Ms Chatterjee

Walking in the narrow corridor, I carried my books to the locker. It was just 5 minutes past 8 in the morning and Ms Chatterjee would have started the lecture. I was late and anxious, as is usual of me. I entered and to my surprise she let me in. She did have a soft corner for me, I'm sure. As I sat I realised she was reading out my exam sheet to the students for reference. "I would have given it a full grade only if it had not been for the grammatical errors", said she. It meant a lot to me, and I know she guessed it. She saw inside me, the real me, my capabilities. She told me to work hard and come back to the college and join her as her colleague in the future. She had expectations from me. She saw something in me, she knew I was capable. But am I? Yes, I am. 

Gradually as I grow up, coming out of my shield of nervousness and low-confidence, I know I am worth it. It takes hell lot of guts and forcing yourself beyond the limit to come out of that constant rottenness of criticism you have been facing since you were a child. It is hard to come out of it, trust me. But I guess I made it through. Nevertheless, I shake like a bird flying against a gust, when told to do something impromptu, like addressing a room full of audience, be it an ignorant audience.
But do I live upto her expectations? Sometimes I wish she was my mother, I would have been not so scared, not so anxious, not so messed up.

But let's face it...

Alter Ego

I can't figure how it differentiates us, the quality that makes you less miserable than her. Everyone has fond memories of their childhood. She does too. But to grow up into adulthood, and move away from those memories, she can't grow out of it. She can't figure out how others can.

Still stuck in the dusk of that breezy day, playing in the grass barefoot. She doesn't live in her childhood home anymore but her alter ego still lives there, not in the same home perhaps, but in the back lane with the skating court, or in the tree they used to climb and party on near the huge iron gate that would always stay closed. Or maybe in the 'first park' as they used to fondly call it. Or maybe in the pathway adjoining another building lined with pomegranate and bougainvillea trees.

I try to figure out what's wrong with my alter ego, who is too heavy on me these past few months. Why is she mourning a loss? Perhaps she knows that I won't make it through.

I don't need anyone to rescue me, I just need them to divert me. They say, when you get the first sign of anxiety-DIVERT your mind. I just need diversion. But I'll never be rescued. Because my feet are fixed too firmly in my nostalgia.

Adulthood is nothing but the ending. I want to know the quality, and perhaps try to imbibe it in myself, to see adulthood as a new beginning. Maybe I didn't turn out how I was supposed too. Why? Did you turn out to be how you always thought you would? Didn't you scar or burn or fade a little?

I'm sure you did. How did you get out of it? What is the quality that helped you?

Persistence

When you choose a path of social work, which gives your life meaning, and you are abused everyday for doing so, it slowly starts to deteriorate you.

You may try to give up the path, but that won't let you sleep at night, so instead you decide to let it kill you slowly day by day, not the path, but the haters who abuse you regularly-WITHOUT FAIL, you let them kill you.

'Them' might not be so mighty if they were not your blood, but when they are, know that God has planned this as the biggest joke of your life.

When you can't burst out, you burst in and collapse.

Battling against the Self

One's efforts to make one's life better,
like Sisyphus',
ever unrelenting.

Carrying up the boulders like innocent Sins,
Repentance in habit of self-loathing.
One is brought up this way, inefficient.

Anger, guilt, shame, ugliness,
One's food for thought.

The Self is a separate entity,
an arch enemy,
Crawls like the serpent,
disrupting the Head.

One's efforts seek Hercules,
to salvage the Prometheus
of one's Self.

Kubla Khan

   It was a blast heavier than a dubstep’s bass, bashed through my being. The whole room jumped up in fright and finally woke me up. My heart thumped so hard until anxiety filled me up. I looked around, from a satisfied-with-life space I had to hit back to reality- the reality of a refugee camp.

   The blast had spilled blood around, the red of it mixed in orangish yellow-what a beautiful color to paint. Orangish yellow? Oh yes, the hue of the flames. Everything was on fire, our tents were made of cloth, remember? That is how refugee camps are, fragile and easy to destroy, just like our hopes.

I was in complete white, my clothes, my skin, the color of my camp, my sheet, my spirit. White is not peace, sometimes it reflects the lack of color, lack of life.

   I woke up and of thought of Kubla Khan, ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan./ A stately pleasure-dome decree’. Where was our Kubla Khan? Where is our Kubla Khan? 

