Questions on Devil and God.

When the devil realizes he is a bad guy, what does he do?
Does the devil become a little better in his own eyes and in the eyes of everyone around after acceptance of his badness? Or is he the devil anyway?
What remains of the God in light of this self realization of the devil?
Is it possible that the devil is not bad after-all or is it being devilish if he thinks of these lines?
What if God made a mistake in judging the devil, being the busy man (?) He is?
Does the devil have self respect? Do we think he is entitled to some?

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How is man bothered anyway.

S & T - I

At 25 you have already made enough life altering decisions, thought Sakshi. But really, "enough"? The life which seems long and short at different instances is nevertheless a continuing affair. So the decisions which follow till the last one, where you are wondering whether or not to the change your will are all equally life altering, she rethought. So exactly when is one OLD enough to decide for himself, herself; she had known, of course these standards will vary for both sexes.

She had been hearing of the honour killings for sometime now. At first in her Social Behaviour classes at the college and she was overwhelmed at the irrationality of the honour saving behaviour which those related by blood could resort to, only till the recent deaths in her conscious present made them utter reality for her. Her mother had been slyly hinting about the possibilities of honour killing in the most educated of families. What did she mean, did she mean us or them? Weren't both the families aptly educated? and adequately HUMAN not to honour-kill. Sakshi was discontent, about the various discouraging factors which one had to accost in a life where one opted for "love marriage". Such beginnings and what possible end. She laughed in her mind. Then laughed again at the possibility of marriage itself.

Things in white and black are good. But at times gray is not the sophisticated choice. Its merely remains a colour people are bound to pick. Sakshi was funnily, for her friends, still single on all the social networking sites, where mentally she could have been married for 4 years now, vouched a close friend from work. Although Tarun would have been petrified of the thought of mental marriage, she knew that he too agreed of the non-substitutibility of Sakshi in his life, which of course was a tiny green pasture in Sakshi's love life, life being an encompassing term. Two years in B School. 5 Before that in law School. They were good and glued. All through Sakshi maintained at home, it was yet another friendship turned closer friendship. But now opinions swelled to part ways: either think of her as a rebel who is going the honour killing way or she is just a little too characterless to be hanging out with random men, not even intending to get married. it was about time she let them make an opinion, black or white, with white signifying no purity at all.

So, Sakshi wondered, which way is the safe way- to be the rebel, open the reality to the acid rain of taunts, drop the camouflage of friendship, howsoever close and face it- "it" to include things ranging from prima facie rejection at Tarun's hands to assaults of potential honour killing OR assure them that hell, she is so not going to marry everyone she dates, a Tamilian Anna at that, naah and therefore be looked down upon as the 'slut'.

She prayed her forefathers to cast some knowledge about her highly coveted class/caste about what was more dignified to be, not to be.

Hopscotch Luck.

Its not a good feeling when you realize that you have finished most of your share of luck in winning hopscotch games. Little did I know I was eating away from my luck heap. I wonder if I should invoke luck on 'this' occasion or not.

Poof it went, before I could follow.

There is a body I know. A mind, I wonder I know.

Some time spent, some money too.Some efforts made, may be meant it too.

Few songs related, I hear them over. Still sound good, though occasion is over.

The unkept blue room haunts me quiet. Are we still on, or is it over quite?

Tear wet pillows are hard to dry. Has exactly our 'thing' really gone 'that' dry?

I had laughed to tears, on Friday right? And now are we nearing, the last rite(s)?

Didn't we hold hands in the rail that night? And mushy phone talks and the other 'goodnight(s)'?

We are still happy, to self I console. But this remains, realization sole.

Oh tell me, how long will my footprints last? Or was that day was indeed our last?

Liberated women do seldom agree,that their soul too hurts when theirs' disagree.

My heart aches much, this noon I say. "And I m pained too", Won't you say?

While you decide what I mean to you, I ought to ignore hyperlinks leading to you?

As judgment I await, if I invoke interest anymore. This is not a Sunday I can take anymore.

It is that way.

Lucy. Like getting tired of the treacle toffees. But you can always stop and begin again.

Myself. That is what the Romans did. They used to eat enormous meals, and when they couldn't eat any more, they took something to make them sick. Then, when they were empty, they began to eat again. But I don't call that being civilized. Do you?

