Again I Question

Now there comes a point in every persons life

When they have to choose with out a strife.

A life where they maybe wanted or not.

Or where they’ve given or they’ve got

But when year after year you stand and see in absolute vain

That you’ve been passed over, avoided or rejected again

You’re heart might be hurting from the rejection of friend or family

But because its you, People expect you to grin and bear bravely

You might be chosen over fairer maidens laid in gold.

None care about your skills, talents or if you’re brave and bold.

The older people don't want you cause you’re too young.

The younger people accuse you of being dumb and unsung.

Who do i ask to give me a chance, to be liked to be loved to be a friend.

Why must I allow people to drive my breaking heart to this bitter end?

Is there an answer for me from a friend, family, untold love or God?

Does his holiness bear no love upon a child, but a flaming rod?

Can i ask such a question does God love me?

Must i not be grateful that i can breathe so free?

That thankfully i got my arms, Limbs and individuality.

Therefore i’m supposed to believe that love is not for me?

Have i not received grace and blessings and much more?

Is it difficult to accept the bitter cup of whats in store?

But yes it is i believe, only human that i am, a woman that's me.

Were i not created with a heart, That would be broken with tragedy?

Juke Box

(Dedicated to the memory of Handel Jim and to those who loved the old Juke Box)

Whenever there were people around.

There was this music playing its sound.

The rhythm and beat that swayed over all.

Always caught people unaware , in a trip and a fall.

Spirits high, melancholic or pensive it could be.

The juke box made its music and all could see.

Guitar strings and notes in perfect harmony.

Over every soul it wrapped itself magically.

No writer, voice or even tambourine.

Could capture the soul of this jukebox routine.

Never ceasing constantly fluid and twanging a rhythm on.

Stirring the soul deep within even after the music was gone.

It was time for the old jukebox to play one last magical song.

But, when he beautifully ended it nothing seemed more wrong.

But all of a sudden that old jukebox was all done.

Mid song he stopped, leaving his audience stunned.

And as every heart shuffled on knowing the last song they had missed.

The old juke box laughed knowing every last captured soul was his.

I got a rasberry with love

Last week the theme at school was fruits. Also last week ..... I was at my sickest. I had a full blown head cold and my sinus was not making it any easier for me to breath.....Now there's a little guy in my school .....He's just 10 months old but i'm telling you that kid's gonna a be an awesome stand up comedien some day.So i've been keeping away from the kids cause, I reallly did not want to be passing my cold on to them.....Actually I caught the cold from them...my immunity against babies is still pretty weak considering ......I'm just a month old in my exposure to ......crawlers, boogerblowers, toddlers and bug-eaters. So my teachers were teaching them strawberries....When i stepped out of the room to observe the show and tell classes in session; and at that moment my nose completely clogged .....so..... I had the urge to blow hard into my handkerchief. So i did ...a nise big...trumpetty snort.....the kids burst out laughing....the teachers were shocked and were covering their embarrasment with errs and ahem's and tried to get their attention back to strawberries. When little Pranav....the 10 month old kid was asked what a strawberry was......he just pointed to me...stuck his tongue out and blew out the the biggest rasberry i ever heard....thrrrrrrrrup! At first we were all taken aback.....then we burst out laughing...this 10 month old baby actually poked fun at my snorting.....oh wow i nearly died laughing....after that, every time i blew my nose he'd blow me a rasberry...lol i guess he had more fun seeing me burst into laughter evertime he did that. Well that week while my kids learned about fruits....I got rasberried with love.

Beauty from Rags

“ANNIE, ANNIE!!!! I’LL MAKE ANNIE!”

Sandhya hopped around me dancing her tribal dance. Her curls twirled around her little hot face. I had to keep my fingers from pinching her chubby cheeks. Every time I plucked her dimpled cheeks she would complain in an adult tone. ‘Don’t do it Amma. I am 6 years old what would others think?”

Suddenly she froze and her eyes sparkled, ‘Amma you can help me with my art project.” I thanked her graciously and asked what she had in mind.

“Everybody has to make a gift and the bestest gift will be given to Mrs. Joyce Madhan on her birthday.”

I wondered what possible gift a 6year old could give the headmistress of a school?

“ANNIE, ANNIE!!!! I’LL MAKE ANNIE!” she repeated.

I never doubted my daughter’s lung power. I raised a questioning eyebrow but was silenced in my attempt to speak as my highly energized daughter dragged me into her room. And within minutes there I was sitting cross legged on the floor with my daughter snuggling into me as I caught her sweet baby smell. She tilted her head to a side as she eyed the heap of scraps and bits piled in front of us and in complete faith said, “Make Annie, Amma.”

