Different Shades of Colors!

Colors are feast for eyes and fire for soul. They are blessings of nature and source for rapture. God sprinkled color on every part of the Universe: be it earth or sky; be it leaf or reef. God created life out of this universe and painted it with different emotions.  But, despite the artistic endeavors of God, there are some aspects of life that still need gallons of colors to look colorful.

I will dwell upon those ‘some’ aspects that still need to be colored.

His parents got charred in the fire that broke out in the slums due to electrical short circuit 6 months ago. Now he is literally on roads, he has been rendered orphan due to that incident. He had wanted to become an army-man and wanted to serve the country, but today he is an almsman. He feels humiliated. He feels rejected. Sometimes, snatching and pick pocketing also flit through his mind.   The colors of sanity have deserted him. The prosperity around him makes him frantic and insane. He misses his share of color of prosperity, his share of color of justice that is not there for him. I want his dreams to take flight of colors. I want his life to take flights of colors.

She resides in the backwaters of India and is away from the cries of Reservation for Women in Capital.  She was 10 when she became widow and 14 when she was smuggled to one of the metro cities of India. Her father was given the greed that she will get good food, shelter, and education in the city and in turn she will have to do some small domestic works.  The shelter she got was of a brothel and in the name of education and food she received abuses. One NGO with the help of city police rescued her and other girls like her. She was deported to her parents safely. But now she lives in incessant fear of the face of cities. Her heart and mind bears scars of that noxious experience -- even today when she is eighteen.  Another marriage seems impossible and white Saari seems to have become her skin. I want that Saari to have colors of rainbow. I want her life to have colors of flowers.

He toils hard in his fields to decorate the exorbitant Chinese plates with stark white grains of rice. Right from five star hotels to palatial resorts, everywhere the droplets of a peasant’s sweat is devoured in the form of rice, bread and vegetable, but hardly the squeaky clean plates of these places care about the plight of the farmer who is creator of these marvelous things that douse fire of  hunger . It is an irony that the person who colors others’ dream by helping them provide strength for body, dies strength-less and almost in the form of a skeleton. His harvests bring moolah in galore to others but he dies under the burden of unpaid loans and utter penury. I want to see color of opulence in his life, so that he also enjoys his hard work that brings happiness to the lives of millions.

Even after so many years of civilization, we as humans have not been able to give them their due. They born genderless and we become heartless. We call them Eunuchs or Hijras. They become part of our joy and we become part of their derision. They bless us and we make fun of them. Where is the color of respect in our civilization that can give them equal opportunity in a society? After all how long will they keep on suffering for a reason that is entirely not in their control? And after all how long will we keep belittling humanity by being happy in their distress? I want color of equality for them that make the word humanity more complete and full of heart.

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Being Ordinary!

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Is it necessary for everyone to be famous? Is it necessary for everyone to be adored by a frantic legion of fans? Is it necessary for everyone to be a face in the crowd?

To be a part of the crowd also has its virtues. No one might recognize you as an Amithabh Bachchan or a Sachin Tendulkar but still the life of an ordinary man is worth living.

The happiness is not slave of imposing mansions or lengthy limousines. Innumerable hearts, every moment, aspire to become a star of their dreams and the same numbers of hearts get broken every moment as well.

The rejection and dejection seep in every pore of mind and soul in such situations that make a person frail and feeble. In moments of despair some take extreme steps.

The education system, that induces the madness for being a topper in the tender minds, makes a grave mistake by avoiding the average and ordinary minds that have tremendous spark smoldering in them.

When we avoid ordinary minds, we get devoid of extraordinary feats that the world could have witnessed.

Being ordinary has its charm. When the ordinary laughs it resonates life, when ordinary sobs it reflects concern. The ordinary is not cosmetic in its approach to the lives around it, its approach is genuine.

The ordinary is sensitive, the ordinary is emotional. The ordinary wipes tears and allays fear. The ordinary is always there, always near.

The slurping of tea at a roadside hotel (read shanty), the fragrance of perspiration in a stuffed compartment of a train, the din of haggling in a vegetable mart are part and parcel of an ordinary life, but these experiences create extra-ordinary moments.

And, it is moments that make a life more enjoyable and livable? So, be ordinary and enjoy extraordinary moments.

Being a Father!

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The moment a bundle of joy is entrusted to a man by a nurse; an utter transformation of personality takes place in his life. The feel of soft body and warmth of innocent eyes, cast a spell on a person with its enchanting enigma forever.

