The Common Man

I'm raped
By those that swore to protect me

My inside pulled out
By the hands that fed me

I'm hurt
By those that promised to care for me

I look for a friend outside
I search an enemy within

I find neither
Friend nor foe

I stand here
Naked
Hungry
Bleeding

I struggle to survive, in life
I look for dignity in death

I am the common man.

Do we really need to have goals in life?

Yesterday a friend asked me, "What is your goal in life?"

"I don't know", I said.

"You must be having some goal..", she said, with a tone of incredulity in her voice.

"No. Why is it important to have a goal?"

"How else would you know where you're going?"

"Why is it important to know where you're going? Why can't we just enjoy the ride? When we do decide a goal, or a destination, we're going to fix a time line to get there, and a route..and all along the journey, we'd be too focussed on when and how we will get there, than actually enjoy the ride. Isn't it important to enjoy the journey, rather than worry about where you're going?"

"Yes, but still you need to know where you're going, don't you?"

I started my life with my parent's expectations. They had a goal for me. After 17 yrs of living their goal, I asserted my own - in my choice of higher education and career. After 12 yrs in that career, after experiencing both success and failure, I now am stable in my career, and yet am pushed by myself to break some new frontier. Thus, I am trying to involve myself in something which is related to my experience and training, but may just mean losing everything I have to satisfy my entrepreneurial skills. I have done that before. And failed. And want to do it again. Maybe I will succeed this time. Maybe not.

Lets presume I do. I pursue it for another five, maybe ten years. After that, or during that, some unexpected turn in my life makes me change gears - could be love or any other life-changing experience - and maybe I start another career.

What then of my goal? What I wanted at 17, I dont want now. What I want now, I may (No! I'm quite sure, I wont) want after some years.

What would I have achieved? I would lose my life chasing a goal, achieving it and then realising this is not really what I want.

Do we enjoy realising a goal? Or does that just leave us empty and wanting more?

Wouldn't we be better off just enjoying each moment, because the future is going to change, whether we like it or not, and we don't know how. Yes, we can plan. But when we do that, we make the plan with certain assumptions, and each of those assumptions is like a rope which ties us down. It blocks our capabilities, vision and imagination.

I may plan. And I may achieve it. And I may realise that this is not my calling.

So, I'd rather not have a goal for my life, and enjoy this journey - bitter sweet, sometimes salty - and not worry about how and where am I going.



Bon Voyage !!

Being Unconventional: The new convention

Just the other day, I was tuned into one of the FM channels. The RJ was talking to some artists, who’s achievements though mentioned, she wasn’t willing to be specific about. The topic of the discussion was – whether the listeners had changed their careers after a significant number of years in it, to pursue a dream.

During the course of the discussion, a lot of the listeners called in with their experiences. How the society, parents etc had forced them to move away from their creative/alternative pursuits into a job/career that they didn’t like and how they longed for it.

At one point the RJ said, that there seems to a trend now in the society wherein people are giving up well-established careers in the conventional areas – finance, engineering, management, medicine etc – to take up their passions. Restaurants, photography, art, theatre etc seem to be new buzz words.

That set me thinking.

Has it now become a convention to be unconventional? Earlier, say in the 80’s and the 90’s, anyone who didn’t do an MBA after his/her college was looked down upon. The conventional areas – MBA, medicine, engineering – were considered the “good” careers and anything else was considered a waste of time and effort. True, there were always rebels, but they have been there since the birth of civilization!

Today, in 21st century, the movement seems to be towards. Anyone who after years of having enjoyed the fruits of his “conventional” job, decides to change gears and “follow his heart” is looked up at. Conventional is suddenly boring.

Its “in” to be different. So much so, that “being different” has now become commonplace. Everybody wants to be “different”.

This reminds of the famous Maggi ketchup ad, where the guy asks – “Isme different kya hain?”.

Are we striving for difference just to have that tag of being different because it is “in”?? Just as a couple of decades ago, we were getting a MBA to be part of the “in” crowd?

I wonder.

Till Death Do We Part....

