Alice in Wonderland

“Dancing amid a thousand faces, her face glows with life… Never before had she danced with such passion. To any other person, she’d come across as someone who’s celebrating life; who’s ‘living it up’ in style… Did the thought ever cross your mind that she’s dancing away the blues? (No way!) She’s neither the ‘Lady in red’, nor is she ‘the girl next door’… She’s just another victim of the ‘Alice in Wonderland Syndrome’; dreaming her secret dreams, craving her secret life…”
Why are we afraid of admitting that we are day-dreamers? Why are we unwilling to accept that there’s a little bit of ‘Alice’ or ‘Walter Mitty’ in each of us? Do we fear what people would think of us; how they would laugh behind our backs; or is it simply the pre-conceived notion that “Nobody would understand”? Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to real world! A world where one feels lost among 6.8 billion faces; and finds solace when he just whiles away hours staring at the ceiling fan, ‘pretending’ to sleep. In the real world, things couldn’t get more ‘realistic’ than this… Or could they?
“Life is a long-long road and we are but travelers.” And like good travelers who are faithful to their voyage, we must journey on; in search of a niche where we would ‘fit in’, a niche that is symbolic of our ‘selves’. Why aren’t we told to enrich our voyage with experiences as enthralling as the adventures of Alice in Wonderland? Perhaps that is the reason why we fade into a world of our own every now and then. Because the outside world has nothing to offer (or so it may seem…), we seek our “Some place far away…” within ourselves… There’s a difference between loneliness and solitude… The strangest thing is that in spite of having encountered both these emotions, none of us have the acumen of explaining the difference between the two. What we do not realize is that in this ‘space’ that we have created, there is no solitude… only loneliness; void and hollow loneliness.
Why is it that people whom we’ve known forever seem like complete strangers; and then someday when we come across a complete stranger, we feel that we’ve known them since forever? In times when all those friendly faces turn into stone, why is there always a ‘mysterious stranger’ ready to befriend you? During those times of trial, we ask ourselves this question… Only to find that there is no logical explanation for such a question; but the answer is this stranger’s ready shoulder on which you can cry your heart out…
In this real world, we’re all alone… Agreed, friends do make life a lot simpler; but in the end, we have to journey ahead, leaving behind all those people who meant the world to us… The truth is that each of us is living in a world of our own, and every time two worlds coincide with each other, a little story is born. These stories are waiting to be told; waiting to be shared with those ‘long-lost’ friends who were a part of them. Don’t ever let these stories die a tragic death. Awaken the story teller in yourself and let the nostalgia wash over your soul. You will move on all by yourself, you might even forget what they were all about… But what you will never forget is how you felt…
“She walks amid the puddles filled with muddy water… Never before had she been so alone, and yet, never before had she felt so alive… Under the immaculate blue sky that rains down tears of joy in this “Some place far away”… There’s nobody to watch this girl who’s ‘celebrating life’; who’s ‘living it up’ in style… And she dances with the freedom of the Arctic terns that journey towards a land where they would find warmth and solace… She’s neither ‘the Angel descended from the heaven above’, nor is she the “Vision in white”… She is Alice; the Alice in you and in me, and she has decided to set herself free…”

A day without laughter is a day wasted...

If you happen to see this video, please please please with sugar on top, go through the previous post too. These are glimpses from my schooldays ('SENTI MUNNI' THANKS A TON FOR THE VIDEO!)... The previous article was my farewell speech, which tells the story of my association with La Martiniere... And to all my 'junglee' friends: "LOVE YAS!!!!"

The end of the beginning...

