She dressed up in her dreams,
Her dream of giving him, her all,
He dressed up in his plans,
His plans of victory, his plans of owning her.
She was waiting,
Surrounded with petals of hope,
Fragrance of beautiful tomorrows..
He was moving,
Towards his prey, to devour her,
Inch by inch, drop by drop..
She closed her eyes,
And smiled inside,
Her heart racing,
Chills running down her spine..
He didn't feel a thing,
Only that he knew he will own her,
From this night on..
She desired it slow,
Wanting to get unveiled and unfolded,
She would lose herself with each touch, each whisper,
She would fall in love with her name,
Dancing on his lips, in his eyes,
She dreamt of "their" magic.
He desired pleasure,
Quick, and at any cost,
Even if it meant,
Seeing her die every second..
He would dig his nails deep,
Deep in her tender skin,
She would wail, scream for mercy,
He would take the beautiful doll of wax,
And paint her red in her own blood. He dreamt of "her" pain..
Once their eyes met,
He couldn't wait,
Not anymore,
In seconds, he squashed,
Her night of dreams, of fragrance,
Of beauty, of tomorrows..
Into a night of horror, of nightmares,
Of pain, of screams..
This was not all.
The second he knew,
He didn't win,
The second he realized,
She wasn't waiting for him,
All her life..
The second he saw,
She was loved before..
There was an animal,
On top of her..
Now fingers were claws..
Some time passed by,
For him, few hours,
For her, few ages.
He left the room,
Fuming in anger,
Leaving behind few murdered dreams,
Floating in a red pool of pain.
Her hurt heart-beats,
Her bruised breaths,
Felt sorry for her..
After all,
She was at fault,
She had loved once,
With all her heart and soul..
And then..
She loved again..
Kayi baar,
Rooh se kaagaz tak utarte utarte, Kuchh lafz...
Dil chiir dete hain..
Kuchh afsaane surkh hote hain Kuchh yu'n..
Dear Men, please get married for the reason that you need someone who you want to grow old with, have kids with, build a home with. Please do not marry for the sake of labeling a pretty virgin as your own.
What needs to be changed is this attitude of evil intentions masked by the term "marriage".
Saturday 31 March 2012
Saturday 3 March 2012
Where My Roots Are..
My "real" tryst with nature goes back to my childhood days, when I was not me, when I was just my granny's little grand-daughter. Dad used to take us to granny's village for holidays. No electricity. No concrete roads.
My village, where morning is welcomed by gurgling and coughing oldies, creeching sound of the hand-pump, infants crying and cattle clinking their bells.
My village, where there are no regular toilets. You have to relieve yourself in the open and yes, the infamous "lotaa" system still prevails. Only that you could take an empty "lotaa" along, as there is a river flowing nearby. Ladies go there early morning in the dark so that no body sees them but still, to be on a safer side, they sit there with their faces covered, because they know that no one can recognize them from their behind.
My village, where there are no amusement parks, computer games or internet. The young girls and boys bring a lot of mud from the riverside and make their own toys. When their fathers are toiling hard in the fields, they play with marbles, or go fishing in the pond where an earthworm or kneaded flour acts as a bait.
My village, where kids go to a school where there are no benches or chairs, where they take their own sacks, to sit on and study. The school, where they sing along with "Master ji" chanting mathematical tables.
My village, where "nuclear families" don't exist. It is all joint. Food, fields, cattle, family, justice, income, everything.
My village, where there are no fans but it is always breezy in the lobby, or at the cot under the banyan tree, or by the river side.
My village, where there are no theatres but there is nothing more entertaining than two mother-in-laws discussing their good-for-nothing daughter-in-laws and vice versa.
My village, where no man apart from the husband could see the new bride's face for at least a year. She should always cover her head in a "ghoonghat" (veil).
My village, where there are no bathrooms or kitchen sinks, so the dishes are done, clothes are washed, bath is taken, all by the river.
My village, doesn't have elite rich inhabitants, but if there is a wedding, then all kitchens are shut down, as every single soul is invited for the "bhoj" (feast).
My village, where there are no marble/wooden floors which could be cleaned using floor-cleaning solutions. Here the mud floor is cleaned by a mix of mud and cow dung and no matter how unimaginable it sounds, once cleaned, the house smells like heaven.
My village, where there are no study lamps, where a bunch of kids gather around a kerosene lamp to study in the evening, while the mothers cook and fathers gossip about how the day was spent in the fields.