I looked heavenward, sighed, rolled up my sleeves and got to work. We stuck and glued, stitched and tied, plaited and stuffed. Little pudgy fingers got in the way. An hour later I was startled by a gentle snore. I smiled and gently woke my sleeping angel.

“Annie is ready.” I whispered.

Sandhya was up like lightning as she stared at the crudely shaped figure sitting before us. Her big eyes widened like saucers until I feared that they might pop out.
She oohed and aahed over her Annie.
Annie the rag doll that she created.
She beamed with pride and puffed up her chest as she introduced me to Annie.
Polite ‘How do you do’s?’ were exchanged.

All was fine or so I thought until the next day my baby walked in crushed and in tears. It tore my heart to see my little one so sad. She ran into my arms as I hugged her sobbing body. Her hot tears and breath ran down my neck as she wailed on and I helplessly held on willing my heart not to break into pieces.
“Th..they made….f…fun….ammmaaaaaa” she howled.
They ….sniff…c…call…ed….hic…her …st…stupid.” She sobbed on.

My anger mounted as murderous thoughts flashed in my mind. How dare they do this to my baby. And what was the teacher doing when my baby was teased. Wait till I give that woman a piece of my mind. She seems in capable of teaching children to appreciate their peers…..My vision blurred as my temper rose and my mind kept raging. Suddenly soft pudgy hands held my face, tears streaming down her brave little face. “ I don’t care Amma. I will always love Annie. She is mine and she is beautiful.

I eyed the little rag piece. I smiled; it was quiet shaggy but Annie definitely had a charm. I carried my little one saying, ‘Let’s show daddy. He’ll love Annie?’

‘Really?’ asked my little on uncertainly as she dried her eyes with the back of her palms.

‘Most definitely!’ and I carried my angel to her father for some comfort and much needed cuddling.

Bastards

Wafts of pungent air seemed to drift in and out of her senses, she could hear a buzz of voices, but they were distant. She lapsed into darkness again. She felt gentle hands lift her.

She hazily remembered a voice so strong that called out to her, “Seema, Seema, can you hear me? Seema open your eyes child.” She grunted a tearing pain. Nausea hit her and she retched. Her mind was reeling. What happened? Confused and tears running down her cheeks. She recalled in flashes. To her horror her memory was in tact. A heart wrenching cry tore from her lips. Shock. She started getting hysterical. The doctor gave her a sedative.

Seema woke to the sounds of gentle sobbing. She opened her eyes and saw her mother weeping over her. Seema attempted to smile, but it froze and died on her lips. The police walked in wanting to take a report. That was the last time anyone could remember her smiling.

Raped! She was gang raped. She was returning home from college through her regular route. It was dark. That spot always made her nervous. But she had to walk through the dark. She needed to get home, when a group of men pounced on her and tore at her body. That was all she could remember.

In a dull haze, numb to everything that went around her. She lived her life. At the medical check ups, she was pregnant. How did that happen? She sighed anything was possible. At the police station they caught the hoodlums. At the court the criminals were convicted. At home she left her family to hide her shame. At her new job curious eyes wandered to her swelling belly. A young girl, with no mangalsutra and no signs of a husband whatsoever, but very pregnant.

Then one day Seema was back at the hospital. A boy, she was blessed with a son. She named him Pavithre which ironically means pure and unadulterated. Her bastard son.

She watched as the baby slept on. An overwhelming wave of pain, sadness and love washed over her. She sighed and wondered why an innocent babe should be called a bastard for the random wicked deeds of men? Her anger mounted as images of their wicked deed flashed at lightning speed. Her jaw tightened ….Suddenly she felt a tug as she watched her baby gurgle and chuckle over a matter of great importance. And then Seema smiled. She knew everything would be alright. Because Pavithre her son had made her smile.

How to Murder Hope?

Justice was not served.
But they wish for death. At least one of them does.
To wake up in cold sweat in the middle of the night every single day as they remember that horrible day.
Her sobs, the blood and the screeching tires.
I’m sorry but the memories don’t leave.
I’m sorry I stood and witnessed the injustice.
I’m sorry that I drove you to your death.
I’m sorry for burning all your dreams and aspirations.

Oh Happy Day! Gracy nearly yelled at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t believe it. This was the best day of her life. She had finally made it into an engineering college. Purely on merit and nothing else.