Green Eyes

Green eyes, no, not green eyes. That was some creepy liquid inside that tube that they hit in my eye with an injection. Boom! Right into it. Didn’t even take a second. And I shivered like a hunted fish as the current ran through my body. I saw a white pigeon fly by the serene white clouds. White doesn’t always represent death. It’s all colors, together, like we were until I was diagnosed.

Dark smoke rising through, following the hippie trail, Kathmandu- Base Camp. That’s when I saw that spirit of a person I knew since many infinites before, at least that’s what I thought. You just know it, don’t you, when you see somebody like that?

Head tripping in slow motion as Coldplay plays the classic Yellow. And damn you are back to that sick green shot into your eye, trying to clear out the vibe of the person giving you that shot. And you just die, you don’t even need them to kill you when you see it was the same spirit of a person you thought you knew infinites ago. How sad!

To J

This is what you are called in my device. But don't words fall short for it?
Thank you for being with me in my worst and my best without any bias and impatience. I was always the priority when necessary for me. I never felt ignored and the only person to have made me feel beautiful about myself is you.
It's true that the prime reason I am with you is your cultural food :p nevertheless, the second reason is not the least, it being that I have unconsciously ingrained in myself your benevolent socially responsible qualities. I was never much bothered about doing the right thing as long as it didn't benefit me personally. The idea of truth and justice is what I've learnt from you. From you I've learnt a kindness that knows no bounds, a forgiveness which is granted too easily for good and an honesty which is not very typical of the human race today.
You made my dream of petting a lovely animal come true.
I've been selfish and mean to you a lot many times when I should have avoided it but you never returned the same.
I think you are a God sent to me so that I can have faith in what is  good and humble.
Thank you for being in my life.

YOU

This is going to be all about you. This is my way of publicizing myself to you cause I don't know any other way. And if there is, give me a sign. I'm desperately looking for one like Will Smith saw it in I am Legend, remember? Oh no, you didn't watch it.
Remember the long ridden horrible movie I made you watch forcefully? But as usual you had to leave early..and I was angry. Never mind, still loved you like forever.
I don't know if I ever told you this or not, you are beautiful and I loved you. I know you saw it in my actions when I never gave up on us while others did temporarily. I know you saw that. And I know you remembered that ALWAYS. That's why you forgave me later on cause you loved me.
I'm sorry I saw you less. I'm just sorry.
I know you're happy wherever you are. I wish I could have been there when you thought of me, even for a fraction of second, before going. I'm sorry I wasn't.
I'm sorry I couldn't...
I was planning on writing you in a beautiful fiction... in a fairy like idyll cause that is the best that would have suited you. I'm sorry I never expressed, took you for granted but I know I showed that I love you and you saw it. I'm still in denial, everybody else has accepted it. I don't know when I will.
Remember Virginia Woolf and her stream of thought? I am just following that right now.
Just read me..ok? just read me.
I LOVE YOU, forever. I'm never letting you go from my heart.
I'll try to write you better the next time..not giving up.

Not nothing, but a lot

Heaviness filled the vaccum in me a few minutes back, but now that I've got the music on, I feel light..almost hollow.
I'm just blabbering my thoughts out in words..would've written'em down in my Diary but I accidentally don't have it with me at the moment.
Nevermind, a change has taken place in me since the last one week, post my trip to the South. I see my mind has temporarily gone narrower, observing too tightly with a scrutinizing mind everything and everyone who acts unreasonable. There is a lot of negativity that has gotten into me all of a sudden, I almost despise myself for it. I wish I could be cheerful again. I know the root to all this negativity but it feels like I've reached the brim of my patience. I can't take no unworthy and unreasonable people no more. Only a few, other than my family, whom I love with all my heart, are the ones making the days tolerable for me. Thanks to you two guys.
Music is so comforting, I can't hate no more!

You Guys!

