I write so I can breathe. I am constantly evolving, mindless at times, frustrating even perhaps but heck, I wouldn't change the smell of freedom that comes with writing.

Friday, February 27, 2015

The Dilemma of the Round Roti

2 comments:
Really? When I was told by a friend that is what #Indispire topic for the week is, I said "Whaaat?" Yep. That is what I did. I was greatly amused and I sat smiling and wondering what to write. What does one write about "Do round rotis taste better than non-round ones?" My mind wandered. I realized that I hadn't seen the round of a roti for ages. In short, I hadn't cooked one for ages! The last I had a roti was...well, not in the recent weeks at least. For a Punjabi, that amounts to ages. 

I sat mulling over the realization even as my dog Nike looked on reminding me that he had not had one either. (He likes to be involved and absolutely loves parathas!)

Sure enough, this morning, I woke, quietly ignored the easy cooking of rice and opted to give my meal for the afternoon a little effort and make roti instead. A TV show by Vikas Khanna where he sits in a Ratnagiri kitchen watching the Puran Poli Aunty make perfect round ones flashed in my head. I love puran polis (slathered in ghee...Sin! Utter sin I tell you!). You get the drift.

Making plain rotis would be easy but I got more adventurous and boiled green peas to mash it with a few aromatic spices and make simple 'round' parathas for lunch instead. They were perfect; round, small, beautifully dotted with green stuffing. I am hungry already but I will wait for lunch to relish them. Would I be hungry still if they were not perfectly round or were shaped more like the map of India or Africa or whatever else? Of course! They would still taste as good, be a piece of art but, no, I would frown if I was served with that in a high end restaurant. Hmm. 

They would look different yes, but they would taste the same. 

Gratitude. You actually went through my ramblings. 

If this makes to a top post, I will be be Indispired to make more. 

*grin*

- Sandy

Friday, February 13, 2015

Freedom's Price

16 comments:
He rummaged around in a frenzy while she watched. Just back from a great evening with a friend, she had been telling him about it. While she talked, he got up, searching for something, asking her questions about how she had felt, where she went, what they spoke about. She happily narrated the amazing evening she had, connecting up surprisingly well with the new friend she had made, telling him how refreshing it was to find someone to discuss literature with for a change. 

At some point, she stopped, realizing he had stopped hunting for whatever he was looking for. He stood a distance away with a crepe bandage in his hand that he had unwound the length of. She had loaned it to him when he had twisted his ankle a couple of days, perhaps a week, ago. 

"What are you doing?" she asked, a sense of foreboding coursing through her veins. The air was suddenly ominous and she hated the fear that crept inside her stomach, an eddy of trepidation that coursed through her and ran her body cold. 

She tried to get up.

"Sit." he ordered. She sat back, petrified.

A pair of scissors in his hands cut the bandage into two. That was however not what stopped her short, choking her breath and intimidated her. It was his eyes, watching her, in a cold murderous gaze while he began to slowly wrap the bandages around his hands, slowly, deliberately, never once taking his eyes off her. She held his gaze, feeling the bile rise to her throat slowly. She was spiralling into a space she didn't want to be in and fought hard to keep her calm.

He had not answered.

"Why are are you tying bandage on your hands? Are you hurt?" she asked again, amazed that her voice came out without the chill she felt inside her. 

"Do you know," he said smiling, eyes still not leaving her, "You wrap something around you and then put on your gloves for boxing? It prevents bruising."

She let go a breath slowly, realizing she had been holding it a while, relaxing a bit.

"Are you going somewhere for practice?" she asked. He was a fitness fanatic and she played around with the possibility even as he spoke.

"I don't need to." he said, stepping closer to where she was seated on the worn-out sofa. "I can practice right here."

She smiled and later would recall the irony of that smile. 

A million stars blinded her as the first punch hit her nose throwing her head back, her neck turning to the side as she realized she was his punching bag. Her face was pounding with the first hit and then came another, which she tried to duck but the punch managed to graze her cheek. 

Oh God! What was wrong with him? Pain seared through while she tried to get herself to stay calm. So far, she had not screamed and she shuddered at her capacity to withstand physical pain. Stop! Stop! Please stop!

She managed to get out of the sofa and ran to reach the door. She needed to get out. This man had gone mad. Her head spun with the shock of it, with the stupefying realization of the reality that the man who said he loved her had turned into a jealous raving madman who was unleashing unfettered violence on her. She needed to get out. 

He swung her around a few meters away from the door. That is when she lost track of the pain. The punches came without a break, her back against the wall he had pushed her to, her ribs cracking, breaking, and the kicks landed on her pelvis and that hurt. It was as if a stubbornness began filling her up. She refused to scream or cry. He did not stop until her legs gave way, and she slid onto the floor, curling up, blood soaking up on her t-shirt, the size of the blotch increasing as her hazy vision struggled to stay aware of what was around her. 

