All About Kick-Ass Parenting!

Children's Day is almost over, and here I am, after another difficult pre-bedtime session with my son, complaining to my husband (who's out of town) about it. Ved has been a difficult sleeper since he was born, and even though he sleeps through the night now, getting him to settle down remains a challenge.

Almost everyday, I question my abilities as a mother. I am probably the least patient person in the world, so I raise my voice at my boy sometimes, and when he's apologetic, I feel guilty and I tone it down. Of course, he instantly goes back to being mischievous, and I wonder how the hell I'm parenting him. Once I'm back home from work, I don't have the energy to take him downstairs to play, so I send him with the nanny, and now, I don't know any of his friends' moms. I cannot get him to eat vegetables, I cannot stop him from eating too much candy, and I cannot prevent him from falling sick or getting hurt. Oh, and there are days when he declares that he doesn't like me and he prefers his nanny or his teachers.

I've always loved children, but I never fathomed how difficult it would be to raise a child of my own. I thought it would come naturally to me, and maybe some parts do, but most the time, I'm filled with self-doubt.

Why does this happen?

Mothers are labeled as superheroes, and that scares me a little. Or maybe a lot. Do you know that Gal Gadot shot a bunch of her scenes in Wonder Woman when she was pregnant? I could never do that! I hear about mothers multitasking, preaching about how to raise children right, and then I see myself, and how miserably I'm failing at it.

But, let's face the truth. I'm not a superhero. And I don't even want to try becoming one. Every child is unique, and yes, their upbringing does affect their personality, but how they absorb every experience around them also depends on external influences - be it people or events, and of course, the wiring in their brain that makes them who they are. And as parents, we can only do the best that is humanly possible. The rest is up to them.

For example, I was a finicky eater as a kid. My mother tried to improve my eating habits, but I remained the same. Some place else, my husband grew up with an ardent dislike for vegetables, and his mother tried to make him eat his greens, but failed. Today, I am someone who eats well, and I'm hardly ever picky about food. How? When I was 18, I moved to a boarding college for my engineering degree. One semester of Indian hostel food is all it took to change my eating habits. My husband, on the other hand, still doesn't eat vegetables, because he never went through any experience that forced him to change his eating habits. Are either of these instances examples of good or bad parenting? I think not.

There's a reason why flight attendants ask us to put on our oxygen masks before assisting others, even our kids. We cannot raise children if we're not physically and emotionally fit, and for that, if it means that we're giving ourselves a break from parenting sometimes and letting them figure things out on their own, that's okay. After all, we can't be there for them forever.

So, if you're a parent who's having a bad day, give yourself that break. Take a day off work and drop your kid at daycare. Sleep, read, get a massage, order your favorite food, binge-watch a series, or day-drink. Because you are awesome, and you deserve it. And once your kid is back home (and you're not hungover), you'll be back to being a kick-ass parent, and you'll rock every bit of it! If you don't...well, read my post again!

A Poem That Doesn't Rhyme

As the silence of the night
Falls on my ears, I wonder -
Has life always been like this?

There's so much to do...
So many rules to follow,
So many responsibilities to fulfill,
So many issues to worry about,
So many things to ponder over,
In so little time!

So, I decided to let myself go
And write a poem that doesn't rhyme,
Simply for the heck of it.

And I did.

Laila!

It's been a long time since a song had me hooked to my earphones like this one. The culprit is 'O meri Laila' from the movie 'Laila Majnu' that released last month. Yes, I know - it has CHEESY written all over it.

I remember seeing glimpses of the movie's trailer and dismissing it as an imminent flop. After going crazy about the song, when I checked out the movie reviews today, I saw good ratings and overall positive comments from critics. With a cast of newcomers and the title giving away an unpopular theme, I guess it passed by unnoticed by the masses.

