The Middle Ground

Over the past 2 decades, among the many Hindu mythological stories, the one I have revisited over and over again is that of Mata Sati. And then Mata Parvati. Although this story is a symbolic description of the journey of the individual consciousness to merge with the Divine, it's wisdom remains inaccessible to most of us if the pangs of our modern love stories do not find atleast some psychological resolution in its carefully crafted nuances. When I was younger, my mind imagined an alternative version with kinder outcomes for beloved Sati in which Mahadev tamed his unkempt hair, took a bath and put on decent clothes instead of his usual tiger/deer skin skirt held up by slithering serpents. In which he presented himself exactly like how Sati's parents had envisaged the husband of their youngest daughter to be. This could have made the proud king Daksha, Sati's father change his opinion about our sky-clad, ash-smeared Bholenath whose residence alternates between the fro...

Emotional Abuse is real and it's debilitating effects can go unnoticed for several decades. Emotional invalidation and manipulation by parents and primary care-givers are of the worst kind for they are often worded as if they are meant for your benefit and well-being. You'll know one day and this knowing will be painful and require time - you'll know by the kind of partners you attract in romantic contexts, your own poor health choices, the weariness caused by a perpetual rebellion, when you are constantly exhausted by all the mental work you take on behalf of people who should care but don't, when during major events of illness or change you reguarly find yourself managing alone, if you are in a state of discomfort when your parents are around alternating between over-doing and exhaustion, you'll know you haven't been loved the way you should have. Emotional abuse by parents can particularly be very confusing for children because of the inherent nature of ...

Sometimes poems about rebellion, equality, unrequited love and freedom are not enough. Kundera's lightness of being, Murakami's nostalgia, Auden's lament about unrequited love, Cohen's blues about infidelity and lust are all glorious but the gentle rains outside remain aloof.  The winds seem to object strongly : “These feelings have been felt, written about , and enacted upon stage till death!” Occasionally the leaves of the peepul plead to be written about : “You’ve seen us dance therefore you must write about what we made you feel!” One sultry afternoon after a short, unexpected shower the koel croons one of its original numbers, clearly approving of the respite that the cool breeze brings. They all seem to whisper, “Write about the things that really matter!” The most exquisite tapestry created by the vermillion Gulmohar petals invite me back to the carefree times of laid back picnics spread on blue chequered cloth with wicker baskets full of jam, sandwiches, scones ...

Dear Champa  The world is tainted by the lies and sins of mankind, yet you continue to bear the weight of Narada’s curse for a single lie you spoke. Fate seems to have been unfair to you, that you should still be punished for a trivial error when Ahalya, Mary Magdalene, Amrapali, Vasavadatta have all been ‘redeemed’ apparently and set free from their humiliations.  The Chameli, mogra and sadafulee, though friendly, simple and innocent, pale in your comparison. They adorn stone idols at temples, the dead at funerals, the barely alive at brothels, you participate neither in the sacred nor profane. When you bloom, your gaze fixed at the moon and stars, there is something about your quiet self-assuredness, that makes one pause for a while and take notice. By embracing your judgment so gracefully and humbly, you set an example for everyone who has been judged and condemned. You became one with the Creator’s purpose for you - to be yourself - fearlessly, unapologetically  May n...

If you are me, you are not a morning person. As soon as you open your eyes in the morning, into your head come rushing the events of the previous night in most spectacular detail, then the events of the past week, followed by those of last 5 years, and finally your whole life — all crunched into a script that you are not interested in reading, delivered so abruptly and so unforgivingly as if there was no other way to orient you and set context. As you calm down and make yourself a cup of tea, all you want to do is dodge but fail, then block and say, “ I know this already, just let me be”. You gradually warm yourself up with light exercise and tune into Guided Meditation with Deepak hoping you’ll glide into the day smoothly, knowing all the while that you are not prepared for the harsh sunlight of the post- breakfast till lunch time period. Each day as the sun sets, he returns your superpowers that he takes without your permission every morning — as the moon rises, the muse returns coax...

I am the Afghanistan that your America has pilfered. I used to be naive before, but since I have understood your cunning I don't trust you. I am the hard work, sincerity and the toil that you crushed and trampled with your cunning and deceit. I am the talent which never saw success because you snatched my opportunity. And so my eyes have become the mirror into which yours can hardly look into. You have beside you a chattering parrot which tries to seek your attention, fluttering its mascara-ed eye lashes and pouting its red beak. You stare outside the window, the least interested while I look on with amusement from the seat behind. If I were with you(instead of the parrot), I would sit by the window; you would want me to, every time. I am that kind of a woman. You waste your time taming a hundred such parrots rather than be with someone like me because between the both of us, I shine. You are definitely polished well, but I shine. I am that g...

