Baby, you make me sing!

It is amazing how a little human being with tiny feet, pink cheeks and hair like strands of silk, can make a singer out of anyone.

The beauty of singing for a child is in its spontaneity. You have no idea whatsoever of what you’re singing; you just start ‘la-la’ing off to make the baby stop crying. And when it seems to work, when the frown is gone, and the eyes shift focus on to you, or close peacefully in slumber, you suddenly realize that the gibberish you sang was really a tune. And you sing it again and in loop. Right then, at that point, you become a singer. No matter how harsh a voice you think you have, when the baby in your palms will start to cry, you will sing. And that song will be the most beautiful, because you will have no idea of where the song came from, and you will want to sing it again and again, just to re-experience the joy of having relieved the divine little being of its restlessness.

And the roots danced..

I rode to work in a vintage Indian chariot today.
Or at least, that’s how royal I felt in the cab.

The old cabbie was no extraordinary driver, the cab wasn’t a luxurious sedan, nor was the weather any better than yesterday. Continue reading “And the roots danced..”

His soul. Not for sale.

In the car, I made a bubble with a bubble gum. On the street, he made a hundred with his bubble guns..

He didn’t sell any bubble guns, but he beautified the scene… And just as the traffic cleared, and I saw him walk by, I saw his last bubble.

And I burst mine.

Freedom from…conformity (The Life Laboratory)

If only we all took pride in thinking for ourselves.

And did not weave our entire lives in order to conform with what has been thought for us.

What if we could envision that this whole world is one big laboratory, the ‘Life’ laboratory, where each of us is born, and we conduct our own experiments, have our own little accidents, and come to our very own findings before we leave the laboratory, just as empty and wonderful as it was?

Continue reading “Freedom from…conformity (The Life Laboratory)”

The Song of the Sufi

A huge, wide center-stage. The faint smell of jasmine and incense wafting in the silent air.
Men dressed in white, wearing white laced-caps, seated in a wide semi-circle.
Each one of them has their eyes closed, and the men in the centre
are seated with instruments before them; a tabla, a harmonium,
and then a couple of singers who hold their heads high and gaze within themselves with closed eyes;
breathing deep, before the first song of prayer and celebration is sung out from the depth of their hearts. Continue reading “The Song of the Sufi”

Fighter. Pilot.

If you were ever 24, what were you like? I’m sure you were free-spirited, rebellious even, giving your dreams a wild chase and having the time of your life in every moment of it…

When Captain M. P. Anil Kumar was 24, he was a young man of many dreams, a fighter pilot, flying high, gathering accolades, having the time of his life.

Years later, on a bright Sunday morning, I was an ambitious college girl, walking across the huge lobby of the Quadraplegic Center to meet the young man. Continue reading “Fighter. Pilot.”

Why so kinky?

Day in, day out, I see women who treat themselves like a mannequin that has to be displayed outside a kinky dress shop.

They put on clothes that they know don’t complement the workplace nor their own personalities. I see certain women wearing bridal sarees to work every day, and some certain others look like there’s a disco area on their floor.

The multi-layered ‘twilight-white’ make-up, the unruly open hair. Such folks can’t seem to step off from before the mirror; and they derive assurance of their beauty from the looks people throw at them, and from the sweet lies of their submissive friends.

I wonder why women treat themselves this way. Why they throw themselves over to get attention. Why they don’t give themselves, their natural, unpainted, unpolished selves, a chance.

I’m sure most of these certain women would look beautiful if they did. At least they would hurt the human eye a little less.

In 50 words: Post 2: Woman

Life is war. You wake up, and raise your shield against the world.

Protect yourself from every man you see. Trust no one. Carry pepper spray.

Watch the gory news. Be scared. Overdress. Look serious and suspecting. Get home early. Cook.

Woman, you change. You adapt. Yet you bleed unnoticed.

Champion’s cup

The yellow coffee machine was at one of its busiest days, and was grinding its 50th chunk of beans, while two men stood waiting, their shiny right shoe tapping impatiently, and their perfumes conflicting. The darned coffee machine gives you too many thought-free seconds to stand through. Or for some of us, thoughts drag themselves in, anyway.

“Don’t give me that look that mocks the look on my face.”

“But it’s the ‘we-fought-again’ face. Your eyebrows are wiggly. How can I not mock that?”

“Haha. So now the expression is so common that it even has a name.”

The wiggly-eyebrowed man stepped aside with his full white company-merchandised cup, the froth of the cappuccino dancing on its brim. The coffee machine looked relieved. It was one of those cups he wasn’t very fond of. It was company merchandise. How attractive can one expect it to be?

The other guy placed his cup on the dashboard, and the machine rumbled and gushed to fill it up in like it seemed to have been waiting for that very cup all morning.

“I’m tired, man. Don’t you ever get tired of these stupid mind games women play?”

“Not me.”

“Oh, don’t tell me. You’re the one who says you’re wife’s a hard task master.”

“Yeah, well she is. But we’re good. Hell, we’re more than good! See, Sabrina knows how obsessed I am about work and about ‘winning’. So if I want something, anything, she makes me have to win it. And usually, eventually, and I’m quite sure it doesn’t come to her as a surprise, I win. That way, I’m happy I won what I want. And she’s happy coz the winner….is….her’s!”

“Yeah, but what when you don’t win?” which is usually the case when it comes to me.

“Then she does! And I get to be the lucky…owner! And besides, women are contagiously happy when they win. Especially against a tough guy. Then they’re on fire, man! I mean, they’re sweet, caring and…ravishing at the same time! So trust me, my occasional loss is more than compensated. You should try losing up sometimes, you know! Incredible results. Gotta go.”

As the man walked, the wiggly-eyebrowed friend looked enlightened.

You know what I love about that man? When he talks, life doesn’t seem all the trouble it is.

The coffee machine looked in usual awe at his briskly walking hero.

You know what I love about that man? When he walks, the froth at the rim of his cup doesn’t dance.