Durga Pujo - Life in Itself

 Durga Pujo conjures up an image of a beautiful pandal floating in a sea of lights, with an exquisite idol artistically placed amidst a plethora of stunningly imaginative installations based on the theme of the season.  Of the melody of Dhaks in the background, and colourful, gay, festive people in the foreground. Yes, Durga Pujo is, indeed, all of that. But much, much more, too. While I grew up with Barir Pujo, I spent the most of my adult life celebrating Pujo in cities outside Bengal. And then, this year I got an opportunity to spend the festive season in Kolkata, the city famous for the Pujo celebrations.

As I sit down to pen my experiences, I am reminded of a poem I read in school, where a group of blind men go to see an elephant. One touches the trunk, and exclaims: “Oh! It is like a snake”. The other touches the torso and imagines it to be like a wall. The third man touches the ears and says, “A fan, indeed”. While the fourth man touches the legs, and says, “You are all wrong. An elephant is like a pillar.” Pujo, too, has a myriad of emotions and flavours attached to it. Understanding the whole of it at one go is very unlikely.

For Barir Pujo, Ma Durga is the daughter who also happens to be a goddess. While we seek Her refuge for any problem big or small all through the year, we treat these five days as Her personal visit to our home, or Her Home, rather. All relatives from across the globe gather together for the occasion, and an entire universe of homecoming and catching-up runs in parallel. Inside the Mandir premises, you will find Choto Kakima flaunting her new designer saree her sister from Delhi has gifted her, while checking out Mejo Jethima’s new pair of bangles, and Minti Pishi filling up Piyali Didi (who has been in the USA for the last 2 years) with the gossip of how Ratan Mama’s daughter married some lowly village urchin. Outside, in the courtyard, you would hear Boro Jethu informing Baba of how he donated 3 acres of land for a new college coming up in the village, while the other uncles huddle together, draw up somber faces and mutter statements like ‘we should get our share’, ‘he is selling off everything’, ‘we should ask for a partition now’ under their breaths. Amidst all of this, you will find the devoted priest continue to chant the Holy Scriptures, and the Puja will go on seamlessly. And not to mention the incessant servings of tea that keep pouring in. Truly, in moments like these, I have always felt as if the Goddess is also a part of these family gossips and conspiracies. Perched up high on a pedestal, in a haze of smoke wafting from numerous incense sticks, oil lamps and dhoop, Her smiling know-it-all face seems to enjoy every bit of every conversation floating around. She nods to a ‘Did you see ShibuDa’s wife? Isn’t she throwing a lot of attitude this time?’ with as much happiness as she does to ‘That girl in your Instagram post is your girlfriend?’ In fact, I wonder if all that rustling of new silk sarees and tinkling of gold ornaments tempts Her enough to come down and get some for Herself, too?

Also, Barir Pujo is all about traditions and rituals. Every single mantra, every single offering holds a special significance. Anything goes amiss, a small error, and the entire family broods about the inauspicious event.

Some rituals, in fact, are steeped deep in patriarchy. For example, if a woman in the family consumes the banana that has been burnt in the Navami Yagya, she will sear a son without fail. With the Goddess standing tall in front of them, exuberating female power at its best, here we have the disciples, fellow-women of the household, praying to Her for a son! She keeps on smiling, though. Bemused, maybe. Irritated? Or, maybe, Herself being a mother of four, she tries to suppress a chortle, knowing fully well what havoc people are asking to bring in their lives!

Some, are outright funny. Like, when The Nabapatrika (aka Ganesh’s wife) goes off for Visarjan, the wooden stool on which she had been worshipped is kept aside to be occupied by any unmarried girl in the family. Whoever sits on it is bound to get married within the same year. I am sure many would want to play a game of musical chairs to occupy the ‘Throne’, but the giggling Aunts do not give you a choice. The pre-decided candidate is pushed forward, and amidst a lot of jokes and laughter she does the honours. The Goddess has a hearty laugh over this, knowing full well what is going on in each one’s mind.

Some rituals are personal. On Dashami mornings, everyone in the family, young or old, writes letters to the goddess on Bel leaves, and posts them to her via the Pushpanjali. Of course, there are some that take up extra leaves for extra-long letters. And then there are ones who peep into others’ stuff, and try to read them aloud. Adults, for most part, are grim and silent while penning down their thoughts. I remember being tensed about how the Goddess wouldn’t know which letter is mine, and hence signing my name in capitals. My cousins thought I was a fool, for having wasted so much space in writing the name. I could have asked for a couple of more wishes, instead, they told me. From up above, the Goddess smiled. At me? At them? I still don’t know.

