I wish I could write

It’s been a long time since I have written anything. Words don’t seem to suffice how I feel these days. How does one explain silence in words? How do you force yourself to create the chaos of verses when you wish to write about quiet? How do you make the still flow and how do you measure the depth of an ocean of emotions steadily rushing past every moment? Words will never suffice. But I wish I could write. There are so many characters living in my head, my heart, my veins. They flow and burst and try to make themselves show on paper. I try to sketch them but I fail miserably. Only caricatures of my thoughts come alive. These characters breathe. I can’t always provide them with the oxygen they need. They put up a long struggle in my hands and then they die. I don’t cry when they do. I have other things I have to take care of. I move on and other characters fill the places of the ones that died. Will they die too? I don’t know. But I know this much, that if they don’t I will give them a soul, a body and love. Sometimes I wish to give them my blood. But alas! The words aren't red enough. Bold enough. Meaningful enough. They never will be. They never can be.

Don’t be a toothpick, be a comb

So I had a meeting with my boss today. I work in a start-up and like most organizations I have worked for, there are no written memos given to us about our role. A boon and a bane. Boon on days you can think and work, bane on those days when traffic is bad, sun is strong and the day pretty long. Needless to say it was the latter one I was fixed in.
So, here I am sitting with my boss, who is trying to make intrapreneurs (a word he has coined for employees who create their own roles in a company, rather than waiting for that above mentioned memo) out of us. He was explaining the need to constantly learn new skills when something he said, struck me. He said don’t be a toothpick, be a comb. “You use a toothpick and throw it out the same moment, a comb you keep,” he explained.
What he was trying to explain was one of the biggest flaws of our educational system. Something, I have been a victim of, a fact I realized too late in my professional life. I hold a degree in journalism. Reporting, writing, assimilating facts, and putting them in a readable format is what I was taught in college. At that time because I wasn't any wiser, I thought it was more than enough.
It was once I stepped into this cyclone called ‘corporate world’, I realized I was not even handed an oar, let alone a boat by my extremely expensive, urbane sounding course. I knew how to be a journalist, but if I was to deviate from that role, I was only a writer. Someone with no business acumen, no additional skill set, no idea about the world of marketing, coding, Photoshop, sales, anything.
I can argue and say but I didn't need to learn them. And isn't there where the problem lies really? So early in life we are made to choose by our educational system with no options at all. An engineer will know only about science and nothing about arts or commerce (and no I don’t think that reading HT café and financial times is the answer). An arts student is woefully unaware of the world of biology and chemistry.
And it doesn't end here. Our educational system is adept at making robots. I know, I am one of them. I am so used to having a course book, a schedule and a teacher telling me, guiding me, that when all these things are taken out of the equation, I am clueless. Independent thinking and the mental readiness to follow it through becomes an issue.
Maybe that’s why Aanand Gandhi (the maker of Ship of Thesus) didn't bother with formal education after 12th and took matter in his own hands. He wanted to learn. He picked up books on his favorite subjects, studied them, traveled the world, met people, understood them and through them himself. Then he decided he wanted to make movies. He created art on celluloid. 
As simple as that. It’s amazing that at 27, after going through offices where I simply wrote what was told to me, paid not to think and drank bad coffee, I am getting a chance to up my game and learn. Truly learn. I am constantly learning how to become autonomous by acquiring new skills. Trust me, it give you confidence like nothing else. And isn't it true that in today’s world where one-stop-shop is becoming an operative word, we be the jack of all and master of one? Well, I am on my way on that path. What about you? Are you still drinking that stale coffee or are you on your way to become an intrapreneur?

What is the Significance of Durga and Shakti in Mythology?

Shakti is our inner strength. Durga is the strength that we get from outside. Praise for example empowers us because we get Durga from outside. Insults disempowers us, we feel stripped of Durga by our critic. Thus, Durga is a currency of exchange, just like wealth or Lakshmi.

Durga comes from 'Durg' which means fort in Hindi. It is the external approval that we seek. Shakti on the other hand is the inner strength that we posses. It is our approval of our selves.