"Start writing", signaled the voice in my head to me.
Been months I haven't wrote a word, perhaps that is why I'm finding it a little hard to think deep into me to put it into words.
So I start writing, obeying the voice in my head, like a machine performs its function, objectively, when signaled to by the operator.
I don't have a particular emotion in my mind that I'd like you, reader, to empathize with but I'm just gonna state all that I've gone through these last 5 months of my happy life!
Was very scared to step on this new stone, but I had to and kept walking until I crossed all the inhibitions and reached my new found friends.
Oh yes! I know the Topic now, haha!
This post is dedicated to You Guys: Jayanth, Madhvi, Akansha, Prashant, Nitesh, Twishi and, somewhere, Manish.
No matter all the misunderstandings we've gone through or might go through in the future, I know we will come out victorious with our ever-living friendship. We might assume that some of us are not as equally dedicated to 'us' as some of us are, nevertheless you must notice that we are still together- happily.
I don't want to write anything to overwhelm you guys, (the tool I usually use to make my writings look interesting :p), but would only like to thank you for being together up-till now.
I don't need to repeat the fun and fights we all must have experienced among ourselves, since I'm pretty sure of the nostalgia we all are going to go through after our batch passes out!
All I'm going to mention is the fact that you guys have, presently, occupied a very important part of my life which I don't think anyone will ever be able to procure.
YOU ALL WILL ALWAYS BE REMEMBERED.
P.S. All we need is a room provided with weed, alcohol and cigarettes and I bet we could spend our whole lives making fun of Manish in there, haha!

And since I could not find any picture with all of us together, here is a video with all of us 'technically' together where I am recording the video in my phone and you all are giving away a message to Madhvi :D

An Encounter between Past and Present

“Look at the smoke”, said I and kept saying it until I could say it no more. No one looked at me as I stumbled on my way to the restroom. My friends were too lost in the music to notice me leave and I was too drunk to make’em notice me leave.

Fortunately the lights weren’t too bright when I entered the restroom; saved me from the sudden pinch I usually feel in my head. The room looked empty to me as I sat on the floor, right in front of the big mirrors on the wall. I felt an urge to puke and thought I was gonna pass out until, surprisingly, this little girl of about 10 years old ran before me into this dark corner of the room. Curious, I followed her into the corner where she tried to reach the sink and wash her hands covered with mud.

Appalled by the possibility of how they could let a little girl enter a night club, I convinced myself that I was hallucinating. So I went back to the lightened part of the room and sitting on the floor once again, anxiety filled me up; I realized I was sweating and wanting so desperately to scream, I couldn’t open my mouth. Maybe I was asleep and all this was a dream, but why would I need this to be a dream? What was so bad about this situation? No, there was no sunshine, no birds singing but only darkness, and this darkness seemed so usual and familiar that it didn’t scare me. There was nothing negative about it.

Perhaps it was the possibility of the unusual presence of the little girl that bothered me. Hoping my initial doubts of hallucinating to be confirmed, I went to the same dark corner once again only to see her standing frozen like a rock, shivering, wanting so desperately to scream but I guess she couldn’t open her mouth, while a strange dirty huge man did whatever he wanted to do with her, using her however it suited his evil purpose.

Not being able to believe what I saw, I puked, ran out of that cursed place and dropped myself on the floor in front of the mirrors looking at myself in one of’em. I couldn’t even tolerate the stare of my own reflection at myself, nevertheless I kept staring back at it until I finally saw her, the poor little girl replace my reflection, and that is when I recognized her in myself.

It all comes down to Sacrificing

1 My insides were empty before the sacrifice.

They swell with honor and a sense of spiritual fullness now that I’ve given a person what he really needed. The sincerity of his need and my empathy of it provided me the strength to sacrifice mine.  And it did me no harm, it only made me stronger to move forward, which would have been very difficult otherwise.

2 To give up is not always cowardice, it is something I can’t figure out yet but it’s definitely not cowardice. After all, what are you supposed to do if you are forced into doing something out of necessity? And you believe them when they say it is for your own good, and when you know that even if it does turn out as good as they said, it will only be superficial.

I write my name on the shore, the sea wave comes and washes it away. I write my name on the shore again, the sea wave washes it away again. I try to emphasize myself but they won’t let me, just like the sea. Obtaining delight out of vexing people like me is their hobby but I’m not vexed.

I know you are not like them, my dear, and that’s why I’m speaking this out to you. But I can’t go on like this, so I give up and it’s not out of cowardice. Perhaps it is a sacrifice; perhaps he needs it more than I need my life. So I’m giving up not for him but to save myself, I can only hope he finds solace in that.

3 I can see the truth so I will paint you in my words. I’m sure no one has had the chance to see your sacrifice but me and that you’ve served your purpose for someone else, but now that I’ve seen the divine truth in you, I’ll serve my purpose for you. I’m not giving up anything writing you down in my words, I’m only making you eternal as you continue to make me grow.