I

I looked at her lying peacefully in the bed. I smiled. She looked like an angel. The weathered skin, the pain and suffering of our struggles that had become permanent wrinkles on her skin….all could not hide the fact that she must’ve been, and still was, a strikingly beautiful woman. We’ve been married for almost ten years now, and I loved her more everyday.

As I looked at her, lying there, her eyes closed, I felt the same surge of emotions as I had the day we first met.

II

I had gone to the repair shop to collect my pickup, and she had been shopping in the opposite grocery shop. I’d seen her before. She stayed about three houses from mine on the same row. Mom spoke occasionally about Mrs. Mason and her daughter. So I knew that she’d just come from town for her spring break.

As I came out of the repair shop, she stepped out from the grocery shop, and was contemplating, I presume, on whether to take the cab or to walk it home.

She was stunning. Picture perfect. Long flowing brown hair, under the straw hat, with a daisy printed long dress, ending in strappy sandals – all of which looked expensive, brought probably at one of the designer stores in the town, that were all the rage currently.

I hesitated. I was a little ashamed of my battered ol’ pickup and put against her crisp clothing, it looked even more ancient. Mustering courage, I swung towards her side and jumped out.

“Hi….err…Ronald Green, from 216”, I said introducing myself.

She looked at me, a strange bemused indulgent look on her face. I felt like kicking myself. How could I ever even think she’d be willing to talk, let alone ride with me home !!

“Hi, Sue Brown”, she replied.

“You live in 210, right? I thought I’d seen you about…”

“Yes. What brings you here?”

“Came to get my car. Can I drop you somewhere?.” I asked.

Sue got in, and within a few minutes we were chatting away like old friends. She was easy to talk to, not having any of the airs that city girls were supposed to have.

For the next three weeks, during her vacations, we met almost every day. We would go for long drives, picnics by the river, butterfly hunting, or just stand on the edge of Ranger mountain, looking down at the picturesque view.

When she came back in December after completing her studies, we had a quiet wedding in the local church.

III

We had a simple, happy life. Even the fact that she couldn’t ever conceive, come between our love. We loved each other, and that nature chose to take from her the pleasure of motherhood, never bothered me or changed my love for her. It was just like in the story books. Boy meets girl. They fall in love. They get married. And they live happily ever after.

But real life is not like stories, and we did have our ups and downs. The only down in our wedded bliss was named John Marshall. He was the only mistake Sue ever made.

He was from the city and had come to our sleepy town to invest in some farmland. One of my friends, who moved to the city years back, asked me to help him and I did. He was suave, educated, handsome, rich – everything that I wasn’t. He knew the different wines, had traveled over many countries spanning all the continents known to man and was well-versed with the art of charming women. I was no match for him. I, however, being the simpleton I was, never suspected anything.

Until that fateful day, when I came home early from my weekly visit to the vegetable market, where I had an unusually nice customer who bought my entire produce. I walked in on Sue and John kissing in the bedroom.

Sue was devastated. The sight of my shotgun was enough to make John disappear from the town forever. Sue repented every action, and swore that the kiss was all that happened between them, and that she tried, but was unable to prevent herself from falling for this man, and that she loved me forever, and that she wouldn’t even dream of any other man.

We decided to shift from the town, and moved to a place very far. No one knew us, no one knew where we were, and there were no neighbours for miles.

IV

I believed her. I believed her that day as much as I believe in her today. She was after all my love, my wife and what is love if not another name of forgiveness. I knew she would never repeat her mistake. I made sure.

And as I looked at her lying on the bed now…just as she had, on the same bed, after the fatal milk she had. I had poisoned her slowly with arsenic from the fly paper I bought from the market. It took three years for her to die, slowly as her health deteriorated. I loved her each day that she lived and after she died.

Since that day, she lay there, as I watched her die in her sleep. And have watched her ever since…I had to complete my vows.

Till Death do we part.

Gunaah

These are some verses I wrote on Sin and reflect on different aspects of it....


