Memorabilia, this winter season

Us humans are imperfect beings and it is this very imperfection that this book perfectly embraces with wide open arms, wider than the expanses of this probable universe. A lot of the media today focuses on churning “the perfect life with perfect personalities” stories - be it the happily ever after love story, rags to riches success story, a political crime perfectly solved at the end of the day story, so on and so forth. There is a formulaic approach in storytelling, isnt it?. ‘If I had to tell it again’ breaks the shackles of this formula and bares to the reader a raw, no frills, compelling memoir written by a daughter (who is the the author herself) about the memories she has of the relationship with her father post his much awaited death.

This book takes one through a poignant recollection of memories strung one by one on the thread of the shared lives of the father- daughter duo. It is often forgotten that inheritance can bring with it sometimes negative traits, habits and illnesses as well. So what does one do if a lot of these are passed along the lineage? Do we ever talk about these? Hell no! How can we? Aren’t our parents equivalent to Gods on earth? The author makes a bold move by posing questions about her upbringing, questions her father’s parenting and ideologies. The author brings about an honest conversation not just between father-daughter but how it slowly matures into a relationship between two adults through this book. It beautifully captures the evolving parent - child relationship and the multitude of struggles that dot this evolution.

The book derives majority of the strength from its extremely real, to the point of being vulnerable, characterization of SGM, G and their family members. SGM who was a hardcore idealist, generous neighbour and a friend to one and all, who believed in ‘tough’ parenting to the extent of beating up his daughters profusely and practically never being there to protect them through difficult times even while the daughter suffered sexual abuse. SGM was a victim to depression and eventually alcoholism and all he ever wanted was to first- revel in his daughter’s fame and success and second - be freed from living the treacherous life that he was leading. G, the author herself, through introducing us to her father begins to show traces of the very characteristics she had begun to describe as her father’s, only difference being she chose to work on it and overcome it. Entire book is largely a dialogue between the duo and it truly reveals the struggles of a growing teenager having had to deal with an alcoholic and depressed father. The reader can very well relate to the characters who are constantly torn apart between their love and anger for each other,. An excerpt below elegantly captures this

‘ Which father should i have listened to? The one who was spiralling into addiction or the one who needed alcohol to make it through one more night, one more day’

This book equally represents the struggles of mental illness juxtaposing two kinds of sufferers in the way of the father and the daughter. It takes painful amounts of time to firstly identify, then diagnose and overcome mental illness. One can only feel incessant amounts of sadness, anxiety, emptiness and aimlessness and more often this is something individuals live with for years together until they finally have a label to it. The initial period of going through something so confusing and misinterpretation of what one goes through is one of the toughest period. This is addressed in the book in a relatable manner almost mirroring someone who may read it undergoing a similar circumstance in their lives. The journey to recovery is another feat in itself, seldom discussed in everyday coffee conversations. This book definitely provides reassurance to someone who is in a similar mindspace.

To sum it up this is a book with a fresh breath of air this winter. Yes it is dark, raw and emotional but it’s high time we embrace that side of humanity too. The author also puts forth the mental narrative delicately tiptoeing around the primary narrative of the father- daughter relationship. It is a slice of  life which will resonate with millions of readers.

Onomatopoeia

When was the last time ? 
Your phones stopped buzzing 
Cars stopped honking 
People whispering, chattering, bickering 
Negotiating! Arguing!
When was the last time? 
The dogs in your streets stopped howling.
Your surroundings were less chaotic than your thoughts
When if not during the day, at least the dead of the night brought some silence. 
Competition- not just in marks, jobs, income,queues,signals
But a growing rivalry between the noise outside and the noise within. 
How you wish the deafening nature could live upto it's promises 
An in between state of consciousness leaving us inebriated
In a concoction of sounds
Medley of confusion producing the perfectly pure white noise 
Spotless 
That's caught you and me in a spot
And there's no going back is it ? 

Connecting the Dots

My truth is not your truth

Your reality isn’t my reality

There are numerous versions

Of the very same thing

Like the bright specks

On a clear night sky

A canvas of nothingness

Waiting for each one of us

To conjure!

To connect!

And come up with a pattern

Oh the joy of creating meaning!

A constellation of our own 

My Umbrella named Luminous

So it’s late in the night, as usual dogs are howling away to glory! Is it full moon today? I don’t know. It has been a while since I looked up at the sky; too busy clearing and emptying the clouds that surround in my life. Which reminds me of this long forgotten cartoon called Oswald. Now when I look back I find the whole concept so amusing yet so profound. We all have this cloud that moves along with us wherever we go. No matter what we do it just follows us. The more we run away the more it troubles us. It sure is intimidating initially, creating thunders deep in your bosom. Most of us seek the help of the umbrella, when the clouds burst and create a wrath like havoc. While some others brave the rains by themselves. I am an umbrella seeker. The shelter of this commonly used thing is undoubtedly comforting. The thing that I really like about them is they are really handy and are open to all your worries and at the end when they do bid adieu until next time, they do make sure that the silver linings are visible.

writer's blues

So I sit down to write and I’m blank. But the desire to write remains. Ted Hughes’ “Thought Fox” suddenly comes to my mind, and I glance through my previous writings. I cringe at the thought of not being able to write anymore. I wonder if anybody out there feels the same and that’s when I vaguely remember the interview of either Ruskin bond or Jeffrey archer of which I’m not sure but they expressed their fears of not being able to write anymore.  There is a wave of re assurance in my mind now. But the ghost of writing still haunts my grey matter nevertheless. This is the time when a writer goes into the self doubt mode. Not that I am an established writer, probably I don’t even deserve to be called a writer but I write and that’s what writers essentially do. The definition of a writer can be looked into some other time but my major concern now is the apparent dearth of topics to write about. This apparent dearth equals to a feeling of death of creativity. The feeling increases when you seem to come across bundles of creativity around. I would not say there is nothing to write about but probably there are too many things being written that leaves me feeling how is my opinion going to matter anyway?  Even with the slithering sinister like cynicism, one does not give up. Its only when the writer’s block is overcome can we say that a writer has proved her mettle. So here it is *wink* 

The Monotony

The creaking noise of the fan

Pervading the stillness

Of the sultry sluggish summer afternoon

The sun shining at its peak

Reflecting the leafy shadow on my cheek

As I sit by the window

Contemplating the monotony

While the balmy breeze

Comforts my glistening sweat

I summon my thoughts

I reckon my memories

Will I ever break the monotony?