You, the one who sacrificed to move on, and you, the one who sacrificed to benefit someone else, you will live on forever in Art, Art which is mine and which I’m expecting not everyone will be able to understand this time.

Anne Frank

Looking at the seagulls flying in freedom in the vast azure, she says, "in spite of everything, i still believe that people are really good at heart". She puts me to shame too, just like she puts her father to shame. Shame of believing in a religion of faith that couldn't prove as trustworthy as she thought of it; that a brave little girl, inspired by nature, whose heart was a dwelling of Wordsworth, was forced to end her life only because she was a Jew. What a shame!

Little Anne discovered the beauty of words, writing her expressions out in her Diary or Kitty as she called it. She could have been a greater writer if she were given a chance to live. Nevertheless she made her mark in literature with her single writing that she never intended to get published. She won in her defeat. Nazis ended her life in the name of religion but they couldn't defeat her. 

So what if she was never able to go out for ever since the Franks got into hiding, she had her imagination to take her out to the same park where she would walk around the bright flowers on the side of the lake with her Father, whom she loved inevitably. She and the others had to put on the same clothes for those unfortunate three years in the hiding without washing them, they had to keep the lights out almost all of the time, they could not walk around in shoes for the fear someone on the floor below might suspect their presence, they had to sleep with the continuous music of the alarm sirens and air raids outside. Those eight people lived in a suffocating small floor and sustained themselves by dividing their daily food equally among themselves, food which was meant enough for only three people at a time. In spite of all this, little Anne considered her present abode to be a heaven, greatly better than what the other Jews were made to live in, outside in the concentration camps during the World War II.

How ironic and yet magnificent it was to look out of the window and find peace in other's freedom while she herself lived inside this room for the last three years. How courageous was it of her to be cheerful when everyone else was afflicted with the inevitable angst that didn't leave their hearts at all, and to be hopeful while looking at the door of the hiding place, waiting for it to be trampled down upon by the Nazis who were coming to get her and her family to the concentration camps.

It will be too obvious to suggest the wrongness of the Nazis who inflicted the worst of tortures upon the Jews for no logical reason. All that we can do right now is pray silently for a moment for the peace of all those people who were a victim of Hitler's misguided pride and mind. They were not victims, they were martyrs, and greater were the common German friends who had enough courage to hide and help their fellow Jews.

A little Love

As the hostel bell rang early in the morning, I woke up and hurried for my Art class. While on my way to the Campus, I found a little puppy sitting and whimpering on the footpath on the outskirts of a garden. Fighting my urge to take him with myself back to the hostel, I tried walking on but couldn’t. I gave him my lunch which he, to my surprise, devoured quickly and I resolved to take him into my lodgings. Too occupied as I was to notice that he had a leash on and could be someone’s pet, we walked on like childhood buddies with the same stance. His little white furred body trotted beside me to catch up with my pace and made him look so little a treasure that I felt impulsively protective of him.

I hid him in my bag as I entered the gates of my hostel since animals were not allowed inside the rooms. Tired as I was from this long walk, I lay on my bed and could see his head jump up a second after another accompanied by a singing bark from his throat as he tried to jump up on the bed beside me but couldn’t because of his small size.

I did not realize that I’d fallen asleep until there was a knock on the door which woke me up and I noticed the little pup streak across the floor, tossing up the rugs as he slid, and not stopping until he crashed into the door with a loud thud. He then hopped up on his hind legs, yelping wildly. This is when I realized that this little creature was not a delicate angel but a vigorous, slightly crazed devil that was yet somehow joyous in its eyes. I knew that calming him down would be of no use and I opened the door with a slight queasiness to see a hostel member asking me to take the dog out.

I did not know what to do with him but surely I did not and would not let him be on his own all alone and not looked after. Nevertheless, I decided to take him to the same place where I’d found him in the hope that his owner might come around finding him. When we reached the place, I sat on a bench in the garden adjacent to the place and tried to keep the little urchin entertained and wagged a stick in front of his face. He stared at it as a starving man would stare at a loaf of bread. “Go get it!” I shouted, and hurled the stick as far out in the garden as I could. He jumped up the low concrete barrier in one spectacular leap and galloped down the steep in the garden out into a grove of plants. He came charging back up onto the bench with his prize in his teeth. “Bring it here!” I yelled, slapping my hands together. He pranced over, his whole body wagging with excitement, and promptly shook the leaves and mud all over me! And I thought to myself, this is what overexcited energized bunch of animals were born to do.