Some rituals are scary, too. During Sandhi Puja, the eldest member in the family fires three rounds of a family rifle in the air. As a child I was so scared that maybe one of the bullets would do a zig-zag in the air, and come down to hit me! As the folklore goes, Sandhi Puja is the time when the Goddess killed the Asur, and hence that is the time the family has to offer its gun salute.

Speaking of folklore, every Barir Pujo has a story on how it started. Ours has one, too. Many years ago, while the Durga idol of the village was being taken for Visarjan, the procession suddenly came to a halt in front of the gates of my great-great-grandfather’s house. The idol suddenly became very heavy, and could not be lifted up by all the men put together. With folded hands, my ancestor then prayed to the Goddess that he would worship Her with all pomp and show every year. And then, only after all prayers were offered, were the men able to lift the idol back on their shoulders, and resume their visarjan yatra. Thereafter, Durga Pujo started in the family.

 If Barir Pujo is a wedding affair of the daughter in the family, Parar Pujo aka Pujo in the neighborhood is similar to a collective gathering at a neighbor’s son’s wedding reception. With the bride sitting pretty and important in her decorated arm chair, a Mrs. Sen and a Mrs. Mitra exchange pleasantries, and talk about how humid the weather is. And, if they are relatively close, maybe they also discuss the recent scandal at Mrs. Banerjee’s home, where the daughter-in-law bangs pots & pans in the middle of the night.

Parar Pujo is more about festivity and adda. If anyone cares a dime about the rituals, it is the usual priest who has been appointed to perform the Puja for the season. In fact, once I even saw him cry profusely during Ghat Visarjan, when he was chanting mantras asking the Goddess to return back to her abode in the Himalayas. People found it laughable and dramatic, but having the Barir Pujo for so long, I could relate.

Do not expect the whole of the neighbourhood to turn out in huge numbers, but everyone does pay a customary visit to the Pujo Pandal at least once during the five days. While most people are busy planning their pandal-hopping for the day, and drawing up a chart of whom to meet up where, there are a bunch of loyal enthusiasts, who usually happen to be the Committee-members and their families,  that can be spotted at all times in the Parar Pujo premises.

Non one misses the community lunches, though. Enjoying a Khichuri Labra on Ashtami or a Polao Mangsho on Nabami, with the Dhak playing in the background, and the air filled with laughter and gossip, is an experience in itself.

Not to mention the usual Visarjan dance, and the procession that goes with it. During my recent trip, I remember a couple stopping their bike, and asking us if they can join in. We were more than happy to welcome them, and these young kids danced with us through the roads of Kolkata for quite some time, before bidding audieu and going back to where they came from. No one exchanged names, and no one cared about identities. Celebratory fun, extended to all. That, for me, is the exact spirit of Durga Pujo.

 Irrespective of the kind of Pujo, what is spectacular is how every nook and corner of the entire state dresses up in lights, banners and festivity during these 5 days! Be it breath-taking art installations depicting the current socio-political affairs, entire Pandals made out of recycled plastic, or simple ones with nothing fancy, the happy and gay spirit in each one of them is remarkable. A crowd of colorfully dressed up humans, passing through archways built out of fairy lights, staring in awe at the beauty of the structures, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the splendor of the idols, chatting & laughing while thronging road-stalls and eating egg-rolls and phuchkas. That, when it happens in all neighborhoods in all cities, towns and villages across a state, is a sight to behold.

Durga Pujo is as much about worshipping the Goddess as it is about celebrating Her home-coming. With her, She brings along families staying in different parts of the globe. She tags along neighbours who haven’t spoken for a while, acquaintances who do not know each other beyond their last names. Even strangers, who meet for the first time. Durga Pujo is about solidarity. For 5 days, people shun their mundane existence and participate in this blissful euphoria. Durga Pujo is the inner-self in each one of us wanting to celebrate life. In fact, Durga Pujo is an encapsulated manifestation of life itself.

