Time to Write Herstory

Love me not for I cannot be what you want me to be.
I cannot let you do it anymore.
I will not be the woman you want me to be,
Docile, subservient, voiceless, sacrificial.

It is time for me to unfurl the flag and shout out.
I am bleeding because of your cruelty.
I am suffering because of your indifference.
I am dying because of the gag you put on me.

I have to do this, reclaim my own.
For myself and for those who are at the tip of your gun.
Hanging from the broken ceilings they weep blood.
Their lifeless feet swinging in the fog shout for justice.

I will fight for them.
I want to see them live, to thrive.
They are all mine - women, farmers, tribal - my tribe.
I want to do whatever is taboo because you say so.

I will stand in the front of the line,
Face the bullets of those like you who fear me.
I will bathe in my own blood and fall lifeless on the asphalt,
With cracking sound of broken bones.

I will be dead but, unvanquished.
I will win because, you will finally see, 
the blood on your hands.
I will fall from the pedestal, lay crushed on ground. 

I will not let you live without a conscience.
History will judge you.
Generations will spit on your face.
It's time you knew what's coming.

Innocents will take what's their own.
They will take the bricks from the home you paid for.
The fire from the kitchen you ate from.
The love that you took for granted.

I will start the fire that will burn your fear.
The fear that makes you so vulnerable.
The fear that makes you forget that you are not alone. 
Fear that makes you put me up on a pedestal.

I want to be in control.
I want to decide destiny.
Away from your shaking hands holding a gun.
I will write my story on my own.

I am not afraid of those you doubt my ability.
I will rewrite history.
It will no longer be yours.
It will be Herstory or mine.

~ Shoma

Memories of Ma's Guru of Knitting

My mother is the most graceful and ladylike person I know. There is not an iota of tomboy in my ma. She is always poised and has the right expression for most occasions except when she is scolding me for being the exact opposite of her.

Portrait of my mother
Photo: Shoma Chakraborty

My mother is also a very complex person to understand. A child of the partition she had spent all her life telling us stories about their ancestral home in what is now Bangladesh. Though I could never imagine the sheer magnitude of that house but, the house in north Calcutta that she grew up in is a huge thing covering two lanes with openings on both sides. All her girlhood and early youth was spent in that cavernous building with latticed varandahs and stained glass windows and green Venetian blinds surrounded by family and relatives. She had scores of uncles, granduncles, aunts and grandaunts not to mention a zillion cousins. 

From a joint family of eight siblings where everyone was good at somethings and would help the others with their skills from school syllabus to culinary and fine art and knitting/ sewing she was married and had to start her own household in Delhi all by herself.

Suddenly in her late 20s my shy mother realized that she was knocked out for a six. Married and moved to a city where no one spoke her native language, she started from scratch to reinvent the proverbial wheel. From learning to cook with the vegetables and fresh produce available in north India to learning how to explain even the smallest of things in sign language to hoards of people everyday who were mostly uneducated like the vendors, cleaners and shop keepers she decided to learn everything from the language to sewing and taking care of one overweight and over-indulged over-energetic toddler (moi).

By the time she hung up her spurs, she was teaching Hindi along with Social Sciences in school. 

Her stories of how she picked up the skills are not always cute. Some reek of helplessness and others were sheer grit. Some like reading and writing Hindi happened because she had to help us with homework. Cooking is something she was always great at and her cooking was always healthy even before it became a fad. As an old school friend recently told me, "your tiffin was always great tasting with no oil running even when it was okra and your rotis were thin and even." She should know because she is a food Nazi these days.

But, it explains why all of us have stayed the same size through the decades.

Anyway, a few days back we recalled this really cute story about her learning how to knit - a skill she puts to great use every year though her skills are absolutely rudimentary - no purls and chains in her stuff but, lots of practical cover and tonnes of love.

Here's the story of her learning knitting.

As a young woman with a leaky toddler in the 1970s she needed a lot of sweaters because even at age -1 I was always hungry and ever eager to either throw up or pee and since there were no modern diapers, it meant her changing my clothes several times in a day.

So, my poor parents were buying mini sweaters by the buckets to keep me warm and clean because my ma couldn't knit. 

The house we lived in was divided into four flats and there were two more Bengali families with five teenage kids who were always taking turns to pet me like I was a little furry animal. Not to say that I did not lap it all up. Till the age of five we stayed in that house and I was the cynosure of all eyes - the happiest toddler ever.

