Words...

Some days, I take time to dress up. I look out for accessories and jewelries to adorn. I love to play dress up, it feels good to see the appreciation reflected in the eyes of beholders. Especially coming from people who know how to dress themselves up. They’d know exactly why I have used blah accessory here and blah jewellery there. They’d know why I am draped like this, in fact, they’d know the name of this drape and how else could the fabric have been worn. They’d tell me stories of the best ensembles they have seen and we’d have a quick insider’s exchange on what is not trending and what is classic and what we prefer, referring to our personal styles for special occasions.  

Once, I used to live with some friends who had gifted me a veil. For the entire me! It was fun going out for a quick grocery grab. I could be plain rogue underneath but I had this very pretty, sequined veil on top, it made me look as if I am all decked up inside as well. We’d get back from our rounds outside, throw the veil off ourselves and laugh our hearts out remembering the approval in the eyes of strangers for our sense of conduct and appropriateness.

On some days, it feels deliciously fulfilling to venture out without a hint of time spent to adorn. It’s fun to meet people who can simply be. It feels good simply to exchange nods and gestures, almost with an abandon of a forest fire or exchange a bag full of abracadabra stuff. What kind of abracadabra, you’d ask. Sane or nonsense or magic take your pick! Whatever suits the gaze of our eyes, understanding demeanor of sanity, acceptance of the nonsense  or sparkling magical. Only when we need to punctuate, do we speak of how we dressed up today. She mentions she has seen someone with the same drape, somewhere in blah district and I ask her when she traveled there. He says, it was a good decision to leave the shoes at a safe place and I say it feels good to walk bare feet.

If only it was this easy with words. That some days, we could adorn our words with accessories and wear them in an exquisite drape and exchange notes with people who talk ornamentally, knowing that we are all indeed playing dress up. And on some other days, wear a veil of words etched out exactly for that purpose alone, with the onlookers knowing that it is but a veil. And yet on other days, wear our words as naturally as we breathe, like air navigating our being and connecting us with everything and everyone around, air that is not taught, cannot be conditioned or pedigreed. 

How do you like your words?

Revenge Comes in Two Flavours

My two-year old nephew has suddenly picked up on violence.

We don’t shout at home (well, at least not in front of him), don’t display any violent behavior (thankfully, not even outside the periphery of his nearly all-pervading gaze). His parents (my cousin and his wife, who have never participated in or ignited a brawl and can probably count the times they have really been madly angry) aren’t sometimes able to gauge how to tackle the situation. When denied what he demands, he not only throws a fit but also throws fists at whoever is in the vicinity.

One day, when he was punching his mother with the expertise of a trained wrestler, I decided to give him a piece of my mind. So, I hatched a plan of inviting him to our house, alluring him with all the things that he usually loves to do when he plays with me. I knew exactly how to execute it.

So, just about when he’d be busy painting away abstract art on my sketchbooks, especially in the journals that I try to keep away; I’d play his favorite song. And as he is lost in the pleasure of unmindful creation and the pleasant environment, he’d look up to show me his scribbles, I will display all my teeth in an evil grin. Poor thing, he’d gloat on my display of affection but only I will know what upheaval is surfacing next.

Kaboom! With the speed of light, I will quickly grab all his toys and playthings and run away and lock him from outside!

Boohahaha! Finally, I will have taught him a good lesson. 

You’d think, how does all this add up? As in, how on earth leaving him alone howling in a closed room could make him ponder on his unruly behavior? Well, to appreciate the brilliance, you’d have to hear about the second part of the plan. 

So, at that moment, when unable to understand what has happened and what to do next, he howls his tonsils away calling for his mother, I would show her in. But only gradually. When he is saved out of the misery, his appreciation of her will automatically grow and he would not dare to pounce on her again. Voila!

“Kids mostly don’t have a conscious memory of actions until they are 3-4 years old, so he’d probably not remember all that and still punch her when his demands are not entertained” my voice of reason woke me up from my revelry. 

I scrapped the plan.

Believe me, I was so disappointed that I couldn’t even bear to look at his face from then on. And every time the munchkin came around dragging his car, calling for me, I wanted to just run away. Oh, the pain and agony! My scrupulous plans had been washed away just because he doesn’t remember like any normal vengeful adult!Pity..sheer pity!!

Pah! So, there goes my story into smoke. His mother still takes the beating just like someone else I know, who used to get punched like a sandbag while feeding her dear one. Well, I’ve known her since I was a toddler and even through those days when I’d not get up for dinner half sleepy. 