 

Musings

Life without Mom is unimaginable. Me being only child born late into the marriage, Mom was extremely protective of me. And I was obsessively possessive about her. I have never liked sharing Mom with anyone, howsoever remote. An introvert and unsocial child, Mom was my best friend. She seemed to know exactly what was going on in my mind, and I could never any keep secrets from her.

At 17, when she came to drop me off at the law school hostel, both of us were overwhelmed with emotions. I wept because I knew I couldn’t manage without her. She wept because she knew that right from that moment, I will learn how to manage without her. Till then, I had never spent a single night without her by my side, and it took me quite some time to adjust to the hostel life. Yet, in spite of the distance between us, she knew each and every detail of my life - my friends, my crushes, my boyfriends, absolutely everything. She had this innate quality in her to draw up the character of any person just by listening to the details I provided. And more often than not, she was right.

I finished college, started working, married, and raised a family of my own. Yet, Mom remained the numero uno star in my life. If I had nothing to do, I called her up. If I felt lonely at 3 am in the night, I called her. Any kind of trouble, be it office, home or friends, Mom was my savior. Any kind of gossip, I had to tell her. Any kind of trouble, I had to seek her opinion. I had this firm belief that my problems vanished as soon as I told Mom.

And then, suddenly, Mom passed away. On the second day of being admitted to the hospital. The night before, I had been shit scared on hearing that she was not well. She had assured me, joking that she would give me enough warnings before she died, and that I would get the feelers about her death. But all I got was a call from Dad, asking me not to cry. In fact, I had spoken to her minutes before, and all she told me was that she was feeling sleepy. She did not tell me she was going away. She knew I would be devastated. Even in her last moments, Mom shielded me from the unbearable pain. For the brief little moments that she could.

Shell-shocked as I was, I did not know how to react. I could not even cry. I felt numb. Almost fifteen minutes later, I regained my senses and called up my husband. What happened thereafter, I do not remember. Except that we rushed home.

And there she was, dressed as a bride, garlanded, vermilion aplenty, sleeping peacefully. I simply could not believe my eyes. It could not be. It simply wasn’t true. How could Mom die?? Moms don’t die. And my Mom is immortal. I do not remember how long I sat there beside her, stroking her face, touching her bosom, trying to feel her Midas touch. I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder, and I realized that Dad was sitting beside me, sobbing bitterly. My strong-willed, tough Dad, my hero, wept like a child, inconsolable. Exactly at this moment, the reality sank in. Mom is gone. And I have to protect Dad now. Strangely, I could not cry after that. All I could think of was providing comfort to Dad.

Rest of the week passed in a haze. A plethora of rituals, phone calls, attending to relatives inquiring about Mom’s sudden death, I felt like I have grown up once again. Not to mention the array of questions.

“Will you take Uncle with you to Mumbai?”

“What will you do about the house? Will you rent it or will you sell it?”

“Is Uncle suffering from depression? Please take care of him.”

“What will happen to your ancestral property? How will you be able to sell it?”

I wanted to scream out loud, “Don’t ask me, I don’t know. I have never known.”

At times, I felt angry, very angry, at Mom. Why did she leave us so suddenly? Why didn’t she give us the answers before she left? What am I supposed to do now? Can’t she visit us after death? At least leave hints for us? How can she abandon us like this?

In the initial days, I longed to be alone, so that I could cry to my heart’s content. I missed my Mom terribly. But as days passed, the throbbing pain gave way to an immense fear. Will I be able to take care of Dad? What if I lose him too? Will he be able to adjust with us in Mumbai? What will I do if he doesn’t?

Now, twenty days after Mom has left us, I still miss her every second. But it is easier now, to talk about her without breaking down. At some moments, I have this very powerful urge to cry, but at other moments I can also think about the other mundane things in life.

With us travelling to Mumbai tomorrow, I am filled with hope that I will be able to take care of Dad in the best possible way. I still talk to Mom’s pictures on my phone. Even though she does not answer, I know she is up there, listening, smiling.

Even through her absence she taught me that no matter how grave the loss, life moves on. 

Forgiveness

"Please forgive me", said Harsh. "I have caused you immense hurt and I intend to make amends."