However, among the five was this young boy who was very sweet, slightly crazy, artistic young man with a golden heart and a wicked sense of humor. He was in sixth standard and was very attached to my mother because she allowed him to eat from her kitchen all day. He too - like me - was always hungry.

He also had a soft corner for me and my mother and so would keep an eye on me when my ma was busy with chores or had to take a bath or use the toilet. He would bring his books and sit next to me doing his homework while ma finished her personal chores and tasks. I remember spending a lot of time with him even as a toddler. My ma also helped him with his studies because he was not too good on his own and there was no one else to help him because all the other elders in the house were working. 

So, the legend has it that one day he asked my ma in confidence why she was buying so many sweaters because all the other women knit for their children. It was the done thing and he himself had never worn anything off the rack. He was really outspoken for his age and no one minded it because their was no use asking him to mind his own business.

Hence, my mom broke her silence on the taboo subject and let him into her little secret. She told him in strict confidence that she didn't know how to knit. 

That sad confession must have really touched his heart. Imagine a mother who cannot knit for her child! It was a huge scandal. He had fodder for a big gossip but, his kiddy heart was not inclined to abuse the trust of the elder who was actually helping him with his studies and who trusted him explicitly to let him look after her infant and fed him scrumptious stuff everyday.

Instead he decided to change the situation. He could because he had the power to do so.

So, the next day - weekend, he asked her to meet him at the rooftop in the afternoon and leave me with my father.

My ma agreed without asking why thinking maybe he wanted to learn new English words like always.

The next day they met on the terrace. Everyone else was enjoying a siesta after a mutton lunch - those were the days without TV and Internet!

So, the two co-conspirators got to work. He had stolen a ball of wool from home and had brought it up with a couple of sticks from the bathroom broom. 

He had learnt how to do basic knitting watching the women in the house and since he was a little guy who was always crafting  something they never even bothered to tease him. Most were scared of pulling his leg because his sense of humor would tear them to pieces. 

With that one stolen ball of wool and two coconut leaf sticks from the broom he initiated my ma to the art of knitting and taught her whatever she knows today. Hence becoming her knitting guru.

My ma who learnt quickly never looked back, though she didn't try increasing her repertoire by adding designs and styles.

Just last week, when my mother was knitting a small yellow sweater for my toddler niece who wants - "verrrrry loooseee sweateee!" My father suddenly looked up and chuckled, "each time you pick up the knitting needles, you should take a few seconds and thank and bless your guru."

They both laughed and I felt warm without a sweater.

Memories are the most beautiful things and this one melts my heart. 

Books that Make Me Want to Pack My Bags

Reading, thinking, going...

"Not all who wander are lost," said JRR Tolkein and who better to say it than someone who had created an entire new world and filled it with magical creatures who inspire you to greatness.  

Since this post is about books that have made me want to go on voyages even if I do them in my dreams, I will get on to it with only a short preamble.

For those who don't know me, I have always lived surrounded by books. It's not a big deal since books have given me so much in return. Apart from stories and knowledge, books have opened my eyes to so many hobbies, cultures and understanding of human mind that I could possibly never have learnt otherwise.

As I adapt my mindset to write more, I keep returning to the books that I have read over the years. It is not such a bad thing to do actually because tried and tested is always a good idea - even when reading.

Here's a list of some of the books that have always fascinated me and called me back from the shelves in my home. But, most of all, they have pushed me to travel, pushed me to explore - even if it was my own city that I walked around in:

City of Djinns by William Dalrymple

Perhaps no one has loved Delhi so much before it became an Instagram phenomenon than William Dalrymple. A Scottish by birth Dalrymple has been living in India for several years now, hosts one of the most famous book gigs in the world, Jaipur Lit Fest and if you read the book then, there's no way that his love for the much-maligned an highly-polluted city will not rub-off on you.

The story of Delhi is very close to my heart and it's just not because I am a Delhi'ite myself. The story of the seven or as some insist, nine cities of Delhi are so full of blood, glory and intrigue that it feels like the life of a real living person like an epic hero.

Dalrymple, an outsider opened a door through this book that has stayed closed thanks to our history being rewritten by the British who had carefully wiped out every glorious narrative to prove the "white man's burden" myth.

City of Djinns is a series of chapters that open up a year of the then-young author's stay in the city that at once delighted and nauseated him. 

It made me long for Delhi for seven years when I was in Bombay and made me want to go walking around gathering stories, myths and mythologies that make Delhi.

Must read if you want to know Delhi beyond the Qutab Minar and Red Fort.   