My village, where there are no DJs for family functions or get-togethers, but the ladies do not miss a chance to sing the traditional folk songs. The ladies who are totally unaware of the fact that their traditional songs are being proudly remixed and sold in the cities.
My village, where only few people have TVs, but their doors are always open for the entire village when there is an important match or if its "Sri Krishna", "Ramayana" or "The Mahabharata" time.
My village, where there are no air-conditioners or cozy mattresses, but where sleep is totally addictive on a bare cot made out of jute ropes because each and every soul has earned their siesta due to the day's hard work.
My village, which is far behind our comfortable living standards of the city, but where minds are at peace, faces are shining and kids are smiling. My village, where there is no mad rush, no cut-throat competition, no opportunistic behavior, no reason to be fake. My village where no one judges you based on what you wear, or how you look.
My village, where people are happy because they own all the things, money can't buy.
My village...
I miss those days. I miss those sunrises and sunsets. I miss my granny's bedtime stories where all of them used to end on one note "victory of good over evil". I miss being so close to myself.
For me, it doesn't get more real than this. My village is my tryst with nature and reality. My village where less is more, where my roots are, where I am.
My village, where morning is welcomed by gurgling and coughing oldies, creeching sound of the hand-pump, infants crying and cattle clinking their bells.
My village, where there are no regular toilets. You have to relieve yourself in the open and yes, the infamous "lotaa" system still prevails. Only that you could take an empty "lotaa" along, as there is a river flowing nearby. Ladies go there early morning in the dark so that no body sees them but still, to be on a safer side, they sit there with their faces covered, because they know that no one can recognize them from their behind.
My village, where there are no amusement parks, computer games or internet. The young girls and boys bring a lot of mud from the riverside and make their own toys. When their fathers are toiling hard in the fields, they play with marbles, or go fishing in the pond where an earthworm or kneaded flour acts as a bait.
My village, where kids go to a school where there are no benches or chairs, where they take their own sacks, to sit on and study. The school, where they sing along with "Master ji" chanting mathematical tables.
My village, where "nuclear families" don't exist. It is all joint. Food, fields, cattle, family, justice, income, everything.
My village, where there are no fans but it is always breezy in the lobby, or at the cot under the banyan tree, or by the river side.
My village, where there are no theatres but there is nothing more entertaining than two mother-in-laws discussing their good-for-nothing daughter-in-laws and vice versa.
My village, where no man apart from the husband could see the new bride's face for at least a year. She should always cover her head in a "ghoonghat" (veil).
My village, where there are no bathrooms or kitchen sinks, so the dishes are done, clothes are washed, bath is taken, all by the river.
My village, doesn't have elite rich inhabitants, but if there is a wedding, then all kitchens are shut down, as every single soul is invited for the "bhoj" (feast).
My village, where there are no marble/wooden floors which could be cleaned using floor-cleaning solutions. Here the mud floor is cleaned by a mix of mud and cow dung and no matter how unimaginable it sounds, once cleaned, the house smells like heaven.
My village, where there are no study lamps, where a bunch of kids gather around a kerosene lamp to study in the evening, while the mothers cook and fathers gossip about how the day was spent in the fields.
My village, where there are no DJs for family functions or get-togethers, but the ladies do not miss a chance to sing the traditional folk songs. The ladies who are totally unaware of the fact that their traditional songs are being proudly remixed and sold in the cities.
My village, where only few people have TVs, but their doors are always open for the entire village when there is an important match or if its "Sri Krishna", "Ramayana" or "The Mahabharata" time.
My village, where there are no air-conditioners or cozy mattresses, but where sleep is totally addictive on a bare cot made out of jute ropes because each and every soul has earned their siesta due to the day's hard work.
My village, which is far behind our comfortable living standards of the city, but where minds are at peace, faces are shining and kids are smiling. My village, where there is no mad rush, no cut-throat competition, no opportunistic behavior, no reason to be fake. My village where no one judges you based on what you wear, or how you look.
My village, where people are happy because they own all the things, money can't buy.
My village...
I miss those days. I miss those sunrises and sunsets. I miss my granny's bedtime stories where all of them used to end on one note "victory of good over evil". I miss being so close to myself.
For me, it doesn't get more real than this. My village is my tryst with nature and reality. My village where less is more, where my roots are, where I am.
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