Bald - beautiful?

You run away from the past, trying to flee from the clutches of thoughts that haunt you, and then, one fine day when you are brought to face your future - you realise there was nothing to run away from. A rare photograph, some acquaintance or some witten matter can make the memories flow. We are mere puppets - dancing to the tunes of the music we do not possess the power to play.

I chanced upon a photograph of mine - cropped hair and all. Smart yes, but I do not seem happy. It doesn't seem much of an issue today if I say I had short hair, but it was a big deal way back, when I was a kid. I remember my Mom's obsession of getting my head shaved every year. For the first decade that i walked the earth, my wish was consistently and at regular occasions brought under the knife . It turned out to be the most embarassing decade of my life. By the time I could feel beautiful, I had the barber attack me with the 'ustra'(barber's knife). A swish here and a swash there and it was done. My head shone like a white egg and though my eyes would boil with rage, there wasn't any reaction from the tormentor. A decent hair chopping ceremony would have given me a lesser heart ache but then mother's are your life bearers and they like to live with the notion that they know best! They think they know all and explaining anything to them is like talking to the wall.. (read banging your head on the wall).

The intentions were purely motivated with my welfare in mind and I remember being told that I would have hair that would flow in tresses - the beauty of which would be unsurpassable. I was too much into reading fairy tales and the character of Rapunzel would come alive for me. Me with long tresses, wow! I would smile at myself and imagine what I would look like when I grew up. I had thrown a tantrum and refused to give in to my mother's pursuits when I turned ten, and that was the last of my bald days. Bald can be beautiful too.

I remember a certain Nafisa Ali, who shaved her head and looked as glamorous as she does now. Her political campaigning and age hasn't dared to age her. There were Persis Khambata (star trek)and certain other models who dared to rid their heads of the beautiful tresses. North India raves and rants about the act of bravery that a woman commits by shaving her head off. Go down south and you are in for a shocker. Visit any hindu relegious place and there are bald heads bobbing up and down. They walk around like nothing has changed - men, women, children all alike. It's done to show gratitude to the Gods after a wish is fulfilled. Little do they realise that they are contributing to an industry that wouldn't benefit them in anyway. Indians! such simpletons! Do God's make wigs?? well! My hair never grew beyond shoulder length, simply because I could never muster up the patience to watch it grow, so, swish - swash.

My Rapunzel dream hasn't been realised but who knows what the future holds? I might have long hair or better still, just vent out my impatience and go bald.

A poem by 'Rumi'

The name Mowlana Jalaluddin Rumi stands for Love and ecstatic flight into the infinite. Rumi is one of the great spiritual masters and poetical geniuses of mankind and was the founder of the Maulawi Sufi order, a leading mystical brotherhood of Islam..

Oh, if a tree could wander

and move with foot and wings!

It would not suffer the axe blows

and not the pain of saws!

For would the sun not wander

away in every night ?

How could at ev?ry morning

the world be lighted up?

And if the ocean?s water

would not rise to the sky,

How would the plants be quickened

by streams and gentle rain?

The drop that left its homeland,

the sea, and then returned ?

It found an oyster waiting

and grew into a pearl.

Did Yusaf not leave his father,

in grief and tears and despair?

Did he not, by such a journey,

gain kingdom and fortune wide?

Did not the Prophet travel

to far Medina, friend?

And there he found a new kingdom

and ruled a hundred lands.

You lack a foot to travel?

Then journey into yourself!

And like a mine of rubies

receive the sunbeams? print!

Out of yourself ? such a journey

will lead you to your self,

It leads to transformation

of dust into pure gold!

Sardar 'Oye'

Bhajji swings a doosra abuse - calls Andrew Symonds a Monkey! Symonds blamed Bhajji of racial abuse. Was i witnessing a reality joke or was it a figment of my imagination. A man who belongs to the community which is a target of racial abuses, swings the ball on to the others, was an obnoxious slur in itself. I wasn't sympathetic for Symonds. The case was heard in court and when the proceedings were churned out by the media, word by word - I, like the whole of India was in splits.