Chasing the Monsoon by Alexander Frater

Sometimes it takes a great idea to write a great book which makes the reader want to follow your footsteps to pull equally crazy stunts. Frater does it with flair. He starts the book by sharing that he was born on a rainy day on a remote Pacific island. The first line of the book reads, "The first sound I ever heard of was falling rain."

And though I know many who are born on an overflowing rainy day including my own sister, there is only one man that I know of who made chasing the famed Indian Monsoon a successful book project. 

Monsoon does not come in a single strand. It comes from two directions and apart from India, it touches upon a few other neighboring countries. Frater jumps into the fray or should I say, rain, with a gutso, gets drenched in the local cultures on the way, makes friends on the go and does the madcap job of giving the Monsoon a run for its money.

It's pure adventure and unadulterated daring that the author pulls off the torrential rains, open gutters and a thrilling chase. One of the best travelogues I have read and it definitely goaded me into bringing out the umbrella and stepping out to explore every puddle when rains came splashing down in Bombay the year I read it the first time.

Kim by Rudyard Kipling

Yes I know that I quoted Kipling a few paragraphs back, without naming him, as a White supremacist, but, hey! I am ready to forgive and forget the Nobel Laureate because of this one book that turned me into a road tripper. I can never forget the extraordinary story of a little boy across the Grand Trunk Road that was first published in 1900.

It's pure romance when you are a teenager trapped at home during the scorching summer vacations in Delhi. It's so vivid and well written that it feels like you are a part of the team in search of the mystic river/ spy trail - whichever is your poison.

It's one of the best road trip books that I have ever read and no one does adventure the way Kim and his friends do. If road trip / spiritual journey / spy game is your cup of tea, please pack your bags, get the car ready and don't forget to carry a copy of Kim. Go, conquer the Himalayas.

I think, I will go back to it again after I finish this post. :)

A few for the road.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I was not in a very happy phase of my life when I first picked up this amazing, almost magical book about a woman's journey through three countries that change her life. But, reading it made my heart whole and hoping again - not exaggerating. 

Gilbert's story is true and she has given all the proofs needed to support this through her online presence over the years. Yet, the story almost reads like a self help book that could easily be fiction. 

It takes you on a journey through Italy (eat), India (pray) and Bali (love). The author explores each of the culture with particular focus on the aspect she wants to explore in each country. She eats her way through Italy that makes her happy, goes for spiritual upliftment to an ashram in India that leaves her confused and finally finds love in exotic Bali.

I can't think of anyone who after reading Elizabeth's narrative did not want to walk the same route that she had taken. That you will want to go back to it again and again is guaranteed.

Brick Lane by Monica Ali

When I read this book for the first time, it kind of bridged a gap somewhere in my head or heart - I am not sure. I had grown up listening to stories of our village that now lies across the border in Bangladesh and reading of the British who had ruled the country for 200 years and who a they parted split up the country and injured it's heart forever.

Monica Ali's Brick Lane brought me face-to-face with both, the Bangladeshi diaspora - people I have never met in real life - and a post-colonial London that was sitting on a tinderbox which has burst today in so many blasts. 

It was a story that traced my roots to a different world which was at once so familiar and yet not at all because, I am neither Bangladeshi, nor Muslim or British but, while reading this book, it made me believe that there was a link, a very strong link that makes me who I am today. A link that I need to figure out someday. And it made me believe that perhaps that trail leads somewhere in London where I think it will all fall in place. Not in Dhaka from where my family migrated, not Delhi where I was born and live in but, far away in wet and slippery London where everything seems to be hidden in full view. It needs reading and reading to understand the writer's portrayal of the various characters - the Bangladeshi diaspora that has made London its home. It's uncomfortable to read. The book was shortlisted for Man Booker but, panned by Bangladeshis who felt that it painted them as caricatures - as stupid villagers and religious bigots. 

But, for me, it went beyond the characters. It made me want to explore it find out more.

The Glass Palace by Amitav Ghosh

Amitav Ghosh is by far one of the best craftsmen of the written narrative. The reason why I have chosen this book is because it again resonates with the stories I grew up with. As a child I had heard and known many families that had moved back from Burma because the regime changed overnight. Many of them were very well-established Bengalis. It was like the partition nightmare all over again.

I didn't understand much except the fact that their ordeal was somewhat like my family's. Exodus and migration is never a happy topic to write on but, Ghosh manages it all very masterfully by crafting history and magnificence of Mandalay and the fall of the ruling dynasty into the narrative. 