Karna, the sut putra who was forever asking for legitimacy from Pandavs or Kauravs was looking at only durga and not shakti. While Krishna, who like him was called a 'gwala' the one who looks after the cows knew shakti. He didn't seek approval. He was an authority in himself. (Although he was very similar to Karan. A child who was disowned by his parents, lived with the low class). However, he did not shy away from being a 'Sarthi' or a 'Gwala'. Because he was the 'Bhagwan' where ever he was and he knew it. Karna was always looking for ways to feel approved.

Concept of Bhagwan:
Bhag (a part) we all have. We only live and see that one small miniscule 'bhag' of life. Bhagwan is someone who sees not only his but everybody's 'bhag'. He is the man with a bigger vision and can understand actions and foresee consequences.

(Excerpts from Ashwin Sanghi's talk)

Friendship

It’s a strange relationship I share with you. I love to hate you. I can’t stand you but I dislike standing without you. You irk me with your insatiable need for approval and acceptance. Your need to be the best in everything. Your need to take center stage and push everyone in the back. I call you a friend. And I know you will share my tears if need be. I know you will come when I call. Even if reluctantly. I also know you will slash me to pieces if I dare rise above you. But till I don’t try, you will protect me and in your own twisted way make me feel safe. On some days I wish I could rip you out of my life. On others I feel liberated because we have just had a marathon laughing session on the most innocuous gossip and chatter. Life feels lighter and everything feels like it is where it should be. Yet, I feel the presence of something heavy. Like a dark cloud, waiting to descend. I fear that cloud and yet it feels like its covering me from the harsh rays of sun. I don’t know if I love you, like you or even know you. I only know I wish to be free of you. And yet I know I can’t be free of you. 

Mother

She was running very fast. The scythe in her right hand was dripping with blood. There was an empty sack in her other hand. Her eyes were bright. Her nerves taut with tension, her heart full of emotions. It was hard for her to distinguish the feeling that overwhelmed her.

It was late evening by the time she came back to her hut. The last rays of the sun had begun to eat away the lightness of the day. She washed away the blood from the scythe in the nearby river. The wind blew strong. It whispered the screams that she had left behind. She ignored its chill. The grass seemed to be tangling around her ankles like ropes. “The grass has grown too long,” she thought a little irritated. She walked back home and settled to light her fire.

He came back from the town with his books. They had been a good excuse to get away from this place. “And her”, he thought. They had been bickering again. She couldn’t shout as much now though. She could see the determination in his eyes. He knew it made her angry and sad. Eventually, she will grow tired.

She knew he was not going to stay. She knew he was not a child anymore. She knew he couldn’t sit on her lap and eat from her hands. She knew he didn’t want to work her fields.

He sat next to her without a word. The sun was hanging low on the window sill. The palette of colors disappearing in the all consuming black of the night. He lit the lantern. He thought about electricity and yearned for his hostel. She looked at him and followed his thoughts through his eyes. He looked down and sat down. She put a plate in front of him and served him his food. He ate in silence. Later, she ate herself and started putting away the utensils.

It was his ritual to sit with Raha, at night. The horse had been his friend since he was a child. They had been bought up together. Both strong and independent. No rope could be held against Raha’s neck. Like mine, he thought and smiled.

He entered the stead. It was empty. That wasn’t unusual. Raha liked to roam around on his own. There were times when he was out for days at end. But he always returned. Just like me, he thought. He looked up at the canopy of stars and decided to wait for his beloved horse to return.

...She was riding very fast. The forest was but a green blur. The sun rays were dripping slowly from her forehead. Her one hand griped the horse and the other held a sack. Her scythe was in it. The horse was panting. But it was strong. He held his own.

She could feel Raha tiring beneath her. It made her feel good. It made her feel strong. It made her feel in control. She rode him faster. Her head was full of his voice. A voice she couldn't recognize. It was strong and heavy. Determined. His eyes. They were so big and distant. She had searched for her child in them. She was angry because those eyes had drowned her little boy. The words. They were in a language she didn't know. Didn't care about. It wasn't hers.

She whipped Raha. It surprised him. She rarely whipped him. He didn't like it. He stopped. She whipped again. He threw her off. She fell on the ground. She looked in his eyes. She saw the eyes that she had seen earlier that morning. She stared at them for a long moment. Then she emptied her sack...