She had come a long way, studying under the neon lights during her exam days. Her father and mother were poor labourers who had worked hard to bring their daughter up. It hadn’t been easy. Mohan had to work two to three jobs as a labourer to see his daughter through school. His dear wife Rita worked morning to night as a maid in five different homes. Come sickness or pain, Hail or storm she worked ceaselessly. She was a strong headed woman and had decided that her daughter would become a doctor.

Only now for some reason father and daughter stubbornly decided that Gracy would become an engineer. Rita smiled secretly She knew Gracy’s father couldn’t resist the urge to brag to his friends at the construction site that his daughter was to become an engineer, just like their engineer Saab, who paid them their Roj Gar (daily wages).

Gracy ducked her head and blushed when her father’s friends teased her and called her ‘Memsab’. Her Kohl drawn eyes widened in wonder and awe as she listened from the other side of the mud wall of their tiny house; as the men gathered together over chaai in the evening and discussed with her father on the income earned by the educated people of today.

The women folk sang Rita’s praise, ‘Oh what a blessed daughter!’, ‘The girl will be a blessing in your old age’, ‘long gone are the days when only sons could bring u pride.’, ‘She will definitely with the blessings of the good gods find a worthy husband.’

Gracy thought she would die in embarrassment when the women plucked her cheek and constantly applied kohl on her cheeks to keep the evil eye at bay. But she admired these men and women who had not given up on life in spite of poverty striking its venom into them. Many a time she had seen loved ones and friends succumb to illness and diseases because of the lack of money to treat it.
But trials and losses did not break these people. It only build them into stronger willed and hard working people.

The days flew by and soon it was time for Gracy to attend her first day at college. She could barely conceal her excitement. Her fidgeting fingers gathering her new books. She was dressed in a crisp cotton white Salwar and a lovely Dhuppata that was ruby red. Before she left to catch her bus she sent up a word of prayer asking the Gods for their blessings. Her parents beamed with pride as their daughter waved them goodbye. All the neighbors came out of their thatched homes to see the first child from their slum to attend college. All of them offered up a silent prayer for this young girl who was a symbol of hope to their future.

This was over a year ago. Today Gracy’s ashes are scattered, caught and tossed in the wind, over streams or perhaps even in the soil. Her mother’s ashes blows somewhere over unknown terrains too; having died from a broken heart. Her father locked away at an asylum. A man with shattered dreams and hopes ranting about his daughter’s achievement and is looking out for a suitable groom for his daughter.

Gracy was a victim of a non accepting community. When her poverty was discovered she was mocked and taunted constantly. Unable to bear the shame any longer she tried to run across the road from fellow students who plagued her even at the bus stop. In her attempt to flee the humiliation and fun poked at her she did not see the oncoming bus that ran over her.

Her taunters watched in horror as they watched Gracy’s body crushed underneath. Life ceased. The white cotton Salwar that she wore so often soaked up her blood; matching the ruby red color of her Dhuppata.

They ought to be hung. Justice should be served.
But influential parents. Political connections.
Expensive lawyers and exchange of gifts and promises of well earned benefits.

Ensured that Justice was denied.

Gracy’s ashes still flit around somewhere along with her mother’s over unknown terrain, and untold stories.
I end this story hoping never to dream no more.

What I wished for

I finally turned 29 and started on my 30th year…Once upon a time, a long time ago…..when I was 21 I was dying to get older.

I imagined great looks, great clothes, fancy car, great job, Men falling all over themselves at my doorstep, wooing me with flowers, chocolates and song.
Sigh I watched and read one too many romantic movie and book. …how wrong I was.

Great looks hah……You look great at 21 after that it’s just down hill. Well I’ve learnt the art of hiding my wrinkles and grey hair…and sagging skin…transparent glue helps hold it up… trust me it works.

Great clothes…..hah only in books darling…..otherwise it leaves a dent in your savings….its sad. So my advice dress simple…accessorize great….but please invest in great shoes….oh they are the soles of your attire. And besides great shoes speak volumes and add attitude.

Fancy car…..I’m still begging my dad to fund me one…..sheesh he insists I work and earn one….oh the sad life of the working class.

Great job…well I can’t complain….after 7 yrs ….I finally realized what I want to do in Jan 2008. I guess better late than never.

As for men hounding at my doorstep….Lol lets say the people visiting my doorstep have been my maid, the grocery man, and the frequent lost visitors of my neighbors. So my assumption is all these men I dreamt about when I was younger are actually existent in fairy tales and books and movies….sigh.