Sardars have borne the brunt of being the target of jokes for quite a long time. They now laugh at themselves, because of the realization that this is a part of their existence. But then, we Indians laugh at every other community. That's the essence of being an Indian. The image of a sardar is of a large hearted man with a turban on his head. His dedication has transformed the whole transportation industry into a mostly one community ownership and 'chicken ki tang' and the patiala peg are synonymous with the Sardar on a truck. A sardar is also a man who adapts to any state of the country without any hassles. In Orissa, they speak fluent Oriya. In Bihar- bhojpuri, In Maharashtra it has to be marathi and in Chennai it would be tamil for sure. I remember travelling in a remote town of Arunachal Pradesh and we lost our way. There were three families who were travelling together in a convoy. And, lo and behold! we spotted a sardar. smiles and cheers knew no bounds and the two punjabi families who were travelling with us jumped at the prospect of having found someone who would bail us out. We stopped. "Sardar ji", said one of our fellow travellers. The man stared back. "Ye road kithhey jaati hai dar ji", the question was repeated. "mishmi language only", the sardar smiled back. We laughed and waited for someone else to pass by.

Why talk only of India, let's see kaneda (Canada) or ingland (England). What Punjab is to Biharis, Canada to Sardars and it is a known fact. England too has been almost taken over by the 'chikan tikka'. The versatility of the Sardars and their adaptability in all circumstances make them the wonderful people they are. If you do have a sardar friend, it's almost certain that you won't be let off without eating 'desi ghee ke parathey and lassi'. The warm hug that follows is almost unescapable.

When we laugh our heads off at lil tid bits that is only akin to these folks - especially the 12:00 'o' clock jokes, little do we realise that these are te same people who have been easy targets to wars that rummaged their existence. History has proof of the atrocities that they have had to undergo. But, the true Sardar, like his name fights to the end and succeeds all odds. Call him Lovely, Happy, Bunty or Santa, he simply smiles and walks on.

If you wave out to the sardar and think your day has come to an end, you are in for a surprise. The day wouldn't end without a piece of news I have about a certain Happy singh, whom I met the other day. This Happy singh wanted to get married, so he went and proposed to a girl. She refused. "Why wouldn't u marry me?", asked the sardar sadly. "Because I am a lesbian", replied the girl. The sardar scratched his head and quizzingly asked " what is a lesbian?" , "who does it with a girl", replied the girl a little shyly. The sardar burst out in joy " Oye! no problem at all! we can still get married.. I am also a lesbian!!".
The End!!

Sunflowers

Success seemed not too far and creativity shone,
Colours spilled in regular streams and were filled into the cone.
They showered the canvas and brought it to life,
But, this happiness wasn't to last.

The bunch of Sunflowers blooming yellow bright,
Had seemed so real that starry night,
The pitcher that held them all so close,
Sat at the table as though striking a pose,
And then it was time to hang it on the wall,
The artist's heart missed a call.

A call reminding her of an evil eye,
An individual she had respected would betray her, aye,
A bagful of hurt that would leave behind a scar,
In a life that was marred with others dreams and power.


She wasn't aware of the game that was played,
A swarming of peers, a rough environment was made,
'She has to be stopped from going ahead', they said.
They tugged so hard, her enthusiasm fled
Her self respect was nailed and they tore her heart,
Flesh and blood stains - they ripped her apart.


Three years of slumber, her passion died.
Her brushes lay unattended in the corner - piled.
The colours had lost their sheen and glaze,
Only time would heal her wounds and set the heart ablaze.


Again,
the colours would flow with the strokes,
The canvas with sunflowers would sway,
black, white, red, blue, green, yellow,
The colours on the canvas - another show.

Ram ram

I just realised science has it's negative points too. Thanks to the essay I was writing for my kido, who has to give a talk on the topic 'Vigyan ke dushparinam' . While she is shouting her lungs out and mugging up the essay in the other room, I thought I would switch on the TV. There seems to be some prob with the TV and it needs to be repaired. I thank my stars the AC is working and what a relief the electricity doesn't play hide an seek with us here.

