My hindi teacher.

Today,I found an old notebook. It had only 20 pages in it, the cardboard was almost gone and the poor pages were yellow and dirty. But,I could smell my childhood in it. The Donald-duck sticker on it said that I had been in eighth grade then. Hindi had been my least favorite subject, which was quite evident by my handwriting which seemed both bad and sad.

I could never score well in Hindi, maybe because my teacher made sure that we turn into perfect Hindi poets and writers. She had always been a strong and responsible woman. She was about 55 years of age and lived alone, all on her own. I went to her home once and she offered me toffees and biscuits. I couldn't like her cramped home. Things were stacked against each other and occupied almost all of the space. I had been thirsty then, so I drank water and came out with pocket full of coffee bites and eclairs.

I was 10 years old when she first saw me. And smiled at me. She always wore a red lipstick. She was extremely delighted when she heard my name.

"Shagun!! Ahhh... bahut hee sundar naam hai aapka...", I was happy to see her cheerfulness and hence I started liking her because she liked me.

Soon I became one of her best students. But,I always kept a distance from teachers unlike other students who would flatter teachers unceasingly and shower them with expensive gifts. Their annoying efforts to capture the attention of the teacher by being so falsely sweet and caring towards them kept me away from befriending them.

I used to give her roses though. And I made cards for her on my own with wax crayons and the last page of my notebook. There was love, and I made it with love.

And she used to like them a lot. Things had been so simple then. Everything was easy, uncomplicated and pure. And she unbiasedly marked me on my academic performance and not on the quality of roses or the excellence of my handmade cards.

But things changed for the worse day by day. I turned twelve. She was now the butt of jokes in our class. I resisted it, I hated when my friends made fun of her. I just kept mum all the time and felt bad in my heart about her. She still loved me.

Later, when I turned fifteen, I would occasionally indulge in gossips about almost everything which included her as well. I saw her now as funny old woman. One day she was wearing a cherry red muffler on the top of half sleeve suit which was hanging and almost touching her toes on a freezing winter morning and on the top of that her lipstick had spread outside her lips as well, and she made an exception of wearing white sport shoes which were not her size for sure.


I laughed.

She heard.


She looked into my face.

I looked into her face.


Disappointment.
She didn't say anything.
She looked sad.


She looked away.

I looked away.


And everything came to an end.

A sudden sadness seized me tight in its grip. I could not undo it. I was ashamed of myself. I never showed her my face again. But, I did not cry that day. I lost something so valuable whose worth I realize today. I wish I could go back in time and change it all.

Today I cried.


I don't know if I'll see her again. If I see her I will run to her, touch her feet and say sorry.

Truck

There is a bus. But it is a special bus for me because it connects me to my college everyday. If not everyday, then at least four times a week. I was sitting in it.

:)

And then there was this terrible traffic jam at 'Dabri More' I thought I would definitely miss my first class today. I was right. When my friends asked why I was late, I said "I was stuck in a truck-jam".



A truck jam?

"Ohh sorry, a traffic jam I mean" I corrected my own sentence.



The same day, my dad was driving me to home and there was a big crane on the road, the cars, cycles, buses were all crawling . .coming close to each other. .
Dad asked me why there was a jam. .

I said suddenly without thinking, "Ohh Dad there is a big truck over there!"

A truck.

"It is a crane" he laughed at me. I felt so stupid. Where was I lost? Did I not know that it was not a truck. Of course I did! Stupid me.


Then five minutes later, dad exclaimed "Look at its height. . " pointing to the height of a big tempo that was passing by.


I should have kept quiet, but then I don't know what made to say "Wow, That is a huge TRUCK"




"What is up with you and truck today??"


I feel stupid.


In fact I am feeling stupid as this blog is coming to an end. Why did I have to write it here? Me and truck.

But then I think that the relation between me and truck could not be that stupid. It is not that stupid after all. It is quite natural. This truck thing can happen to anyone. Anytime.


And it is not stupid.

"Jal- daayttya"

"Why can't we go to the bank of Jammu tawi ?" asked my little cousin, confused and agitated.

"It's hot outside." said my mom.

