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A Relationship

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A dainty bloom
impregnated with fondness,
Nurtured by faith.
Termites of mistrust
can devour it to death.
Seldom words of expression
offers bounty in validation.
But in the end,
All that tantamounts is
each act and every deed
of thoughtfulness and dedication.

An invisible thread;
Fragile but iridescent
Merging two absolute –
though distinctive and resolute.
Hearts intermingle.
Subconscious interconnect.
Unfamiliar becomes familiar
in the longing for completion.
And on the trail towards unknown,
Hope springs from dejection.

We are creatures of logic
But emotions too.
In search of finding the suitable,
When we dare to reveal ourself fully
and care to be vulnerable,
When we refuse to amuse the old sores
howmuch ever palpable,
Only then can we find –
The richness and direction.
A Relationship
Which thrives on genuineness,
true dependability and no imitation.

An intersection;
Which breathes on selflessness
and deeper comprehension.
A point, a place;
Which is enduring enough
to withstand any odds or ordeal
regardless how patchy or rough
with the bliss of togetherness
and ardent devotion.

As matters of heart has it’s own frame!
This ain’t a number game,
where two halves do not make a whole.
When it comes to Love,
It takes two wholes
to make a consummate relation.
A state, A bond,
An Unison;
Where souls blossom
while in the path of self-realisation.

 

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For you to Notice.

 

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Few years down, it was a small step with a true inspiring everyday short story ‘A tale of two Moms’ @http://www.chaitalibhattacharjee7.com/?p=58; a story which you and I can relate with a universal theme of maternal bonding. Then came a verse on female foeticide ‘Girl Unborn – The Monologue’ @http://www.chaitalibhattacharjee7.com/?p=334, an issue which time immemorial I have proclaimed dear to my heart.

While publications in acclaimed Huffingtonpost India, SoulSpot, Parentous and various other channels provided me with elation and content, but quite recently the incorrigible loss that left a void in my heart is still in the process of bereavement. As said time is powerful, I leave myself to its mercy. I lost my Moonlight, my Grandmom. Someone who gave me life’s biggest lesson ‘Never give up on love.’
A dedication year back ‘To my Moonlight’ @http://www.chaitalibhattacharjee7.com/?p=986 on a special day of her birthday brings back memories filled with fondness, love and purity.

Saying all this I just wanted to inform my readers, followers and fellow blogger friends that I moved from free WordPress site https://chaitalibhattacharjee7.wordpress.com into own domain http://www.chaitalibhattacharjee7.com. A sincere thank you to blogger friend Mr. Alok Vats for setting my domain.

To convey that this place which still stays as ‘Love, Life and Whatever’ is special to me is an understatement. An abode where I find my voice and where you listen to it ardently and share yours. A place where I write and express to inspire or amuse in some way. The outpourings of my readers made me realise how we interconnect at some level or other as human.
My writing is the reflection of my soul. This would have never been possible and the journey would have been that much inane without the kindness and the boost being showered by my readers and friends in each of my expressions(posts). Love for all.

 

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My Hamlet

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A quaint place –
In my heart
safely harboured.
Donning rustic beauty
Puerile, pleasant and warmer.
The road to my hamlet
meters to thousand,
But if I ever to reach
Close my eyes
And peep deep,
I reach my destination.
The place made me what I am
And it comes with me to where I be.

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A Review: Let the Reason be Love.

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Book: Let the Reason be Love

Author: Tuhin A Sinha

Publisher: Rupa Publications

Genre: Love and Relationships

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This remains a conundrum – One that neither technological breakthroughs, nor the most passionate of lovers has managed to unravel. What some may attribute attraction to shared sensibilities or even a karmic connection, the fact remains that love comes without simple answers; it’s damn complicated.”

The blurb on the back cover of soon to be released latest fiction ‘Let the Reason be Love’ by best-selling Author Tuhin A Sinha seizes immediate attention and spawns requisite interest in me.