Lucy. No, I don't.

Myself. After all, pigs do that, although they haven't the sense to be sick afterwards.

Lucy. And pigs are not at all civilized.

~ From A Dialogue on Civilization, By C E M Joad.

I feel today like those over-eaten treacle toffees, Roman food and Pig-feed.
Over-eaten, abstained from/repulsed with, good to be eaten again.

Says much about me. Says much about the Romans and Pigs. Says much about eternalness of worth.

The Muffin Letdown.

One rainy evening splashing water, you walked in to Baker's Inn.

There I lay, on the tray, the single Cinnamon Muffin.

They had baked me good, so did I smell, I had swollen to the normal size.

As all say, and so it may, I was worthy of my price.

You looked at me, a rotund muffin, peering through the rout.

I was meant for you, the sweet little thing, my mates having got sold out.

But my master said, as my heart bled, that the last one ain't intact.

The taste I assure, but don't insure, alas, the last one, in fact.

You then had bent, and vibes got sent, running down my baked core.

One close look, all it took, yes, only me you had to devour.

I blushed at your sight, thought of lovely night, as you would savour me with your tea.

On the rainy night, in refracted starlight, your sole companion I shall be.

My happy master dropped me quick, in the paper pouch.

Goodbye Inn, Tumbling in, I let out a happy ouch.

You held me close, next to nose and "Gosh" I did whiff.

Walking back wet, poorer too, as you casted a loving sniff.

You sat on the couch, with the paper pouch, held proudly in your hand.

As your angry Mom, glared at you, your feet soiled in pale wet sand.

She still made you the tea, but I could see, happy she was not.

You would prefer, the home baked pie, with the piping drink she had thought.

You pulled me out, twirled me swift, I was a good eat.

"Her cinnamon would, smell too good, with a little bit of heat."

Mom hardly purred, and inferred, I was the satan muffin.

"On a rainy night, would an act of slight, suffice to take her to bin?"

She then proposed, lets not dispose, but store her for now.

"My dear son, C'mon taste the pie, and tell me it tastes wow.

I won't get time, am growing old, and then I might just die.

With all the love, and fresh apples, won't you prefer the pie?"

You looked at me, I was scared, you told me I must wait.

I m saving the best for later, you told me, as calmly the pie you ate.

The pie was big, so her love, it never seemed to end.

But she did take care, to box me up, to the refirigerator I was sent.

Under the lid, I wonder insipid, as frozen days go by.

May be I should not have been the muffin, that night you got to buy.

A Place Called "Like Home".

The summer that is.

Of intimacy.

Love. Lust. Opportunity. Experimentation. Reticence. Victory.

They intertwined, only after they thanked their stars. Their novice-ness and its novelty to it made awkward moments amusing and mistakes cute. They heaved and sighed alternately and respectively, celebrating union and accepting with equanimity the impending bereavement. Clock was ticking.

"Now this day is ending/ Here we stand to pray/ Thank You loving Father/ For the happy day/ Thank you for the lessons/ For the games we play/ For the other children/Standing here to pray."

A hum of the day-ending prayer at school replayed in her head as she walked past over-cautiously the obviously empty lanes. She could never have snapped off links with her school, their school.

"Bon Voyage Juliet."

-14 June, 2009

Of Matrimony

Holy howlings. Vermillion. Chuda. Husband. Suffix "in-law". Luncheon. Society. Culture. Age. Ripe Age. Self(?)

She had lied on her bed since evening now, not even had changed her wet jogging attire. She had bragged to the dry friends that she had tasted freedom jogging in the rain on the country road!

Recoiling her leg away from the cob-web in the two-month-uncleaned-hostel-room, she stared blankly in to the Obama poster in her room. It said, among other things, Change and Hope. Change was happening, yet may be I should continue to hope, she thought.

She thought about the futility of her 20 years of midnight toil and the pedagogic infliction of academic pain. She thought of herself, and her future. Future was tending towards present. She could not think of marriage at 20. Not a parent sponsored one. Unless of course she thought of eloping, only when the golden marriagable age of 18 usually assumed utmost importance. But, then eloping is not one of those games which is played singly!