Dear La Martiniere,
It’s impossible for me to sum up in just a few words how much you’ve meant to me. You’ve been a living entity, a habit … so much so, that getting up in the morning and not wearing this blue tunic is almost unimaginable.
Through the first few years of my association with you, I was a ‘slow coach’ and a ‘cry baby’. I knew I needed to toughen up, and toughen up I did… Later I earned titles like ‘Hermione Granger’ and ‘cappy’.
When I came to class 3, I improved my handwriting under the watchful eye of Miss Shaw who affectionately called me “a little puppy” because of my two fluffy pony-tails…She told us to make our letters “big and round… like little pearls”… today, my handwriting is a tad bit different…or as Mrs. Dass said, “It looks like it has been written by one who doesn’t have a thumb”… However my hair is still the same, and Miss Shaw’s fairy tales, nursery rhymes and G.K. lessons will be an integral part of my childhood memories…
To Mrs. Sadiq, Mrs. Abbas and Mrs. Dass, the ‘coolest teachers in the world’… middle school was absolute fun with you. To Mrs. Khanna, who made us “lbh” every article in our chemistry books… ma’am you made me “learn by heart” not merely text-books, but also lessons of life. To my all my Hindi teachers... my Hindi was never as bad as Disha’s (as Mrs. Dayal had said, “Angrez chale gaye, Disha ko chhod gaye!”), but my questions would drive anybody to the end of their wits… Miss Khan, who managed to keep us all up during Civics lessons with her sharp sarcasm and witty jokes. To Mrs. Mishra, Mrs. Kashyap, Mrs. Dube and Mrs. Bose, the most patient teachers in the world, I will always be indebted to you for your care and affection. To Mrs. Tripathi and Miss Ali who were my mentors…you honed me into ‘acting like a lady’. Miss Kotesh and Mrs. Gupta... in 2 years’ time, we have broken too many voltmeter knobs and test-tubes, but you both always smiled and said, “Rajkumar, zara dekho bacchon ne kya toda.”
To Mrs. Chhatree … miss, nobody sings like you do and nobody teaches music like you do... we would “come for choir practice to the music room as soon as the bell rings” even after leaving school. To Mrs. U. Pant, our librarian, who has always been a constant source of inspiration to all the students.
To all my juniors who have most patiently endured my “Western Group once more” and “EYES RIGHT!” commands… In the past year, you have given me barrels of love and a treasure chest full of memories, there is nothing else I could have asked for.
To all the boarders who taught me the Martinian way of life… It was with you that I learnt what ‘mart claps’ are and what phrases like “day-chuck” mean, and how a “no need” or an “aaaiyyaaa” can sum up a plethora of emotions… and I just loved becoming a MEG… although I’m yet to beat Dolly’s MEGNESS SCORE!
To Mrs. Abraham who forgave me after I made the glorious mistake of leaving school after class 10 and came back crying in 5 days flat. You called me a ‘bad coin’ and took me back with a smile on your face. I would never be able to thank you enough for all that you have done. Ma’am I am sorry if I let you down. I hope that you would forgive me thinking of me as your little narrator in the ‘Mother Crow, Father Crow’ play…
“Time seems like a summer bird, swiftly flown away…”
La Martiniere, when I first came to you, I had tears in my eyes. It is dramatic irony that today as I leave, my eyes are brimming with tears once again… I am indebted to you for 14 most beautiful years of childhood filled with friends, elocutions, Go-Go ice-creams and Gandhi Corner samosas. Not in a lifetime will I be able to pay back. In the end all I’d like to say is that you are the bestest school in the whole wide world and I love you from the very bottom of my heart… I’m not going to say that I’ll miss you because I’m never ever ever going to forget you…

The Presence of the Past

As you trudge ahead,
Trying to hear the unsaid,

The frozen past is right behind,
It’s your creation, you got after all that grind.

Every note, every story, every street is yours,
And those little secrets you hid behind doors;

The picture you cherished all this while,
Has faded like all the others in that frayed pile.

You’ve lost the broken candle and its light-
The only thing that got you through the pitch dark stormy night…

The hallway still echoes with your name,
The verses on the walls and those silly games.

The scar on your knee reminds you of how you fell down,
But it did feel better ’cause ‘they’ were around.

Of letters, kisses and candy hearts;
And cheesy pictures of cupids with darts!

The memory of a heartache and a ‘SORRY’ note,
The fantasy of being stuck with him on a stranded boat…

The anxiety when she hung up on you,
The ecstasy when she said, “I do too…”

The rumours of the haunted graveyard down the lane,
And the stories of the dead janitor that drove you insane!

The truth about the ‘birds and the bees’,
And that it had nothing to do with ducks and geese!

The petty brawls with other bratty boys,
A broken elbow couldn’t spoil the winning joys.

You believed aliens and UFOs would never let you down,
And that you had pals in ‘Martian Town’!

Many of those faces have gone astray,
And those sand castles: blown away…

In time you broke a few hearts (’cause they broke yours),
Funny isn’t it, how we settle scores?

You’re scared with every step you take,
You want to stop for an old friend’s sake.

“I’ll lose all this if I move on…
It’ll all vanish, it’ll all be gone!”

A voice from the distance is what you hear,
You tread ahead but with a constant fear…

But you can’t forget your past- it’s like a sweet song;
So you decide to move, but take it along…

(P.S. : This poem has been written by Anchita Sharma, one of my closest friends. It's hard to believe that this girl can actually be such a deep thinker... but seriously, her compostions are just sooooo moving.... She's one heck of a poetess !!!! Thank you soooooo much for your presence in my past 'ANCHI PANCHI'!!! Love you 'sonu monu'!!!!!

