflaging with the dusty newspaper and the old green trunk. I had seen the brown sturdy pair of boots coming towards me. For me. It carried along the scent of death. Fear. Stench. Of sweat. Of my wet trousers.
The boots had found me. I was pulled out. And I wished for darkness, where I could dissolve in. Darkness like Ma failed to fight for my safety.
Innocence dripped from my tears. I cried for Ma. But she had become a heap of silence. No more words. No more life. My pleas drowned as bullets spoke. Boots spoke. And when you came back the nest Ma had built for us had become rubble and remains. I hugged you. Threw myself into you to feel safe. I cried. Pain bled. The boots had earned that day an 8 year old's hatred. Uncorrupted. Pure and intense. As deep as my love for Ma. As deep as my pain of having lost her. Hatred.
Ma, but never taught me to hate. And I believed my pain was hatred.
Time heals, I was told. But wounds were all that healed. Scars remained. Along with it the pain too. Having had to live without Ma for two years pain had become my only ally.
"I hid under the desk, waiting for my death." He told having had survived the bullets. Though the words were his the pain wasn't strange to me. I heard my voice in his words. My past. My life.And I too shuddered in fear as the world talked of the 140 lives. Only that but this time the boots were my Baba's.
And now, I do not know whom to hate. The boots that made people who wore them bad? The boots that had silenced my Ma? Baba?
But who deserved hatred? Ma had told none. And I know no better than that.
Only if I could get to lay my head on Ma's lap. Live her smile and lullaby. Only if the world got lessons on love. Only if Ma had taught them all to love. Only if the world had grown beyond this blame game of hatred. Only if anyone tried to understand. Only if!

Cause, hatred never heal wounded souls.




Sunday, 14 December 2014

A Letter To You - 1

Letters are always special. And trust me, nothing more than a handwritten letter can be a wonderful gift. It feels beautiful to know that someone out there penned down their heart in a piece of paper, smeared them with shades of the ink and addressed it to you.
These letters are those I scribbled in my diary. To not to be send. Do not ask me why I'm sharing them here. Cause, all I'm doing is making this my *personal* blog.
#LettersToYou


A letter to you whom I saw today

We met today. For a sparsely few moments our paths met, at the crossroad. You know what I saw of you first, the intense red painted lips. And when I think of you now that is what comes to my mind. Intense red.
A face plunged in rouge. The cheeks forced to blush. The dark kohl lined eyes. All that you made up but came trickling down your forehead to cheeks to chin as droplets of sweats, in shades of dyes you painted yourself.
The golden yellow salwar and crimson kameez. A vivid dupatta. You seemed a rainbow. You spelt colours.
The shingled hair and your malnourished built, but told me nothing of your sex. And I do not know whether to call you my sister or brother.
Yet I laughed. At my guy friend who went jumpy as you approached him. As you pulled his sleeves and caught his wrist. As you tried to "seduce" him.
Tried. You were not more than twenty years old. And let me tell you, weren't born to seduce. You failed. I do not know the tale of your life. But the streets you roamed and lived in now, the masks you wear now, have failed to teach you to seduce. After all you seem to be no more than a piece of flesh and a few colours. A butt of ridicule.
The streets you call home failed you. We, your fellow beings failed you. The world failed you. But you rose above the heights of failure.
And yet you find means to survive. You gather guts, put on masks and struggle to survive. Begging to prostitution to seduction. Begging for someone to share your body. For a few pennies that would keep you alive. Run your family, maybe.
The pain you bury within reflects in those shades you blush in.
You struggle to survive, sell your body. Beg keeping aside your dignity. And I laughed at you. I feel ashamed and am sorry. Sorry. For being able to not send this to you. For being able to do nothing but write this, right now.
I respect you. And wish, hope, and believe you'll find a shoulder once to lean on. A heart that'll understand. And a world that wouldn't shun you out of its horizon.

Yours