It traces an epic journey through several countries and thousands of miles. It's got all the ingredients to keep you occupied, royal coup, history, exotic locations, great storytelling and perfect prose which is a hallmark of any of Ghosh's novels. It made a strong picture in my head and that is one place I want to go to one day soon.


So, these are some of my favorites. I assure you that my shelves have many more because, travel stories were told in caravan sarais and village addas much before printing was invented forget, Instagram. Because most humans probably come preset with the wanderlust gene. Travel is in our blood. 

Happy reading,  happy chasing your world of dreams. 

Image from the Internet

My Thanksgiving Speech Sans the Turkey Roast

It's Thanksgiving once again and amidst amazing pictures of dinning tables and happy families across the seven seas I thought I'd get going with my thank you list - a tradition I started last year.

Let me tell you right here that this not a festival I celebrate personally nor do we get around the table at home and carve a turkey nor has it caught on in India - yet. But, I simply love the spirit of Thanksgiving. 

Being grateful brings great joy. It gives immense satisfaction. It makes one feel positive and happy and I like being happy. 

So, here goes my list for the year gone by. And... my vote of thanks goes to:

Family and Friends

As is the tradition - from what I have seen in innumerable Hollywood movies - I want to start with thanking my family and friends. Thank you, all of you and even if we did not get to speak at all this year, know that I cherish you all and am immensely thankful for your presence in my life. As is wont to happen in life, towards the sagging end of glorious spring - which I am going to be holding on to for a few more decades - I have realized that life is about relationships and nothing is more precious than human interactions. I will always be grateful for having you all around in all corners of the planet and know that there would have been no story of my life without each one of you in it. Thank you! Thank you and Thank you all! 

The Internet

This year because I have been working as a consultant without any fixed brick and mortar office. I would like to thank the Internet from the bottom of my heart for being there and making this miracle happen. I couldn't have done it without you! Lots of love and immense gratitude.

YouTube

Being a consultant and setting up a practice of my own also meant that I spent long hours at home working and calling strangers on phone and rushing out once in a while to meet people and working the official odd hours. Which means, I had scant time to actually go out and get entertained. This is where YouTube came to my rescue. From movies to comedy to gossip and news, I just had it all whenever I could find time. Considering I have not had a cable connection for more than a decade now, thanks to the new tube I can enjoy the magic of motion pictures once more! Thanks especially to the ever-sassy, IISuperwomanII, Pemberly Digital and Hallmark Channel's family-oriented love dramas. I know it sounds totally sappy but, hey! It's Thanksgiving. I refuse to lie. Thanks for the clean-cut and guilt-free entertainment any time I am free. 

Twitter

Oh! Thank you for making the adrenaline rush without going to the treadmill! It's a war zone out there and I really don't know what I'd have done without the excitement. It's addictive to invite trolls and then cry foul when the insults start! Ahhh! For cheap thrills! I love, love, love this site for bringing out the pseudo-intellectual snob in me. It's a great workout for the idle mind - I swear! 

Instagram

Who needs to go to a spa to relax when you can see the world in one click and be sucked into a fairy tale universe? I love the Instagram like nothing I have or perhaps will - err... maybe that was a perfect example of over-commitment but, hey! I live in the present, so... It makes my faith grow in leaps and bound for the planet Earth. The most beautiful planet with the most photogenic houses run over by the cutest and most well-mannered kids in perfect clothes with perfect kitchens overflowing with lovely food, the beautiful ladies and pearls of wisdom. The list of all things beautiful here is overwhelming. All's well with the world and God's in Heaven! Amen! 

PS: It's addictive. I think I may need rehab after a while for being this delusional first thing in the morning. Gee! But, Thanks for the awesome dopamine high every morning. Who needs dope? #instadope #instahope

Pinterest

My teenage life's greatest wish was having scrapbooks full of beautiful pictures that were actually my wishlist and what do you know? I have boards that take me to La La Land whenever I want to bail out. I used to love Pinterest the most till Instagram happened but, it still remains one of my favorite guilty pleasures. My secret scrapbook of my ultra secret wet dreams of fashion, travel bucket list, art, vintage cinema... all in one place on the worldwide web. Thank you so much!

Kindle

Though I only use the App but, nothing beats the pleasure of snuggling up in the bed and reading on the phone's white light - ruining my eyes beyond repair - and falling asleep with the phone lying flat on my nose making me sneeze and snore! But, that's just a very small price to pay. I just love all the free paranormal and young adult fiction that makes me feel less than half my real age and actually ready to take on the world till I wake up with an achy breakey back in the morning. Sigh! But, hey I love it and I will always be thankful of the fact that I can continue reading easy fiction without choking my home with more books. What more can one ask for? #Instaentertainment #Instahappiness

Writing

I can never be tired of thanking the universe for giving me the ability to write. It is the best thing in my life - it pays my bills, puts food on the table and lets me express myself like I can never do in person in a room full of people. Thank you dear ancestor whoever shared your gene with me!