Ananya was speechless. She did not know how to react. This man, who had once pushed her to such emotional extremes that she wanted to end her life, was now apologizing. This man, who had time and again made her question his loyalty, was now holding her hands, looking into her eyes, and assuring her that he is all hers. He, who had made her a subject of ridicule among friends and relatives, now wanted to flaunt his love for her on social media. He, who did not shy away from telling another woman that the world without her is black and white, was now claiming that she is the light of his life. He, who found nothing wrong in gifting the other woman the same gifts he chose for his wife, now claimed that she reigns supreme. Did he change overnight? 

Ananya did not know. As much as she wanted to believe him, something in her told her it is too good to be true. Why this apology? Was it because she had made up her mind to leave him? Maybe the suddenness of the decision had shaken him up? Was it peer pressure? Their match was odd, indeed, and she outshone him in every way. If she left him, will he not prove to the society that they were right when they deduced that this marriage would not last long?

Or was it because he was afraid of losing her? If so, what took him so long to apologize? If it had been love, he would not have inflicted upon her these grave wounds. And for another woman? Never. Is she really that special to him that her exit would impact his life tremendously? Then why had she not felt so? Why did she have come to this threshold  where she had to actually decide whether or not she wanted to stay in the relationship?

A few years ago, things had been different. Ananya, a young bride, with all her naivete and inexperience, had tried her utmost to make Harsh happy. She had, on her own, taken upon herself all the duties of the household. Visits to the market, household chores, socializing with his relatives, entertaining guests, she did it all. All this, while managing a hectic and taxing profession for herself. Maybe, if she had let him handle some of it, the equation would have been different? In her fervor to be a dutiful wife, had she not given him a taste of family responsibilities? Is that the reason he was detached? Did the feeling of ingratitude stem from there? 

Ananya had always sensed something amiss in their relationship. More so, when her friends talked about their respective partners, she would wonder what was wrong.  There was a sense of unease which she could not explain. She did realize Harsh was shut off from her. But she also realized that he enjoyed the company of other women, whether virtual or real. Yet she, Ananya, who worked day in and day out just to please him, was not a subject of his concern. Hapless, and unable to figure out what to do, she started stalking his life on social media. Maybe, her biggest mistake. Because she stumbled upon facts which threw light upon a totally different side of him. His emotional attachment to a certain woman cropped up quite glaringly. Her initial reaction had been that of shock. When she tried to discuss this with him, he accused her of being mean. She had a closed mind, he said. He knew he caused her grief, but he chose to walk all over her. He asked her to imagine the plight of the other woman, who, at a tender age, had to be subject to so much hatred and allegations. Was this his vanity to prove himself right? Or was it his self-assurance that she would not leave him?

Weakling that she was, Ananya could not muster enough courage to stand up for herself and leave right away. She stayed back, crying herself to sleep every night, blaming her own self for the misfortunes, and praying to unseen forces to end her misery. She entertained the other woman in her house on special occasions, allowed Harsh to be with her while she attended office, all the while a constant desire to end her life gnawing at her heart.

Every time she broached the topic, Harsh would explain to her that things were not as she saw them, that having some quality time with someone else ensured that he came back to her with more love. Ananya had no other choice but to nod her head in agreement.

The years passed, and the emotional abuses kept piling up. Then, one day, while she and Harsh were fighting for a totally different reason, it suddenly struck Ananya that she could not take this any more. She would not take it any more. Her love for him was lost. She would end this toxic relationship, as much for her own good, as for his.

"You always pick up fights with me, you mean woman. How can you blame me for everything in life?!" he was saying.
"I absolutely understand. Let us relax and think for ourselves. I think it is time we part ways," she said.
Harsh was stunned. But only for a second. Another one of her empty rantings, he thought to himself. She will soon calm down and come begging for forgiveness.

But soon he realized that she was resolute in her decision. She was not her usual agitated self whom he could easily maneuver into self-pity and guilt. She was this absolutely determined woman who knew what she wanted from her life.

And that is when he apologized.

Should Ananya believe him? Her mind said no. People apologize when they realize their mistake. But this man, till the other day, had been proclaiming that what he did was right. Did this mean that he knew all along that what he was doing was wrong? If so, why should she forgive him?

Once upon a time, her world had revolved around him. Step by step, brick by brick, he had dismantled the world for her. Now, she loved him no more. The relationship was nothing more than a dead corpse, difficult to carry, always reminding the carrier of the futility of bearing all the weight. 

