Language

English. German. French. Spanish. Italian. Greek. Portuguese. Dutch.

Believing that only languages could complete her, she had mastered them all. Her world lay in words.

Until the day of his birth. As her baby wailed for the first time, her tears bloomed into a smile.

Words failed her. Language seemed like the poorest translation. 

                                                                                                                 

                                                                                    

The Perfect Gift

I do not want those ear rings of gold. Notice that my ears are not pierced. Notice that you will spend a couple of thousand bucks on something I have no use of.

I do not want the platinum necklace. Notice that I will hesitate to wear it to work, fearing I will misplace it. Notice that it will grace the almirah locker, and not my nape.

I do not want the hand crafted silk saree. Notice that I do not know how to drape it. Notice how I hastily adjust my t shirt before stepping out. Notice that a saree is too much trouble.

I do not want the latest iPhone. Notice how inept I am at technology. Notice that my HTC performs the same functions, at one fifth the price.

I do not want the magnificent painting of the Colosseum. Notice that I have never stepped out of the country. Notice that the painting is a false hope, a chimera, an illusion.

I do not want the perfume that costs a hundred rupees a drop. Notice that nature has so many scents to choose from. Notice that the petrichor of the earth and the citrus of the lemon and the sweetness of the rose have always been my favourites.

I do not want the dainty diamond studded watch either.

I want the time that it shows. 

Your time. With me. Our time. Together.

Because that, to me, is the perfect gift.

I want your time. Notice that I thrive on it. Notice that your time is all I have of you. Notice that I long to be a memory from your past, a truth from your present, a hope for your future. Take notice.

This birthday, gift me time?!

Of wounds and bandages!

 There are wounds that get healed. And others that do not. Bandages mask them all.

I wish I knew what kind of wound you were.

The bandage that covers you up in fine threads longs to know too.

At times you stain it deep red with all the passion and fury boiling in my blood. At times you cause so much pain that I want to tear the bandage off, and detach from the part of me that houses you. 

At times you are silent, a world unto yourself, and I long to touch you, to check if you are still there, engraved into my skin like the vein that sucks away bad blood from you, like the artery that fuels you with freshness and magic and repair and healing. At such times the bandage is a companionable presence, not a maniacal threat.

But most of the times, you are a dichotomy.

Sometimes, when I peel off the layers that cover the scars, when it is time to change bandages, when the pain has gone but the numbness remains, I wonder. I wonder and question and seek to know who you are.

And it is then that I realize that you might not be the wound at all.

It is then, that I realize that you are the bandage. I realize I will never need to change you, because you are the life force that cures it all. You are my bandage that keeps me together J

Freedom

August 1947. Clear blue sky. Swaying green fields. Ash black coal. Rusty brown train engine. Steel grey smoke. White, empty noise. Partition. Death. Loss. The freedom fighters bowed. Independence was welcome, even though freedom was coloured a blood red.

August 2014. Colourless winds. Azure blue sky. Dotted with greens, blues, whites and oranges. As the kites soared and fell, he smiled. He had freed so many kites from their chains that day. Like his forefathers.

His hands were bloodied by the sharp kite string. 

Freedom was still blood red.

Fidelity

Her soft white skin colored golden in his warm embrace. As she basked in the glory of his arms, she whispered, “Promise me you will be mine forever. Mine and only mine to keep.”

“I promise”, he lied.

The Idli never knew that her Sambhar was cheating on her. With the Dosa.

Perspectives

28. Single. Lawyer by profession. Only child of middle class parents.

She had told him everything he needed to know. Including her biggest secret.

She thought he would understand. He was, after all, her husband to be.

But he did not. He had shouted and screamed like a mad man. He had called her a characterless bitch.

He had left without caring for explanations.

In retrospect, she thought, he deserved none.

Yes, she was a mother to be. Yes, the child did not belong to him. It was the truth.

But it was also true that the child could have belonged to both of them, together.

The in charge’s voice broke her reverie. “Congratulations ma’am. You are good to go. Everything’s in order. You can take him home.”

 5 year old Yug smiled as she enveloped him in her arms. A new born mother walked out of the orphanage with her new found child, as the in charge thanked her for the adoption. He thought she was an angel.

She smiled at the irony. A bitch to one, and an angel to another.

Same motherhood, different perspectives.