Random Acts of Kindness

Over the years I have realized the hard way that no man or as in this case, woman, is an island. To all the random people who have ever appeared in my life out of nowhere just to give me a smile for no reason, the strangers who have taken my side out of the blue in a room full of people pushing me to a corner, people who have shared a seat in a crowded Metro or saved me from slipping on wet floor - happens all the time, shared water on a hot summer day or just randomly put a hand on my head to say, "God bless!" for no reason. I am thankful to you all for having appeared out of the blue  to cheer me up whenever life tried to break my back - happens all the time. You all make me feel happy to be a part of the human race and though it may sound too uncool and sentimental but, I wish on this Thanksgiving to be able to be like you kind people who taught me the greatest lesson in life, "it's always possible to be kind!"

Thank you everyone who I have already met and those I am yet to meet. I so look forward to getting inspired by you kind folks for the rest of my life. 

Thank you universe for putting me where I am and taking me through this amazing journey called the story of my life!

Thank you!

In Defence of Khichri

Khichri for comfort after a rough day. Anyday!

I must say that from the time that the khichri debate has started since yesterday I have been shocked. It seems that the present government wants to make khichri the national food of the country and that was enough to stir up a whole hornet's nest. The moment a Bombay daily declared this, a hue rose in the social media, people decided that it was a bad idea and many even said that it was eaten only when someone falls ill hence, it doesn't deserve the status of National Food.

I was upset for a lot of reasons and decided to not get into the Twitter war at all. Apart from retweeting a comment by Omar Abdullah where he asked if we'd now have to stand up and eat khichri, I was not too moved by the whole debate - especially the against part. 

Though I feel that I must confess why?

And here's the reason.

I love khichri!

For me it is the perfect comfort food. I love it. Period.

My dad is particularly scared of the days when I volunteer to cook dinner. His biggest fear being that I will end up making khichri and he'll be expected to eat it without grumbling. But, my dad's a sport. He grumbles but, eats it up.

My ma and my sister on the other hand, refuse completely. They's rather eat bread and milk and go to bed than have khichri. I find their whole attitude pretty bourgeoisie. Very preconceived like the rest  of those who are opposing the move to 'make khichri the national food' campaign.

I have never understood this lack of PR that khichri seems to have. Although I do agree that most people don't get the khichri right. They either make it too bland or thick or make it like a mash of lentils and rice which, I agree is inedible. You can sample this in any hospital and you will know what I am talking about.

Some people make khichri with black lentils or sabut urad and it goes for a toss because, black lentils take much longer to cook than rice and the result is really messy.

I have over the years tried making khichri or kedigree as the British call it in many avataars. On the onset, I must tell you that I will NEVER recommend it being made with black urad unless you soak the lentils separately for much longer than the rice or, start with cooking the urad first and then add the rice - which takes away from the authenticity of the dish!

I have made khichri with chicken and also love the one where I dry fry the moong dal before making khichri which is a very authentic Bengali version of it and is famously known as Bhuni Khichuri. But, I usually love my own version of it. 

So, my khichri is either made with moong or masoor dal. Here's the easy-peasy recipe for my favorite comfort food for dinner at the end of a rough day.

Take equal amount of rice and dal and wash it thoroughly.

Soak them together for say half and hour.

Meanwhile, peal a potato and dice it into four parts.

Take half a carrot and cut it into chunky pieces.

Take a few florets of cauliflower and cut them into medium sized pieces.

Wash a few leaves of palak or spinach.

Take a pinch of haldi, jeera or cumin powder and salt to taste. 

Take a pinch of cinnamon or dalchini powder.

One bay leaf or tejpatta.

A pinch of cumin seeds or sabut jeera.

Some green chilies chopped or cut from the middle - depending on your palate.

Take a clean pressure cooker, add a bit of ghee and wait for it to warm. Add a pinch of cumin seeds and bay leaf and wait till they crackle.

Add the potato and some salt to the ghee and saute it.

Add the carrots to the potato and saute some more.

Add the cauliflower to the mix.

Saute all the veggies till they are semi cooked.

Add the haldi and the jeera power and turn around to cover all veggies. 

Add the green chillies and stir till the mix starts smelling delicious.