'Hand'le with Care...

The first time that those hands held me, I was too tiny to understand the meaning they would hold in my life. But, something in my heart just tells me that then, those hands were shivering, unsure and apprehensive. At the same time, they had a story to tell… the story of one who had waited all her life to hold this little miracle… a miracle that she was the proud Creator of... And it was when those hands touched my frail form that a promise of an eternal bond was whispered to my soul… for the very first time, I felt ‘truly touched’ ’cause I’m sure I cried…
I had opened my eyes to a whole new world… a world that was quaint and strange… and I saw this world through the eyes of those who had brought me here. Raising a child is a Herculean task. Those hands were challenged to go through endless cycles of ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep once again’. And just before those hands even thought about catching a little nap, I was bawling my lungs out… Here we go, get your act together - ‘Feed, curdle, clean, cradle to sleep, change nappy, then cradle to sleep’ all over again.
People say that I was a sickly child…To tell you the truth, I was an attention seeker. Always demanding attention from those hands that had never left me in the first place. Purposely, I’d fake an illness; wanting only to be sponge-bathed by those hands… I didn’t care a mite that Daddy had fractured his arm and he too needed some assistance from those hands that were always so full of me…
Those hands encouraged me to take my very first steps… And guess what I did? I left them! I left them to walk into my father’s arms… Aren’t you proud of me, Papa? Those hands gave me a father, and then grudgingly complained because in an instant I had become Daddy’s little girl.
Years passed in a blur of potty-training, bedtime stories and bruises. Every time I fell down those hands picked me up, wiped away my tears, washed my wound and carefully dabbed antiseptic onto it. Those hands were pure magic... even Edward the Confessor did not possess such a gift of healing.
Then one cold December night, those hands carefully placed in my lap a small wailing bundle which looked a lot like my Strawberry Shortcake Doll… and in nanoseconds, from being a spoilt three year old, I became a responsible ‘Didi’. Those hands held mine and gingerly made me touch the face of the tiny doll in my lap… I kissed my palm and blew a kiss to her.
That was the end of it… Those hands entertained no more tantrums. No longer did they spoil me, no longer did they pamper me. My new designation as ‘Elder Sister’ was serious business; and I was to be trained to behave like one. Now when I fell, my tears were not wiped away. Those hands always reminded me that I was a “BIG GIRL” and that “BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY.” And somehow I enjoyed this new role-play.
Now when I reminisce my childhood, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of sheer disbelief that two hands could perform the job of ten. One hand was wrapped around my fingers (which were turning blue as I held the pencil so tightly) and was guiding my hand along a four-lined notebook, teaching me to form the letters of the alphabet. Another hand held a knife, threatening to hurt me if I ran out to play (all with a good intention; now I see how the threats have paid off). One hand patted my little sister to sleep. Another one held the telephone to order a tin of Cerelac. And believe it or not, one hand was still free to take on any new work!
All I can say is that through the years, those hands were always there for me. Those strong wrists with square, laboring palms, straight firm fingers and short, neat practical nails. Hands that were efficient in making everything from ‘paranthas’ to project files; hands that liked everything in its assigned place, in a struggle to make the house disgustingly clean; hands that knew when any of her three children deserved a pat on the back or a smack on the mouth...Yet through this journey, what didn’t change was the meaning that they held in my life. Despite my best efforts, not in a lifetime, would I be capable enough of emulating them.
And even today when those hands hold me tightly, the promise which was whispered to my soul eighteen years ago is renewed… and I feel ‘truly touched’ all over again… “Mamma, no matter how old I become, I know for a fact that my hand would never ever ever grow too big for yours…”

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your heart does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you do find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean.

Constantine Cavafy (1863-1933),
Translated by Rae Dalven.

This isn't Orkut or Facebook... But photographs nevertheless

MUNCHKINZZZZZZZ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Mala and Idiot with DIDI (moi!)...

Touch

Friends Forever...

New journeys begin with PROMISES...

Harmony and Melody...


Growing up...


Mother's care...

The skies would have no RAINBOWS, if the eyes had no TEARS...


The PUZZLE of LIFE...


How writers are born...


Ssshhhh!!!


Share a WISH...


Building DREAMS...


Holding a MIRACLE...


Touched by BEAUTY...

