The Culprit

There was a kingdom, peaceful, joyful, and all its people happy and content. The kingdom was ruled by a King ever-so-gracious and kind, with just the right amount of temper befitting a just king, living in a palace made of the whitest of marbles. He had a queen to rule by him and a daughter too; but no son was born to this king. The nice townsfolk went about their daily work, but fell into despair when reminded that the kingdom had no apparent heir. "What would our kingdom be like, in the hands of another king?" they wondered, "what if the new king doesn’t emulate the same values we have been brought up in?" Every evening conversation had been tinged with this talk in all of the kingdom for over twenty years.

When the princess grew up, with superlative beauty and charm, and a bit of wisdom just right for an eighteen year old, she impressed all of the townsfolk with her kindness. "She is of marriageable age" the evening conversations resounded, "our kingdom will soon be annexed or disrupted. Who will the new king be?" the townsfolk wondered.

Soon, these worries started to reach the King's ears. Distraught, he called a council and asked the ministers to find suitable matches for the princess. The ministers went far and wide to hunt for the perfect prince. But none were to be found. The king started to lose his mind. He issued a threat demanding the head of the minister who returned without getting a suitable prince for his daughter. This declaration frightened the ministers. They thought it wise to stay outside the kingdom rather than come up with a match that wasn’t suitable.

But alas! Without the ministers, the clergy suffered. Without the clergy, the police suffered. Without the police, the bribes reduced. And the treasury soon lost its income. All the middlemen went ahead and levied more taxes from the farmers and the farmers were impoverished. They gathered up together and marched up to the court with candles, laid them on the King's feet and cried "Oh wise king, the kingdom suffers without the ministers. Please bring them back!" But the king was adamant "Nope", he said, "this kingdom needs a prince." The villagers returned sadly to their homes and wondered "who will marry the princess?"

But the princess, unlike the queen, was vocal about her wishes. (It has been widely observed that being the only daughter of a powerful man does that to you). She boldly walked up to the court one day and said, "father, I think I shall rule this kingdom. I don’t need to marry." The king was shocked, but he asked her for some time to mull this over.

Blasphemy! - cried the village folk

The kingdom shall perish without an heir - said the clergy

She must be a lesbian - said an old family friend

Brave child. She must have gone through a lot - opined the townsfolk who did nothing but read newspapers

There must be something wrong in my upbringing - the queen lamented

The king heard these comments and decided that the devil must have gotten hold of his daughter's mind. But where the devil did the devil get the idea to get into his daughter's head?!! Seeing as this matter was more important, the king pardoned all the minsters and asked them to come back and ponder over the more pressing issue. The ministers, caught up in other lands, gladly came back (albeit with new wives and children). The kingdom soon returned to normalcy, after the new wives and children were accommodated. After a month, they held a council and debated - where did the devilish idea get into the princess' head?

The ministers questioned the guards, the chamber maids, the birds, and the bees. They read the books the princess had been reading, watched the movies she had been watching, and breathed the air she was breathing. After six months of meticulous experimentation and observation, they came up with the result. The ministers held a council meeting and they presented their report:

The princess is a very pretty girl, but seems to have formed opinions on her own. This is largely to be blamed on the education she has received - she should have received none. The books she reads isn't any good - when did kids start reading? The movies - abomination! We have found that her ideas cropped up in her head because of her father. This man must have been a ghastly man, letting his child, mind you, his only child (gasp!) breathe free air. The mother too - never taught her to not think. For these and other crimes that are yet unspoken, we order that the parents be punished.

Saying this, they looked at the king. The king, understanding the gravity of the situation, condemned the culprits to exile for life. But now a new problem arose. When they were in exile, who would rule the kingdom? They thought over and over for a solution; prayed for the one person that would rule the kingdom like they would; who would understand their values and customs and adhere to it? Who would, indeed?

Once again, the vociferous princess, generous and kind-hearted as always, walked into the council and said "I shall rule the kingdom." After a minute of stunned silence, the courtroom burst in applause. The wise princess had offered a solution for the problem! She had proved her mettle to be a true queen, someday. The coronation happened right before the king and queen went into exile. She then ruled for a long fifty years before she turned the kingdom over to her adopted son, who understood the values and customs of the nation and ruled the kingdom as wisely as possible.

To this day, when you pass through the kingdom in the evening, you can hear the townsfolk discuss - "was the queen a lesbian after all? Was she asexual? Who will rule our kingdom now? Who will marry the prince now? Will she understand the customs and values of the kingdom? Will she be a beautiful and just queen?"

The Collective Indian Conscience.

Hotchpotch of past and present, mixed in morality, cloaked in nationality, a melting pot of all cultures but mine. I speak to the soul we have, of common history learnt in classrooms (we are proud of our country). Nonsense.

Half-truths of boiling minds. Killing the humans in the stories of his-tory. Violence and bloodshed, this is where they are. Refusing to talk, talking too much, slogans, dharnas, your devious ways.

I quit.

I cannot be this. I want out of your great collective conscious, you who make my heart hair skin diction dreams and self, yours. I kill in silence the soul of India.