The cry of baby is a clarion call for a battle of responsibilities ahead. Being a father is about playing multiple roles under one name. Parent, friend, teacher, guide, mentor are names of some characters that dwell in the personality of a father.

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But at the same time being father is fun as well. Being father is about being a child again. Babbling with the baby to make her happy as if you really understand what she is saying is an exhilarating experience. Even if, age has taken its toll and you pant hugely after a short run, you keep running behind the bicycle of your daughter to save her from falling off when she is learning to run and ride it.

And, when your child doodles some unintelligible lines for the first time, you become his first fan and praise him as if he has displayed the skills of a Picasso or a Michael Angelo. And your praise gives him the very first taste of being recognized.

Be it losing in fake boxing or feigning that your son bowled a marvelous spell to bamboozle you are some small but sweet aspects of being a father.

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It is not that being a father is always about being nice. Sometimes a scold, a thrash, and a stare are needed as therapeutic measures to reform the anomalies of children’s behavior. True, it is tough to be a father because you need to know the art of balancing love and lessons.

Gradually, children grow and a father grows with them as well. He shares their anxiety for exams, anticipation for results and decisions for a career.

But the role refuses to end here.

The important day of an important aspect of life comes in the life of his children: the marriage day. On this day, he has a mixed feeling of happiness and sadness. It seems that he fulfilled the responsibility of being a father. He takes a sigh of relief.

But the sigh is cut short in a year or two when he is informed that he has become a grand- father and his expertise are needed. Again, he starts being a child with the prattle of his grand -child. So, being a father is a continuous experience without a period inserted.

Happy father’s day!!!!

A walk with you!





                                                        Image Courtesy: fotolia.com

I want to enjoy a walk with you.

Just one walk!

For this walk, I want all the fortitude of a tree and all the attitude of a sea. I want to remain as inseparable to you in this journey as rays are to the sun. I want to share with you every frustration and every fun.

I want to share with you valleys full of flowers and alleys full of thorns. I want to be with you in moments full of frolics and minutes full of concerns.

 I want to be with your every yard that is silent but strong; every pace that is right or wrong.

I want to be the sweat on your forehead and pant in your lungs. I want to be your silhouette on the earth head and strength for your rungs.

 I want to be the thirst of your soul and mirth of your goal. I want to be with your every part and every whole.

I want to be the mist of your eyes and grist of your whys. I want to be with you in your every reason and every season.

I want to walk along with you when it is sweet sun or hot moon, be they times of sheer bane or pure boon.



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I want to walk with you even when you have sagging cheeks and oblivious mind; tottering limbs and trembling lips.

I want a walk with you that is as surreal as a dream, as real as a stream, and as leal as a gleam.

Won’t you allow me this one walk with you?

Just one walk!

I Still Meet a Child in You!

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You might have grown up to become more intelligent and more refined in your thought process, but still I succeed to meet a child in you. Even if you understand the ways of the world better than before and the world treats you with more attention than before, still, I hear the noise of a child in your voice.

You have changed in some aspects and have remained unchanged in some. But you never changed to an extent where you became unreachable or went aloof.

Your care for everyone was always available even after the change had engulfed you. You still stopped by to listen, if somebody had something to say and you still stopped by to give attention, if somebody was unable to match up your pace.  With the change in your life, you tried to change the world of others.

Your smile was still as lucid as the shadow of moon on the water of a river. The scars of hubris and arrogance had failed to malign the emotions of your giggle. It was as balmy and beatific as ever.  

You were still attached to the life around you as the silhouette against the light. You refused to go away and clanged to everyone’s heart like a child clings to her mother’s arms. 

You moved ahead in life in a sense that you achieved a milestone; still you cared to come back the road and encouraged others to reach for their goals. The sincerity of your care had semblance of a child caring for her distressed sibling over a broken doll.

I know with the passage of time you will get busier and I will become more blurry for you, but still I will be able to imagine a child that you have been with me all along. A child that was there to wipe tears with her baby-soft fingers while still shedding tiny drops of diamonds from her own eyes.

I will always cherish childhood of your personality, even if I develop wrinkles on my face and crinkles in my bones.

They Sing & They Dance!

They adorn the night with the rhythms, notes, moves, and music. They are quintessential part of any wedding ceremony in India and they weave an enchanting mist that enwraps the whole of the evening. They sing, they dance, and they intoxicate the air with mirth. People sway to their tunes and get engrossed in the magic of moments.