Drain the rice and lentil and add to the veggies and stir a bit till everything is nicely mixed up.

Add the spinach and stir a little more.

Add water stir a little.

Add the cinnamon powder in the end.

Put the lid on the mixture.

Wait for one or two whistles and turn the gas off.

When you open up after a while, I dare you not to drool!

Well! That's it - I am going off to make khichri now. I don't care if it is declared national food or named brand ambassador of Indian cuisine. For me it's always been a winner with a capital W!

Also Read: Of a Freezing Delhi and Birbal ki Khichri Retold

(Image courtesy, Internet)  

The Morning After...

Rainy Mornings

It should rain every night, And eyes feast on green and brown. They call the perfume petrichor. It must not be bottled up and poured, at will. I could not afford to buy if it was, Available in a fancy shop. It smells of womb, My mother's love. It covers me in lightness. My heart and soul, Languishing in the daily rot, Of existence, In mythical cities and towns, Open their third eye, To Tandava of love. Let me indulge, in lucid dreams. Of villages and mango trees. Of empty, faraway groves, That exist only in my head. The music of the rain, Tupur, tapur as the baby says, Makes me want to unfurl my wings. The notes perfect, The sound same, From the time I remember, Sleeping under a sheet of tin. I wish it rained every night. And, I don't have to, Water my plants, Or wash the car clean. ~ Shoma

#1 Dear Zindagi - Love you Dearly!

Thank you Dear Zindagi! :) - Image courtesy: Shoma Chakraborty

Dear Zindagi,

I write to you today not because it is a contest that I want to win but, because, I have wanted to for long.

So many are born lucky and have envious lives but, thanks to you, my humdrum middle-class existence has never been short of surprises.

I think life is actually monotonous if it doesn't pack surprises at every step. Like a skating rink, it's slippery and slidey and oh so much fun and so beautiful to look at in a showreel once you get it right.

And you dear zindagi made me realise that "Hey! I am the heroine of my life!" Much before it became a famous phrase.

I want to thank you for all the crazy opportunities that you gave me that may look tough on the outside but, were actually a lot of fun to wrestle with - I look back on them with a sense of awe and a smile.

I remember me, lost and broken in a strange city by the sea. The sunlight was so harsh that it made my skin erupt in allergies. A city so lonely that I only had on and off conversations with the tree outside my window.

I remember a Diwali night when I was all alone in the house with neither friend or family, crying quietly sitting on the floor, taking comfort from the knowledge that the tree outside would be there to silently support my longings. In walked a large golden labrador and snuggled down next to me. I will never forget her kindness and I always stop to thank her every Diwali for those soft brown eyes full of empathy. I remember her waiting till my meltdown was over, to lick the tears off my face.

"Maggi, thank you till eternity and more."

This may have started sounding teary and soft but, life is all about blood, sweat and tears.

Of blood, I remember the first time I had periods as a preteen and the misery of believing I had some life-threatening disease and dying.

Dear life! I will never forget the gentle touch of my father who found the blood-smeared garments and me and told me that I was not dying. I will never forget the relief when ma joined him and tried to bring objectivity to the entire episode.

I will also never forget that for a few years from that day, I would pray each month that it stops forever so I could go back to my normal life.

Today, I pray for the exact opposite and laugh at myself.

Lastly dear zindagi, the day I meditated on the love I have received in my lifetime. I focused on all the episodes involving strangers, friends, family and acquaintances. Dear zindagi, I cannot tell you how I cried just within the fist one minute because I was so overwhelmed - I was precious. I was so loved.

That is when I knew that my life is a lovely technicolour dream to be enjoyed till the last breath.

Thank you dear zindagi!

Love you,

Shoma

“I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda”.

Love. Rain. Happiness

I love rains.

I have said this time and again.

I cannot stop myself from writing during Monsoon. You could call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

Lots of people do not get this fetish of mine.

I don't either. :)

But, it is the clean and freshly-washed beauty of the Monsoon that tugs at my heartstrings every time.

Rains to most people means muck and traffic snarl-ups.

To me, rains symbolize love.

The love of the sky for Earth.

His poor, overburdened, dying-under-the-weight-of-humanity lover.

I feel the love of the skies trying to pull up the flagging morale of the Earth.

I feel the balm of love and not the sting of acid when the sky pours.

In the flashes of lightening and noise of thunder, I hear the anger of a lover who is threatening the hell out of the puny humans abusing his love.

I feel the happiness of the watery Earth.

70 parts water and only 30 parts land.

She loves water.

She revels in the rains.