"Let us make a fresh start," he said. How? Her wounds had not healed. And tomorrow, even if they do, the scars would remain. How would she hide them? And what if this fresh start was a harbinger of a bigger disaster? Maybe it was one of his ploys? Or a manifestation of the tricks he had used on her all this while to keep her immersed in self-pity and self-doubt?

Ananya had to decide. And quickly. Not as a weakling who cannot survive without support, but as a strong independent woman who chooses to fight her battles out in the open.

"Yes, we make a fresh start. But not together. Individually. And yes, I forgive you. May you find all the happiness and love you have ever wanted."

And, with this, she walked out of the house, the whiff of fresh air filling her heart with a new-found feeling of hope, of desire and of happiness. She will rebuild her own world. With her own hands. No strings attached. A step away from the dreadful past. A step into the promising future.

After a decade, Ananya giggled. The child-like innocence that lay trapped within the bruises was now out and shining. 

Unanswered

You and I. We offered our prayers to the same Gods. In the same temples. Sought forgiveness for similar sins. Begged for similar boons. Had similar dreams. Lived the same life. When the earthquake struck, we were sitting side by side, at the same restaurant, eating the same food. You died. I lived. Your head was smashed to pieces. I did not have a single scratch on my body. 

The same prayers which proved to be a miracle for me, seemed insufficient for you. The God, manifesting itself in the various calendars we had so religiously hung across the house, smiled differently at each one of us. For me He chose the all-benevolent one, and for you was reserved the sly one.

Destiny, some said. Philosophers who proclaim that a man writes his own destiny, do not take into account the likes of us. Or, maybe, we have always been written off with that small aster-ix and illegible font at the footer of the page. All the oaths we took, that proclaimed us as a man and a wife till eternity, that united us in our fortunes and misfortunes, that entitled us to have the same future together, were essentially instruments of a society that needs monogamy to control chaos. The presence of holy scriptures, ancient rituals and a pompous extravagant deity on a high pedestal just added to the show.

Karma, said others. You and I, who worked together, hand in hand, to build the same roof over our heads, to share the same meal on our plates, to sire and rear our progeny together, somehow ended up with a Karma so radically different that you are dead and I am alive. 

Sins of a past life, commented some. Yes, indeed. A life that is dubious enough in its existence, suddenly acquires so much power that it overrules our present. It does not matter if I have volunteered to help an orphanage with collecting donations, or if you have provided community service for the leprosy patients. Our sins of a life we have no recollection of having ever lived, are enough to spell doom.

We looked very happy together, and invited the devil's eye, explained someone. True. When the scriptures, through their complicated wordings, preach us on methods to be happy, when the spiritual gurus invite us to attend their expensive discourses to learn about happiness, they fail to inform us about the disclaimer that happiness attracts the devil. When the entire world is trying to devise methods to bring an iota of happiness around it, You and I have stood out in the crowd, spreading so much happiness and love that it provoked the devil to claim your life. Between the two of us, you being merrier in spirit, seemed to be his choice.

You are ashes now while I am still flesh and blood. Every night, when I recollect the moments of that horrific day, I have this nagging question in my mind: what if we had exchanged places? Would you have lived? Would I have died?

A Superior Being

Having taken a few days' break from work, I decided to meet up with an old school friend. I boarded a local train, and occupied my favorite spot near the door. I was traveling in Mumbai locals after a long hiatus, and the constant jostle of the crowd bothered me. The sweat & stench was something I was not accustomed to anymore, and, in my mind, I was hurling choicest abuses at the people who boarded first class compartments on second class tickets. 

Making a mental note to book a cab on my way back, I looked out of the door as the train rushed past alternate stretches of shrubs and shanties. The breeze provided some respite. Just at that moment, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a shabbily dressed eunuch looking at me, asking for alms. If it had been a traffic signal, I would have shooed her away with rude gestures. But there, in a crowded train compartment, the uncouthness of the entire episode made it absolutely impossible for me to ignore her.

I delved into my pocket, found a spare five-rupee coin, and swiftly put in it the eunuch's hand. Careful not to touch her, and anxious to get rid of her. Yet, amidst all this hatred and feelings of untouchability, my inner self wanted her to acknowledge my magnanimity. My kindness. After all, not everyone shells out five full rupees to a beggar! She should have looked at me with obliging, tear-brimmed eyes, and maybe even tried to touch my feet (of course, I would have chided her for this atrocity!). Instead, when she looked past me with a sad & forlorn look, I was angry. The attitude that beggars have nowadays, I thought to myself. No matter how much you give them, they never seem to be satisfied. You should never be kind to them!