Mujhse na maangon mere gunahon ka hisaab
Har saas ek gunaah hain, us ek gunaah ke baad

Gunaah ke baad humne ki gunaah ki yaad se tauba
Kyon lauten unhi raston pe jinhe chod aaye hum

Humse na maangon hamaare gunaahon ki tehrir
Samay bhi kum hain, kagaz bhi, syaahi bhi, kalam bhi

Qayamat hogi toh dena hi hoga gunaahon ke hisaab
Abhi zindagi baaki hain, gunaah kuch aur karne de

Chahte hain woh ki gunaah hum apne kabool karein
Kaise tumhaare naam ko hum yun rusva karein

Kash tum itne massoom na hote
Kash humne koi gunaah na kiya hota

(c) Asheeth Manu

The Assasination

I

I checked to see if the hair was in place. The salt merging well with the pepper. They had to be in a perfect disorder. Fixing the wig carefully in place, I observed that the wind-blown look presented a careless countenance.

The beard and moustache came on next. They were the same colour as the hair on the wig. I wondered if Rane shaved these off some sadhu who died in the previous night’s stampede in the Mela ground. The thought of wearing the hair of a dead man was not necessarily comforting. But I also knew that it was very critical to be authentic.

If left to me I would've probably grown my hair, bleached and dyed them. But there just wasn't enough time.

The saffron dhoti was neatly wrapped around my waist, the saffron dupatta and blanket on my shoulder and assorted jewellery around my neck and arms, I looked into the mirror for the last time. Perfect. I needed no finishing touches.

I picked up the kamandal, suitably filled with all I would need and I got into the jeep waiting outside.




II

The ground was overflowing with people. There were people everywhere. Sadhus and devotees. Cops and crooks. The divine and the learned. The privileged and the unfortunate. The rich and the famous. The seekers. All here for one reason: To hear the great Swami Pradhyomkar Nath Ji in person.

His rise to fame had been meteoric. Hailing from a simple family, no one had heard of him till about 10 years back. Then, he started his famous Karma Samadhi meditation technique and his band of followers increased manifold. At first in his home town and then across in India. And before you could say Swami Pradhyomkar Nath Ji, he was revered overseas as well. In every continent.

The rich and the mighty were humbled by his simplicity. The poor and the downtrodden found strength in his magnificent presence. His word had the power to make or break governments, change the tide of public opinion on any cause. He was, for most, the true and only re-incarnation.

Inevitably, there was unprecedented security. It was difficult to make out if the devotees outnumbered the security personnel. More so, if you did not count the devotees amongst the security staff.

Suddenly, there was a cry.

"Prabhu aa gaye (the lord is here).

And with that, the teeming mass of humanity came together as one. Silently. In deference to the only God each of them knew. And, they turned to look in the direction of the Lord.




III

I stood close to the podium. My disguise had worked. I was closer to the stage than any common man could've been. But then, sadhus had an advantage over the common man. And my disguise helped me wrest that advantage.

I positioned myself carefully under a Banyan tree. Its hanging roots gave me just the kind of cover I needed. Then again, I had undertaken a recee the previous week.

The stage had only one seat – and He would take that. Everyone else stood/sat away from the stage in order of reducing importance. Business badshahs, movie moghuls and the political princes along with select God-men and sadhus occupied the closer enclosures. The common man occupied the enclosures farther away from the stage. Seeing the select circle that this was, I appreciated how well Rane had managed to get me into it. But all had to either sit or stand on the ground. There were neither special chairs nor sofas for anyone. Only He could get away with treating the mighty like the common man.

As the murmur went up in a buzz and was followed by the silence, I turned to see Him walking to the stage. He took his position and soon enough the gong declared He was ready to start his Samadhi. Everyone sat down or stood with his/her eyes closed.

His gentle voice mesmerised everyone, including the security staff. Everyone but I. My eyes were open and I was watching him intently. I put my hand inside the Kamandal and moved it in front of me.

Even if a security guard were to have his eyes open, he wouldn't bat an eyelid when a sadhu raised his kamandal.

Everyone would turn to their right when the gong sounded the next time. With their eyes closed. He would so the same. And He would be facing me.The man standing next to the gong raised his hand.




