Untold Ray of Hope

Image Courtesy: Indiblogger

Last week was categorically difficult for us. With our passport renewal process being initiated, it was a huge mess of documents – to be verified, attested, photocopied, arranged in order and filed neatly in separate folders for M and me. Once the appointment was through, we heaved a sigh of relief in unison as you know how exasperating these Government processes are. A little celebration was on its way in the evening when we received a call post dinner. One of M’s uncles had to be admitted to a hospital near our place owing to severe abdominal pain.

Things turned astray, anxiety crept in as uncle is above fifty years old. What’s strange was, we had met him just the weekend ago and he had seemed to be totally fine. We rushed to the hospital early in the morning and found him sedated, just okay to talk to us. Aunt-in-law was obviously distressed, and the fact that she was inexperienced in handling these corporate hospitals added to her nervousness. M and I tried to tackle the situation. It’s quite tricky, if you’ve dealt with any of the new age private hospitals in India.

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Learn to Live, Live to Learn

I am sharing what ‘I Saw and I Learnt’ at BlogAdda.com in association with DoRight.in.

At the commencement of this year around six months ago, I was travelling back to Hyderabad from Calcutta. As always with that route of travel, I was a little depressed to leave home and loved ones again toward a city I didn’t like. Thankfully the feeling didn’t last long because it were the ultimate time I would be travelling on that route. We were scheduled to move from Hyderabad to Pune in a few days upon our return from Calcutta, and that at least brought a streak of joy inside me. Normally when I travel by Indian Railways, I pray silently for a lower berth after booking the ticket. The God of Railways doesn’t like me much though. It has been a middle or upper berth for me each time I have travelled in the last three years. This last time turned out to be different, as the Gods were moved by my sufferings and I was granted a lower berth. A happy me arrived at the station for boarding and checked the passenger list, just in case. To my disappointment, the co-passengers in my coupe were three elderly people, an octogenarian gentleman, a septuagenarian lady and another gentleman just shy of being a senior citizen.

I was a little upset, yes. At the same time I and my husband prepared ourselves to offer the comfort to them. Being in my thirties, I am still capable of keeping my claustrophobia (of middle berth) in control than forcing the elderly into discomfort. We enjoyed the limited sprawl of lower berths for about two hours until the train reached Jamshedpur and our senior co-passengers boarded the coupe. I was half expecting a frail couple considering their ages on the chart, but was greeted with amazing smiles from two surprisingly agile people. The gentleman was the quintessential Bengali silver-haired grandpa with a permanent smile in his eyes, and the lady resembled my mother more than grandma. We promptly offered them both the lower berths that we had, as they panted for breath after running a long way to board the correct coupe. Their companion for the journey was a distant relative who was evidently very fond of them. It didn’t take much time to strike a conversation in Bengali, and then there was no dam to hold the free-flowing adda.

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When Silence Roars

(Inspired by the movie Lootera [2013])

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The snow-clad tree stood tall braving the blizzard,

for it had promised its last leaf to me, and you.

Silence has always been the bridge between us – me,

the princess and you, her knight in shining armour.

I chirped like a true Pakhi, the myna or magpie,

while you listened draped in a shawl of intent.

Now, my voice is miffed by blood and dread,

while you rant away chasing to hold the life in me.

Ours is a story of pain and love, where I

bare myself in words, and you express

When you say nothing at all.

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This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Dewfall

I want to be love,
caressing them like snowflakes
on a new year eve.

I want to be
the darkish blood, gushing
on a smooth plateau of skin.
I want to be
the pure white of surf, rushing
back and forth my soul.
I want to be
the shimmering wall of rain,
tap-dancing on our terrace.
I want to be
the linger of lemon leaves,
after they’re crushed and deserted.

I want to be love,
and every other thing
that could be love.

Us and Them

I was happy, walking down
the fall-clad roads.Alone.
Then came he, walking behind me.
Slow and steady, caught my pace, and
started strolling with me.

I was happier, holding hands.

Stormed then, a bad winter.
Covered us with snow, and suddenly
people came all over. Familiar
silhouettes, smudged with concern,
heaped us with warm wrappers.

We were lost. Our hands got parted.

And we’re walking again. Together.
Our hands crave to touch each other. But,
the barriers between, don’t let us.

Will they, ever? Again?

*This poem was published in VoicesNet.com*

It’s snowing

It’s snowing inside.

Unlike nature, it started with a blizzard.
Blinded every corner of my heart,
the sharp spangles of snow pierced it through,
made me gape at the sight of fresh blood,
my own blood, fresh and rosy, bloomed on snow.
The harsh winds scratched and bruised the
walls of my heart, moved its foundation.

Now, the blizzard has stopped.
Smooth petals of snow keep falling,
trying to heal the bruises with their flowery softness.
But they wouldn’t know.
They wouldn’t know how it felt to watch blood,
oozing out like a life-saving river,
only taking out life from me.
Flakes of snow accumulate, and become heavier
than the weathering earth.

The snow, even if it ever melts,
has successfully petrified me.

*This poem won the Poetry Third prize in the Wordweavers Contest 2012*