The eunuch continued to beg, eyes weary, lips pursed tight, the coins in her palm chiming to her faint juggle. All eyes were on her. In return for a coin or two, she collected innumerable glares that ripped her of her dignity of being a human. Glares that screamed to her that she is downtrodden, untouchable, not fit to be a co-traveler. Strangely, she seemed to be unaffected.

I concentrated on the scenery outside. The train was crossing a river, and I was marveling at the abundance of nature, when, suddenly, I heard loud whispers. Turning my head, I saw the eunuch standing right next to me, praying feverishly. Before I could react, she kissed the coins, crossed herself multiple times, and splayed her hands out of the door, tossing the money into the air. Glistening under the soft sunshine, the coins danced their way into the river. Each one landed with a soft splash, creating ripples in the heart of the otherwise silent watercourse. Feeling amused, I looked at the eunuch. She wore the same expression of indifference. How could she throw away her earnings just like that, I thought to myself. She could have bought herself a decent breakfast with that money, if nothing else! Was she annoyed at the frugal collections she had made? Was it her attempt to protect her dignity by despising the help we  gave her?

My face must have emoted my thoughts clearly, because she turned around and spoke to me directly. "Didi, I sacrifice my first earnings of the day to God. And I pray that all my co-travelers  achieve the purpose of their journey. With His blessings, I will survive the day, too."

I was taken aback. Not by the ritual, or the thought which went behind it, but simply by the fact that it came from a eunuch begging on trains. Philosophy and optimism are something we associate with us fortunate ones. We, who have our food cooked, warmed, and served to us in a platter. We, who want bigger houses with more rooms so that all our movables can fit in better.

Yet, here was this barefoot human being, with tattered clothes and unkempt hair, with no caste, creed or religion, with a gender which is still a stigma in the society. Exemplifying all it takes for a person to learn about hopefulness. And faith.

I do not know whether her prayers were answered, whether her sacrifice helped her survive the day, or whether she went to bed on an empty stomach. But her simple, uncomplicated belief in the future amazes me till date. Many a times, when life hits a rough patch, I try to bring myself to think on those lines. And I fail miserably, each time.    

Nature’s Child

A small unnamed village on the foothills of Himalayas. Where Nature plays the magician, and snow-capped peaks bow in obedience to the unabashedly glowing sun, dressing themselves up in hues so magnificent, that the clear brooks flowing downstream find it hard to keep pace with reflecting their radiance. Here, at one inconspicuous bend in the mountains, on the way to Darjeeling, stands my father’s sweet shop. Tourists are a rarity here, and most of the days we sell almost nothing. However, we do have our days, rather months, of good business & that suffices us for the rest of the year. Life in the mountains is a lot easier than you think. Limited means, unlimited happiness.

On one such quiet winter day, a sparkling red SUV stops across our shop. Dazzled by the brightness, I look up. A smartly dressed man & a very beautiful woman get down. The man crosses the road & heads towards our shop. An expensive camera dangling around his neck, he is whistling a tune to himself. A happy tourist. My father runs out to greet him, to usher him in. A moment ago, he had been cursing his luck for something trivial. Now, a prospective customer on a cold morning has made him cheery.

The woman stands on the other side of the road, looking down at the valley, lost in thoughts, enamored by the bountiful earth. The inconsistent breeze plays with her hair, her scarf flutters in the wind. To me, she appears like a demi-goddess trying to fly. She shivers, yet takes in a huge breath of fresh air.  All at the same time.

I stand somewhere in between, soaking in the magnanimity of the new vehicle in front of me. And the urbaneness of the newcomers. I watch, with a certain glee, the mesmerizing effect my village casts on these tourists, detaching them from their spirits, making them want to break free from the world.

Then, I notice you. Sitting tight at the back seat of the car, your curious eyes looking out of the window, at me. We exchange smiles. You, in your expensive attire to ward off the cold. Me, in my worn out jeans and a tattered sweater that was handed down to me after my brother outgrew it. I do not have a name. And neither do you.