IV

“Uff,” He said into the microphone placed around His neck, connected to the public address system, which was entrancing the populace.

No one took heed of that coarse whisper. The sound of the gong had drowned his last cry.

They waited for Him to continue the Samadhi. No sound. Silence.

“Prabhu!” The shout came from near the stage. Someone had opened one’s eyes.

Chaos was unleashed. Pandemonium. He had slumped on the ground. With a small hole on his forehead, his clothes getting a warm coating of red.

Everyone started running, shouting and screaming. Some got trampled by the scurrying masses. Security rushed to surround the stage and doctors carried Him on a stretcher to the ambulance nearby. But it was too late.




V

As I distanced myself from the chaos, I smiled and dialled a number on my mobile.

“Kaam ho gaya (The job’s done).”



(c) Asheeth Manu
12 May 2006
2010 hrs

Deathwish

I


I stood on the pavement, like I had for the last two weeks, watching the vehicles go past. Everyone was in a hurry to get somewhere. There were few vehicles on the road. Mostly, trucks, as they are allowed to enter the city limits only after nine. Around eleven, their numbers trickled down, and their speeds went up.

I looked around. There was no one. A car zipped past. People do tend to drive faster at this time of the night. There is a feeling of invincibility as you drive on the empty roads.

In a distance to my right, I could see the lights of an approaching truck. There was no other vehicle in front of it, and none for quite a distance behind, as far as I could see. It seemed to be moving fast, as I could soon hear the dull roar of its engine become louder. Another minute or so, it would be right where I was standing.

I stepped forward - in its path.




II


Wiping off his the remnants of a hearty dinner from his moustache, Kartar Singh, rose from the hand pump with a loud burp. It was a signal that he was satisfied with his meal. Not burping would have left him feeling incomplete and troubled.

“Oye, Rakesh, chetti kar (Hurry up),” he yelled out to his helper, holding the handle, and pulling himself up on his driving seat.

“Aaya (coming), Sardarji,”

Then with a small prayer to the Guru, he started the truck and eased it forward. Rakesh ran after it and got in from the other side with practiced ease.

Kartar looked at him. Nice kid.

He looked at the highway in front of him. It stretched out for miles. It was dark, except for the headlights of passing vehicles, or the odd dhaba or cluster of houses. It was only close to the cities that some signs of streetlights were evident.

He loved entering and exiting cities. For him it was like going through a well-lit tunnel. Darkness before. Darkness beyond.

Tonight was the last night of his journey. Two more cities to cross and he’d be home. He was weary, and his body ached from four days of almost continuous driving – barring the breaks for food, water and ablutions and the four hour naps they took during the evenings and early mornings.

“If I speed up just a bit more, we could be home by six,” he thought to himself, thinking of Rano’s paranthas and her loving eyes as she would watch him tucking them in. He felt the weight of his foot press the accelerator closer to the floor.

In the distance he could see someone about to cross the road. “He would be on the other side by the time I reach him,” thought Kartar, honking a few times, just to make sure his presence was announced.




III


The truck was about a hundred odd feet away when I stepped off the pavement and walked in its path. I moved slowly. Another few moments more and it would be all over.

After a while, this quiet road would be busy for a while, as cops, other vehicles, concerned citizens, drivers, helpers all would gather around to see my mangled body. The cops would make a “panchnaama”, the poor driver would plead ignorance, his owner would probably pay off the cops and deduct from his salaries for the next few years. Maybe he would even have to work for free. I felt bad about that. I’m sure he had a family to support. I brushed away the thought. The next morning paper would have a small item, tucked away in a non-descript corner, on a non-descript page, mentioning a man killed by a truck. Or maybe there wouldn’t be a mention. After all thousands die everyday, hundreds in road accidents across the nation. Who has the time to report each death?

Thousands die. Yes, aren’t they lucky? They die when they want to, when they don’t want to, when they least expect it. But they die. Not like me.




IV


Kartar saw the man starting to cross the road. And suddenly, as in slow motion, Kartar saw the road swing to his right.

“SARDARJI !!, sambhal ke (Watch out!)” Rakesh screamed.