(to the loser from venus): let me do the loving while you decide between your options: pretty face or nice ass let me do the reading while you flip playboy pages: plain vanilla with strawberry lips or cocoa butter with choco-chip nips (Shaven smooth or otherwise) let me do the cooking while you regale your friends with phony tales of your bravado (overs pints, ales and barrels of beer) let me do the bread-winning while you memorize match stats (and shag to porn) let me do the forgiving while you cheat everybody in the world let me stand high and haughty (almost like a tree) alone always but never without use unlike you

Seems like yesterday when you'd caught hold of my diary and wouldn't give it back before sneaking a peek. You'd opened the pages where I'd written this: Be the home I return to for laughter  When I turn around let me find you laughing too Be there  to share with me what I lovingly cook up let your heart be a canvass for my colours Let me paint my dreams Be there when I bring home a homeless little baby Help me bring her up. Be my church and my temple Pardon me when I err Be successful in what you do so that I can take inspiration Was that the day when you'd sealed the fate of our friendship? I know the kind of jokes that would make you laugh, that you like to listen more than speak, that you stop for that clandestine cigarette not in front of the stall in front of your apartment but at the one a little further away (although the chances of your mother (who probably knows that you smoke) discovering you smoke are very remote).  I know that you va...

My quest for love is like my longing for sunshine on a day when the sky is overcast with grey clouds and the rain lashes against the windows.  You've left taking with yourself everything that was sacred between us. My Mosul is destroyed, Houla and Herat lie massacred inside me.  I wake up in the middle of the day when the sun will be gone soon.The birds are thirsty and tired from gathering food. The flowers frown at the scorching heat. The sun soon goes away taking with him the flowers and their fragrance, the birds and their chirping, the light and all the glory. They leave me alone in the fog of infinite loneliness to fight with the demons of solitude.  My sighs are still empty, our pipe dreams have turned into stars that light up the velvet night sky. A nail bitten from your little finger seems to have magically flown off to become the moon. The nights of longing remain painful, on the other side of my bed lies the Sahara with its merciless magnif...

Today I decide to break the silence on something that I've been carrying around for 4 years now. I could let this reside within the deep recesses on my heart-mind space without probing it and gently allowing it to turn into other beautiful possibilities. Or I could bring this very personal account to the open in an attempt to trigger introspection in the light of toxic conversations in the name of righteousness, that are steering the national dialogue of our country. If you decide to go ahead and read this - my only request to you is to Look, to simply Look without biases, at the emotions and feelings that this piece triggers through your heart-mind. Whatever arises is allowed, valid and accepted. The hero in this story has a charismatic personality, is well-read about current affairs, fiercely independent, extremely strongly opinionated, has a dry, sarcastic, witty, often mean sense of humour. He hardly ever appreciates anyone in conversations instead is quick to re...

So I went to watch Wonder Woman after reading and hearing rave reviews. The movie lives up to all the hype about the fighting sequences, the costumes and the weapons. It indeed has tear-jerking moments where groups of tall, strong women live and train together, learn sword-fighting, archery and shoot arrows while hanging sideways on horseback. A strong value system based on ability, honour, justice and compassion lies behind the decisions made by these Amazonian women. But I couldn't watch it till finish. Something about it resonated with my general disillusionment with the type of characters women end up playing in cinema. On my way back home, I reflected on what I was expecting to be different in the first ever movie about a woman super hero. Did wonder woman actually break any stereotypes at all? I think not. Here's why : The archetype of a Superman, the first glimpse of which I came across in Man vs Superman, has a set of unique features that our collective fantasies ...

The only bit of reality that has ever made sense is that outside of this earth bursting with billions of humans, there is not a single entity who'll return your smile or say hi or share a drink with you. And the wonder that's keeping the stars apart is how your smile lights up my day, making me forget the billion people, the stars and the universe. There aint no sunshine when you're gone, as I remember that (i can never forget that) teaming millions spend their lives on roads, with wretched hunger in their stomachs, that thousands would repair their leaky rooftops and send their children to schools if only they had a little more money. Kuch na tha yaad ba-jus kaar-e-mohabbat Ye jo bigra hai tou kaam kayee yaad aaye

Ashim had always believed that a divine intelligence existed and that the entire universe was proof of the manifestation of its will. He called this super consciousness, God. So, when the doctor announced that he and Shudipa could not have children, he was unperturbed. If that was God’s will, how could he say otherwise? They drove home in silence. On entering their apartment, Ashim noticed as he switched on the lights, that Shudipa walked straight to the kitchen. Normally she would wash her feet before doing anything. Strange, he thought. Before he could realize, Shudipa opened the refrigerator and emptied an entire bottle of chilled water over her head. “Shudipa!” Ashim rushed to hold her in his arms. “Of all people, why us, Ashim, why me?” she wailed. Ashim forced her to look into his eyes. “Listen to me. You have to believe me when I say this. It is not your fault.” “Then why me? Ashim, tell me one good reason why me?” He hugged her tightly while she whimpered into u...