To Gramps, with Love…

“A picture is worth a thousand words…” or so it is said…But whoever said this missed out that which is even more important: “A picture is worth millions of emotions which cannot be read… only felt.”
Today, when I walked into my room and saw a photograph of my maternal grandfather- Nanu, as I called him- lying on the nightstand, I felt a sudden rush of emotions. I was among those who believed that why would people like to read about those non-entities whom only the writer can relate with. But today things just felt so different. All of a sudden, it felt not just right but also crucial for me to tell everyone about four very important people in my life- my grandparents: Dadu, Dadi, Nanu and Nani.
It’s all too hard to explain, even more difficult to understand how, when and why… but it is an almost undeniable fact that ever since I was little, I felt only that which can be called an unconditional attachment for “Dabu” (my toddler’s tongue chose to ‘cutify’ the term ‘Dadu’ and coin my very own version). When asked what Dadu does every morning, “EXERCISE!” pat came the reply. It was Dadu who made me drool over ‘samosia and jalebia’ and it was he who first dreamt that I would fulfill his dream of becoming a doctor. He still tells me every now and again how at four, I had once asked him “Dabu, am I your heart?” I don’t remember what he had said or if he had just picked me up in his warm embrace… but what I do know is that I truly am his most pampered grandchild.
Coming now to Dadi….all nice and round, fair and glowing twenty-four seven…it’s very mean of her to have not passed the genes for flawless complexion to my sister or me (humph!). So coming back to the topic, Dadi’s what every grandma should be…She cries at the drop of a hat and then laughs at herself for crying without any rhyme or reason… She used to tell us stories of the Ramayana and those of her childhood. My cousins and I used to flock around her to listen to the fascinating tales that only grandmothers have the art of doing justice to… My cousin Niharika, and my favourite pastime activity was to play with Dadi’s loose, pendulous arms and sometimes bite her cheek playfully to show our ‘puppy love’ for her.
Next we have Nani….all I can say about her is that… well, Nani’s just Nani. She always bought us really snazzy, jazzy clothes….NOT! She always made it a point to gift us clothes which were at least four sizes too big for us…How we used to bawl and comment on these “tents”; on the flipside, Nani’s justification was fairly acceptable: they would fit us even when we grow older (Question Nani: what about wearing them now ?). Even now, every time my five year old cousin, Anika wears a mini-skirt, Nani tells her that it looks more like a handkerchief (much to Anika’s delight who teaches her that it’s the latest fashion trend!). But don’t be fooled by my granny’s sweet, charming face! What lies behind that face is the BIGGEST ‘cheater-cock’… who loovveess to cheat at Ludo, Monopoly, Snakes and Ladders….you name it, she’ll cheat at it…. much to Nanu’s annoyance!
Last but not least is Nanu…my Nanu was the bestest Nanu anybody in the world could have had. A garrulous, hearty and doting man…My sister, Mala was the apple of his eye; his ‘Bhaloo’ as he called her. If I say that I was not jealous of her because of this, I’d be lying… but in retrospect all my siblings and cousins ought to be jealous of me because I knew him for the longest time: being the eldest of them all. Be it the mutton that he cooked (yummyyy!!! his secret ingredient was his love) or the fact that not a single day of his life did he forget to feed two chapattis to the birds before he had his own breakfast, or just the way he shed a tear and then hid his face every time we were leaving…every action of his smacked of affection…Nanu, we know you don’t like it at all when Mala and I fight… we’re sorry…and even though you’re not with us today, we know you are watching us all from above… You are and always will be our guardian angel…
So to all those people out there who have grandparents…Remember that you’ve been gifted with the ‘most special angels’ of God. Only they can teach you those things that your parents can’t; only they can tell you stories; only they can be your grandparents... cherish your moments with them; care for them and take all the love that you can from them...Last but not least, make them an integral part of all your memories for they are and will always be truly yours to own and keep forever…

Listen to your Heart...