Kartar swerved the truck but could not control it. The road had suddenly become like his Rano’s back. Smooth…just too smooth. The truck spinned out of control and hit against the big tree on the other side. There was a sickening sound of tyres screeching, grass shattering, metal crunching and in few seconds it was over. The tree groaned under the impact. And then stood silent.

The road was silent. The night was silent. There was no noise from the truck. All silent. I turned and walked back home.

My deathwish had come true.

Everybody hurts...

Everybody hurts. But, how people react to that hurt and loss defines who they are.

There are two types of people - one, that hurt and keep that hurt within themselves, letting it eat them slowly and in time, forgetting it...till only a skeleton of the the event/person is left in a corner of the unconscious memory. The other, let the hurt out...telling everyone about what pains them and how it pains them.

Most people think the former are stronger and the latter weak. I think its the latter who are stronger as each time they tell another person of their hurt, their loss - they are making sure that the wound causing the hurt is re-opened, exposed and made to hurt all the more. It's almost as if the hurt keeps them alive. It's that pain that gives them a feeling that they are alive..that life, despite its efforts, has not been able to kill them.

Each spoken word, each tortured memory, each remembered action is a reminder to them of their pain...it's like someone poking a needle into a wound just as it heals to make sure that it never does.

Crossed Paths

I

"You look good", I said to myself, adjusting my tie knot and admiring myself in the mirror.

It's strange, but at that very moment, millions of men across the world must've done exactly the same action, moved their head exactly the same degree, and commented on their looks in exactly the same way. And yet, each would leave that moment into another totally different moment leading to a day that would probably have no relevance to each other.

I got down the stairs and moved towards the bus-stop to catch my regular 9:15 to Nehru Place.

I reached the stop, noticing that none of the regulars were there today, noticeably Anisha. Maybe she had caught the 9:05 or maybe she is late. Should I wait? I decided to forgo the decision till 9:14. I looked at my watch. The hands showed 9:09..the similarity struck me for a brief moment, and a smile came to my face.

Suddenly, I became aware of someone sitting to one side of the stop. I turned to see, out of idle curiosity, who it was.

It was a woman, squatting, with her head between her knees, bowed down on her arms. She wore a cheap cotton saree, chocolate brown in color with a light film of dust on it (no doubt a result of the 9:05 and the passing traffic). Her hair seemed to tied up nicely, though some stray strands were blowing in the wind. The head was loosely covered with the pallu of her saree.

All this I had noticed in the instant that I first became aware of her presence. Its funny how sometimes you become aware of the minutest of details in the shortest of times without even trying to notice anything in detail.

But a second glance told me that she was crying. I could hear the faint sniffles.

I let my mind wander in the romantic fantasy of what her story must be.

Maybe her husband has left her. He must be the drunken, beating kinds. Nowadays, the slums are full of such scum. Why the government doesn't do anything about it, is something I've never understood.

Or maybe she is fresh from her village, came here to the big bad city looking for work or maybe a lost relative, perhaps, and last night she was raped by some miscreants. You keep reading such stories. In fact, just yesterday I had read that a woman was raped on the railway platform by two policemen. No, that couldn't be it. She didn't look as she had been raped. Well, I'd never seen a victimised woman before, but whatever perceptions/images I had from my exposure to movies, tv and other media, she didn't quite match up to it. So, I let this thought out. I was ashamed also for the slight tingle that this thought had given me, and asked Sai for his forgiveness.

I decided to go up to her and ask her. I still had a few minutes before my bus came, and it did seem it was going to be late. I hate it when that happens. Screws up my entire routine. I would be late to office and have to face that perennially scowling face of Mr.Sharma, our GM, who was always looking for a reason to chew us out. Being late was top on his list and I could just imagine him rubbing his hands in glee at the thought of having me for breakfast today.He'd probably use the leftovers of me for lunch and dinner as well !!

"Behn ji...aap theek toh hai?" I asked in my english medium, convent school accented english.

As I asked, I made sure that there was a foot and a half distance between me and her. Didn't want my creased and clean trousers to in any way get soiled by her touch or just by being in the same space as her. I guess the class system though gone on paper, still ruled somewhere within me.