Hers was not the womb that I knew for nine months before I knew this world. And even though I don’t recollect everything well, I do remember her arms, where my sleepy combat had landed on several days; the arms that held me close and fed me while I chewed and swallowed my mouthful in a state approaching deep slumber.

We remember the ones we punch, literally and figuratively, don’t we? More so, the ones that take the beating and still care for us,  teaching and waiting patiently for the loving rage to turn into raging love.

And so, I hope my nephew, more than remembering these episodes, learns to love. Because funnily, even though he’s practically of no competition to me, I have started taking the punches while resisting him. 

No, not because I love him to bits but because that love is far exceeded by a love that I had tasted. A love that called me exactly as I am, at times judgemental, biased and shitty. It hung my punches and madness on a cross and cheered me on when I took even the smallest step to learn to love. 

And as I started taking the next step, it opened my eyes to all the gestures of love around me that I had never realized or acknowledged before. It’s about that time when I first realized that…

Revenge comes in two flavors; one is karma and the other is grace.

Rambling routes of Bugyal

                                        Every day is a winding road, I get a little bit closer

                                 Every day is a faded sign, I get a little bit closer feeling fine

-                                                                                                                                                                                                - Sheryl Crow

It was a long winding rocky trail between the two hills and I couldn’t decide that between the leaves under our feet and my thoughts, which was more slippery.

Sun, mist, rains, hailstones, rainbows, awestruck moments, hearty laughs, inspiring people, interesting conversations, rude discourses, drama and happy ending, the Dayara Bugyal trek in Uttarakhand was like a good old masala Hindi movie. But the gem of all views was at the camp at Dayara where you had a ridiculously clear view of the Gangotri massif, Jaonli peak, Draupadi ka Danda 2^nd peak to the east and the Bandarpoonch massif to the north. Fascinating!! 
Thank you Indiahikes!!

Further down from the camp at Dayara, where the finches and sparrows of known and unknown kinds were chirping their hearts away, little ferns grew on the branches of the rhododendrons and oaks; it was a world of their own.

One evening, when it was time for the birds to go home, I sat beside the trees watching thunderstorms gathering far away. Is someone on the Janonli peak now? They better run! A mighty storm is approaching. But before I could wrap my thoughts up, the clouds with the trails of lightnings and thunders disappeared from my view as if it was just a passing thought! The mountains spoil you with breath taking visuals and experiences every moment and you always crave for more.

And as usual, the conversations are amazingly refreshing as well! When you say hello to someone in the hills, never ever are you gonna get a frown for an answer. Even if someone is jaded walking for several hours looking for her lost cow. 

Cut to four days later, we were in Dehra and decided to go for a day trip to Mussourie. By the evening, tired walking up and down the historic lanes of the pretty town, we headed to Kalsang, a Tibetan food joint. And I promptly dunked my head into a comforting bowl of Thukpa to drown the disappointment of not meeting Mr. Ruskin Bond at the book shop that he visits occasionally. (Apparently, he had cancelled his visit that very day ☹ or maybe the shop owner had weaved his own story )

“If you are seeing this, your vacation has officially ended” – read a text from one of the fellow trekkers with a snap of cheerful faces, taken just before we bade goodbye to each other at the Barsu base camp.

The platter of words next, don’t actually have a prelude. Because, it’s an ensemble of expressions that had come to me and my words had dwindled to few, maybe to save themselves from an out pour. 

When words are few, when words are new                 

And the map of your thoughts is skewed

Take a walk, brush up your mind

You are never a step away from your find

  

In the hills, you are never a step away

Never a step away from your kind

The kind that knows you, feels you, is you

And yet in your thoughts twisted and twined

There are walls built in your head

There are walls built in you, as mighty as the mountains

Past the Bugyal oaks, along the sunny trails

The shades walk around but perceptions stay

Wrapped in a sea of indifferent faces                    

Plastic smiles or judging gazes

You go back home safely

Without a scratch on your skin or your heart            

And one night, under the starry milky way

The stealth of the dark unfurls to say,

Was there really a leopard in the valley

Or were you just afraid of each other?

The Tale of the Grass

                                                  The Visitor

It was a bright morning. The air was clear, birds were chirping on the trees and the neighbourhood was waking up. The lawn outside the big orange coloured house was sparkling with dewdrops on the tips of the grass. 

A blue kingfisher landed on the grass, sat there for a while, pecked and cleaned its feathers and then flew away.