“Walking down the sidewalk on an autumn morning, I see people all around me…And yet, in the midst of this hustle-bustle, the scented fall breeze caresses my senses and I hear nothing, but the beating of my heart…”
Now, the heart has been misunderstood since time immemorial. The phrase ‘thinking from the heart’ has been associated with ‘romantic fools’ and ‘sentimental idiots’. Moreover, it has been established that allowing the mind to suppress the voice of that heart, is the logical and righteous thing to do. Call me eccentric, but I believe that one’s heart is not merely a muscle, pumping blood through the body. Instead it is a life, pumping life into our lives…
Each beat of the heart is symbolic of a reason to live and a cause to die for… The heartbeat bears testimony to life itself. For ‘living pointlessly’ is an oxymoron, and if one indeed is alive, no matter how hopeless life may seem, one can never live without reason. If in one minute, the heart beats seventy-two times, in one minute it reminds us of those seventy-two reasons for which we are alive… So, every person who is ‘clinically alive’ is living for at least seventy-two reasons.
A large percentage of these beats could be the people whom we live for, all those whom we care for and those who care for us. When we hear that a loved one has left us forever, our heart skips a beat, and that very beat is transformed into the haven of that person in our heart. That loved one now occupies a permanent place within us. For, no longer do we live for that person; instead the life that has left us becomes a part of our life, eternally. But incorrigible as the heart is, it finds yet another reason to start beating once again…Got to complete the ‘seventy-two beats’ quota after all…
Another percentage of the heartbeats are an expression of all those dreams and aspirations that we live for. Paulo Coelho in his bestseller ‘The Alchemist’ says that those heartbeats that express our deepest desires are loudest when we are young. Don’t let your mind govern your moves. Listen to the voice of your heart. If you neglect this voice continuously, a time will come when it will stop talking to you.
They say ‘Love can change the beating of your heart’. The ‘adrenalin rush’ of falling in love is an equivalent to that of sky-diving. When we find true love, be it in the eyes of a lover or in the smile of one’s children or in Daddy’s arms, our heart begins to race… Focus on your heartbeats… They are telling you how happy they are… They are saying, “We are additional reasons for you to live”; for indeed love is a bonus cause for us to live…
Just as there is nothing like ‘living pointlessly’, there is nothing like ‘dying before one’s time’. The heart stops beating when all those causes for which it had once lived have been accomplished. It stops beating when it has given all the love that it was capable of giving; it stops beating when all the dreams that it had ever dreamt have come true; it stops beating when without a doubt, it has no more reason to go on… And slowly that life which pumps life into our lives fades into an eternal rest…
“So cast away care,
Come roaming with me-
To the land of the voice
That lives in you and in me…”
It’s never too late. Every beat is whispering a promise to you, listen to it now. You have just one life to live, live it now.

Reliving Childhood

Sitting on the couch, next to the half-open window I inhaled the scent of conifers... My vision was hazy, partly because of tears of joy partly because of the rainwater that trickled down the glass-pane… The rain was whispering a song of its own, a song that even the inhabitants of Himachal could not decipher…The sun was just peeping over its horizon and when a cool wind swept down the snow-covered mountain peaks, I shivered just as I had when we had last come to this place...My soul was lost in the beauty of dawn in this green haven; this abode of the Gods which had beckoned us all to relive those memories of childhood, to fulfill the promise which would bear testimony to our eternal friendship…
I looked down at the mattress on which Dolly, Sneha, Himani and Saloni were sleeping. And smiling to myself I thought, “Nothing’s changed - Dolly still drools in her sleep with her eyes wide open and Sneha- she looks just as dumb as she was ten years back. Himani sleeps totally like ‘heroinie’ with locks of hair framing her pretty (read ‘pratty’) face. As for Saloni (who’s still 2 years old) her ‘Snoopy’ pillow (which she carries around everywhere she goes) is her ‘jaan’.” Shreya, Anchita, Disha and Apurva were sleeping on the bed. Although we had all matured over the years, Shreya was still like my kid sister (my choice) and the most stylish one of us (her Monkey print pjs were not to miss). Anchita had finally made it on a trip with us (Destiny had not given her an opportunity to go for PALS Trips) and Gawd! Had she lost all her baby-fat! Disha was still skinny and staying in the States for four years had not made her any fairer. As for Apurva- she looked like she would just jump out of bed any moment and shout, “Bhaaaasm kar doongi murkh!”
And what can I say about myself? Well, my hair was junglee as ever, I was wearing my black satin pjs (which my kind friends had not forgotten to make fun of, just as they had years back) and even though I had tried to become more lady-like, I had failed miserably in my attempts.
Life in La Martiniere had been a breeze where our friendship had blossomed, grown and flourished. But as we stepped out of school and stood at the threshold of a new phase in our lives, we were scared…We had seen how the best of school-friends simply ‘lost contact’, settled in different parts of the world with no news of one another whatsoever. We certainly did not want that to happen! We knew, only a promise could bring us together…School trips would always be cherished memories; so we decided that ten years from then, we would go for a ‘school trip.’
And here we were! On our so-called ‘school trip’ in Himachal Pradesh- touring Manali, Dharamshala, Dalhousie and Khajjiar- without a cell-phone, without our laptops, without any contraption that reminded us of work and only our small rucksacks which we carried around ourselves (we weren’t allowed to hire porters on PALS trips). We had all brought at least one item of clothing, which we used to wear ten years back and our school shirts on which our school friends had scribbled their messages.
We had already visited Kalatop Wildlife Sanctuary only to realize that there was no wildlife there (except Shreya and me). Our next stop would be Khajjiar (we had zorbed there in the meadows) and we hoped to meet Sanjeev Sir (we had named him ‘Good-music Sir’) who had organized our adventure sports. We missed Ms. Ali and Mrs. Dayal terribly as we remembered how much fun they had been on those unforgettable PALS trips. We missed Bhuvan Sir, who had organized most of the excursions.
And as I sat on the couch in the very same room of the hotel in which we had stayed when we were kids, I looked out of the half-open window and blinked a tear, my soul lost in the beauty of this green haven; this abode of the Gods which had beckoned us all to relive those memories of childhood, to fulfill the promise which would bear testimony to our eternal friendship…