You, wondering at how a boy your age is not feeling the biting cold. Me, imagining the comfort those clothes must provide. You, happy to have found a packet of chips in the middle of nowhere. Me, happy that we have a customer for the day. You, a small girl, out here on a vacation with your parents. Me, a small boy, helping my father in his business, surviving on visitors like you. You learn your lessons in schools. I learn mine from Mother Nature.

Your textbooks, do they teach you that everyone is equal? Well, I learnt it form the clouds. High or low, green or barren, they descend on every hilltop with equal grace. They do not discriminate. And from the rain. When it pours, it wets us all. Flowering trees, fruitless trees, trees with thorns, each one of them is washed and soaked in its kindness.

And solidarity? Do you not have a story on that? At dusk, when the flock of birds fly towards their home, chirping away in happiness, they tell me of solidarity. When fish swim together under the river, adjusting themselves to the flow of water, they tell me of brotherhood.

We are both children. Born in different parts of the world, to a different set of parents. Instantly drawn to each other by our disparity. Our hearts pure. Our souls untouched. Somewhere deep down, we want to exchange our lives. You want to live here in the mountains, marveling at its beauty every passing day. I want to live in the city, tiring myself of its mundane charm, stealing moments of respite by an escape to the hills. Childhood fantasy.

“Little boy, come here!” My spell is broken. I turn around to see the man calling out to me. With hands full with a bag of edibles, his walk has been reduced to a wobble. I run to help him. He places the packets in the seat next to you. Then he brings you down. Out in the cold, you cringe in discomfort.

“Boy, will you click a photograph for us?” the man asks. I smile in return. Not because I cannot speak, but because I am too thrilled at the prospect of handling a camera. All by myself.

The three of you huddle together. The woman adjusts her coat. The man puts on a toothy grin. Only you wear the same curious look on your face. I click. And everyone is happy. The man hands me a ten-rupee note. You get into the car and drive off.

I return to the shop & hand over the tip to my father. He folds it carefully & keeps it in the cash box.

Many years later, when you look at this photograph, you will not remember the boy who clicked it. But many years later, when I buy a camera of my own, and click a photograph, I will remember this day. A good day.

A Lonely Affair

Walking down the crowded street, earphones in place, she realizes a very vital fact about herself. She thrives in loneliness. It soothes her. It comforts her. It unfolds in front of her an empty canvass where she can draw characters, paint episodes, unfold mysteries. Devour on happiness. And sadness.

No, she does not walk alone. Holding hands, walking with her is her partner.  A few blocks away, a group of friends are waiting for them. To celebrate and make merry. All around her, there is a swarm of people. Jostling for space, eager to move ahead. But they are too real, these faces. They have emotions she cannot control. They feel on their own. They exist. And because they exist, they do not appeal to her.

For her lies the stories she weaves. A handsome prince falling in love with a plain-Jane-next-door. A couple fighting, kissing & making up. A proud father praising his successful son. A widowed woman struggling hard to overcome the struggles. A daily wage laborer finding a lost wallet. People dancing to the tunes of latest Bollywood blockbusters. Each time, a different scene. The cast usually resembles people she has met. Or seen in magazines. Or come across while crossing streets. Sometimes, faces come easily to her. Sometimes, she strives hard to conjure up one. In fact, at times there is no face at all. But what is omnipresent is an array of emotions. And love. And Hope.

In her world, the good guy is rewarded. The bad guy is punished. People repent. Apologize.  Here love flows freely and hate is sparse. And if grief is unbearable, plots are changed, happy scenes inserted. Here, hurt is temporary & happiness is prevalent. Pain is a prologue to something good. The future is not unforeseen, the past is not a memory. Everything is filmed in the present.

In the real world, she cannot rewind. Nor replay. Nor edit. Here, words are spoken, trust is broken, pain is not forgotten, and scars remain. Here, she has to be mindful of what she speaks. Watch out for souls she might hurt. Emote at correct places. Derive contentment in the present by planning for the future. Love consciously. Grieve privately. Here, life is a rulebook with Do’s and Do not’s. Here, loneliness is a synonym for being alone.

Not for her. For souls like her. Physically in the company of people, she remains aloof. The mundane affairs do not charm her. Yet, from them, she derives her inspiration for the stories. They give her the garb for her play. They provide the backdrop to her stage.

With them, she is lonely. Yet, she needs them. To day dream. To enjoy her loneliness.