Summers is one time of the year when I enjoy being at home and channel surfing becomes a much sought after sport. There are movies to catch up and serials and music. What bliss - and all this because I dont want to melt away in the scorching sun. As I was surfing channels one day, I stopped at 'India TV'. Yes, I did. This is one channel that can have you hooked up for nothing at all. I remember how I didn't bat an eyelid, one whole night to know about a 'bhoot bangla in Surat'.. That 'bhoot bangla', I discovered, to my dismay, was an apartment where construction had abruptly stopped for unknown reasons!

A programme claimed that Lord Rama was actually called so after a King from the Mesopotamian civilization. That King was named King Rim tin and he was the son of King Tashrath. There are artefacts that also have a reference of a God with wings, akin to our very own Lord Hanuman. The logical side of my brain sprinted at a fast pace at the very idea and I tried to make meaning of it all. Could this be true? There was trade between the Mesopotamian and indus valley civilization. For all we know there could have been stories of this King, that were carried here. The writers who walked the earth in that era may have inked them into posterity.

Mythology is an integral part of our culture and there is no proof of any living God (the existence of Dwarka is still debated). We are so used to our Gods that the reason to question does not arise. We simply take it for granted that whatever has been said is right. When in trouble we call out to all the Gods, hoping our prayers would be heard. I am a religious person and pray daily and as I write about this figment of suspicion that has arisen in my mind, My dil goes 'Ram ram ram..'

'Faith can move mountains', I was taught at a very young age. It is ultimately the faith that is important. Our fear of the unknown motivates us to hold on to a power - any power. This unknown power is then used by powerful people to bind others and turn them into followers. We in India are followers of the nature. We pray to the Sun, the moon, rivers, plants, animals and human beings too. It is life we look up to. There is a supernatural power that controls everything and that has to be explained to the common man. What better way than to give it a form. The form of humans, in all it's virtues is best understood.

It is a world ruled by story writers. A person who says stories or who knows how to say stories lives on - through his works - through his characters. People who believe in these stories propogate them. The cycle goes on.

Good Friday

Good Friday has been good so far,
A new hope, a new day, a new shining star,
A baby boy has brought home a smile,
nine months of waiting - My brother's child.

The Mirror

The mirror blurred with images profound,
I couldn't see what was beyond,
A figure identical to me was all I could see,
I figured it out to be me.

The cloth in white, I picked and wiped,
The mirror - till it was clean and right,
It still looked as hazy as before,
I knew not what I could do any more.

The mirror, I decided should be sold,
It's probably worn out and too old,
If our images in it we couldn't see,
What was the use for it to be.

The day came close when the buyer came,
He smiled and saw himself and said his name,
'I like the crystal clear mirror', he said,
'The carvings on the glass makes it better instead'.

So, he paid the money and carried it along,
An antique that had lived with the family for long.
A good bargain, or so I thought,
And looked at the mirror sad and distraught.

I stopped and and took one last peek,
To remember the old times when the mirror used to speak,
A child dancing in it I had seen,
A young lady in it had danced like the queen.

Now, when I saw myself the image were clear,
I wiped my eyes and repeatedly stared,
The image shone and I could see,
A not so young image of me.

'I cannot sell this to you Mister', i spoke,
My voice sounded broken and was almost a croak,
The owner turned and told me he would sell it,
A dime more, not a penny less.

I rushed indoor, where the lockers were kept,
and with the money I ran and leapt,
The money given, the mirror was back,
In the old place, by the crack.

I stood once more and saw myself smile,
a pretty picture, for all eyes.
I Wondered how I had gone wrong.
And then I remembered I had heard the song-
The song wherein a bird had cried,
Because it's partner had prematurely died

It were my tears that had blurred the image,
The mirror was same as before,
It had stood there elegantly for 50 long years,
And, would stay there for the same years or more.

Olive Ridley Turtles

I sat alone on the beach, by the Bay of Bengal, after walking on the sand for quite some time. The sea waves danced to a soothing tune as millions of baby turtles crawled into the sea. The strangers passed by me and I stared silently in awe, and held my breath as that was all I could do. The tiny turtles followed the light of the moon that seemed their only guide at midnight. The tiny lungs gasped for breath. Their little yet strong legs moved forward consistently only to be gulped down by the waves. These were the babies of Olive Ridley Turtles, which had hatched out of their eggs some ten or fifteen minutes earlier.