I feel the relief of the trees in my city.

Washed, cleaned and cheerful.

They look happy.

I can see the sheen of their leaves.

I can feel see the green of their life.

It makes my heart soar like a bird.

The little birds, all wet and fluffy, sitting under thick leaves and tin awnings, look in awe.

They understand the love of the skies.

They are probably the only ones to hear the whispers of endearments that the sky bestows on the Earth.

They are the ones that fly fearlessly up to the sky and play there.

Enough said. I love rains. They clean my soul and make me happy.

Copyright: All images used here were clicked by me 

Love

If I knew all the names of love
They would be all your names.
I know.
If I could smell love
It would be your musk.
I know.
If love could be tasted
It would taste sweet
Like the words falling off your lips.
I know.
Don't ask me how
But, I know.

To love me, is to love you.

To love me, is to love you.
I was no one till I knew I am you.
I was worthless till I knew we are one.
Love is our bond.
I love you more than life.
You are my life.
You tought me to love.
I search not for you.
You are me.
I search for the truth.
You know the answer.
It is hidden.
Hidden in me.
To love me, is to love you.
I belong not to me but, to the void called space.
I am the universe around me.
I am love, longing, rain, thunder and fields of wheat.
You laugh and rejoice as I find me.
My spine reminds me of the million me.
It shudders in anticipation.
Another life, another mind.
To love me is to love you.
I belong to darkness and to light.
I know all the colours.
They are you.
You are me.
To love me, is to love you.
The high walls cannot stop my mind.
Churning, clinging, moving, frothing, rushing, whirling...
I move across time, across light, across thoughts.
I live now on Earth.
Or do I?
Is it my only home?
I think you know.
Is this heaven or hell?
I love both.
They are also you.
And I am you.
To love me, is to love you.

Of Love, Sarees and Rains

There are days when I want to hide and keep quiet. These days are often refreshing. I love the fact that I just read, write, listen to music, start my day with a movie or just be happy on my own...

There are days when the sky is overcast and it speaks to me. The best part is that I do not need to answer back. I just need to listen. Sometimes I just need to close my eyes and feel. The sky is all around me at those times. The space around me is huge. It is blue.

When I think of myself in these moments I see myself in sarees in contrasting hues. Dark red, Magenta, sea Green... I do not have these sarees nor do I wear sarees too often. But, there is an allure in them that's timeless. I seriously believe that sarees make me look better. More woman than any other attire in my wardrobe.

Why am I speaking of sarees when I hardly wear them?

Because, I want to wear them more and more. But, why? Especially, when I know I won't. Not in a hurry at least.

A summer sky is like my mamma's saree hanging from the clothesline. It's blue, breezy and light with hints of fluffy white clouds that tease with false promises of rains that never come.

I love rains.

It was in Bombay that I fell in love with rains.

It fell from the sky in torrents. Like someone was throwing buckets of water down from the sky. I loved getting wet in the rains. It used to be such a liberating experience. The only time a human can feel the sky on skin. I loved the taste of rains. It's feel, soft, fragrant and comforting, like a mother's hug and a sister's arm.

It felt like my mother sending her love through the skies and promises that she'll be there always wherever I go.

...And, it reminded me why I love both, sarees and the rains because they remind me of my mother and of the love that is there in the universe. Both for me are the purest forms of love.

Sappy? I know. But, a truth often is, sappy and blurry. Lines that are etched in memories that wrap around each other and intermingle in our minds.

And I wonder, what will happen when the memories die?

On Eternal Love

If you love me not;
Nothing will change.
The Earth will still sing,
To the skies.
The nights still,
Pine for the Sun.
Storms will wander around,
Like a beautiful woman,
Her hair left lose like waves on an ocean.
Whirling like dervishes,
Raising dust to the skies,
Coloring them blue,
After the heavens.
And rain will drench me,
In love, that is unchangeable,
Solid, for centuries to come.
Even when, you and I will be ashes,
As dust, rushing up to the skies,
Getting blue like the heavens,
And falling in torrents to a singing Earth.
I know and I laugh, when you say,
"I love you no more..."

Tremours

It starts with the toes,
They curl hearing footsteps,
Fingertips quiver and a zing runs down the arms.
The lips, they tremble and eyelids close.
The shock at the back of the head,
Runs down the spine.
I tremble.
The stomach ties-up in knots.
Legs feel the pricking of a thousand pins.
I tremble.
The tremors are real,
Sweat pools into my navel.
The Earth spins,
Out of control,
Thoughts wiped out.
The world shatters and explodes.
Breathing lost.
Mind out if control.
Do I tremble even then?