‘Let the Reason be Love’ is a topical tale of unrequited love and it’s forlornness; a stark version of modern day relationship and the not-so-easy interplay of emotional determinants in different layer and stages of it.
Somewhere the story even pitches to engage into a deeper introspection or dilemma of ‘what actually or truly love is?’ Throughout the saga, the strong emotional undercurrent which effortlessly flows and interweaves an entangled web of carnal passion to soul connection, contentment to heartache, trust to mistrust and even self-realisation to an extent, between the three main characters, weaves an enticing plot to dive into.

The Story:
The protagonist Rishaan and his love interests Kiara and Diya at different point of time and situation make relatable characters with their separate identities and inherent quirks and expectations. But they indeed share a commonality; an ever searching toil of filling the void in each one’s heart.
Rishaan is this dreamy, idealist, middle-classy boy-next-door. He is spontaneous, talented and great fun to be with but could also be extremely disorganised like most other husbands-in-making young men. Kiara as described by author himself is a spunky, liberated, free spirited Bengali bombshell. Someone who lived life with her own terms and brutally honest. Yet amidst the temperamental differences, the two begin their journey of relationship with intense infatuation.
Diya, to the contrary, seemed to be a strong, calm woman who is firmly in control of her life despite the chaos around. There is something very attractive about her femininity too.
Rishaan is drawn to her inwardly. Rather than carnal desires, shared empathy, companionship and long conversations is the basis of their bond. Since Kiara and Diya are bosom friends, how the interpersonal dynamics between the three creates stirring situation and the innermost feelings and universality of human reactions to love, betrayal and hurt is resplendently exhibited through the tale.
The end line of the story quips as :
Rishaan knew that life and Bollywood were indeed capable of throwing up some crazy surprises.”
I would like to disrupt my share of earful on the story here without further divulging any more details, trying not to spoil the reader’s appetite and allowing them to savour the original narration or compelling expression by the writer himself by reading the book itself.

Narrative, Style and My views:
This book was not a conventional pick for me as from past few years I have not indulged myself with fictions much. Yet it provided me an interesting read and sort of treaded me to nostalgia lane.
The simple plot, lucid free-flowing words and the identifiable characters with swift, zesty narrative style makes a light, engaging and easy read for us.
Characters strike a chord with the modern urban metropolitan readers especially Mumbaikars with everyday minute nuances(be it the quirky auto drivers or a smooth-talking boss in loveless marriage) and relationship dynamics being skilfully portrayed.
The beginning of the book will not disappoint the aficionados of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ likes, with expressions of some earthy, impassioned rendezvous between the lead characters.
Though it picks up a better tempo after first few pages but the twist after makes it engrossing quite instantaneously.
The author has added some vernacular lingo and famed movie songs to add his personal style. The book is an absolute page turner but somehow I wanted it to end differently. So there I was, a bit gloomy. But what the heck that’s not my novel or my story and the creative freedom belongs to Tuhin.
Finally, what strike me or made an impression on me is the way the story tried to explore the fragility and vulnerability of human relationship. That we are flawed being and with that comes perfectly imperfect relationships, which we agree or not but somewhere have to acknowledge the fact. No relationship is ‘happily ever after’. But then it’s our individual choice to persevere or not.
If all you want is a light, breezy and effortless but wistful read that takes you through that vulnerable, unpredictable, fallible love lane and expose you to the myriads of warm kindled sensibilities, soak into it. You never know after reading this, you might feel lucky enough for what you have or maybe what you don’t have!

About the Author: Tuhin A. Sinha is a best-selling author, columnist and a scriptwriter. Tuhin is widely acknowledged among the most prolific Indian writers with each of his four previous books, The Edge of Desire, That Thing Called Love, The Captain (formerly 22 Yards) and Of Love and Politics breaking new ground in terms of subject and treatment.
He is also a scriptwriter of several popular TV shows. Apart from his fiction novels and scripts, Tuhin is a keen political observer. His columns on Indian politics appear regularly in India’s leading dailies.