I confront, cascade and escape

But it still comes back to me

As if it was meant to be

I give up and reconcile

Guess we all do

And seek harmony

In the good old monotony.

MIRAGE

Disillusioned by dreams

Disoriented in reality

I often find none but myself

Trying to find meaning in the maze I dwell in

Introspecting and interrogating

The very purpose of life

Having begun this quest long before

I wonder if I have a companion

Maybe there is no answer

Or is the answer lying within me?

Sadly one shall never know

I realize my significant insignificance

Thus I abide with the language of the world

That is spoken and understood in terms of-

Creation, maintenance and disappearance

There is never a perfect end

But only a pause

Leaving you feeling a bit stagnant

Rather poignant!

Soon enough we seek a new beginning

The eternal cycle continuing

Creating, maintaining and disappearing

Like a mirage!!

A Face in every Phase

Numerous faces I see daily

Each face has its own story

Millions of faces going through unique phases

What they think that is distinct

Is actually playing on everybody’s instinct

Funny is the way

How we carry our social interplay

Interweaving each other’s history and mystery

Your life becoming as much a part of mine

Lasting for a moment or stretching until a lifetime

Some faces easy to forget

While others bring regret

Each to its own, nothing to disown

Because all those faces and all those stories

Are the myriad beads and patterns

Of the kaleidoscopic journey which we all embark on

MISTY MORNING

I wake up to a misty morning

Not that I am an early bird

But it felt as though the mist

Was waiting for me

The warmth of the sun

Trying to embrace me

Gently maneuvering its way

Through the dense canopy above me

I have walked this route many a times

Always in a hurry

Because the time is ticking

Now I enter a world of timelessness

Overlooking the maddening chaos

That passes by me

I stand here in stillness

For things may come and things may go

But not the clear blue sky,

The mist, the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze

Bitter Candies

The poem ‘Bitter candies’ is about a young boy of about 10 years old who is a child laborer. The poem tries to express the evident disparity in our society and how all of us have managed to live with it unaffected by the stark grim reality around us. The child however has lost his right to an innocent, carefree life; his right to education. He can only wonder if things will turn out to be better and if his dreams will come true.

He is fending for himself

Running errands

From one corner to another

Ever so ready and bubbling with energy

Willingly finding himself

Doing almost any chore

At an age when

He must be obliviously playing

Fluttering and hovering around

Like a lovely butterfly

His face radiantly beaming

The walls reverberating

With his unheard sound

An outcry!

Of resentment, of hopelessness

Of self pity and longing

What is behind his innocent eyes

And charming smile?

His innocent eyes speak of

A not so innocent life after all

He is in a league of his own where

Scanty are the chances of a championship

His eyes are but a mere window

To the world that beholds him

Will this lovingly cruel haven

Embrace him or Shatter him?

Whose apathetic hand does

These decisions lie upon anyway?

And until that happens

All he can do is to continue

Smiling and hoping

And in the process

Of making his ends meet

He shall meet his own end.

The Rains

The rain!

Soothes me, gives me relief

It settles the dust

Of conundrum, confusion and grief

And then there is

Serenity and tranquility

Even though it is but momentary

I can see my sorrow

Flowing with the water

But the memories

Are safe

Like the water in the puddles.

Even though it is but momentary

The roaring of raindrops

That I hear

Only assures me

That I am not the only one here

I get drenched in the rain!

Pure and cleansed I feel

Even though it is but momentary

Crazy thing called 'LIFE'

What is life?

Is it joy? Is it innocence?

Is it love? Is it togetherness?

Is it a drama? Is it a show?

Or is it a fruit, hanging from a tree’s bough?

I say that life is nothing but

Emptiness, a void

That is gradually filled

With uncountable and unmentionable experiences

Experiences! So unique so nuanced

Life is so amusing

For what is lost is not really lost

And what is gained is not really gained

‘Tis a mighty circle

Apparently continuous

But with a definite end

The end is a guessing game

That will put all your fame to shame

Meanwhile

Why is it that our head is stuck?

Either in the past or the future

The answer to that my friend

Lies in our HOPES

The hope that our future would be as pleasant as our past

The hope that our future will not be as bleak as our past.

The world within ME

I, ME, MYSELF

Three words that are used so often

Almost unconsciously, but

They are more than just words

They represent the world within me

But barely describes it

I am dormant but never stagnant

The buzzing and the bustling can be

Heard by none

Other than me

And that is the very beauty

Of the world within ME

You may think I am lonely

And I would allow you to think so

Because I shall not be disturbed of

My solitude

Filled with eccentricity as well as morbidity

Constantly undergoing a vortex of changes

The world within me

Experiences the rains, the thunderstorms

As well as the bright sunlight

It may be ringing with laughter or

Shattered with sorrow,

Like there is no tomorrow.

Not always is this world with peace and stability

It does have its moments of fragility.

Is IT an insignificant element or a Whole?

Or is it what we call a soul?

Am I the reflection of the world?

Or is the world a reflection of me?

It is neither!

It is the horizon-

Inconceivable and inexplicable for eternity