"You went out with a man?" he blazed. 

"I asked you if I could and you encouraged me remember?" she responded quietly, salty blood seeping out from the corner of her mouth. She sat up on the floor, her arms holding her knees and she realized she was swaying, as if singing herself a lullaby. She needed some rhythm to keep her composure. She would not cry. She did not want to give him that satisfaction. It took all of her energy, but she held on. She needed to hear it from him even though she had it figured out by then that this man was insanely jealous that she had gone out with one of his friends for coffee.

"So?" he retorted, his eyes still cruel, bearing down on her, without sympathy at what he had just done to her. 

"This doesn't make sense. It was just coffee!" she replied. Pain was throbbing through her and she dared not raise her hand to even touch her face. It felt ripped apart. She inwardly prayed it was lesser damage than she felt. 

"You don't understand, do you?" he said, a short laugh and sarcasm dripping together. She looked at him then, a question in her eyes, pain set aside for that instance. 

"I own you." he continued. "You will always be my slave and do you know why?"

She waited. 

"If you ever refuse me, for anything, or even so much as look at another man, no man will ever want you. I will make sure of it. I will tell them all about you; every little detail, all of it. If you ever tell anyone I hit you, I will destroy you."

Sitting on the bare floor, cold seeping to her bones, she believed him. With a sickening heartache, she knew he meant it. He was capable of it. She wanted to get out. She needed to find her strength to end it all. 

He raved, ranted, telling her about how he thought she was a cheap whore, telling her about other women he was sleeping with, about how he didn't love her. She believed he didn't. Love is not this. She listened. She made no move. She had been trapped into this relationship, a fly who unwittingly got caught into the spider's web and wasn't able to leave thereafter. It had been months and she hadn't found a way to come out of this clean. She felt dirty and knew nothing could cleanse her spirit. it was that thought that scared her the most. 

Finally he stopped talking, watching her. She sat, staring at him, dead eyes, not giving him a reaction to his endless tirade. 

"Get out." he said. "Go clean up. Not a word to anyone."

She got up, surprised to manage on her own. The cold breeze hit her face as she stepped out into the darkness. It was late she noticed, relieved that she would hopefully not cross anyone on the way back to her apartment. She lived down the street and she found her way into the bathroom, managing to drag herself to the mirror. 

Her eyes remained shut, afraid of what she would see. 

He was right. 

The damage was more internal. Her nose had bled onto the t-shirt and her cheek was slightly grazed. a cut on the top of her nose looked like it needed attention but she would manage that. The t-shirt came off and she could see the bruises forming, below her breasts, a red welt on her pelvis was sign of another injury. She knew they would be blue by morning. All she wanted was to be able to treat her nose without having the doctor ask her too many questions. 

A couple of lies about hitting her nose on the door and falling, she managed to get through the doctor. It had taken all her strength to not squirm, or limp. Broken nose. 

She would have to live with that. It was a reminder to never let a man ever hit her. 

A week later, she walked on the street and ran into him. It had been a week since that night he had broken her nose. 

"Why haven't you shown up bitch?" he asked. "I hope you haven't told anyone."

She looked up at him. "No, I haven't," she said, her voice calm and without emotion. "Isn't that obvious considering you are not in jail?"

He smirked. 

"Also," she added, resolve and strength in her voice, "I am not sure what you will do, but I am dumping you. I am not your slave and I never will be."

His eyes blazed. "Why you..." and he stopped as a group of youngsters passed by. 

"Never been dumped, have you?" she asked, putting as much sarcasm into her voice as she could. "Well then...here is your first."

She did not wait for him to respond. She turned and walked away, head held high, back to her apartment. Her heart was resounding. She thought it would burst. She managed to shut the door behind her as her legs became jelly and gave way. She slid down to the floor, thankful to whatever had given her strength to face him. She smiled for the first time in days. 

She was scarred but alive. She let out a sigh,the dam broke...and the tears never stopped. 

Copyright @Sandy2015










Monday, February 2, 2015

I Am Someone's Soulmate

6 comments:
The belief in a soul mate cannot exist if one doesn't believe in souls, that we are all souls in transit on Earth, each seeking another that will complete us. Even at that, with those who believe in souls, see the existence of soul mates in a different light. Soul mates - of passion, love, friendship, desire, happiness, peace, serendipity, chaos...what have you.