For the short one

Thou, miniature human specimen, thou who art only unto my knees. Confirmed clarity and positivity in thy twin dollops of chocolate brown, their sole purpose looking, questioning. Oh, naughtiness incarnate. Thy laughter clear like the ring of a telephone of 70s.

Climbing railings and falling down, you creepy little spider monkey.

To the Women who Lived before

Voices, imaginations of women bygone. Their dreams interspersed in mine. I read your verses. I make them mine. We may not love the same men. But we love the same way.

Your desperation, mine. Ours, this world.

Oblivion

Forgetful me.

I sometimes forget words. Halfway through the vocal cords.

And when I do remember them, it doesn't sound right.

See, I could have used larynx there. Not so poetic.

Unless rhymed with pharynx. Now I forget which was which.

There's a history for this disease. Infected gene pool.

Or there are people who say it is a fad of the times

 Sometimes it is nice to forget things. Where the sugar was kept

And mix your pudding up with salt then. Oh the laugh!

All hell breaks loose when I forget my password

Not of my email account, but the banking sites.

Well, I never forget the twitface password.

Yet I may forget your face to your name.

"oh Mrs.phhhbhhht. You look so very lovely

Shiny and bright as new. Got married just I suppose.

Oh wait, your kids have kids too?! Let me guess

You aren't Mrs.phhhbhhht, are you? "

Shrinks upon shrinks have I consulted

Tonics and tactics have been taken up.

Remembering the word with a card and a colour

Or a number and a mental picture

And when I talk, a blubber of gestures and mangled phrases

Sound like they have been in a train wreck.

"There must be a connection", said one quirky doc

"We need to measure the velocity of your hair falling down

Once the head is free of hair, your memory can grow fairly well"

I saw my friend shave his head. He's still as dumb as a joker.

Psst.. the reason why I forget things is to have some fun

Coz people forgive a lunatic soon. And then I can have a good laugh

When the pudding is too salty and the tea too cold

I may even call you fat and get away.

When  I  write silly things, I 'll  be called a genius.

Transcendence or something they call it.

 Basically, timeless humor they mean.

But these fools! What do they know of a day's good laugh?

Now that I'm tired of writing, I’ll leave you to wonder it's meaning

As I have forgotten the very  thought that made me write this little thing.

To the voices in my head

I'm scared of listening to you. You give me such wonderful things to write. You trick me into believing they are mine. And when I show them to others, I can hear you laugh.
I am scared of listening to you because I think you are feeding me with the words of some past thinker. Someone whom I had once heard and understood and remains in the annals of my mind. Maybe you recite them back to my ears. And I, like a fool, will quote them as mine.
I hope it doesn't become a copyright infringement.

One of them said, "trust me. And write this..."

You throw words like snowflakes. Each with a distinct shape, soul. And I have to catch them with my palms. I have to mould them, shape them, unearth them.

She said, "You can then call them yours..."

The Secret of a God

Now, monsoon has always been my weak-point. I suppose I share this quality with a number of others. Here's what wafted through the window after a slow drizzle.

This clear, settled monsoon air. Celebrating the tears and words of some mighty pagan God. Long forgotten. Yet His words linger in the air. When the clouds have weeped enough and they gather around to muster a few more sobs, you can hear them. Sometimes, I am privy to them. The verses of His secret so strong that they make the sky blush at night. I have seen it. Once when I was floating, watching the night birds flee in silhouettes, I had seen the pink night sky. And I spoke to it "I know, I have heard it too..."

Chronicles of a Good Girl

I was a good girl from birth, I was told. I never fussed for eating, I never broke my toys. I held my grudges and never spoke of them. I always smiled at sorrow and helped maintain peace. Then came the time when I was to be judged. Adolescence was waiting to test my resolve. I skipped and I turned and I shut my eyes tight when there was a scare of my ruination. I shooed away guys who confessed their liking. Told they had an issue deep within their psyche. I grew up and married and loved my husband dear. He was the one I dreamed of, we settled for the best. Our families were happy, they blessed us for life. We both had our kids, our little spoilt brats. When once came a neighbour, sexy in her jeans. She strutted her body, in full abandon. I shunned her broad manners and her loud laugh. She lures the men to her, I called her a slut. She then cried away for one her stories. I was happy, my judgment was never to be wrong. She moved from my building, good riddance, I thought. Her influence would no longer spoil the brats. I grew up and made my children be gentle. I gave them the knowledge of right and wrong. They grew up too, soon, and went on adventures. Their life was no longer tied to mine. Relief spread across, a life I had lived. Full of joy, full of fun, a long happy one. When on my deathbed I had the flashback, I thought I did good and closed my eyes. I was a good girl right from my birth, and was a good girl right to my death.

Erosion of innocence

I remember you darling. You were there. New to the place. Crying your eyes out. Your sobs uncontrollable. You were shy. You were the boy in the corner. I smiled, I made you half-smile. Your eyes dug deep into my heart.

We met again. You were playing. A lone game. Some fantasy world. You came, sat next to me and told me your affairs. And I listened. Your smile made me crave for your innocence.