The little devil

It was like I was living with a wild horse and was assured that this little creature can teach me about living each day with unbridled exuberance and joy, about seizing the moment and following your heart. He could teach me to appreciate the simple things- a walk in the garden, a fresh energetic evening and to miss classes for an enjoyable nap.

I wondered if it was possible for a dog- any dog, but especially a nutty, wildly uncontrollable one like him- to point humans to the things that really mattered in life; and looking at him I believed it was!

And this is the reason why I did not name him because then it would have hurt me more to let him go than it would hurt me now when I’d not named him. Be it whatsoever, I found it amazing and unbelievable that how attached I grew to him in matter of just a few hours. However, interrupting my sad brooding, I heard the little devil’s bark that filled my heart with all the love for him and I continued playing our game with him, not knowing and caring of the future.

God Came To Me

I want to escape to the place I remember…melt away in the sunshine that fell on my shoulders when I visited those peaceful Churches. The sunshine that made the green trees look golden overwhelmed my heart with joy.

Some are lucky, like me, who have the tendency to express exactly what they feel, so much so it gives you tears of joy. I feel fortunate for I have such memorable and positively frightening memories that I consider worthy to write about.

I will never forget the day when I had that little pink dress on with the white beads resting upon my neck. The Christ chain that I bought and which destiny had to take away from me will never be forgotten. More of a pilgrimage it seemed to me, with Anya, as she accompanied my soul to this sacred place in Goa where the remnants of St Francis’ human body still remain. The rush is over but the memory will live on forever.

As we walked on our way to the car in which we had arrived to visit the blessed Church, came across the same old man who had helped us with the directions to the famous Baga Beach a day before. He was dressed in the same white clothes and with the same contented look on his gentle face, he smiled at us from a distance. He looked like someone I knew very well in my sub-conscious mind, but I did not have enough time and interest to make an effort so as to figure out completely the face and identity of the person I, now, could vaguely recall.

Pretending to be ignorant of the man, Anya and I moved nearer to the car until we noticed a small earthen shop that sold only ethnic miniatures of Jesus Christ. Something compelled us to enter the shop and as we entered, we couldn’t help but lose ourselves in the magnificent paintings that pictured the Virgin Mary and Christ in their benevolent manners. As I decided upon to buy the Pietà, (a sculpture that depicts the Virgin Mary cradling the dead body of Jesus), disappointed, I realized that I’d left my wallet back in the Church while I sat on the wooden pews and prayed. Helplessly, I confirmed the shopkeeper of my return to buy the statue after I’ve visited the church again.

As we entered the Church gates again this time, we made sure to light the candles and began to search for my wallet until we found it right where I had left it. After expressing our reverence to the Gods, we took the same road backwards and had almost reached our car when in the middle of the road, long after searching for the same earthen shop for more than an hour, we could not find it anywhere. We did all that we could, from asking every person in the vicinity to every neighborhood that stood adjacent the road, but to our surprise EVERYONE denied the existence of any such shop on that road. The futility and the perplexity of the situation forced us to return to our car, and furthermore to the Hotel where we rested for a few hours.

After having dinner, I went outside to take a walk when Anya called out from the balcony of the room, “Don’t go too far! It is too dark. I’ll be down with you in a minute.”

It was not too dark as she’d mentioned, rather it was too peaceful and calm as the moon bestowed its shining light on the face of earth. And as I walked on, I caught the figure of the same old man walking towards me! Instantly, I knew in my mind that this was supposed to be unusual and that I must return to my lodgings ASAP. I should’ve been scared but something comforted and encouraged me to wait for the man walking to me. I could see the same contented smile on his face as he stopped right in front of me. The bright shining stars and the moonlight made his garb and beard appear even more unusually bright.

I could not speak and I did not want to speak. My mind was too indulged in his voice and the warmth that I felt as he, suddenly, spoke to me, “I am sorry for thee, dear child, for thou hast lost thy Christ ornament, and to compensate with thy loss, I giveth thee thus.” Speaking in an ancient English dialect as thus, he placed the Pietà in my hands which I had greatly wanted to procure from the shop I could never find.

I was dumbstruck, a multitude of emotions filled up my countenance, yet I could not speak and I did not want to speak still. My stare at him turned into a look of gratitude and worship as he blessed me saying, “God bless thee, my child.”, and went away until his figure vanished in the dark.