(Writer’s note: This article is dedicated to La Martiniere, my Alma Mater; PALS which has given us memories to last a lifetime and to all my friends who mean the world to me… Your madness is a constant source of inspiration for me….LOVE YAS!!!!!)

My Teddy Bear

I remember, that since the time I turned four, there were only two objects of the materialistic world that my naïve heart desired- 1. My very own Golden Retriever and
2. the life-size teddy bear at the local card store.
I had made up my mind! I would use my very first salary to buy my first doggie (actually, ‘bring’ my first doggie, ’cause in my opinion, ‘buying’ a dog reflects upon one’s insensitivity). Well, at 27, I became a qualified doctor and ‘Dream Number One’ realized. I brought home, a tiny, 1 month old puppy, whom I named Crush.
Ridiculous as it might sound, I had still not got over my childhood fantasy of being the proud owner of a giant teddy bear. “But a ‘matured’, ‘grown-up’ and to top it all, a ‘doctor’ buying a huge stuffed animal! Atrocious!” The rules of the ‘sensible’ world deterred me…
Every time I’d visit the card shop, I’d look longingly at this adorable creation… I’d stroke his head, aching to just hug him, hold him and snuggle in his huge arms until the end of time…
Time flew and I met the man of my dreams, and was to get married on 15 December, which incidentally happens to be my birthday too. And, guess what I found on my bed when I returned home from work, a week before the 15th …? My most coveted stuffed bear, wrapped in clear cellophane with lots of pink ribbons. I read the little card which hung from the end of one of the curled ribbons; it said: “To my ‘Little Princess’ on her last birthday in this haven where she grew up…almost too quickly to believe…Love, Dad…”
Excitedly, I tore open the paper and hugged my childhood buddy with all the love that my heart was capable of expressing. His round belly, his sunshine smile, his tender touch, his warmth…so adoring…so comforting…
I rushed outside to give my Daddy the most enormous, most gigantic hug of all time. Involuntarily, my mind asked, “How did he get to know?” And in a spilt second, my heart replied, “How would he not know? You’re ‘Daddy’s Little Princess’ after all…!”
And there he stood…in the midst of all the confusion and excitement of a Punjabi household , all set to celebrate…I ran towards him and he embraced me just as he did when I walked out of preschool into his arms…
Tears of unspoken joy filled our eyes…I hugged him, held him and snuggled in his huge arms. My ears focused on the rhythmic beat of his heart- a heart of gold, which never failed to touch the souls of all those whom he cared for…A heart which now whispered, “I love you, my darling…”
And in a flash, I knew what I was leaving behind…my childhood buddy, my very own life-size teddy-bear, with his round belly, his sunshine smile, his tender touch, his warmth…most adoring…most comforting…DAD!

Memories in the sand...