You grew up today. When I saw you, I hunted for that spark of recognition. You were ashamed. You looked down. And moved away and did a stunt. Told me that you didn't need me. After all, what have I done but smile? Your sorrow was yours alone.

I acknowledge. We are never to look at each other again. 

I walk. Therefore, I am

When I walk, I shift the imbalances. The imbalance of one step cancels out the imbalance of the one before it. When i am steady, sure of my place, I stay. There's no progress in it. A series of steps, each out of balance, each a risk, with every potential of falling down, are what makes us travel.

When I walk, I move. I incorporate the changes around me. Else I remain static.

-Inspirations and learnings from Bhutan

The Walk of Fame

When I cross the road at 7 pm, I am a celebrity. Headphones plugged in my ears that play the background music of my life then.  The hot headlights are the blinding flashes of the annoying paparazzi. I am in a world of my own. Swaying my butt in a sexy swagger. Almost a catwalk. Then comes my moment of truth, when a biker almost crashes into me.

Thanks! I didn’t know that cussword, you moron. 

The hypocrisy of morality

I believe morality is imbibed in us when we are kids.

One might not brush one's teeth twice a day, but would hesitate when causing someone harm. That
is my personal definition of a refined human being. Separating them from the fanatics.

By a chance encounter, I came to see how kids are taught 'Right' and 'Wrong'. 

Twelve year old kids spouting poetry beautifying the effects daroo and nasha in their romanticised imagination. That goes unchecked. Even encouraged at times for it's poetic value.

When a molestation was broadcast over a gazillion news channels, the kids noted the elders saying - 'that woman has been put to her place'.

Movies of pure dreaded violence are screened without a second thought. And I'm not surprised that some of the kids' aim in life is to be a Don.

The hypocrisy comes to light now. When there is a scene showing two consenting adults making out on screen, that is blasphemous. The channel is immediately changed and the kids are shoo-ed away. The unspeakable has been brought to light.

'No no Madamji! We cant play with the values of the children'.

Of course. 

We The People shuns love. And lauds rapes. 

Peace be to the Bhartiya Sanskar.

Serotonin.

The Love Drug.

Some say 'it's all in the smell'

How do people never seeing each other love then?

Those shiny posters of hunky hot bods in my room

Isn't that love then?

If not, 'the character it is'

Sounds reasonable. But not valid.

How do I love a baby then?

'the way he looks'

I'm blind. Yet I fall for you.

'It's just an idea', they say.

Yet I love You; and not Him.

'A connect of souls'

I don't think my coffee has a soul.

And i don't just like it.

That's love too.

I guess I'm done defining.

Hate is better.

You hurt me. I hurt you.

Period.

The Mane Point

This has to be a cliched post. The before and after of a hair-cut. For a girl, that is, obviously.

Now, I am one of those kind of people who have forever wanted long hair. So I try nourishing it, nurturing it and finally bringing the length down a few inches below my shoulder line. This feat takes a year (some slow growth I say!). And by then, it is summer.

Now the problem with summer is, it one season when my hair decides to have a mind of its own. Therefore, heavily damaged hair is what I end up with by mid-summer. And then comes my pilgrimage to the Salon. The stylist tells me how damaged my hair is (yes I know!), asks me what hair products I use (the most embarrassing  question for some odd reason) and tells me he/she'd chop off my damaged hair (yay!). I get all enthusiastic and give the thumbs up for Short Hair.

A few hours later, I stare stupidly at myself in the mirror.
Oh yes, I've done the same old familiar mistake again. And that is why I never will have long hair. Period.

Of wrappers and to-do lists

A huge shiny gift under the Christmas tree waiting to be opened. You count the days till you can get your hands on it, and when you finally do - Oh! the pleasure in tearing apart that stooopid wrapper, getting to see your Blingy new toy and jumping up 'n down for a week, till it becomes Yet Another Thing.

Point to be made aside - no matter how impatient you are, you always find time to break a few bubbles on the bubble wrap.

Back to the story. So summer holidays are that. The enthusiasm which I started it off with... dead and gone. Off to Neverland. Along with the long to-do list I had. Driving license (lagging behind 2 years), passport (don't even get me started with that), the 10 something books I bought that I have to read, cooking classes, internships, summer courses... 

The problem with all this Confessing - depression. 

And solution - Chocoloates :D

And that's why life ain't that bad.

Birth of a Narcissist

And then there are times when the universe speaks to you.. Like there's this personalised message in the air that nuzzles right next to your earlobe and tells you a secret. The sort that charges you up and fills spirit in you.
Times when you feel the scientists in NASA are dumb, trying to hunt for the centre of the universe when duh, 'I'm here!'.

Side effect, the rest of the world has to tolerate another narcissist. 

To Look Busy

Creativity at its best? Welcome the exam season.

For it is then that you are forced to stare either at the computer or a sheet of paper during those times.

And lo tadaa... you write stuff that you re-read and feel awesome about (and your sympathetic friends would agree too, in superlative terms of course!).

Sigh... times when everything about the world is sunny and bright.

Whiling away time, till the last minute,

Waiting for the ass-on-fire feeling.

Tomorrow's paper, just wait there.

Poetry and rhyme! You end with a ting.