Yes, if you ask me, soul mates do exist. They may not be life partners. But here, how do you define a life partner? Does that person have to live with you under the same roof? Be committed to you? Marry you? Are those people who connect to your soul either way not bound to you? Are they ever away from the depths of your soul? Romance is simply an add on. Soul mates - who are they really?

I am not sure how the world views this thing about soul mates. I can however tell you how it works for me, what it means to me. Is a soul mate really the love of your life? We may never really figure that out. I know soul mates are the eternal source of your evolving into the real you. For me, there is no single soul mate. If there is, I have yet to really be absorbed by that. I have soul mates. Yes.

Let me tell you about my soul mates. They are the people I connect with more than anyone else. They are not just limited to men. These are the people who understand me as perfectly as anyone can; some of them are people I have never met in my life and there is a virtual connect that can put a lot of real relationships to utter shame. These are people I confide in without a second thought; tell them things I wouldn't tell another. Truth is, I believe, my soul is so vast that each soul mate who touches my life covers a part of my life and touches it in a way no one else ever can. Perhaps, that is why there are so many. They are meant to touch a certain part of my life. Perhaps, when all of me has been covered by all these soul mates, somewhere there will be one who I will seek thereafter and know that this is the one. This is theory though, a line of thought I am keeping aside.

Do I tell one single person everything? Is that the basis of qualifying as a soul mate? I do not know. I know there are a few people who I can tell everything to. Do I though do that despite knowing I can? Perhaps not. Soul mates for me come in all kinds. The dark one who sees the darkness in me and doesn't judge me. The positive one who never lets me doubt myself. The pain-ridden one who makes me walk through my pain and allows me to befriend it. The loving unconditionally one that is always there when I reach out. The one that laughs at my silliness and adores my streaks of madness. The one who encourages me a step beyond my own belief. 

The choices we make, the road we walk, the bridges we cross, the pinnacles we stand alone on, the possibilities of someone touching your life is always there. Only, you have to open your soul to it. The soul will seek you. You have to enable it to be sought. Have no fear. The soul knows no fear. Seek not to change yourself to someone you are not. The wrong idea of a soul mate can lead to all kinds of madness. It is true. It is terribly sad.

Soul mates. They belong to everyone. They belong to no one. They will always be in the periphery of your life. They will let you be. They will embrace, hug, cuddle, nudge, push, pull, badger, laugh, smile, sit with you in utter serenity, invoke passions of unbridled love and lust, calm your spirit and hush your tears away. In each friend, there is a soul mate. In each life mate, sometimes there are no traces of this.

All I know is that this is my reality. I am someone's soul mate for sure. Maybe I will not be a life mate. But, a soul mate? Sure!

- Sandy

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Whatever

2 comments:
There is a constant jarring of my nerves, a sense of foreboding, a feeling that things are getting bad to worse. It feels that we are losing our sense of being Indian and becoming petty little items of religion, cast, colour, region and so on and so forth. Pride in being an Indian first has deserted most people I come across.

There is no bigger entertainment right now in our lives than politics and religion. A fly on the wall, that is what the rest of the world is, is indeed very amused by the antics of what is going on in India. There is no turning back the clock, no freezing time...but heck, can't it get to a better highway than it is bulldozing its way forward right now?

Who is a bigger laughing stock? An insecure Modi or self-contained pliant Manmohan? I don't know. I know it is better to keep shut and make people wonder if you are...You know that proverb eh! No, this doesn't make me a pro-BJP or Pro-Congress or Pro-AAP or pro anything. I am a small-fry citizen who simply wants to keep her sanity intact and not want to be terrified of the future of her child in the country India is becoming. 

We mess around with our Constitution, our Fundamental Rights, there is no sight of the Directive Principles that out to guide the governance. We are messing with truths, with untruths, with ideologies covering basic humane instincts, tarnishing childhood innocence with prejudiced garbs of religious beliefs and antagonistic nonsecular emotions. I go back to the lessons learned in Civics and wonder if that was all a dream. I remember memorizing the Preamble. Heck, Have we all forgotten it after having it drummed into us?

We pick on things. Little things. As a citizen and as a governance, we are shameless. There are horrors that overshadow goodness and I wonder what kid of parasites are we to feed on such things and be fed such nonsense. We are quickly losing our identity (if it isn't already lost). 

Could we just have military rule for the next five years and get sorted? Yes, I will gather much chaff for saying so but I know what I am saying. And no, I will not get into a defensive mode trying to explain why, so do not bother. I am simply stating my thoughts and I hate talking to the walls. 

Also...there will eventually be that whiff of rebellion that will make its way to all your nostrils. The cup will run over. Be afraid. Be very afraid. 