The urge to pick up one of the turtles on to my palm was too strong to resist, and I picked up one. It jumped back onto the sand and walked on without stopping. The entire lot seemed mesmerised by the soft light. They followed the torchlights when the torches were switched on, and they had to be switched off, so as to not disturb them in their natural surroundings.We had to tread carefully on the sand as the turtle eggs had been laid widespread on the whole
beach. They were like land mines waiting to explode.

The banks of the river Rushikulya, in Orissa, witnesses a unique experience each year. The place where the river meets the sea is conducive for the turles to lay their eggs. The mother turtle travels across the Atlantic ocean and reach the Indian Coasts by November. The nesting of these turtles takes place in the month of February and each turtle lays nearly 120 to 150 eggs. Each mother turtle weighs around 50 to 55 kgs. The eggs are hatched after a labour of 45 days.The eggs are small and seem like golf balls. “We wait for the whole year for these turtles”, said Ramu, a villager. “But they do affect our fishing and we suffer for around five months of the year,” he added.

The thought that these little turtles will get united with their mother was enough to bring me back to reality. They would swim towards the Atlantic ocean along with their mothers who were waiting in the waters, for their young ones to arrive. These turtles would grow into adults and return to lay eggs someday. However, there are a few threats that endanger the lives of these turtles. There are ports - ships, fishermen - boats and nets, poachers, other animals in the sea etC.

The horde of people who had gathered to watch the magic unfurl had strolled back towards the parked vehicles. I realised I was all alone and I strode back towards the vehicle and drove back to civilisation. I was enriched with an experience that I would cherish all my life.

Bhitarkanika -- crocodile sanctuary

When the journey was better than the destination:

pretty woman

I watched Delhi 6, a couple of days back. It was torture and the feeling to get over with the movie and do something better made me move over to the remote kept close by. I forwarded most part of the movie. The only thing that i liked about the movie was Waheeda Rehman. The gorgeous lady has aged gracefully, and even now, looks as charming as ever. She may have played the role of a grandmother in the movie, but she reminded me of the song from the movie 'Guide' (kaanton se kheench ke ye aanchal, tod de bandhan bandhey paayal.......hoo o....) She in her blue sari, singing without any inhibitions and breaking the 'matkas' (pots) was embedded in my memory. I remember a day from my childhood. I had seen the movie 'guide'. I remember singing the same song and breaking the pot kept at home, though I had to spend one whole evening at home and wasn't allowed to go out and play. The lecture on why we shouldn't break things was a bonus. But, ah! the pleasure of experiencing the sound of a breaking earthen pot is music to the ears. I am aware of the hindu ritual of breaking an earthen pot today (it's broken by the person who lights the pyre of a dead person)

I do not belong to the generation when Guru dutt or waheeda rehman ruled the silver screen, but that didn't make me a lesser fan of the duo. I had seen Waheeda Rehman for the first time when I saw her with Guru Dutt in the movie 'Chaudahvin ka chand' and the title song still remains one of my favourite songs. I eventually became a Guru Dutt fan and went on to watch Sahib Biwi aur ghulam, pyaasa, aar paar, mr and mrs 55 and various other movies.. But his
ideal match always seemed to be Waheeda Rehman. Their onscreen chemistry had tricklded down to their personal lives too. The intense Guru Dutt and the innocent beauty of Waheeda made them a perfect couple. 39 is no age to die, but that's the life span of the legend who for me is the ultimate image of a creative person. His way of story telling was far too superior than any director we see today. He was said to have been ahead of his times and truly so. 'Pyaasa' had inspired a whole generation to become writers and the song 'ye duniya agar mil bhi jaae to kya hai..' is a masterpiece. Isn't it true after all, that a world of scheming relatives, jealous peers, false relationships and wrong timings make up the real world.

Guru Dutt lived for some part of his life with a person who truly loved him and understood him. His life was tragic but he lives on and will continue doing so. People who tell stories will scan through the reels he has left behind and try to make meaning of each word he spoke and each shot he okayed. However, there's just one person who knew him, sans the make up - waheeda rehman it is. She smiles almost benignly, her softness shimmering through the sparkling eyes. She hasn't left the stage which gave her fame. As pretty as she was in her youth.