They are not the part of the family, but you can hardly tell them apart from the family. Their zeal and energy is at par with the others closely associated with the marriage.  The whole night of a wedding function remains awake to the rhythm and ragas of these people.

They are no Kishore Kumars or Kareena Kapoors of Bollywood, but the charm that they conjure up in no less than them. Their movements of body and voice cast a spell on the audiences and they remain glued to their performances.

The exuberant smile and unremitting energy oozing out of them, compels even a devout pessimist to visit hope in life. How is it possible to be so happy and enthusiastic without any valid reason? You might argue that they get money for what they are doing and money is the ultimate inspirational source in the world. It can have any one sing or dance.

But I would like to differ here. I guess that it is their love for life that gets reflected in their performances. They could also have indulged themselves in the complaining that why didn’t life give them destiny of movie stars when they have more or less the same qualities. They are happy for what they have and who they are.

And they celebrate every moment of their existence with ecstasy and style. The fountainhead of their happiness lies in their heart, which doesn’t reason or argue about the quality of happiness. It treats happiness as only happiness sans any yardsticks of low quality of happiness or high quality of happiness.

Isn’t there a lesson hidden in their behavior for all of us, who are searching for happiness frantically, without, instead of within?

Scattered Death!

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Warning: This write up might leave you depressed!

Life has a clandestine relationship with death. Life has promised death to give space in its bag. Death is draconian, devastating, and drastic. The world seems to have a view that life is an antagonist of death but reticently life underpins the efforts of death to vanquish it. Death is scattered in every iota of life.

Why can’t life be an eternal process? The poignancy of death, however inevitable it may be, is heart –rending and outright ugly. Death dooms hope and shatters dreams.

Strangely, the very things that we rely on to germinate and sustain life play their part in snatching it. Air, Water, Earth, Sky, Fire: every part of essential energy is essentially responsible for termination of a life. Tornados, floods, earthquakes, cloudbursts, infernos have been devouring life for eons.

Whenever we move ahead in life we move ahead with death in terms of meeting newer styles of death. When we didn’t have electricity, we were not dying of it, when we didn’t have airplanes we were not dying of it. Sure, we have enjoyed the effects of inventions but we have died of them too. I wish we could only live of the inventions.

Death enters life surreptitiously. You never know when it has tightened its noose around you. And suddenly one day you get a call from death that it is coming for an appointment. What wrong did you do in choosing to live? You wonder!

If life was not there, death would not have an existence. Because we choose to live, we are destined to die. Going through bereavement of a loving mother, caring father, affectionate brothers and sisters, and darling sons and daughters is inhuman and ruthless. Why is it that a chirpy childhood or a bubbly adulthood has to become mute before a reasonable time? We don’t have any answer for any unreasonable and insensitive betrayal of life, despite that we continue to be enamored by life. I wonder how?

We choose life, we become sensitive and one day suddenly our sensitivity is tested by brutal aspect of life—death. We feel cheated to have chosen life. The pain of death seems multiple times more than the happiness of life we have had.

Though we feel deceived by life, yet we are helpless to live on…

P.S: I know this is no suitable end of this article but I don’t wish any death err… end for it either be it suitable or otherwise.

Yes, I can revolt!

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I might be tiny sand and you can blow me away with the full force of your lungs, but remember that if I fall in your eyes, I can bring cataclysm to your sight-power. So, never consider me trivial, for I can revolt.

I might be a fragile glass and you can break me with your minimum of efforts, but remember that when I am forced to turn into smithereens, I can lacerate body more easily and can make your life miserable. So, never consider me frail, for I can revolt.

I might be tranquil and translucent water and you can bind me in dams with your brain, but remember when you try to strangulate me, I can decimate you beyond recognition. So, never disrespect me, for I can revolt.

I might appear brittle soil that you can till and douse your hunger, but remember that when you dig my bosom beyond tolerance, I can spit venom and devour you all. So, never try my patience, for I can revolt.

I might be a serene sky for most of the times smiling with sparkles of the Sun and the Stars, but remember that if you try to make me angry, I can become livid! My wrath can raze you. So, never instigate me, for I can revolt.

I might appear a luscious flower with fragrance, but remember that if you want to trample me, then I have got a team of thorns as well that can prick you to death. So never consider me only delicate, for I can revolt.

I might appear life giving, innocuous air, but remember that if you try to play smart with me, I can devastate you by building up or shrinking up my strength. So, never underestimate me, for I can revolt.

Sometimes, I see a semblance of these elements in Indian population as well. Yes, Indian population can revolt!