- Sandy

Saturday, January 24, 2015

A Friend Called Solitude

2 comments:

Top Post on IndiBlogger

I am a quirky one; weird, unusual in my perspective of life and that adds to the confusion people feel when they encounter me in a conversation. Truth is, when we are very used to clamour in our lives, the things with maximum clarity can confound us to the core. I am an old soul. I believe that. You see, I grew five hundred years old when I was five. That is a pretty young age to be so old. I have my reasons and those who know the inside story know that it was unavoidable. 

Pain can become your friend only when you embrace it in the silence of your darkest hours. The thing to remember is that it is still an hour. It lasts sixty minutes. How long those sixty minutes or even sixty seconds last really depends on what side of the bathroom door you are on. Aye. You got it. 

Being alone became a part of my routine. As much as I long for people to be around me, to be loved, desired, needed, I really hold on to my solitude. It is an integral part of my process of evolving into who I am today and who I will be tomorrow. You see, the greatest clarity has come to me in moments of utter solitude. It awakens you to the fact that you are on an individual journey in this universe. All the souls you meet along the way may be part of your tribe from before, the road may be crowded as hell, or empty with just you walking it, but, the journey is your own. The more you begin to accept your silent moments as a friend the better and clearer the path becomes. 

The essence of Vipassana I am told is about acceptance of this solitude and knowing what to do with it. People get bored to easily. I am never bored when alone because I have conversations with myself, with the silence of the night, with all the sounds that emerge in the dead of the night because our ears become the canvas to the insights we can get when in our own company. Much as I believe in the importance of solitude for evolving, I have my reservations about Vipassana as a retreat to attend. That, is another topic of discussion which I place aside for the moment because that is not my point.

My point is, each of us has our own perspective on solitude. There is a massive confusion between the thin line that divides loneliness and the state of being alone. Loneliness comes with its pangs of longing for anything but being lonely. Being alone is the friendship one has with oneself, with one's soul. It is your darkest depths and the most stellar moments in your life. When you are sixteen, you may not really get it but as one gets older, one gets it...oh well...if you are alone you get it but if you are lonely, that ain't getting to you at all. It is simply a different perspective, a different experience.

My life's biggest insights have come to me in solitude. 

To each his/her own. 

- Sandy

Corrosive Tunes

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Cold grips, hands on window sills freeze
sliced into paleness and black
moonbeams cut through darkness
in a dance alluring, each move a tease

Nights hover, a thought hangs in despair
kohl-smeared, my eyes burn to light up
spinning my world within unknown tantalizing dreams
Oh free me! This bondage feels unfair!

A prisoner, embracing life's every pain
Come life embrace me!
Shadows on the walls, jeer me in the face
Nothing have I to lose, nothing have I to gain!

I gathered strength, on eyelashes kept them cocooned
Hidden from the ravages life threw on me
Rains fall now, draining the courage away
On a lonely island, here I am marooned

Gone are my dreams, he took them with him
Rushing away in tiny paper boats, struggling to swim upstream
A lifeless form imprisoned, alone and torn
Drowned in the laughter of the maniac's every whim

Now seeking a rhythm divine
Away from the cacophony of mind's corrosive tunes
A soul, bereft of love and solace
O Lord, awaits to be thine!

Copyright @Sandy2012

Friday, January 23, 2015

Darker than the Shade

1 comment:
He brings her hands to touch him. He groans with the feel of those tiny hands on him. It makes him harder. She is sobbing, “Please, let me go. I don’t like this game. I hurt. It is paining me. Please…”

He hugs her and tells her, the game is just begun. She will enjoy it, soon.

The next few minutes she burns, hotter than the tears that flow down her eyes, the pain is extreme and her muffled screams remain thus, his hand clamped over her mouth. He is making noises that drown hers. She is afraid of him. She has never been in so much pain or terror.

It is over.

She cowers as he stands up. Her body coils into a ball, shivering, whimpering. He pulls her up to rise. Her legs give way and she is unable to move. He lifts her up and takes her to the bathroom. He bathes her, the water cold, humming a tune, blissful. She can barely breathe or stand. She sits quietly while he dries her and changes her clothes, carries her to bed and tucks her in.

“Now sleep.” He whispers, “This is our secret. Do not tell anyone.”

She stares at him, eyes blurring.

“I will tell Mommy.” She retorts back. He laughs.

“Nobody will believe you.”

The doll sat there on the shelf, eyes unblinking. The doll that stayed with her over twenty years, unblinking, bald, without clothes on, until she finally gave it away. The hairless doll knew her secret. She was the only one who she spoke to; little insensible monologues of guilt and pain…

As for telling anyone, he was right.

He was right. Nobody believed.

Copyright @Sandy

(This is just an extract of the complete short story. It is graphic and I have shared only what can be shared here keeping in mind the readership.)