[This is not a paid review. The opinions expressed in the review are my own, and remains unbiased and uninfluenced.]

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Ask the One

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You smoke your life away
A hazy sooty release
for that instant rapture.
Ask the one
Consumed by incessant spasm
Devoured by fear
Of morbid uncertainty.
Of odds in living and dying.
Clutched with chemo
bidding to outrun Carcinoma.
Gasping for one lease,
Or a stroke of luck maybe!

You spent thousands
to have that illusion
called perfection.
The bridge of your nares(nose)
aligned symmetrical.
Another forsaken attempt
to fill the hollowness
of deep recess
gone astray.
Ask the one
Who lost her face,
The divine impression
of her uniqueness,
days until nineteen.
Perpetrated by cruelty
Unaware and unknown,
An attack acrid –
Harsh pungent reality
she exists and lives in.
Searching for her lost self
With leftover or no face maybe!

You have a portioned bite,
Not much to your fancy
neither upholds your fine taste.
A nibble here and dribble there,
Wide potpourri of savouries
until half picked other wasted.
Food catering to dainty senses.
Ask the one
The one with those
Ever urging growling stomach.
And the one with those
Ever famished wretched eyes.
scanning through the trash cans
every day and most of nights.
Hunting for source of sustenance
shreds, scraps or mouthful
anything will suffice.
Irony of misery in need;
Sharp biting pangs of hunger
even camouflages
filth, muck and sleaze.
And those ever beseeching prayers
amidst the rotting debris,
aching for nothing less than
a morsel of miracle.
Or something edible maybe!

You are as busy as bee.
Hundreds to manage
another fifty to oversee.
Little one came rushing –
overzealous, demanding and gushing.
You term those cry over nagging
and choose to disregard.
And at times uneasy and unwilling
you snort and lash it out.
Those ever seeking
attention and whims
takes a toll on you.
But at what price!
Ask the one
Emotionally barren
And physically depleted.
Feeling duped by nature
arid, abject and dispirited.
Latching to any
tiny ray of glimmer,
Like a drowning man
will clutch at a straw.
Little feet, kisses and snuggle,
A soul as chaste, gentle and raw.
All it Yearns for
A kindred bond and that soulful kinship,
A salvation from days of hardship.
A cackle which may fill
the unspeakable emptiness.
A silly tantrum which will spread
hue to blankness.
Or a chance to be called ‘mum’ maybe!

Life at times become undue and unfair,
Reasons may be many to whine and despair.
Behold and Bethink
The things which you take for granted,
Could be someone’s countless plea and earnest prayer.
Embrace your blessings
Indeed reckon them,
For the ripple it creates
will nourish your wounded soul.
And usher you to the world
of endless possibility out of nowhere.
Or else, there’s always at the least in your life
That One thing to be happy about maybe!

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My Divine

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In the stones
On scriptures
In places
Through rituals
In object
And on subject
I seek
I hope
I dig
I pray
But in vain.
That light
That power
The divinity
That flower
Which blossoms
Inside my concrete,
That flame
Which burns
With each heartbeat,
That faith
with which
even death can’t compete,
That’s my GOD.
My life source
My energy resource
My only love
My sole companion
Who will never retreat(me)
In my prosperity or even defeat.

 
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To my MoonLight

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This one is going to be little personal; that corner of my heart, which has a softer, kinder and warmer touch in my life. Though I am always little jittery about writing things personal, being an introvert. But this kindred bond in my life with that faint, frosty beautiful bluish radiance of calmness and love like a moonlight holds my attention today, to let it out and share. Share what I always wanted to and be glad for what I have or am blessed with.

“Blessed be the ties that bind generations.”

She is the moonlight of my life and will always be, as I mentioned she is that antique little girl, with whom I share a doting bond and an affectionate link. She is my Grandmother, my Dad’s Mother.