Anyway, this post is mostly for me to remember what goes on in my mind when I fall insanely in love with a song. This used to happen quite often in school and college, but music doesn't affect me as much nowadays. The first reason is that I always have to listen to the kind of songs my son likes, which consist of nursery rhymes and Hindi dance numbers. Believe me, I know all the lyrics to "Wheels on the bus" and "Tan tana tan tan tan tara"!

The second reason is that there isn't enough good Bollywood music nowadays. I am all for appreciating classics in any language, but contemporary Bollywood music has always been irreplaceable in my world. In an unexplainable way, it defined something in the very core of my personality, which brings me to the third reason - I'm a different person today. Age taught me to be more practical, and I guess one of the ways to achieve it was not to lose myself in the realm that music takes me to. I don't have the time for it and honestly, it isn't of much help. I'd prefer staying grounded in reality.

But then, what can I say? Once in a blue moon comes a song that takes the romantic in me to my happy place, even gives me a glimpse of who I used to be. And I'd like to cherish this song for doing exactly that.

'O meri Laila' starts on a subtle note, with a single instrument playing an earthy, folksy tune (probably Kashmiri, as that's the backdrop of the movie). There's something about these kind of tunes that makes me feel a connection, maybe because they take me back to my roots (The music director is from my home state!). The actual song begins after a few seconds, with more instruments catching up. The melody moves from delicate to strong in phases and does so in a lovely manner. The lyrics support the music in every sense. In the mellow parts, there are beautiful phrases like "Bhooli athanni si bachpan ke kurte mein se mil tu" (Translation - "Let me find you like I found that forgotten penny in the shirt I wore as a child"). Then, there's an open declaration of love with clichéd lines when the song reaches the chorus - "O meri Laila, khwab tu hai pehla" (Translation - "Dear Laila, you're my most precious dream"). To me, the flow of the music and lyrics depicts the ups and downs of a love that is just beginning to blossom. It shows how exciting and adventurous new love can be, and how diferent the trials and tribulations associated with it are, as compared to love that has been fulfilled and accepted by society. This kind of love is tranquil, and yet brings about a kind of rush. It is about two people with hopes and dreams, who believe that fighting against all odds to be together is the triumph of their love.

Atif Aslam has done justice to the song. I generally find his singing to be lacking in the levels of perfection that many other professional singers are capable of; but in this song, his voice is flawless, with ounces of emotion mixed into every note he takes. It is real and straight from the heart, which gives life to the song. Jyotica Tangri does a good job too, but doesn't have as many lines. Atif totally owns it.

A song like this doesn't come to my life often. For me, it is the perfect concoction of melody, words, and voice enveloped in the thing that matters the most to me, the thing I keep forgetting about - love.

She

When she looks around, she sees everyone busy with their own agenda. Sometimes, that agenda doesn't make sense to her at all. The targets they're chasing seem futile. Many of these people are the ones she considered closest to her and who she always thought her world would revolve around. In some sense, it does, but then she asks herself if it's really worth living her life for any mortal except herself. Because when she looks at them, that's what they are doing - living for themselves. 

She is the picture of the perfect employer, wife, mother, and daughter. But she has achieved this with more help from people who are really nobody to her, yet are the only ones that truly understand her pain and let her have some time for herself. And they do it with utmost sincerity and loyalty. She still hasn't understood why. At times when she feels terribly weakened, both physically and mentally, these are the ones who come to her aid, more than the ones she thought always would.

Who's she, you ask me? Of course, you know her. You meet her everyday - you call her "mom", "honey", "sweetie", "boss", or simply "hey you". She's today's working mother, battling all odds just to get through a day without breaking. She's her strongest version even at her weakest point. Why? Because she has no choice - that's just who she has to be.

Seductress

Her lustful eyes wear glasses of woe,
Her hungry red lips adorned in the lightest hue,
She walks with a gait, slow and gentle,
Hiding her cunning in her quiet mumble.

A seductress - the kind he fails to fathom,
He worships her like the queen of his kingdom;
Oblivious to her tactics, he surrenders his all,
Believing she'll catch his every fall.