Where is thou eloper lady?

Is he hardly ready?

The cob-web seemed to be moving towards her wet socks.

-16 June, 2009.

A Dollop of Emotional Puke; BCC: God.

Its been a bad Saturday for me.

1. I slept and overslept, each time expecting the problem  to poof when I woke up next. And my oversleeping explains whatever happened to the problem. 

2. The persons  in my life are preoccupied. With work and subsequent recreation. And of course, if nothing else boredom, but not me. I feel unimportant.

3. I saw the futility of many activities which usually are associated with the circumstance of being stuck in a problem: crying, cribbing, swearing, indvertent and unconcious fasting and yes, praying.

I have  been waiting for long now for miracles of prayer with no result. I should not have been exposed to that many mythological serials as a child. I over-rely it seems, on power of prayer. And Mr. Williams (my overtly and fanatically Christian School Principal) only worsened matters.

Usually when in hostel, the escapist mantra during college-oriented depression is "I wanna go home", but whats my mantra now? 

Does God read blogs?

I cannot as a matter of right ask for a better future, but why cannot I ask now to be like a past I have lived already?

Why cannot reciprocation in love and relationship come on its own to all like nature's calls? And why poiting out the requriement of reciprocation in all times so embarrassing to me? Why cannot I claim what I deserve, or to me it appears I deserve?

Why can I not like all those others I know of, be at some Saturday Nite party? Why my life is such that I need to a write a depressing blog on a Saturday evening for others to read in their leisure time?

I want to sleep. I want to wake up sorted out. I want to rebelieve in the power of prayer. I want to be normal. And I want to use my writing for better thoughts than to use it as an emotional sink. 

Over.

And out.

Phew?

Amen. (Or should I not be saying this? Have I turned atheist?)

Public Transport and The Fifth Sense.

There are times I sit and fascinate about how he shall make love to me, and think how I would say "C'mon Mark, make me feel like a woman"; and at others I just hate being reminded that I'm one".

I m not a single child and since childhood have learnt to share- bags, pencil boxes, lunch boxes et. al. I have learnt not to be 'clingingly possessive' about my stuff. Having shared my room with a roommate for over 3 years in the hostel, I have learnt to 'adjust'. But then all my experience at adaptation, accomodation, non-possessivenss and adjustment betrays me each time I travel in a DTC!

You convolute yourself, shaming Ramdev, holding with your right hand a point which is exactly 325 degrees from the point where your left hand is, with your feet sturggling to find some unoccupied space enough just to rest the toes. And trust me, life still seems tolerable till you realize that even after such intestinal posture of yours you are unable to avoid the 'touch' of 'that something' on your backside! 

You are scared to complain. The lack of space is evident, but then is such a touch because of the lack of space or hormonal uprising of some opportunistic bastard? Its amusing how people can turn horny at the worst of place. More amusing is the gratification they achieve with tiny offending sexual/ or so sexually secular acts if seen objectively!

In my last such encounter, which courageously of me, was not the last bus journey i undertook ever, 'the man' actually had the audacity to look in to my face and pose a 'how-was-i' look. 

I could only stare back, putting up a face which I couldnot myself crosscheck if actually portrayed anger and contempt. 

What now? Creating a rucus in public transport on daily basis is not a viable option. Grinning  (or even fuming) and bearing such actions is not an option either. All of us cannot afford luxury and allied stress of driving in Delhi, and even if we can why should women alone  give up the option of this particular public transport? This has been bothering me intermittently, each time I come back to Delhi and travel, but it affects many more everyday! 

I cannot end, no matter how much i want to, with a 'ting tiding', 'here-it-is' kind of solution, but then, is there anything that strikes you can be done rather than lofty ideas like pulling such person by neck to the nearest possible police station?

"What could you possibly lose, other than a few cells, if someone pinched your buttock in a DTC bus?"

"Well, I could lose my mind, my temper and my patience, and kill him (or at least stamp his feet to almost death!)."

Facing Life, Death, Reality, et. al.- Between X and Me.

I gaze outside the window and see the Peepal tree dropping yellow leaves. I m reminded of the story Last Leaf by O Henry. I see the mortality of living beings, plants are living beings I was taught, though they do not walk around. Hail Professor Jagdish Chandra Bose, we know plants feel.