For Love

What do you want me to do?
Loving is losing.
I do not want to lose.
What do you want me to see?
Truth is ugly.
Lies scare me.
What do you want me to be?
If I love you, they call me fallen.
If I don't, it hurts, I die.
I need to live, to love, to laugh.
I want to be you.
Omniscient, omnipresent, ambiguous;
I want to be lost,
I want to be found;
Rescued by you,
I want, I want, I want...
Is it possible? Can I meld into you.
Like in osmosis.
I melt and mix with your essence.
Lost in you, I want to stay hidden.
Can I?
~ Shoma

Love

Do not ask, who I am;
For I cannot answer you.
I am no one, I am nothing.
I seek my love to save me;
I seek Him to tell me my name.

Imagine

Sometimes it is easy to imagine.
You and I in a warm blanket,
On a cold evening.
Together. Listening to the rain.
Sipping soup from a shared China cup.
Laughing at a private joke,
Without really telling it.
Reading a shared newspaper, 
Aloud and noisy, sad at the events of death,
Laughing on the dry sarcasm of the comic strips.
Sometimes it is easy to believe,
That you and I belong together.
But mostly, it is easier to imagine and smile.

River

Like a river I flow,
From source to the sea.
Meandering my course,
Looking for you.
And when l think it is you,
I break the dams, flood the world,
Wash the shores.
Ebbing and flowing, destroying.
Till l know, you are not there.
That it was a mistake.
Do you not hear my tears?
I cry through the nights.
Carrying corpses, ashes, dead flowers.
I cry. My tears mixing with the water.
Rise up to the banks.
Cleaning, healing, washing.
While l move, swim, fly. In my search.

The Infidel

When I was searching for you,
They called me a gypsy.
When I found you in my heart,
They called me an infidel.

Rang tera mere man mein eisaa chaaya; 
Rang li main toh tere rang mein, Jag ne jogan paya. 

A Painting Speaks

Bleed.
I bleed.
Red,
Yellow,
Indigo.
Dark,
Bold,
Sticky.
to create,
to be.
I bleed.
Congealed,
Stroked,
Brushed,
I become
Another me.
I become you.

A Love Note Post-Valentine's Day!

Another year and another Valentine's Day when I enjoyed the fact that I could be happy for no reason at all and for everything that I have. Recently I started meditating on love and each time I close my eyes and think of all the love that I have received in my life tears seep out of my eyes and a smile forms on my lips. I sometimes also meditate anticipating the love that is stored for me in the future and that is such a joyous feeling that it can calm a storm inside and outside. Usually, it makes me sail through the day as light as a feather.

Love, I have realized over the years, is like happiness. You may not be privy to it at all times but, it is there sprinkled all over the place for you to grab and run with. It falls perfectly in line with my mantra of living for the moment. Gather happiness, gather love as you go and you will always be rewarded with more.

I will not be cynical and say that I have not loved nor been loved because that would be as pompous as saying, "I'm self made..." I am because I was brought up with love and nurtured with care.

However, I wonder every time around Valentine's Day, why only one day to celebrate love?

Love is such an instant pick-me-up that it should be celebrated everyday.

I have decided to celebrate love everyday. Love in all its avatars and forms and facets is welcome. It does not matter whether it is requited or not or if it is welcome. It does not matter. The anticipation, the palpitation, the glow in the cheeks, the burning ears, love is the best cosmetic ever created.

So, I wake up each day and pop comes a story into my mind that has nameless, faceless characters in conversation. I write down their conversations and start my day. These are tales of love being played out somewhere in the universe. They are moments of love.

You can read these extremely short tales in the link here:

http://shomachakraborty.blogspot.in/2014/01/very-short-tales.html

I'd suggest you keep checking the above page every once in a while because I keep adding more stories in it.

I have also started write poems on love once more - something I used to avoid doing earlier because I find poetry very mundane. I know it is strange but, that is how I look at poetry. Nothing ephemeral about it. It's just words arranged in a string.

Over the years I have realized that love is a renegade. It does not conform. It cannot be disciplined and it is no use trying to stop it. It will go places and pull you through the rocks and rough edges. I have decided to let it do what it has to, what it needs to. You always have the final decision available to let go.

By letting go you make yourself free to experience more - pain, pleasure, love...

Try it for yourself. Have fun. Be in love - always!

Love and light.

... And this here is what I had written last year:

http://shomachakraborty.blogspot.in/2013/02/a-love-note-with-card-type-images-for.html