Meanwhile, a tiny blade of grass in the lawn woke up too. He breathed in the fresh air and yawned with eyes and mouth so wide open that a tear trickled down his eyes, trickling all the way down, till the ground drank it.

Sleepy eyed, he shook the last drop of dew off himself and started getting ready for the day when suddenly out of nowhere, something in the air flew past him. The tiny grass bent over right on time else that thing would have almost landed on him!

“Can’t you stand straight? I almost lost my balance!” said a voice loud and clearly irritated.

“Who’s that? squealed the grass.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know me?” the tiny grasshopper threw an attitude, brushing her leaping legs.

“No.”

“Haha, that’s why you look so lost in dreams,” laughed the hopper and carefully stretching one of her right legs in front said, “Hello, I am Sandy!”

“I am Hem-,” the little grass was about to introduce himself aloud when something caught his eyes. Behind the white flowered bush, he saw a pair of legs. He had seen legs running around in the lawn in the evening, these were those. When he saw a catching net next to those legs, he immediately knew what it was. The legs were slowly moving towards them!

As if suddenly waking up from a dream, he screamed, “Sandy! There’s a catching net coming after you!! Run run!!!”  Just about then, someone jumped towards them, throwing the net and fell flat on face over the grass. It was a little girl.

The net had missed the grasshopper, Sandy had hopped away. He sighed in relief.

“I missed it again!” cried the girl, her face buried in the grass. “I know sshomeone alwayssh tellssh the hopper when I am coming” she lifted her face looking to the right and to the left, crying loud.

“How could she know about our secret?” the grass was puzzled. He didn’t say a word, closed his eyes and stood straight hoping the girl would eventually go away. But the cry grew louder and louder until he couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Hush now, your eyes would swell as big as potatoes and turn as red as tomatoes if you cry any longer!” he said impatiently. The little girl lifted her head hoping to see who was talking and upon finding no one, continued sobbing.

“It’s me, the grass.” 

She looked at him with teary eyes full of surprise when he said, “Now, if you stop crying I will tell you a story from a long time ago, about a faraway land of magic.”

She was very puzzled indeed but as the little grass bent his head, swaying in the breeze, the girl looked at him and stopped sobbing, waiting for the tale.

                                           The Tale of the Grass

Now, quite long ago but not so far away from the land of magnificent peacocks and royal tigers, was a land that was home to the mighty elephants and the mighty Elephant grass.

Glistening in the golden rays of the sun, strong and deep rooted, dressed in rich green and even taller than an elephant, stood the proud and fierce grass! Neither the animals nor the birds dared to venture in where they stood. But one afternoon, when the sun was getting ready to set, footsteps were heard near the grassland.

“Meyyyh,” a lonely goat cried nearby.

“No, don’t go there! Stop stop!” cried the little boy who was running after the goat, but it was too late. The goat had rushed inside the grass.

The little boy looked up at the huge blades of green standing in front of him and suddenly remembered all the stories of men who had never returned from this place. He could not leave without his pet but how could he even enter inside.

“Please let me to enter,” requested the boy.

There was no response, so he moved closer and just about then a thunderous voice roared!

"You cannot enter. This is not your land", shouted the fierce grass.

“I..I live nearby, I promise I would get my pet and return,” the boy could barely speak.

“Go back to where you have come from! We don't care about your pet", they hissed in anger.

It was getting late. The helpless boy couldn’t think of anything any longer and rushed inside, the sharp blades cutting deep through his skin. He tried to move through but couldn’t. After a long struggle, the boy dropped down on the ground to never return to his home again.

It was such a shameful act that even the setting sun turned blood red that day. For several days, the blades of green stained crimson stood silent, not knowing what to feel. After a few more days, as the evening wind cried for the little boy, the land felt deeply shaken inside, as if it had lost someone dear.

Strangely, next year, the grass didn’t feel like growing so tall anymore. And each passing spring, they grew shorter and softer; till the time when they stood so tender that even babies would roll over them but won’t get hurt! Why, even movie stars with their delicate frames would roll over them and won’t ever get a scratch!

But what happened next literally blows my mind till now. No matter who stepped over the grass, they could always spring right back to stand straight. They would grow back even if someone burnt them!

Now, by the time the story ended, a woman had come around, looking for the little girl. And finding her fast asleep, she took her in her arms and went inside the house.
I had heard the story of the tender grass from that little girl and now the story is yours!