Wabi-Sabi

Tear them out from your dictionary. Scratch them out from your memory. Pluck them out as they creep under  the surface of your skin. Pay homage to the words, as they bow down on their frail knees and demand euthanasia, plead for what is considered to be a sin. Behead sorry for redefining itself every day Strike out thank you for never being thankful. Misused by the immoral they lie on the verge of  forgetting what they once stood for, as they spill over from the pool of words. Used as a shelter, a revenge, meant to allure. Once they lied unused, today tattered and misused. Present them with the long lost respect, end them.

The little boy sleeps contented,  Out of harm’s way in the blanket; Loved. Knowing his mother is close by He knows peace, he knows dreams; He is her beloved. He glances at her searching for reassurance Before getting on the school van. And comes back with a bunch of questions; Many hows and whys Awaiting the assurance that he can. Playing on the swing, He believes, He aims high. Knowing he could only fall in her arms, if ever; He grows feeble wings Every time she tells him he can fly. Proud enough not to hold her hand on the way back; Not ashamed but trying to grow up in her shade And yet stepping out of it, every once in a while. A day comes when he runs to his friends, forgets to bid her goodbye. Only to come back home to someone everyday Who stands on the doorstep with a smile.

    There is repair work going on at home and through the crevices of the door of my room, light is sneaking in to form interesting patterns on a wall right opposite to the door. I see the light dancing in front of my eyes and the monotony of my room as well as my thoughts, is broken for a while. The repairmen are welding outside, nothing particularly attractive about the process.     I cannot help but remember the time when as a little girl I used to pass by construction sites and stop for a fleeting moment, amazed by the sparks falling apart and vanishing into thin air. I used to wonder how these iridescent sparks could fall apart from a massive fountain of light and weld two surfaces together at the same time. It seemed ironical for a child.     It is fascinating how we can draw so many examples from everything happening around us. Now I am wise enough – well not very sure about that, there is a lot of gibberish that the society has put into my head, but

   A sage-like man with a long mane sits on the stairs of the ghat next to Ganges and awaits a funeral; the funeral is not of a relative, acquaintance or friend. The family of the deceased is unaware that before the dead body gets to decay and dissolve in the so-called holy waters, a bunch of people would binge on the remains of flesh and blood.   Aghori is a mere word that sends a chill down the spine of many people aware of the carnivorous disposition behind a sage-like demeanour. As an Aghori, clad in saffron robes, feeds on decaying flesh, he claims to ward off the 7 sins from his mind, body and soul. An Aghori might even have a single piece of flesh in his lifetime; it all depends on when is he able to part with the immoral side of him. The partially burnt flesh is searched for in the Ganges as soon as the funeral comes to an end and a somber kin walks back home. It is then cooked wholly in fire on the ghat itself, before being picked up by the Aghoris one by one,

   Yes, today was another day when I was squished in my seat in the metro, as soon as a lady with a huge backside sat beside me. I would have gotten up to offer my seat if time had permitted me. But before I could notice her,  she sat down after hastily making a grand entrance, knocking down a few people fortunately or unfortunately not bestowed by bundles of fat to be carried around and used as an advantage to make or rather grab one’s way.     Everyday we witness this appalling site where ladies on the heavier side queue up in front of the metro gates as bulls ready to charge and if necessary, kill. After the massacre of petite little figures and affliction of pain on many a dainty feet, these warriors find a seat, armed with shopping thailas, umbrellas, lunch boxes and a few other items that have made it to their must carry list. With a triumphant smile, the warriors, now crowned as Rani Laxmi Bais of the metro dynasty, snugly sit and fit in THEIR seats.    Before

Who has the answer? What is holy, what is not; Forgive me I know not. But, I see right from wrong. In either black or white, We do not belong. Neither are we brands to be labelled as a caste. Nor is body and face moulded or cast. Why does gender chalk out boundaries, Draw out birth and death? Strata decides cradle or filth, vanity or shame instead? Do we fit in the puzzle of the society, is the decision ever mine? Who is rightly empowered to decide where to draw the line?