He held the conch-shell close to his ear and the sound of the sea filled it…He concentrated on the sound and tears came to his eyes…
As he stood facing the sea, watching the sun drown into the horizon, he shivered, not with the cold, but with the memories of the fateful day which haunted his mind and seized his heart with fear. Who could have ever thought that a lovely, breezy evening such as this one, could end in an appalling disaster, as a giant wave, a Tsunami, struck the Coromandel Coast? This boy of thirteen could have never imagined that something as tranquil as the sea could angrily take away everything, everyone he loved, away from him…leaving him lonely, shattered and devastated.
He closed his eyes and saw his mother, his father, his kid sister and himself laughing and playing on the soft sand of the beach. He remembered how beautiful his mother looked as she faced the sea-spray in the twilight of the setting sun. He remembered how warm his father’s hugs had felt even when the chilly gale from the sea, swept across the shore. He remembered how he held that conch-shell close to his sister’s ear and how she had giggled and innocently asked, “How did the sea get into the shell?”
Soon the sun went down and the beach bathed in the serene glow of the moon. He gazed at the clear, crisp Coromandel sky. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, “When our loved ones die, they become stars in the night sky. These stars would guide us at every step and love us just as they did when they were with us…”
Three of these twinkling stars were dearer to him than all the others. Smiling at them, with tears in his eyes he wrote their names in the sand. As he moved away from the salty waters the waves washed out those names…
And as he walked he whispered a little prayer…
“Memories are all you’ve left behind,
How you loved me, how you were kind;
The conch-shell murmurs in my ears,
Mamma, Papa take away my fears.
Stay by my side- through and through,
Tell my kid sister, I miss her too.
Your souls would watch me through the night,
Until I wake in the morning bright.”

Miracle

To dare to dream the impossible,
To reach for the unreachable star,
To patiently wait for a miracle;
Soldier on, despite the scar…

To light the lonely lamp of hope,
To shatter the illusion of despair,
To those in sorrow, help to cope
With immense faith, love and care…

’Tis the reason why I am here-
With light to dispel the dark,
To cast away every little fear-
I’m here to make a mark…

“A miracle is all I ask you for,
A miracle is all I need-
To be my compass and traveling guide,
While I fight this worldwide greed…

“God give me strength to soldier on,”
I prayed one night before bed,
And blessed I was, one sunny morn-
Along came my miracle, my FRIEND…

HOPE FAITH LOVE

“Life is an incredible, indescribable journey, taking turns when we least expect them, causing us to be drawn into a sense of wonder. “I already know that!” you would say; but something that I doubt you know, dear reader, is this: Sometimes very small incidents completely change our outlook towards life and never fail to touch every chord of our hearts.
Okay, so this so-called story starts when I was in Pune, at my Grandmother’s place, holidaying after slogging for my I.C.S.E. Board Examinations. I was so confused as to what subjects to take, which school to join (the details of which I would relate in my next story) and what would be the perfect career option for me.
Therefore, I decided to seek advice from a Career Counselor at K.E.M. Hospital, Pune. I gave a number of Aptitude Tests during a six-day session. My Counselor, Dr. Patni was actually a Clinical Psychologist working in the Child Rehabilitation Centre of the Hospital.
Every day someone or the other came to talk about the condition of a physically handicapped or mentally challenged child. Someone spoke of a little boy who did not stop gritting his teeth, another of extremely low I.Q., and a girl who would never fold her arms and always held them outstretched. All I did was to concentrate on my ‘Reasoning Test’ and control myself from asking questions about people who were complete strangers to me.
Then one day, while I was racking my brains hard to solve a test called ‘Spatial Reasoning,’ a smart, tall lady in a white coat walked in. She said, “I doubt if he’ll ever be healthy again. He is in such immense pain that he has gone into deep depression. Moreover, because of all the sedative drugs, he’s always so drowsy that he doesn’t even wish to speak with us. Deep down, in my heart of hearts, I know he has lost all hope.”
I so wanted to ask who this boy was and why he was so depressed, but I kept shut. That evening, my aunt gave me two mauve ‘LIVESTRONG’ bands (they’re a cool fashion statement, you see). One said ‘PEACE’ and the other, ‘HOPE FAITH LOVE’. Next morning, I woke up early, got ready, wore the bands in my left hand and left for the hospital for my last session. On the way, my eyes fell upon the message on the bands and in a flash, an entirely new meaning of those words dawned on me. I didn’t need to think twice, I knew just what I had to do.
And so, after a super interesting test on ‘Mechanical Reasoning,’ I stuttered, “Doctor, I know you’ll find this really odd, but I really have to tell you. Yesterday, when you were talking about that boy in depression, I wanted to know more. But I know, that’s none of my business. However, I would like you to give this band to him. It says ‘HOPE FAITH LOVE’ and I hope it helps him.
She then told me that he was not a little boy (as I had presumed) but a married man who had become a victim of circumstances. He and his wife did not have any biological children so they adopted a girl. But soon after this, his kidneys failed and he went through a successful kidney transplant. However, before he could even heave a sigh of relief, he was diagnosed with severe septic arthritis. The result: A shortened right leg and several months of agony in the hospital ward. And then in her usual pleasant manner, the counselor said , “Don’t worry, I’ll give this to him…I’m sure it will give him the strength to fight…”
And so after this, I toured the entire rehabilitation centre. There was an Audiology Centre, a Physiotherapy Department, a Speech Training Centre and a Counseling Section, all complete with the latest equipment. The most awe-inspiring department was the Physiotherapy Room where these handicapped children were taught how to walk, control their movements, and perfect their hand and eye co-ordination. A seven year old who was learning to walk with the help of crutches, stumbled. Instantaneously, I rushed to help him stand up, but the nurse standing there, prevented me from doing so. And to my surprise, he confidently got up and struggled yet once again.
That night I thought: What was it that made these children so brave? I have everything that it takes to be happy- a healthy body, a sound mind, and a loving family to support me in times of need…yet, all I seem to be doing is complain, complain and complain some more. But these children despite being less gifted were so happy.
And then I realized how foolish I was being by calling them ‘less gifted’. Because, although they were not as healthy as me, they were indeed ‘more gifted’ in the ‘courage department.’ They had taught me the secret formula of happiness, which is: Life’s too short to fuss over minor things and later have regrets only because we lacked strength to fight, to move on, and to reach out for the ‘unreachable star.’
And so as I sit here, typing out this simple, first-hand experience, I think about those children, that special day, the meaning of ‘HOPE FAITH LOVE,’…slowly drowning into the sea called Nostalgia.