He kept on asking more questions.

"Why?"
"It is not so hot, we can dive into it and have fun."

"Please Please Please"

P L E A S E.



He is annoyingly inquisitive.

He did not let me sleep even for a second.

"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"


"He is in the hostel" I said, with a lot of patience.


"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

"He is gone somewhere."



"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

"Why don't you ask him?"



"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

Silence.


"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

"Why didn't Himanshu bhaiyaa come to see me?"

"I D O N T K N O W! "





"Why can't we go to the bank of Jammu tawi ?"


My mother's aunt came to the rescue.

A story of "Jal-daaytya" was built on the spot.

"Down into the river lives a demon who pulls down the people into the water in the month of June and July. He is very dangerous. Nobody goes to rivers during these two months. So we cannot go"

"You're lying"

"NO"

"Ask anybody, he lives there."

He looked frightened.

"What does he eat? Who made him? Why don't we all kill him?"

"He eats fishes, like other water animals. God made him, the way we have cockroaches, snakes and others, we have him too. We cannot kill him, he is very powerful."


"Yeah yeah, god made him. "Jal- dev" " murmured my Uncle, coming out from the bathroom.

"Jal-daaytya and not "dev" and he is very dangerous" And he rectified the little fault.

The Gola.

"I want it to be rose flavored.."

"This is the real happiness one can taste and dive into."


No, it was Disha. And she kept adding more to it...

"Shagun, this is life. Little wonders. You dont know how much an ice cube wrapped in the divine sweet red rose syrup can make you happy!! I am loving it!!"

Slurp Slurp Slurp.

Sluuuurrrrrpppp.

I took one too. It was good. It was cold. Very cold.

"Garima.. we wont let you taste it, I told you to buy one for yourself but you didn't. Now.."

"I can still get one for you" I mumbled, I couldnt speak much.. My tongue was frozen and numb. I wish there was some same cure for pain too. That could numb the heart so that the pain is frozen.


I tried to touch the little cup of happiness and drink the magical tea in it.

Slurrrrppp...

She was happy. Why wasn't I happy? Why do small wonders don't work for me anymore? Am I out of the queue? I hate this fact.


I made a deliberate attempt to realize pleasure of eating a Gola under the hot sun. Where were the bells?

Slurrrpp..

I gave in.

No more resistance.



Slowly it grew on me.

On me.


And then.

In me.




I was happy.

Satisfied.
Satisfaction is a beautiful form of happiness.
It was a beautiful feeling.

It faded away, it was a momentary pleasure.

"Lets go home". We went back home.

Asha.

I knew I would write about her though I had been resisting it for a while.

She looks at me every time I step out of my home( if she is out too).
She is a maid who looks after a child, a child who calls her by her name. Asha, that is what her name sounds like.

It must be Asha, if it is not Asha then it must be something else.

I really don't know her name to be quite honest. As they say "Honesty is the best policy". Simple and sweet it is. And true too.

It is simply the best policy.

So, Asha. She looks as if she belongs to a royal Bengali family. Big eyes, long hair, a strong body she has, and a deep beautiful complexion resembling some dark chocolate.


Beautiful she is. Then that child, he is real snob.
Proud.
Ill mannered.
He speaks rudely to her.


But, my mother loves him because he is fair, beautiful and little curly hair portray his innocence. But he is not that innocent. What does my mother know about him? How many times have I seen him barking haughtily at his poor maid, who bears all his abuses and still carries him in her arms while his mother works in some distant branch of Punjab National bank.


Getting back to Asha. I feel she will run away from this place someday. No, she is not beaten up. But I feel she is not happy here.

She keep looking at me without letting her eyelids shutter her dark brown eyes.
She looks as if she wants me to come and talk to her. To soothe her heart. I feel she wants to share her thoughts, her heart, her hatred, her love, her pain, her life, wants, desires, dreams, everything. To bring her out, out of a dark world where there is no tomorrow. No aim.


I might talk to her one day.

Not sure when.

Not sure.

Unsure. Maybe one day when I am sure of what I am.

