soujanya
Can I lease a small corner in your heart indefinitely?
“And please take that box of junk this time with you or its going straight in the garbage dump”, was my mom’s ultimatum. She was referring to the pile of knickknacks I had accumulated in the name of nostalgia. I opened the box eager to relive the past, and all the memories, good and bad, came flooding to me. I had forgotten, or at least tried to forget some, but there were also some, which were fresh in my mind, as if they just happened yesterday. Handmade greeting cards from my classmates, old scrapbooks filled by them, the chits we passed around in the class, photographs, medals, school badges, chocolate wrappers, gifts, gift wrappers, love letters, dried flowers, movie tickets, train passes, hall-tickets, the list was endless. I spent a few hours going through everything, refreshing the forgotten memories, and cherishing them, good and bad alike.
The incessant ringing of the alarm woke me up. It irked me but last night’s memories came flooding to my mind inundating it with sheer bliss and happiness. The alarm was out of my reach but I dint care. I just let it ring. This morning was just too perfect. The sunlight was streaming through the gap between yellow curtains, birds were chirping, and the softness of the satiny quilt felt wonderful against my skin. His embrace tightened and he mumbled something in his sleep. We had talked late into the night. Smoothing every dent of doubt and misunderstanding which had drifted us apart. There was so much catching up to do, so much to say that we yapped all through the night, falling asleep only in the wee hours of the morning. I snuggled closer and sighed. I felt so secure in his arms. This felt so right; this is how it should be…always.
I can bear the feeling of being unwanted and used but I can’t bear the pity in your eyes for me.
“Order, order!” judge Mehta pounded on his gavel in a bid to regain decorum in the courtroom. He had just pronounced Geeta not guilty, acquitting her of the charges of murder. Immediately there was uproar of jubilation and relief as her supporters and well wishers cheered loudly. Her family heaved a sigh of relief; finally the ordeal had come to an end. She had been charged for killing Vinod, her husband of eight years in cold blood. The prosecution had harped strongly on the fact that she had premeditated the murder, timing it perfectly when no one was home. That she had plotted it meticulously, right from the weapon of murder to the place, even initiating and provoking the final showdown. However her defense lawyer asserted that she was forced to take this extreme step in self-defense. He went on to produce evidence and witnesses which proved beyond doubt that Geeta was abused physically and mentally, tortured and battered for no rhyme or reason. He proved conclusively that Vinod suffered from extreme jealousy and suspicion bordering on paranoia and had made Geeta’s life a living hell. The final nail in the coffin of the prosecution’s case was the fact that he had recently taken insurance worth five lakhs on her name and also acquired a gun illegally. All this while, Geeta sat with her head bowed, hands clasped tightly, answering in a hoarse cracked voice when asked anything. When the judge announced the verdict, she looked stunned; tears of relief streaming down her cheeks. She buried her face in her hands and bit her lip to prevent the smile from spreading across her face.
Horns blaring, the drivers honking crazily in a hurry to get somewhere, I am glad I don’t have to rush anywhere. No pressing demands for my time. I have all the time in the world to observe the vehicles as they whir past me, avoiding each other in the nick of the time. At the intersection across me, someone is not so fortunate; a cab driver accidentally rams into an expensive looking vehicle as the light just turns red. An altercation ensues, each party coming closer to exchanging blows. A crowd gathers to add to the pandemonium. A newspaper boy sees the opportunity of making a few extra bucks and starts yelling the latest headlines in a bid to attract more customers. A bunch of street urchins, not to be left behind start begging, smiling their endearing smiles, eyes pleading, some point to their younger siblings perched on their waif thin hips, trying every trick in the trade to melt a heart and pocket a coin. An elderly lady with two kids in tow is bickering loudly with an auto driver over the fare, the younger one spots an ice-cream vendor and starts bawling when she refuses. Meanwhile a group of school kids on their way back home are squealing with mirth as they discover the joy of making faces at people across a glass wall. The waiter of the restaurant chases them away, swearing loudly. A traffic constable spots the reason for the disarrayed traffic and starts blowing his whistle.
“What a mess”, someone says. I smile and close my eyes, taking in the melange of sounds, trying to drown out the chaos in my mind. I find solace in the random chaos of the world.
I want to burst the bubble,
Burst the myth,
I can be happy
Even after severing
All the strings.
The sun was exactly overhead, blazing with such intensity that I had to squint to look far. We were on our way to Jaipur in Rajasthan for a photo shoot when a flat tyre halted us in the middle of nowhere. I set out to explore the surroundings, not that there was much of variation from the arid, cracked landscape interceded by a few non-descript shrubs. But I had to get away from the constant whining and the starry tantrums of the models. My foray into fashion photography was a coincidence, more out of need and desperation than interest. I wandered towards a bunch of huts. They were built of mud and looked like they had just grown out of the land. They belonged there.
On the verandah of one the huts was a woman working on a potter’s wheel. Her skin was the colour of dull bronze, the earthy tint blending perfectly with the rustic landscape. She was dressed in the traditional Rajasthani attire, a royal blue lehenga with yellow trimmings, an orange blouse, and a red dupatta covering her head. The bright colours broke the monotony of the various hues of browns all around. Her waist length hair was plaited, pulled tightly away from the face, accentuating her angular face. Her feet tapped to an imaginary song, the bulky anklets producing a sweet tinkling sound in unison with the clanging of her glass bangles as she deftly moved her hands to shape the wet mud. Suddenly she became aware of me and quickly re-adjusted her dupatta to cover her head and most part of her face, the chunky silver jewellery clinked with her movement. She held an edge of her dupatta in between her teeth to hold it in place and resumed working.
It was beautiful to see a lump of wet mud turn into an exquisite vase under the expert guidance of her graceful fingers. Maybe my gaze was making her conscious, her kohl lined eyes kept darting towards me, wary. But I was taking in the whole setting; it was so real, so brimming with life unlike the artificial picture perfect exhibits we created for our photo shoots. The creases between her eyebrows eased, smoothening the bright red bindi in the middle of her forehead, a slight smile lit up her face; maybe she was enjoying the attention. I just stood there and stared and forgot to click.
I refuse to be a pawn at the hands of fate. I write my own destiny.
"We come from families that are the epitome of common middle-class existence, we can't be so drastically unconventional and expect them to understand” reasoned Rahul. We had been through this discussion a dozen times over the past few weeks with no concrete decision so far. After having been with each other for more than two years, we wanted to move in together. But parental opposition and societal ostracism were making things difficult. “I don’t want to be the typical Indian docile girl; I don’t want my wings clipped. I want to be able to live life on my own terms, getting married for societal approval is just so common”, I exclaimed.
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writing since 2010 · 12 entries · 12 days shown up
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