Now she stays far away from me around thousand kilometres away. It’s not that I talk to her everyday but once in a full moon. But then when life becomes too demanding, even talking over a phone once a month surely seems suitable some of the time. But she is always there in my prayers. In my that self-made inner circle which consists of few of the precious ones in my life, she stays intact in there, always.

Why it is that I share such an exclusive tie with her? One of my very first early childhood memories, when she was not that old but a middle aged lady in her late forties may be, I remember distinctively how she used to make homemade kajal(modern day kohl) for me and my sister with great attention and care; kind of a traditional secret recipe mixed with pure charm. I grew up applying those on my eyes. That burnt castor oil traces still lingers in my sub conscious and I miss them dearly while applying my neatly packaged smudge free Maybelline colossal today.
As a saying goes in my homeland that applying kajal makes one’s eye appear beautiful. So I thank her today for filling my eyes with beauty; of beauty that encompasses pureness and richness of unconditional love. That beauty which surpasses physicality and reaches eyes of the soul and never smudges.

I always felt myself to be beautiful, though aware I am an average looking person. Somewhere this confidence in me was instilled by the loved ones all through out my growing up. Especially my Grandmother played a major role in this. She has always made me feel that beautiful. She made me believe that I am worth more than what life can offer, through her kind words. Today as a Mom, when I think deeper about it, I know What boost it did offer me being a child, having a belief on myself. So my earnest thankfulness to her to make me face those not so perfect days with the gift of tenacity through this faith that I can do it no matter what. I am always that twinkle in her eyes which shines brightly.

A Grandmother is a Mother with extra frosting.
And those days when I used to return back from my college classes, she will pull me to kitchen and put a succulent syrupy piece of sweetmeat; a mouthful of joy dripping all down my face, quite stealthily avoiding the prying eyes. As it was a big joint family and she didn’t wanted me to be devoid of these delectable relish before it’s been consumed by others. A sign of love which saw no boundary and is all pervasive and all powerful.
Thank you Grandma for imbibing in me the values of what love means which I can pass on as an inheritance; a lesson that you do whatever it takes to ensure that your kids are being loved and nourished.

And her innumerable tales with that warmth in her voice, which lavished my innocent tender years of growing up sprinkled with stardust. So how can I thank you for that priceless archives of imagination and a life beyond worldly that you planted on the seed of my mind in that impressionable years of mine!
Sleeping on your lap under the summer night stars or inside the winter blankets and listening to those inane yet virtuous fables will be treasured in safe haven of my heart ever, forever. And there were times when you fell short of a new story, even repeating the same ones still felt meaningful as if some zest added afresh or newness I found which I might have missed unintentionally.

And my gratitude for the innumberable times you stood for me, for against anyone even your own blood if they tried to hurt me in some way or other. Unconditional positive regard is rarely given by anyone except a very few and that’s what you offered me by trusting me effortlessly.

A grandmother’s love knows no distance.
And that special day of my life I was getting married to the man of my dream and you crossed 400 miles to be with me even if warned not to, for your deteriorated health conditions. I still remember what you said,
” How can I be not with my princess in this blissful day?, if I miss this then I will not forgive myself ever.”
And as I am penning these lines down, my eye are moist with tears but they don’t fall for the sheer strength of perseverance that you fostered in me through out the years with instances of grit like this.

And there are one and many more instances like these where you made an imprint on my heart with your loving, compassionate and affable selfless spirit. And I know I am your precious little thing that you will not bargain for anything or with anybody. And if in one line I can presume of what you assimilated on me, then that would be:
‘Never give up on Love’.
And I truly live with this surmise each and every day of my existence.

You are almost 85 now. As you have reached the autumn of your life and years of survival has wearied you down. These days when I call you and you still soak me with your warm loving words and then weep like a child grumbling and protesting why you should not be alive as being so primitive! That your eyes, knees, breathings and whole other systems are giving up day by day and that each day of existence is effortful and filled with pain at this stage of life. I hear but I pray and I still pray that you stay. That you don’t give up now. I know I am self-centerd in this but I don’t want to loose you ever as your love and affection is irreplaceable for me. We should all have at least that one person in our life who knows how to bless us no matter what and that’s what you are to me.