I think of my end. I wonder how it would be- one to be remembered, one which would be forgotten, one which will be lamented, or one which would relieve people. I have my life (and here i mean the life as opposed to death) in my hands, I at times think if I could make my non-living more worth-while if I self immolate and die for a cause, not reservation of course. There are better things to die for.

I think of my parents, my loved ones. Their presence, their absence. And their permanent and invevitable and permanent absense, which I know is somehting I might be/ will be accosted with someday.

I rethink. Is thinking of death, my loved one's death, an objectionable/undesirable/unnecessary enterprise? 

X:  YES, because it causes you pain yourself even before the cause of pain arises. Why subject yourself to that? Why can't you just live in present and rejoice!!

Me: But you can't escape certain truths, X. These are truths of life and death. And living in their cognizance is a better way to live than to live in the complacence that certain unpleasant things will never ever happen, merely because they are unpleasant.

X: Are you talking of preparedness to face them? See there is certain inevitablity attached to certain things, these things. But why need to think of them now, when may be you don't really want to get prepared. You dont want to lose the concrete present bliss at hand to some nebulous thought process, which you also know is a passing one, till it actually manifests. So why waste even a tiny time in the pondering over the probability/certainity of something unpleasant happening when that requires you to compromie on is a happy/peaceful present?

Me: Preparedness is certainly an issue. It includes physical preparedness (wills, etc :P) and emotional preparedness. While the former is very very materialistic and does not need explanation, the latter is inexplicable! Its like knowledge, that yes, at some point I might become an orphan, a widow, and then I should not be shattered to death. The cognizance I feel makes you better equipped to face the reality when it comes, even if the present joy might be a little compromised. 

X: Yuck, you are talking of wills and all! Its so economic and feeling-less an argument! And I m sure you want similar cognizance of not only death but other unpleasant realities of life, isn't it?

Me: Yes, it is in fact a dirty economic an argument, as I already said, too materialistic. But then, by challenging this what you are questioning is the entire regime of law (YES I m a lawyer-to-be I am allowed to give law arguments!) which talks of wills, insurance, inheritance etc. Somewhere it is legally recognized that thoughts of death and prior to even evident probability of death in near future is somethign which is at some level even desirable. You can't just bask in the sun of present glee! 

Also, yes the need for cognizance is for other unpleasant things as well! If a mother can knit (read prepares) for her coming child (pleasant things) with there not being zero chance of still birth or unconcious aborption, why can one not have preparedness for unpleasant things. Other unpleasant things, say break up, loss of job, ruining of business. It just leaves you less shocked and ruined when it actually happens. I remember having wept long before my sister'sbidaai thinking of it. But that way I wept lesser when she left, because reality had set in. I guess its mature way to live then being an escapist.

X: So terminally ill Y on death bed should think of how he is gonna die soon? Let the reality set in?

Me: Honey, here it is a different sort of reality. The underlying thing is that setting of reality at some time in future should make acceptance of an unpleasant thing easier, but in this case, what is actually happening is the life, what is left for Y, is getting diffuclt if he is constantly reminded of the impending reality- his coming death! Obviously this is an exception and he should not be doing that.!. Otherwise too, I m not suggesting that you constantly engage with the idea of having to live without someone special, how will it be etc etc. But do not let is escape the back of your mind. 

X: _________.

I run short of arguments to put in from X's side, may be because  I m so convinced with what ME says. Its an incomplete blog, with writer inclined to certain ideology. But this thought, needed mention. Somewhere. Here.

I still continue looking outside the window. Seeing more yellow leaves fall. Its not just botany and plant hormones, its more than that.

PS: Rajen Bali. Just that. Happy?

Kasav's Girl. Michelle's Barrack.

Do not know if women from within burqas are permitted to join fidayeen movements.
Probably she was never passionate enough to show her detestation against Western World and make India learn a lesson like he was. She might have known, that siyasi taluqqat with India are strained, but would she have been happy with his justification of being a freedom fighter?

May be. Women like to see in their men, the patriotic stint, even if with unfounded roots. And of course, discreetness comes as a part of any patriotic mission. "I shall, see a better Pakistan, inshallah. And then, my Azmal felicitated."