She decorates his halls with rags that shine;
From juicy slow poison, she makes him wine;
Dazed by the sparkle, he's struck with awe;
High on liquor, he dances till grabbed by death's jaw.

Ripened with age, she stoops her back
But holds her head high, her scheming mind intact;
"I do not need your gold," to his kids she says,
While scooping diamonds from his bays.

Betrayed

"There isn't a thing I won't tell you"
I made a promise that day
To someone who I thought I knew
Would never hurt me, come what may.

My soul was naked, I bared it all-
My darkest secrets, my rise and fall;
Not for a moment did I hesitate
To walk into a trap and take the bait.

Not your Best Friend

"But mom, I am only asking for some more cheese on my sandwich. It makes your yummy sandwich even yummier! Parth's mother lets him eat as much butter and cheese as he wants, and they don't even tell his dad about it. She allows him to stay outdoors after 6 pm. They also goshup when he doesn't feel like studying. He says his mom is his best friend."

"'Gossip', not 'goshup'. Do you know what it means? Dig into the dictionary and find out."

"Why can't you just tell me? Parth's mom would have!"

"Because I'm your mother, not your best friend."

A couple of minutes after rummaging through the pages of the dictionary, his face lit up.

"Mom, I found it, I found it! I know what it means. Yay!" 

"Great. So how do you feel? You learned a new word today!" 

"I feel good. But I still want my cheese."

"Sure. Once you make your bed."

"But Parth's mother..."

"Always makes his bed for him? Got it. Now hurry up before I change my mind!"

20 years later... 

"Mom, you've already met her a couple of times. Do you think she's the right one for me? " 

"What do you think? Dig into your heart and find out."

"Just like the meaning of 'goshup'?"

"You still remember?"

"Of course. It's just that...we're in India."

"So?"

"Well, the whole saas-bahu thing is a big deal. All my friends have gotten their wives 'approved' by their mothers."

"You're the one who's going to share the rest of your life with her."

"What about you and dad?"

"What about us?"

"I can't leave you alone. I mean, sooner or later, we will be living with you. What if you can't get along with her?"

"Your dad and I enjoy each other's company. Do you think we'd let you guys move in and ruin our privacy?"

"Oh, come on mom, I'm serious!"

"Fine. Even if the four of us have to live together at some point of time in our lives, as long as we respect each others' boundaries, we'll get alone just fine."

"But I want you and her to be best friends!"

"What's with you and forced friendships? It's the most spontaneous of bonds; it'll happen if it has to. Besides, I think she already has a best friend."

"Who is that?"

"You."

"Oh, so you and dad are conspiring to drive me away from home. But what if I want your special cheese sandwich? You can't email it to me!"

"Drama queen! You already know how to make that; I taught you."

"You didn't say you will teach her."

"Should I?"

"No. I'll make them for her."

"That's good to hear."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I've been meaning to say something to you."

"What?"

"Thanks for not being my best friend, and for being the best mother in the world instead."

Nia

It was one of those kindergarten days when a classmate was distributing the customary birthday goodies. This time, the goodies comprised of candies in assorted flavors, and of course, each student was allowed only one. The entire class had their eyes fixed on the chocolate candies, and Nia was among the few who got one. She was on cloud nine, but she also felt bad for her classmates who didn't get the chocolate candies. One of them named Ruth offered to exchange a pineapple candy with hers and Nia felt too charitable to refuse. She regretted it almost immediately. She was crestfallen and complained about it to her friends. She decided to ask for it back and Ruth said no. Nia was so disappointed that she didn't want to keep the pineapple candy either, so she returned it to Ruth. And then, she went home to her parents, teary-eyed and thinking how it wasn't fair that she didn't get to keep even one candy.

Twenty years later, nothing has changed, except that it isn't kindergarten anymore. Her loving heart is the chocolate candy, her self-respect the pineapple candy, and life, her classroom. And Nia still thinks that it isn't fair.