Dreams

Tonight the stars are raining down,
It's a night when dreams come true:
Borrow my dreams this starry night,
I've dreamt them just for you...

The sky is dark; it's studded with stars;
Look above; they're smiling at you.
Close your eyes and wish on them-
They're twinkling just for you...

The angels above are singing songs;
But truly, in my sight-
My angel you'll always be,
You'll be my guiding light...

The misty moon, the whispering breeze;
What is this place without fear?
In my heart I know, I believe:
This is Heaven, it's now, it's here...

So let the wind rush through your hair,
Come with me, come hold my hand;
And let the oceans kiss your feet
As we walk barefoot in the sand...

It's sprinkled all over with Wishing Dust;
It's 'Shimmering Paradise' to me;
So borrow my dreams this starry night-
These dreams are yours to be...

My Lost Shadow

Never realized how important you were to me,
I guess, I just didn’t see how much you meant to me,
I was blind then, but today I can see-
I opened my eyes only to find that you’re no longer with me…

“My shadow,” I call, “where have you gone,”
“My shadow,” I ask, “why did you leave?”
Today I feel so lost without you…
It’s pointless, I know; why should anyone believe…

Never had I thought before when you were by my side,
I trampled on you several times, never did I care-
Took you for granted, you were a habit, my shadow-
I never paid any heed, and I know it was unfair…

And now that you’re no longer there
I find myself helpless, I am in need-
There is a vacuum in my life, never to be filled
And I truly miss you, I do, indeed…

I was just so used to having you around-
Through the long and short, thick and thin of life
You were my silent observer, my compass
My traveling guide through every strife…

Hoping, praying, hunting desperately-
Rushing in and out of doors, I look for you,
In every nook and corner of the world I search-
I miss you so much, and I know this time, it’s true…

You’re nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be found,
I guess I deserve it, it serves me right-
I am lost without you, and my shadow doesn’t care,
But I have lost the fight…

I lie in my room, alone and desolate
Staring at the ceiling, looking at the wall-
And it is then that the realization dawns on me:
You were always there- it was a dark day, that’s all…

Somethings are forever...

Time seems like a summer bird, swiftly flown away;
And yet, as the pages of this book yellow into oblivion,
The words never would… They’re imprinted on my heart-
The memories will last me a lifetime and beyond…

Time seems like a summer bird, swiftly flown away;
And yet the silhouettes of good times
Will always be the shadows of my dreams.
They’re mine to own and treasure forever…

Time seems like a summer bird swiftly flown away;
And yet I know that looking into the future,
I’d reminisce the past and when I’m feeling lost,
I’ll truly find myself… in the environs of my haven…

Time seems like a summer bird, swiftly flown away;
And yet the sky that is riddled with stars
Is all-encompassing… And every time I’d make a wish for you,
A falling star would be your thank you note…

Time seems like a summer bird, swiftly flown away;
And yet the rain that mists my eyes, carries with it
The assurance you sent: You’re always around;
So I’ll wear the tear like a diamond on my cheek…

From this moment on, for now and forever…