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.