Not Me

One step, two steps, three steps, four-
Steps I took till my feet were sore;
Leaving behind a chunk of innocence,
A dab of mischief, a slice of romance;
Some tears, some laughs, some anger, some glee,
Some things that made all, not some of me.

Phials

Phials of tears, angst and sorrow,
Phials she carried like there's no tomorrow;
Today, she walks among the dead
And hides one phial under each head,
Wishing no living would find her phials of folly
And live like her, lost in melancholy.

A Womb in Sorrow

Halfway gone, halfway to go-
Not a soul for these emotions to show.
A second of mirth, and a second later,
A pool of tears in the heart's crater.
Life's struggles pull apart every bit
Of what was left in this lonely pit.

Oh look! There's something moving there!
Trying to enter a realm unaware.
Is that what brings the storm within?
Or is it because of the unforgivable sin
Of feeling, crying, speaking out,
Of deeds of love that naively sprout.

Alone you can conquer the world, they say;
Alone you can find your destined way.
Alone you should try, time and again,
Alone you will fail, once more slain
By needful urges of your spirit weakened,
Bringing you closer to your self sickened.

Apologies if these lines weren't meant
To light up your day, or fix your life's dent;
Sorrow is the truth that we all face
And yet deny it to run the rat race.
Happiness isn't all that matters;
A real cry fixes what a fake smile batters.

Stay motivated!

Diwali Nostalgia

The evening began with Deuta and I struggling to light candles and diyas in our tiny compound, finding the perfect spots to protect them from the wind. Maa was busy in the kitchen, making sweets and savories. Our house was bathing in the fragrance of agarbattis. Pablo was running from here to there, restlessly eager to burst the crackers that Deuta had neatly arranged on a table. Friends started pouring in slowly, irrespective of caste, creed, region and religion, to celebrate with us. And like every year, we inaugurated with phuljharis. We used them to write our names in air and to light the other crackers. There were chakras (my favorite!) and anars, and if people were feeling adventurous, rockets and bombs. Maa's delicious goodies kept coming, and the merriment kept going even after the last cracker was lit.

Bidar

Disguised as a neglected mass of red land that lies hidden in the north-eastern corner of Karnataka, Bidar, with all the cons of a small city, unveils patches of archaeological and natural beauty that will amaze you. As the city shares its border with Telangana and Maharashtra, it is an ideal symbol of India's cultural, religious and linguistic amalgamation. The Bidar Fort is the place to be, early in the morning - deserted and clean with blue skies enveloping its vast expanse, and if you're lucky, the echoes of local people singing. Religious or not, you must visit Gurudwara Nanak Jhira Saheb, or you'll miss out on some of the best parathas that are served in a neighboring cafe. As for the fauna surrounding the city, Bidar hosts a good variety of birds, especially annoying little cattle egrets who follow the buffaloes wherever they go, hoping to sneak a taste of the insects flying around the animals. However, the main attraction here is the endangered blackbuck. Mother Nature took her own sweet time to create this magnificent creature, whose enchanting stare brimming with innocence can leave you dumbstruck.

The Finish Line

The elevator was out of order.

 

THAK. THAK. THAK.

 

Her footsteps echoed as she climbed up the narrow and deserted staircase. She kept rubbing her sweaty hands against each other, repeating the word “Breathe” to herself over and over again. The irony of it struck her. She knew that her destination was waiting to snatch her breath away.

 

She paused for a few seconds and closed her eyes to calm down. Her mind was filled with an incessant babble, however hard she tried to quieten it. She could hear his voice ringing in her ears, “I should have never met you!”

 

As she opened her eyes, a tiny teardrop rolled down her cheek – the cheek that he used to kiss every morning before going to work, and every night before going to bed. Used to…

 

Remembering that her tears had lost their worth from the first month they’d been together, she wiped them off. “Enough!”, she told herself. “The Finish Line is waiting for you.”