She kept sniffling. No reply.

"Behnji...." I prompted again, mentally prepared to back off this time and not ask again. I mean come on I had done my 'concerned citizen' and 'good samaritan' thing for the day. Can't expect me to force help on someone who is not willing to take it, can I?

"Hum bole rahi, hamaar saath aisen mat karo...kono bipad hui jaiye...par oo to sunen hi nai..." she started speaking in a higher pitch than I had expected. Plus her language, earthern hindi, was not really what my english educated ears were accustomed to hear. I used to pride myself on my flawless British English pronunciation and usage. Friends used to pull my leg on the fact that despite being an Indian, and that too one who couldn't afford to travel except by bus, I had the airs and the voice of a pucca British Sahib of yesteryears.

She didn't raise her head. But kept talking. Her hindi is difficult for me to even repeat, but here's her story in my words.



II


I was born of a poor farmer family in village Pausi, District Farukhabad, Western UP. Brought up like any other girl, along with my four sisters and two brothers, I was used to the hard work and humiliation that comes from being a woman. I did everything my mother asked me to, ate what was offered to me from what was available and I never complained. So when they married me off to a man from the village, who worked in "dilli shaher", at a tender age of 15,(he was 28 then) I didn't object. And in any case, women did not object to their marriages. It was the parent's prerogative and more often than not a burden which the sooner its rid of the better it is.

Anyways, I came to the city. He was supposedly a helper in one of the many export factories in the city and did odd jobs in the factory. He would often work late, come home drunk and beat me up and then take me harshly on the floor, and then leave me to clean up. That was my life. To care for him, cook for him, and lie down with my legs spread for him to come and satisfy himself. I had never complained and I didn't complain now. That's what was the fate of a woman, and thats what I had been told.

Protection wasn't something we used, so within 3 months of my marriage I was carrying his seed in me, our son. He was very happy and distributed sweets in the neighbourhood. He was nice and loving when not drunk, but such times were becoming increasingly rare. Anyways, our routine of drunken beatings and consentual rape continued well into my 7th month, when finally my neighbour, a woman whose grey hairs and 7 children and 13 grandchildren, boasted of the life she'd seen, advised me to move to my mother's or the child would be at risk.

She convinced my husband also, and he went to leave me back in the village. Time went by, I had a daughter, came back to the city and life continued as before. The only difference was that now I had another reason to accept it - Hira, my daughter.

She grew up fast. Girls normally do. In the meanwhile, we had 2 more children - a daughter and a son. I knew what would happen once the son came, and wasn't wrong. The daughters began to be treated as daughters are, and the son became the apple of his eye. He would take him out for melas, buy him toys etc. I would keep my daughters engaged in studies and work. I was proud of the way Hira was growing up to be a nice looking girl, and she was intelligent also. Always coming first in the school in our area run by some NGO. She was now 15. Just the age when I had got married. Soon, I'd have to start looking for a suitable boy for her. She was like me. No complaints ever. Not about her brothers, not about her clothes, not about how her father would look down upon her and her younger sister, not about having to study and do the household work. No complaints.

Then, I got a message from my village that my mother was unwell, and would not last very long. Now, we daughters, especially married ones, have a very close tie to our mothers. Maybe because we truly understand what their lives are, since ours are no different.

Well, with not a moment to spare, I packed my bags. Picked up Jyoti and Shyam, and leaving Hira behind to care for her father (she also had her final exams coming), I went to the village. Where after a week or so my mother moved on to peace, and I stayed on another couple of weeks to settle things in. I left Jyoti and Shyam with my father, and came back to the city, with plans of going back after Hira's exams with my husband and then coming back together.

It was late evening by the time I reached the city. The sun had gone beyond the horizon and the light was fast fading. It was a sunday, so I knew my husband would be home. Drunk as usual. Hira would probably be outside with her friends, playing.

I noticed Hira was not outside. I smiled. Maybe she is cooking for her father, since I'm not there, and that's why mustn't have been playing.