“They say genes skip generations.
Without my final acknowledgement, this piece of writing will remain unfinished and incomplete. I do remember when during one of your story sessions you revealed that how your Mother was a lady endowed with power of imagination and expression. You told me that she was a woman ahead of her generation. In those days of pre independent India, she was a connoisseur of words and literature and a gifted poet. Little did I knew at that point of time, what the word ‘Poet’ meant until I reached my School days.
But then sometimes when I write a verse or a note, and people ardently appreciate my effort or may be my skill, I wonder did my genetic code played a role in this. Surely, I don’t know the reason or have a clue for what makes me the way I am or aids me in expressing the things the way it is that might touch someone’s sensibility. But my heart do feel intensely grateful for what you passed on to me as a legacy knowingly or unknowingly.
“God Bless you My Moonlight, My Grandmother and Wish you Happy 85th Birthday.”

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Love’s labour’s lost…

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Broken jar
Wasted dinner
In kitchen sink.
Shaken bed
Tumbled sheets
Pillows distressed.
Piles of magazines
Never been touched.
The only thing speaking
Is the TV
On the living room.
The only beats resounding
Is the flicker
On the mobile.
Mind just races
While the heart so bleeds.
Broken beyond repair
Love in despair.
Loneliness slumbers,
Unfulfilled yearnings
they are struck to.
Unforgiving hurts
they cling to.
When destiny mocks,
Trust is tossed.
Promises seems surreal,
And the heartbreak it cost.
Union of convenience breeds
As Love’s labour’s lost.

 
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The Heart of the Rose

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Our love affair with flowers is well known. From offering saffron hues of Marigold for worshiping God to the decorative malas(garlands) made out with choicest of fragrant Mogras and Rajnigandhas for wedding ceremonies, filling the ambience with sweet calmness and craving belongingness and a grand affair to spill over, seems surreal. Even making a beauty statement further, a dainty jasmine flower chain is worn in the hair in form of Gajras(small garland chains) by the bride and some of the dames virtuously, during the ceremony and even on day to day life; Flowers, the epitome of nature’s beauty are surely for real even though ephemeral.

The flowers with its pure exquisite beauty sometimes professes a pristine hope and at times teases the heart with new desire. The queen of flowers is not behind though. Something mystical about it. Rose is a rose is a rose. It’s like an alluring beauty having a profound deepness in it’s belly to be expressed. As if whispering a tale to tell:
“But he who dares not grasp the thorn,
Should never crave for the rose.”
– Anne Bronte…

The story doesn’t end but rather begins here. It’s the tale of a flower-seller and the story of a regular urban girl like you and me, two people from totally different realms of world.
Every morning Ganga, who is almost sixty, will walk down nine kilometres with her chapped, barren feet at a stretch to the nearby highway road to sell Rose bouquets. Those bouquets couldn’t match with the ones which we find in city boutiques. They were not as refined and never did had the touch of artistry unlike them.
Her’s were the bunch of roses knitted together as naturally as they are meant to be; untouched and unspoiled by any. City people and passers-by will pick up those for the bargain they get, as it is half the cost of freshness being offered. At days, she will reap One-fifty Rupees and if lucky may be Three Hundred, which was pretty rare. But then some days will mock her hardships further and she will return home almost empty handed to feed two ever-urging stomach, burden of non-refilled medicines, reconciling with the bare minimum necessities.