The clippings show on NDTV. One circled in red.
"Freedom fighters at a place shall always be viewed as terrorists otherwise. Isn't it? But, why are they calling him Kasav. Another secret he had kept, of being renamed? Do i know him even?"

"Azmal Kasav said he wanted to live, the only terrorist caught alive." The black sheep. Kala Bhed. Not man enough. Seemingly looks of approval of family members no longer last. Each drag of hukka with each repeat of the news telecast, made eyes redder veins more popping out.

Then the polygraph test. Compromised bloated face pictures. Denial by Pakistan of any links. "Where is my Hero? Wasn't he a revolutionary? Was he never in fact was one?"

____________________________________________________________________

Beaming with pride, with Sasha and Maliya on side, she holds for him the Lincoln's Bible. And smiles at her 47 year old kid as he fumbles in repeating the oath. She is the First Lady. But more importantly, Mrs. Michelle Obama.

The smiles, the kids, the wardrobe, THE husband, the media, the speeches, the support, the public displays of affection, the rallies, the midnight brief (only possible!) talks with Barrack, the interviews. The planned course of action towards being the Lady of the House (White House.)

"Does it need a less ambitious woman to be happy for one's husband's American Presidential Victory?"

As on Swearing in ceremony, Barrack gets emotional at the traditional Kenyan Singer's piece, unshowingly of course (I could never read his expressions and have always found just one word to describe it: composed) she siting from behind, places her olive green gloved hand on his shoulder. She is his wall.

Her wedding gown design, Hawaian honeymoon destination, her fashion designer, are sought after. I always have wanted a Chocolate Icecream tasting kiss after i knew her, about her.

____________________________________________________________________

The two women who have strcuk me in the recent times. One hypothetically possible and one could not have been more real. But placing myself in their shoes, i felt the oppositeish.

Well, there has to be an end to every long blog.
At the end of it, its just intriguing and the more i emphathize, the more i get fascinated.

The pride, the knowledge of Your man causing pride, the cognizant lasting pride and the ephemeral confused one, followed by dark shame. The issue of the woman being instrumental in the man's journey to fame, whether concluded or unfinished.

I could be them. Either.

Living In, Wearing Out

The bed is nicely done, sheets are in Persian silk.
But the side table does not have nappies, nor lukewarm bottles of milk.

The drapes are bright red, the cushions the perfect green.
Only a pair of moving morning shadows, not nothingness, its serene.

A wall for our family photos, the showy umbilical bit.
Frozen smiles, captured at a time, while they were still at it.

I love my cane rocking chair, he does not like it much.
We don't have Grand-dads and Grannies, fighting for it as such.

Cooking is always a cake walk, Pasta, Pizza and all.
But it took a Sunday and Sanjeev Kapoor, to teach me Ma ki dal

Dissents are not perennial, but if we ever have a strife;
I get to end it easily - 'Don't shout, I'm not your wife'.

I am happy in my autonomy, my issues, i do decide.
I practically have a husband, always by my side!

We tailor-made matrimony, to keep 'bliss' sans the vows.
No liability, least accountability, as each other we espouse.

A life of chosen conveniences and i m glad I remain a 'Miss.'
Yet as Life in living is perfect, somethings are amiss.

Everyone who has his head held high is not necessarily proud without reason. He could have spondylitis. And proud spondylitis patients manage never to close their eyelids.

First times.

There is pride attached to certain 'first times'(first-timers too!), shame to others and indifference to rest.

Ease.

And my commode-phobic Amma always constipated when she made early morning efforts on the raised toilet seat. Not surprisingly, she thought she suffered from Diarrohea whenever she used the Indian counterpart!

How many lives have you saved/taken?

I have enough unread mails in my mailbox to take part in some contest for the same. Part of it is indolence. The other part, is the fear of facing a mail which requires you to forward it to a certain number of people, if i wanted, for example:

1. A bright love life or

2. Lot of money within the next 24 Hrs (sum usually mentioned)

or if i wanted to avoid,

1. Extreme bad-luck for ages or

2. the death of someone which is almost certain unless i forward the mail to all those on my address list to contribute in the mail-chain-money-pool-in drive.