Firoz Khan

Suffering from ninety-five percent liver damage, he was lying powerless on one of the bed in gastrointestinal ward in AIIMS. He kept looking and smiling at me. I felt uncomfortable. I knew the row was full of patients suffering from chronic liver ailments. And somehow, I wanted to escape that place.

Suddenly, he asked me to sit beside him and hold his hand. I kept wondering about his age, his legs were leaner than the thinnest stick i could ever see in life, his eyes as yellow as the yolk contrasting the egg white... his hands were shaking..

I had to go and sit beside him. I asked his name. He suddenly smiled and said" Firoz Khan. The one who was in 'NAAGIN', your eyes are like naagin, your eyes...". I immediately let myself drown into my memory and try to bring out if I ever knew anything about this movie. Unfortunately, i just knew the name and nothing more.

He smiled. He was fourteen years old but he looked like a seven year old child, wanting to go out to play. When I held his hand I realized there was tiny drops of bloods frozen in his fingernails. I was frightened. But I didn't lose my grip.

I left him after he went to sleep.

I learn t from my mother that he was going to have a liver transplant in a few days. His parents hailed from a small village in U.P. but they promised to pay 20 lakh for the surgery.

I had met him on 11th January. He closed his eyes forever on 30th January.

I still remember how he smiled.

Saaaawan bheetoh jaayae peh harwaaah....
Saaaawan bheetoh jaayaee pehh harwaaah.....
Mannn neraaa ghabraaaayae....
Mann neraaa ghabraaaaye...........

Aiesoooo gayae pardes peeya tuum ....
Aiesoooo gayae pardes peeya tuum .......
Chaeyyyn huumeein naaahin aaaaaye...
Chaeyyyn huumeein naaahin aaaaye....

Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa...
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa....
Meeein laaaakh jatan karrr haaari..
Laaaakh jatan karrr haaari.....

Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa..
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa......

Tuuu johh nahinn toh aisaay peeya hum....
Tuuu johh nahinn toh aisaay peeya hum.....
Jaisay soona aanganaa...
Jaisay soona aanganaa....

Naiyan tehaari rahaa neehaay ....
Naiyan tehaari rahaan neehaay.....
Nainnannn koh tarsaaaona...
Nainnannn koh tarsaaaona....

Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa...
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa........

Meein laaakh jatan kar haaari....
Laakh jatan karrr haar rahi.....
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa ....
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa.........


Pyaaar tumhaain kitnaa kartaay haain.....
Pyaaar tumhaain kitnaaa kartaay haain.......
Tumh yeah samajhh nahin paogay..
Tum yeah samajhh nahin paogay.......

Jabbh humNaaa hongaay toh peharwa.....
Jabbh humNann hongaay toh peharwa.....
Bolo kyaa tab aaao gay.....
Bolo kyaaa tab aaao gay......

Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa...
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa.....

Mein laakh jatan kar haari...
Laakh jatan kar haar rahi.......

Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa...
Moraaa saiyaaaan mohsaay bolaaay naaaa.....
Mein laakh jatan kar haari...
Laakh jatan kar haar rahi......

After the storm.
Sunlight. Bright yet weak outside..
I looked out of my window, A small park lit up with brightness was standing, determined to soothe my eyes. It's a small window, yet large enough for me to view my little world growing happily...
A weakness suddenly grew in my knees...and I sat down. Cannot stand.
The red roses looked beautiful...
The green looked greener...

It was simple.
I felt good.
Yet weak.
Good.
Still weak.
Good.
But still weak.

And so it must be. It had to happen one day. I wasn't ready. Usually people aren't. I didn't know I would be one of them. The false, fake stories that they put up on TV to entertain people around the world will remain in my memories as a violent experience, i never knew. Never knew. It was a shock to me. It was the door of a black world where there is no light. And I am scared of anyplace, any dream, any color which is without light. I am scared of darkness.

People come and go. Some stay, some leave. Some leave stealthily melting their presence into another world they choose to live in. Others gift unexpected surprises. Anger is not the strongest emotion. There are more....incomparable. Shattered, ready to step into a world unbelievably dark. Very dark. Though I am afraid of darkness, I have to step and live in it. Maybe forever. What will I do there? Shout and call anyone to take me out? Or lose myself into the caged room? i have no idea.