 

For a fraction of a second, she blamed her parents yet again for her ache, for giving her a loveless childhood, for increasing her hunger for love to such an extent that she found life’s meaning in nothing else. But then, it was all futile. Her marriage was already over. Her faith in love was gone. Her ache would also be gone. Soon.

 

She dragged her feet along, to ascend the final flight of stairs. She knew that her descent would be quick. She was prepared.

 

THAK. THAK. THAK.

 

And there she was. 200 metres from the ground. She was afraid of heights as ever. “Finis. You HAVE TO do this.”, said the prodding voice in her head. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

 

She jumped with her eyes open, and her arms spread out. She was scared, but for the first time, “good” scared. The fall, the wind, the thrill, the bungee cord tied to her ankle. The bond that freed her.

 

The Finish Line was only the beginning.

A Moment

**Some fact, some fiction**

They'd taken a 70 km tuk tuk ride from Siem Reap to see Beng Mealea. It was not cloudy like the previous days in Angkor Wat, and although the ruins were covered with a thick shelter of trees, she was worried about her tan from the ride. She'd purchased new walking shoes for the trip, and the shoe straps had formed a black and white pattern on her feet, thanks to the merciless sun. "Wrong choice! I should've bought the ones that covered my entire feet." she thought, and complained aloud about the heat for the hundredth time, fanning herself with a hat.

"Sshhh, just be quiet. And listen." he whispered.

Ignoring him, she kept on looking at her once-upon-a-time pretty feet with a mixed expression of pity and adoration. As she was staring at them, something pricked her right arm near the wrist. "Ouch!" she cried, rubbing her arm, "Do these insects have something against me? That’s the fourth bite since I’ve been here. And look at these creatures; I don't remember when I’d last seen mosquitoes as big as these!"

"Better you than me!" he laughed. "You should've worn full sleeves instead of half; they don't allow sleeveless here anyway. And FYI, that's my hat you're using like a hand fan. May I have it back?"

She handed him the hat with a scowl, as they continued their stroll on the wooden walkway constructed for tourists to admire the ancient temple. There weren't too many visitors, and she wasn't surprised.

"Who'd want to travel all the way in this heat? I'd rather stop by one of those cozy-looking stilt houses that we passed during our journey."

"They are rural Khmer houses."

"Of course they are, Mr. Wikipedia!"

"Guess why they're built on stilts."

"To avoid floods?"

"Wow, look who’s getting smarter!"

Even though she knew that he was teasing her, she couldn't help but smile a little.

"Stop." he said all of a sudden.

"You want me to stop smiling? I thought you liked my smile!"

"You know I love your smile. I'm only asking you to stop walking. And talking."

"Okay, but why?"

"What's that pranayama you taught me, the one in which you make a humming sound to calm your mind?"

She said, "Bhramari" and looked around. She was too busy fretting over bugs and the hot weather to notice the enchanting beauty of the place she was in. The crumbling temple was more than a thousand years old, with motifs depicting two major religions in the history of Cambodia. The trees, the chirping birds and insects, and the fragrance of pure air mingled with the ruins to magnify its antique charm. But she needed a moment to absorb this aura.

She understood at once. "Shall we? One. Two. Three."

As she opened her eyes slowly after the yogic hum, she saw it all again. But this time, the still of her surroundings had seeped into her mind. She stood there for a minute and turned towards him.

"Let's go." she said.

"Don't you want to stay here awhile longer?"

"I don't have to."

"Hmm. And what about the scorching ride that awaits us?"

"I promise not to whine about it; if you give me your hat!" she chuckled.

"No. Seriously."

"Oh come on! I'll bask in the sun and then show off my tan to my friends at work."