It’s been almost seven years that she started this meagre income source after her husband Hari was diagnosed with Cirrhosis coz of excessive liquor consumption and was left partially paralysed. Ganga was married when she was hardly seventeen. At that tender age, only purpose for which she got married was to get three times of meal which her father couldn’t provide belonging to a poor landless tribal belt. Her entire life she was devoted to Hari as she laboured, toiled hard to support him over the years.
It was not like this before as Hari was a skillful young man and kept Ganga well nourished and cherished. Things started crumbling as he fell prey to intoxicant and the days of misery just added bit by bit to the extent that today he lay there motionless, half decayed forgoing Ganga to God’s mercy. Even if childless, the marriage was fruitful as Hari always was a faithful husband and Ganga a true consort.

The month of July this year was falling short of rain. Scattered drizzles could not uplift the brazen spirit longing for rain. That morning when Ganga reached her usual spot besides the highway road, a few minutes to nine, a car halted just across the crossing and a figure walked towards her.
A girl in her late twenties, pleasent and cherubic, yet something frazzled and somber about her demeanour approached. She picked up a bouquet and without any hesitation paid the price leaving no room for negotiation. Ganga felt relieved as the day began with a happy note.

Quite attentively and heedfully, Maya placed the bouquet on the front seat of her car, as if a mother settling her baby gently. As she started driving, her tenacity could not uphold the leftover anguish and her red, tear rimmed eyes dripped with the showers of intense bereavement.
Roses are so special. Especially special are these red ones as those were dearest to Mom, she gasped. Mother herself planted, watered, pruned and nurtured them….these beautiful babies, she used to call them playfully. Roses are God’s best gift to nature, according to mom it was.
“These satin silk petals in those fragile layers spreading along with it a tender, warm aroma is like a magic, which can uplift any wearied heart,” Mother used to confess. And every time she will handpick a few and knit them together and decorate them besides the bed.

And that fine day, when she was just twelve and she saved some money to buy a bouquet for mom’s birthday, and with the gleeful expressions on mom’s eyes, tears of gladness rolled down her cheek, she accepted and kissed those roses and murmured,
“How blessed a mother can be having a girl like you! “
Perhaps that was the best surprise she ever received in her life. Through out the years, Maya knew that her Mother was a tender, sensitive soul just like the Roses. So much so that even life’s natural toils and trials were harsher to her. She was too good, too fragile to be in this jagged world. And just like that one day abruptly, she gave up the ultimate fight; the fight for life and with that collapsed Maya’s affectionate existence too.

It’s been ten years, she lost her and on every birthday of Mother, she would pick up a bouquet filled with brightest of bright red roses and will place it besides her bed, the way Mom used to. Over the years even the pain and agony to bear the loss became a routine.
As if nothing is in our hand. And this ceaseless toil to win, to capture, to gain, to impress, to fight it out anyhow, continues and never ends.
“If nothing is in our hand and we are mere puppets then why this perennial toil! What an irony!” Perhaps that’s what is Life; you eat, you sleep, you love, you work, you cry, you smile, you scream but you live knowing the unknown. Life is hope and to have hope is life.”, she reflected.

But today was an unusual day. There was something about the day. Something hopeful, may be. When she woke up and drifted her bedroom curtains aside, the morning sky looked a little more azure and the birds chirping felt like a sweet Mozart Piano Sonata to soothe a crying newborn.
She was well aware that it was Mother’s birthday today but she didn’t feel forlorn, rather a strange smile flickered on her face and she brushed her fingers across the belly quietly and softly. She knew if alive, Mom would have jumped to glory out of sheer happiness after getting the blissful news.
But truth like roses have thorns and she is not there in this transient mortal world, where she can hug her tight and Mom would kiss her belly and bless the new lease of life to flourish and prosper, which is breathing within her. For where, she can cry her heart out with tears of sorrow as well as happiness clutching mom tight, for one last time.

While driving through the mist and drizzle, Maya made up her mind. She reached where she left from. She went to the usual spot and rendered the bouquet to Ganga. Quite astonished, Ganga was dismayed as she hardly made any earning today. Little hesitatingly, she took out money and offered Maya back her amount.
Maya expressed,
“Do not as these are for you; from me to you. If only anything in this world, these beauties will aptly match the beauty of your soul….a soul which has seen and faced it all valiantly all through and still smiles…a soul liberated.”