I stood frozen until Anya came and broke my trance and I chose not to tell her anything regarding this incident as it appeared too intimate and personal to me.

My Transient Muse

The Innocent one with those curious eyes

Been a long time since I've been inspired.

The Artist

Suddenly I feel drugged by a piece of Art I would not name. The backdrop is all about attachment, it ends and begins with voices, views, visions and directions; and is initialized by a young Muslim woman, beautiful both spiritually and physically, who is married..and the Artist can see that she's not happy. Yet on the surface, as she tries to feign her happiness, he believes her pretense of happiness just for the sake of believing HER. And the outcome is nothing but pain, and a lot of money that the Artist doesn't care about.

The poor helpless boy

Another backdrop is about the helpless young boy who knows his brother is murdered, when everyone is fooled into believing he died accidentally, yet he can't do anything about it. The story is of the sacrifice he HAS to make because he has no other option. He has a cat, an old mother and a little sibling to look after. The hardships of having to earn enough food by working the whole day and to  live under a home that has exactly on room, he understands the pain of another and makes his sacrifice so that the 'other' doesn't have to make the same sacrifice on her part, merely cause he cares for her and she doesn't even know about it.

The ordinary 'other' girl

Another backdrop is of the ignorant 'other' girl who is learning, and is growing to finally reach the same place as that of the 'helpless boy', and is in love with the Artist, but is yet to reach the level of the artist. She is on the right track and is a NICE person. She is good, only good.
The first and the last backdrop is of the girl who is writing and is doubtful if she is doing justice to this piece of art. All she can express is that she could not FEEL and had not been INSPIRED since a very long time until she experienced this. She's just realized that it was better when she was little, when she could imagine easily. Now it's tough with all the growing up and maturity she's gained. But just wonder how influencing this Piece of Art could be that it moved her at last.
I cant get the pictured out of my mind..the painting of the bangles, the beautiful sparkling bangles, the beautiful innocence of the girl wearing Burqa and walking around in the Elephanta caves with those searching curious eyes, the suffering yet satisfied eyes of the helpless boy, so much pitiful so that it would make you love him; and the empathy with the painter's understanding, I understand why he is a loner and why does he, if at all, seem rude to others. I get it all.

My Words

I feel grey when I am numb
In my mind spirituality succumbs,
Spirituality which is dumb.
Where am I?
One tiny upright speck of flesh,
I whimper for you my love,
I whimper for your 'yes'.

Does this happen to you too?
When you know that it is for no reason,
When you know that it will only win you a treason,
And when you cant see any signs..yet you know,
That you're going lower..too slow.

I am startled when I realise
What you want in me is Christ.
There is no time and only space,
Who can say it was life you would not embrace?
And my soul can't leave you wherever you are
Because I know this happens to you too

When you know that it is for no reason,
When you know but you won't admit..love had you imprisoned,
And when all this time you ignored the signs..though you knew
that you loved me too..and you still do.

But I wont give in
My fists are shut, my mouth set fast.
I will not take that direction
to the darkness, into the holocaust.
I walk towards the glowing town
where you are..where you will be.
And I will make us last,
baby I will let 'us' go free..

The Superficial Justice

                           

"My daughter could have been alive today" says the Father of the 14 year old daughter who committed suicide 3 years after she was molested by a person in power. Her only fault was that she was SCARED, after all that had happened to her, and she did not want to let it happen to any other girl.
The father filed a complaint against the molester and received everything but justice.
I am not going to mention the names and the statistical details of this real-life incident that happened in Panchkula, Haryana exactly TWENTY years ago for all I want to do is reflect the emotional but not political aspect of the whole case experienced by the unfortunate Father and the more unfortunate Brother of the victim. The brother, 12 years old back then, was kept in jail for more than two months and was tortured brutally and mercilessly by the police as well as the molester himself. He was paraded naked with manacles on his hands in front of his house making his sister blame herself for all that was following. Offcourse it was the brother's fault too for he was born as a kin to this girl.