Daphne

My brother-in-law and his wife put us up while we were in Melbourne. I noticed something interesting in the city - people (mostly the elderly) moved around with their own trolleys to carry their belongings. My husband and I saw a lady pushing her trolley while exiting the supermarket. She was really old, maybe in her 80's or 90's, and was walking in the slowest possible pace. While another old lady (younger than her though) gave her some space to pass through, I took a quick glance at the trolley. It was a box with the symbol of a bat on it, exactly like the Bacardi logo. I was wondering why someone so old would want to buy a carton of Bacardi breezers during winter, which compelled me to move my gaze to the box's contents. There was a purse and what looked like a sweater or a jacket. I looked at her face - she seemed to be in pain. I called my husband's attention to it and asked him if we should help her, and if it was a good thing to let old people go about such activities on their own. In spite of the infrastructure in developed countries allowing the aged to be independent, I found the whole "senior citizens living alone" thing to be a bit sad, especially when I thought about my parents in the same situation. My husband, on the other hand, pointed out that it was better for old people to carry on with their daily jobs on their own, however slowly, rather than having them lean on their family or friends for support. I agreed with him eventually, and the topic was forgotten once we were home.

 

About 45 minutes later, my sister-in-law accompanied me to the mall. It was my last day in Melbourne, and I still had some shopping left. After crossing a few houses on our way to the tram station which was near the supermarket, we saw an ambulance outside one of the houses. Two paramedics were attending to a woman who was lying flat outside her doorstep, and a couple of youngsters (I'm guessing neighbors who called the ambulance) were looking on. My sister-in-law said, "Oh my God, I hope she's okay." I asked her if she knew her. She replied, "Yes, that's Daphne. She's been living all by herself after her husband's death. She spent her childhood in India and came to Melbourne in 1959. I speak to her in the supermarket sometimes. She's really old, you know. She cannot always maintain pace with her trolley, so she puts a couple of bricks in it to slow it down."

 

As she was telling me about her, I couldn't help but pause for a few seconds to notice something familiar - the trolley that the old lady possessed. It was a box with the symbol of a bat on it, exactly like the Bacardi logo.

Ode to a Mannequin

Lo and behold, I'm a mannequin!
I speak in dialects with no din.
Adorned in colors and fabrics diverse,
I beckon you to empty your purse.

19 months old, my white begins to peel;
She who dressed me says I cannot heal.
A dark and dingy storeroom is my new home;
I peep through a crack when I feel alone.

And then I see you! What a fine day!
She sells you garments in a coaxing way.
I cry out in dialects with no din;
Alas, I'm just a mannequin!

A Torn Page

Dear Diary,

You know what, I think happiness is overrated. Okay, I am in a philosophical mood today, so be patient with me. This is something I've been thinking of for ages, and it has to come out.

So, where was I? Oh yes, happiness is overrated. See, don't get me wrong. I do admire someone who has the capability of being happy always, but, let's face it - we're only human, and there isn't a single human on this earth who hasn't faced sorrow. True, happiness is linked to positivity, and I myself have been accused of being melancholic, and hence, negative at times. Of course, I disagree. Yes, happiness could be equivalent to optimism, but I do not think sorrow is pessimistic. Rather, I believe that sorrow increases our ability to appreciate and feel happiness. For instance, imagine a painter who splashed his sadness on a canvas. Maybe it was sorrow that created it, but what came out of it was art - a thing of beauty. And a thing of beauty can only give joy - joy to the artist, and to anyone who beholds it (Keats, yes!).

Sometimes, I realize that I look for a chance to be sad, and to express it. It's just because I get tired of pretending to be a forever-happy person; because I feel as if I'm losing touch with my real self - as if I'm a phony living in a phony world. I have met people who wear bright smiles on your faces when they have so much bottled up inside them. Don't you think they'd feel at peace if they could let it out - by crying, or shouting, or writing, or painting, or singing, or dancing? Don't you think that a few tears might actually be the pathway for their smiles to reach their eyes, and fill warmth in their hearts? I love what Sandy (He's the male nanny from FRIENDS. You know how much I love that show!) had once said, "It's all right. Crying is good. It lets the boo-hoos out."