A lonely Street

A lone street

a pair of feet

 a hurried pace

 game of light and shade

I see a shadow

I hope a she

what if it’s a he?

 A need to pee

 my eyes are downcast

 dare not to look up

a warning

my father

my brother

 my mother

 the world

I wish I was covered

wait, I am covered

I wish I was ice

one that can melt and rise

a darkened corner

some murmurings

smell of prayer flowers

in my memory

my mind is racing

my feet are cold

my hands are shaking

 I need to be bold

I look up and see straight

I walk fast, faster, fastest

He or She walks fast, faster, fastest

The darkened corner

A hand brushes by

I jump and start

And my heart flies

The shadow is gone

He or she or whoever

I stand  

In a lonely street

In a lonely corner

Alone

and then I run

after the shadow

The bowl

Walking, running and then walking again. Men on the streets were looking at the willowy figure with interest. Her dress of some soft material looked like hugging her without much interest. From faraway she looked like a lump of cloth floating on the street.

She was out of breath. She leaned on the banister nearby. It seemed like she was trying to gulp down all the air around her. She looked up and closed her eyes. “Isn’t she the prettiest thing you have seen”. “Ohh yes, certainly”. “Why don’t you just leave me alone and go to your fan club outside”? “What a pretty dress, you do have a great taste”.

She opened her eyes and started walking ahead. Fast, as if running away from someone. Or else running towards something. There was a buzzing in her ears. Disjointed sentences, random words, they seemed to be filling her mind and heart. A bubble was blowing itself at an alarming rate in her chest. It restricted her flow of breath. She wanted it to burst. Burst away into nothingness and dissolve all that it held. But it wouldn’t, it kept getting stuck at her throat. Making her head spin.

Suddenly her slippers gave way to hard concrete road. She looked down and smiled for the first time that day. She kicked away her slippers and started walking barefoot. The more she walked, the calmer she felt.

She stepped in a shop. It was full of old trinkets. The kind that have value because they have survived in this perishable world. She liked to look at them. The history they held within their inanimate selves. The way they told a story without the bias of right or wrong, true or false. Eternal listeners are what she thought they were. They didn’t care in whose hands they went. What they cared was to carry their stories safely in their bosom.

She picked up an old bowl. Encrusted with symbols and made of copper. It fit the shape of her small hand. “Ohh your taste is as exquisite like yourself Madame,” said a voice from behind her. She turned and saw a bald head and an expensive suit. He smiled and years of practice made her return it. However, her new resolution made her drop her mask of grace immediately.

“What is this”? “Ohh this is a pre-historic bowl. Excavated sometime back from the depths of a long lost civilization in Gujarat. I was told that it belonged to a King. Notice the symbols? Well they depict a war and the king winning it”. He finished impressively.

“It’s beautiful,” she said in a hushed voice. “Isn’t it now? Much like you,” he said in a flattering voice. “Should I then be locked up in a glass box to be looked at”? “Well certainly not. Although, you will definitely be a piece to appreciate,” he said smiling. “A piece to appreciate,” she murmured under her breath.

She held the bowl for some more time and then suddenly asked, “How much is it for?” “For you my lady only 800 dollars,” he said silkily. “800 dollars,” she repeated. “Only 800 dollars,” he smiled encouragingly. She looked at him and then at the bowl, smiled and pulled out a small bundle of notes from the pocket of her dress. The man counted the money, bowed deeply and started to take the bowl from her hand. “No need to pack it. I will take it like this,” she said.

She walked out of the shop and looked at the strong sun. It made her eyes sting but dulled the voice in her head, “Walking in the sun without an umbrella!!! Next you will be walking barefoot in the mud!” She opened her hair and let it loose. Walking with renewed energy she rushed towards the sea. There it was, blue as ever and frothing at the mouth. She looked at it for second and the flung the bowl in it with all her might. She saw the bowl float for a while and then a wave swallowed it full. She let out a shriek of delight and felt her eyes burning. Sitting there on the bridge, she cried her eyes out.