All these years she was just a flower seller. But today, Ganga was more than that. She felt like a woman, like a human after all, a sensation which was lost in these many years, within the intricacies of survival and to top that being wretched and poor was nothing less than a sin. Though already wilted after a full day exposure, the Rose still appeared luminous as if for the first time it’s heart swelled and overflowed  with joy for being with a beautiful soul like her. Ganga caressed those delicate petals for once gently, but with her coarse, withered fingers as if it was the most invaluable thing in this world to her. For the first time in life, she held those bunches of Roses on her hand like a proud owner, rather than a caretaker or to say a seller. She smiled at Maya with heartfelt thankfulness.

But then while she was still in that sudden unexpected state of indulgence, Maya scouted her purse and took out a Five Hundred Rupee note and placed it on Ganga’s palm and clasped them intact with her own hands and looking straight deep down to Ganga’s eyes, kind of gaze which pierces through one’s soul, she whispered calmly to Ganga,
” Today is my Mother’s Birthday. She is not with us anymore. I want you to get some sweets for your family to celebrate this auspicious day with me. Would you mind doing that?”
Ganga couldn’t stop the inner battle and sobbed with gratitude and accepted the grant. She smiled and mulled over that finally tonight Hari’s medicines could be replenished.
And saying so, Maya left the place. While walking back towards the car, as the gentle supple drizzles slid down her face and then neck and a sense of repose and feeling at peace sank in, she was reminded of what mother used to say,
“The Rose always speaks of love silently in a language known only to the heart, my dear.”

 

Image Courtsey: The Rose Seller by Uday Narayanan @http://udaynarayanan.com/

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Note: The story is incomplete without this note. Few days back I happened to visit Uday Narayanan’s photography blog ‘Slice of Life’. It’s an work of art with exquisite, impressive shots. To say less, Uday for me is an amazing photographer. Quite playfully, I mentioned on the vivid capture I used in this story ‘The Rose Seller’ to him, that it’s an intriguing photograph and I would love to write a piece on this. Uday gave me the consent for the visual and I hope I gave right words to it with my humble effort. Thank you Uday for having faith.

 

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Humanity Strips

“War is what happens when language fails.”   –    Margaret Atwood

Humanity Strips

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Children of nine and ten
Tender and scared
Frozen in fear
Blood smear.
Weeping anxiously
Terror stricken tear.
The gory witnesses,
With blank stare.
The illusive line between
Life and death,
Promises and despair
Swings unaware.
Is that fair!

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiahs
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Women of twenty and thirty
That look in their eyes
Infused with dread and horror.
Grieving mother
Mourning wife
Distraught sister
No words of assurance
can fill their
loss or impair.
Broken heart
Amidst those wasted prayer.
Is that fair!

Men of thirty and forty
Lost limbs
Numb consciousness
Damaged spirit
Feeding on abjectness.
Hopes shattered
Too hapless to dare
Wounded morale
Beyond repair.
Is that fair!

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiahs
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Death falls from the sky
With bombs, missiles and rocket.
And sometimes comes
Gushing from the street
As a cold blooded docket.
Smells of explosives all around
With drones buzzing
Rupturing the shrill sound.

Trees fall,
Wall collapses,
Homes in debris,
Safest harbour relapses.
Roads desolate
With clothes spilled.
a fractured plastic toy
In middle of a lane
Apathy revealed
Innocence killed.
Multiple wars
With disillusioned mission,
Pleading for life,
Empathy and vision.

They say
everything is fair
In love and war.
We are fallen messiah
In a mission
To salvage and devour.

Conflict becomes omnipresent
Discord and disagreement.
Death penetrates
Hatred resplendent.
Charred conscience
Mayhem creeps
Humanity Strips
In Gaza Strip.
And they say
everything is fair
In love and war
Truth is
Unfair is unfair
You call it
Love or War.

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