Maybe it's not happiness that is the key to living a good life, but simply awareness of our emotions, and our ability to embrace them as a part of life. I haven't stopped breathing yet, and this is proof of the fact that my life isn't over, and it can't always be bad. Okay, maybe I want to cry now because my heart feels heavy. Once the tears are out, I'm hungry or sleepy, and I'm thinking of what to wear to work the next day. Now, that can't be too bad, can it? What if, instead of crying, I spend a sleepless night, then end up wearing my bathroom slippers to office, and commit a big blunder while working on an important project?

Yes, yes, I am sure that very few people would agree with me, especially because I mentioned crying, and not singing or dancing. But that's just my way of letting out my sorrow. And, dear Diary, I don't know if I'm right or wrong, but I know one thing for sure - you won't judge me. You may not slip me a kind word, or try to understand why I am sad, but at least you won't be angered. At least you won't abandon me. That is why you are my only shoulder to cry on. You are more human than this living world where expressing one's sorrow is a crime.

Okay I'll stop now. Sometimes, I can actually hear you saying "Enough!"; but man, that felt good to offload!

Now, before I doze off, here's something I came across. It's by Rumi, and I couldn't agree more-

"Sorrow prepares you for joy. It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place. It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow. Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place."

Good night!

The Red Train

Rahul got stuck at the railway signal - again. Of course, this was inevitable. After all, Atul chacha was never late. Chacha halted his auto rickshaw in front of Rahul's house at 9 a.m. He did not honk; he wasn't one of those people. Rahul, too, was bound by his own chains of punctuality. He couldn't make anybody wait. They reached the railway signal at 9:20 a.m. As he watched Rose pass by like she always did, Rahul wondered if she recognized him. It'd been almost a year since he'd been following this routine, and the red train never failed to say hello.

The 12X14 room, or Rahul's house, was perfectly neat. He had to keep it that way. He just had to. As he lay on his bed that night, he felt restless. Something wasn't right. He got up several times to ensure that the doors and windows were locked, and his bag packed for the next day. His clothes were ironed too. What was bothering him then?

The next morning was no different. Rahul looked out of the auto rickshaw at 9:20. He knew that she would greet him customarily. But Rose was nowhere in sight. "How can this be?" he asked Atul chacha. Chacha turned back and smiled, "Maybe you are ready." "Ready? Ready for what?!" Rahul asked him to stop the vehicle, and began looking for her at a terribly frantic pace. He inquired with every single soul in sight, but nobody would speak about her. What if she'd already left? He raced along the railway line to catch up with her. He raced till he ran out of breath, till he tripped over. And his eyes opened to the white ceiling of his 12X14. "Phew, a dream!" he thought to himself. He dove into a blissful slumber.

Atul chacha arrived on time, and Rahul was ready. As chacha braked his three-wheeled carriage just ahead of the railway track, Rahul peeped, and then, somehow, he couldn't sit there any longer. He sprinted towards the track and started running along it, just like he did in his dream. He saw her approaching him, and this time, he wouldn't let her go. He ran towards her. He ran and he ran. He did not stop; at least not till he was breathing.



I had taken an alternative route to office that day, and I ended up being stranded for over an hour, somewhere close to a rail line. I saw a man squatting on the side of the road with his hands holding his head, looking extremely grieved and lost. He was wearing the uniform of an auto rickshaw driver. I walked up to him and asked him what the matter was. "I'm so forgetful," he said. "If only I could remember his name." He was talking to himself. "His wife died here, exactly a year ago. Just like he did. Can you imagine?" I didn't know what to tell him, but he was completely unaware of my presence. "I took him for his daily visits to the doctor. He could never get over her death. His wife. What was her name? I think it was the name of a flower. Or was it? I'm so forgetful. If only I could remember her name."