It is yet to begin. I am unready and scared. I am not a coward,yet it is frightening wits out of me, I want to live in bright, happy flowers of happiness. I cannot.

The impending disaster...

Slowly and gradually the time is near, my heart is frozen and my hands lay frantic. With the sweet passing of the time,a shiver of terror runs down my spine....
All ran away, all made faces...no one to eat the bitter cake but me? Anger will rape me, tears will drown me...Its exasperation with my blood will poison my strength....
The stark fear seizes me again....there are not the tears of absolution...following the unknown remorse...
But the tears of isolated me....the disaster will reign this empty soul...
I am not yet made and done.
Do me quick,fill me quick...
eat me away in no time....
beat me in a second...A weak victim to the wiles of falsehood... Stray me into a hiatus so wide....scoff less...and I ll be uprooted...
take me into strictest confidence....do me quick in no time...dont boil me ....eat me raw for I am scared my mumma....
Now it will assail my bare cold...
I am numb and dead...

The time has come...

Chandi chowk in Delhi is famous no doubt. And now, "chandi chowk to China" has made it popular among those who never heard about it. I always had faint memories of my trip to Red Fort during childhood days. When I stress my brain, it produces a 30 second movie half eaten by dust and time, but I try to see the maximum. All I remember is a dark night lit by pale moonlight..my mother holding me tight to herself, my brother sitting next to her on a rickshaw, caught in an unbelievable traffic jam. People on road, and people in vehicles...all kind of vehicles moving haphazardly. It was quite a wonderful place. A place that can fill anyone with pure wonderment.

So I thought of revisiting the place so that I have a stronger brain to hold enough of the place. The moment we came out the metro station, I was fascinated by the beauty of a temple that was fixed onto the ground. It was simple, but firm of its existence. "Shani Mandir". Luckily, it was saturday. We went in. Prayed. We came out. I kept looking at the simplicity. Soon I knew I had an awesome example of beauty which I could keep in my heart as a priceless memory.

I go there whenever I can.

Not everyday, not weekly, not even monthly. But, when I go there, it fills me with the same happiness I felt when I went for the first time.

I kept out. There was no space for me to stand. Furthermore, i had no intention or wish to be a part of them. So I kept looking at their jubilant faces, and watched their bodies swinging along the music and air. Even air wanted some space. How could they all dance on the little dance floor? Was it even a dance floor?

They looked delightful. Lips widened to make the picture of happiness absolutely perfect. They didn't mind anything else. The green uneven earth on which many sprained their ankles while losing themselves with music, had no effect on their composure. Heels over heels, squeezing themselves into the thinnest, invisible tunnels they labored to get into. There they could dance. Even if they couldn't move a hand( because it might hit the other person standing by), they were still happy to "dance". After all, it was our freshers party.

And they wanted to be clicked, so that sometime later in life, they are able to reminisce about the fun in college they had, walk down the memory lane with the quick snaps clicked by some 2 megapixel camera. I don't remember whose camera it was. And the camera wasn't good enough to click them clear with their arms and faces moving, so they thought of an artificial plan. They posed like statues which a brilliant sculptor gave life to. Dancing figures captured in a fraction of second. That is what they did.

Funny.

Very.

My first blog.

I am going to write. This is just an experiment, or maybe more than that. I really dont know how much it means to me. But all i can say is, this is my first blog. I never knew what a blog really is. Its not that I never heard about it. I came across this term almost everyday, and knew at once that it will tempt me someday. But I kept on procrastinating, that "someday" never occurred naturally to me. Listening and knowing the literal meaning of "blog" was like a foreign fruit that I never saw or tasted, but had learnt about it in textbooks...in primary classes. It was like "second-hand knowledge", something i just knew, but unable to come and travel in it.

My laziness kept me out, but eventually some circumstance forced me to enter. So here i am. Now looking at blank pages and the dotted theme that I chose while setting up my blog here. It was a difficult task, many would think that i am being dumb and foolish in saying so. But thats it.

Now i am going to the "Blogger help" and know more.