The first three rather being pleasantly and futuristically speculative (money and true love) or hypothetically intagible (Bad luck), its the forwards under the fourth heading which botehr me the most. I have certain issues with this.

Some say its spam, some say even if it is, are u heartless enough to give in to someone's death just cause you are reluctant to click a few times? I don't know. I feel tormented when i see babies with feeding tubes in their oral and nasal opening. Really. But i still am not inclined to forward them. Almost never. Why but? I do not know. May be too fake to be true. Just to think how many times one recieves mails saying that a certain person has been saved owing to the money raised by yahoo/gmail forwards! Something strangely fishy and sympathetically-unevoking is there about such mails, but nevertheless, as soon as i click on 'delete mail' or 'return to inbox', a little something in me dies thinking of a white ghost whispering 'i died because you never forwarded that mail to your friends.'

Spatial Courtrooms.

Yesterday when i had a choice of letting someone sit on my coveted and cleverly acquired metro seat long before my stop came, i looked at people as they got on different stations, and i put my conscience to work:

"The tall guy in shades and jeans definitely does not deserve this seat, the lady in suit might just, she looks weak, but so am i after a days work! The gentleman in kurta looks aged but he definitely is not a senior citizen ...ah yes then i find my source of gratitude, a woman with a few months old baby with her. She is the ONE i would leave my seat for."

I stood up and ensured i guarded the seat till she walked up till there seeing it having got empty and then realizing i had voluntarily emptied it long before my stop was even near, she shared a look of acknowledgment! Its funny how in everyday life inadvertently we assume role of judges, that too mostly in our own contextual causes. Be it giving money to a beggar, or buying something at the traffic signal becuase you feel the person genuinely, and thats genuinely to us, needs money. This judgmentalism, i don't say is objectionable. But how fair are we being when we assume the position of such moral judges will sheep-earlike wigs over our heads. Its just a thought, needs watering, manures and pruning. But then they all start as saplings...

Marasmus and Photography.

At work. With all the prime-time indulgence websites having been blocked, i googled up my all time favourite National Geographic Photography Contest. The entries sumbitting time is long over. Sadly so. But then its just an observation i made while voting in for the top thirty photos. Poverty appeals much more than affluence. Is it planned? Is a malnourished dying Ethiopian essentially a better (read Winnable!) subject than a pot-bellied marwadi. I was falling for the trap, i was planning how i would click such 'appealing' pics and ensure that my computer doesn't crash enxt time!

Its weird. Poverty never ceases, but people win just from depiction of the status quo!

Sector 13.

The feeling is not novel. Racing against time. Its now or later, of course not 'never'. You sit all through the exam expecting to remember the answer, that one word, that one thing missing in the formula, was it sin or cos, just wishing divya -budhhi to dawn on you for a while when u just get it! And then its the end, you are tying answersheets, hearing threat calls of examiner leaving hall without your answersheets and suddenly someone from behind whispers, "its cos". You turn back saying 'hai na' with the 'i knew it, i felt the same' look and turn back to finish the exam.You finish it and are contnent to end an otherwise awsome paper which would have been left incomplete without that 'cos', that one word, one reminder.

The same feeling. Nearly same. One shared longing. One idea. One memorable day. and it all happens on sector 13. Its unfair to those who read this and cannot make any sense out of this. An incomplete but probably a well introduced story.A potential movie script? Whatever! Where the hell are the parallals between the exam thingie and sector 13, but then do not i owe something exclusive for my regular reader(s)? Exclusive to their understanding...

I could have written a mail, scrapped, smsed, but i want to write for him here, coz even as this remains something of which memories lies between us, the understanding of which remains dually exclusive, i want to shout out about the happening of the same, and yet discreetly, and still i m being open, but how can i not be? don't you tell people when you decide to get married, but this is not close to it.Most definitely, not as yet! or is it not?

Period. I'm confused.

Let me unwind. Untwirl. Untangle.

It should suffice to know, that my contentment arrived newer levels at sector 13. When i say now that i do not care for interpretations, giggles, chuckles, sighs that might follow from those who have a tiny knowledge of my personal life, i mean it. End.

Thank You proofreader.

"Dwarka Sector 13 Station. Please mind the gap."