The girl's mother, luckily, had passed away when she was 10 for she did not have to be haunted to see her daughter dying, her husband and son getting harassed. The courageous father for whom life became a hell, did not take back the complaint for he rightly assumed his children to be courageous like him. He fought and kept fighting but was helped by none except a family. And his fault was that he was a middle-class man and did not hold any power, the only refuge and help he could seek was from the police; but it was so gullible of him to expect DUTY from the police against the wealthy powerful citizen yet as insignificant and low standard as a molester. The molester confirmed his guilt unknowingly by using his power illegally to save himself from a justified judgement that the girl deserved much more than him. He himself was a father to his daughter who was once a classmate to the victim, one is left to wonder if he ever thought about his own daughter in the victim's place. He thought he won when the poor little girl could not take the 3rd degree torture, literally performed on his brother and mentally on his father as well as everyone related to her, and committed suicide. The limits to which a man can fall morally were extended when the molester was seen throwing a party at her death and later refusing to give her dead body after the post mortem to her father, who forced himself to take the complaint back because now he did not have the courage to lose his son. His courage was thwarted, his belief in truth and justice was overthrown. HE GAVE UP, and left the 'blackened' state with his son.
However, the family that helped him all this time chose to fight for justice until their last breath and saw success after 19 years of the sad incident when CBI was called into action and the molester was now convicted for 6 months but was bailed in the very next MINUTES. There were protests raised by the public who now realised that a middle class man is nothing alone, but if supported by many others of his kind, he can be greatly powered more than the ruined, blackened state itself. The case was reopened with the brother presenting statements against the molester who was defended by his own wife as the lawyer and was sent to jail for two years.

Gandhi once said, "There is a higher court than courts of justice and that is the court of conscience. It supercedes all other courts." and he would have been so disappointed to witness the futility of this statement by out very court of justice. The irony of the portrait of Justice in personifiation of a woman who is blindfolded and holds a scale in her hand is reflected here, she is blind herself and refuses to see the truth yet is given the power to bring equaliry and righteousness to its followers. The moral arc of the universe, now, not only bends at the elbow of justice but is thrashed, annihilated and ruined because of the superficial judgement it receives.

The brightness of a Deepawali light



Celebrating with my Family



The Rangoli that I painted



"Shubh Deepawali" is made auspicious when the whole body of our Mother India is beautifully decorated like a newly-wed bride by each and everyone of us. The holy festival serves as an excuse for us Indians to unite and become one in the smile of our religion, traditions and customs that prevail eternally. The energy and ardour that one feels during this day stands nowhere in competition with the enlightening influence it has on the relations shared within a family. The festival does you a great favour, the ancient history behind it is just an excuse, now, for it makes you indulge in cherished revelry that you can't often indulge in, adorn yourself and your house with happy colours, receive and pay visits to your relatives and friends, remember your gods and last of all it makes you LIVE again like you did when you were little. The burning of crackers, the shining diyas and candles, the painting of rangoli, the exchanged gifts, the togetherness don't end with the festival as I can witness it. I can still feel the remnants of the everlasting happiness that I shared with my family yesterday!

Truely, this festival of Deepawali, as is fluorescent from outside, makes us fluorescent from inside. :)

Memories

So finally my search of finding something worth writing about is over.

This trip to Goa got me energized as well as sentimental. Not far gone is the day when we, me and my friends who accompanied me on this joyous trip, were cursing the tiresome travelling we had to go through to reach this place, the place that turned out to be a boon for our friendship! Funny and queer, it seems, to remember the day when we were regretting our positive decisions for this journey which later rendered us 'happy' :) I do blame the troublesome travelling that required us to reach Goa but, with no doubt, I can say that it couldn't ruin a single moment that we had together once we reached our destination. It had everything, everything that you can define in terms of emotions and memorable events, something that can't and never be forgotten. There was fun, sharing, fighting, laughter, praying, silliness, togetherness, dancing, flirting, singing, water sports, good food and our very own created 'mehphil'. The tropical beaches, the pious Churches, the sea-food which i never tasted :p, the boozing with friends, the late night party, the adrenaline of the water sports, the photo shoots and not to forget the fighting over who is to sleep on the bed and who on the floor :D.  So much is our love of being together that we chose one single bedroom with three beds for all six of us. Surprisingly enough, I thought I'd miss home a lot but actually I didn't.
Truly has Oscar Wilde quoted,  "Memory...is the diary that we all carry about with us."
This carefree experience that I've had in Goa, crediting the fun not only to my friends but also the teachers, mates as well as the organizers that accompanied us and last but not the least, this beautiful exotic heaven on earth , my brain has certainly stored this journey as one of my best top ten memories that I will carry with me forever. Thank you for whosoever is concerned for giving me such great memories that can actually provide me the satisfaction of having led a worthy life! :)