As I came close to my hut, I got this feeling that something was amiss. I couldn't hear any sound and there was no fire visible inside.

I slowly raised the old rag on the doorway, which was the only thing that kept us from the prying eyes of the young, mischevious boys around. Nothing could've prepared me for what I saw.

I could see my daughters legs and there was someone on top of her. There was a bottle lying turned and broken glass on the side.

I screamed.

He turned. And for a minute I turned to stone.

He was my husband, astride my daughter. I could see my daughter's face. It was expressionless. Her cheeks were wet with the uncried tears. Her eyes blank with shame, and resignation. Her body limp as a corpse. Unresponsive. Cold.

And there on top of him with his manhood inside her was my husband. Her father.The moment of being stone had passed. The next I remember is sitting with a broken bottle in my hand, staring at emptiness. My daughter in one corner, now covered in her clothes looking at me. Somewhere, between the two of us lay the body of someone who used to be my husband and her father. Dead. I dropped the bottle and ran out. Dishevelled. My hands wet with his blood mixing into mine where the broken glass had cut them. I ran. I dont know how long. Or where. I just ran, till I couldn't run any more. And then I stopped. I sat down, squatting, with my head resting on my elbows. Trying to make sense of it all.



III


"Nehru Place, Nehru Place" the voice of the conductor prospecting customers much in the same way as a pimp would.

It broke me of my reverie. The 9:15 had been delayed. Somehow providence wanted me to hear this story. It was the 9:15 coming 10 minutes late. Not much. If I caught it, I could still make it to the office on time and avoid that look in Mr.Sharma's eyes. What about her? Now, I could see that between her fingers was the red, dry caked blood...no doubt of her husbands.

Wonder what happened to her daughter? I suppose she would've killed herself also?

I wasn't sure what I should do. The cops would catch her sooner or later. She didn't look like she'd resist or try to hide. In fact, it was more likely she'd be dead too by the time the cops got to her. Maybe I should hand her over to the police; after all she had committed a murder. Or maybe just help her get to her village, meet her children, say the final goodbyes. But that would mean taking the day off. Sharma would screw my happiness for the whole year. He doesn't like it when people go a-w-o-l, and he makes his displeasure known in not very subtle ways.

"Nehru Place, Nehru Place...chalna hai sa'ab??" the conductor hollered, not willing to lose out on even one customer if he could help it.

He didn't.

Alone

I really wonder how many of us actually know the difference between being alone and being lonely.............most of us equate one with the other..

I did too...but recently I have...due to twists of fate..been forced to find out the difference...

Loneliness is when despite having everybody - parents, friends, relatives - you long for someone more...just to complete the picture....

Whereas, being alone is when despite having everybody - parents, friends, relatives..and yes, sometimes even that someone special, you get a feeling that there is no one there..no one with u....

when you walk....you dont feel that security of having your 'own' people with you...in fact even your own shadow seems to be distant to you....as if its there, but not there...

when even though you laugh with friends, the laugh is somehow not complete, not true...
and when you cry...the tears flow..but dont seem real...

every touch, every moment just drives you further away from yourself...so far, that when you turn to look back..........you cant see urself...let alone anyone else...

its like waking up one morning to find that you are in a new city, with no money, not knowing where you are, in a land that speaks a foriegn language..and no one understands you...and you cannot even if you try get in touch with your family or friends...simply because there is no way.........

.........that is being alone. not lonely........... ALONE.

Have you ever been alone?????

News Flash : 'Freak weather' stumps Met deptt - TOI Feb17th

What can one say ?!!!

We have a meteorological department. We have the satellites. We have the expensive equipments, the sensors - the works!! and yet? Yet the response of the met department to the all engulfing fog in western delhi is "It was a bit unexpected"..

"Unexpected?" Hello?!! What are you there for? What is the purpose of setting up the department? Advance information about weather changes..at least 24 hrs advance.

One thing about nature is that nothing is sudden, nothing happens in an instant..there are always indicators, signs about coming events..at least the natural ones...which is what the met department works on...doesn't happen immediately!!

Wake up or close shop !!!

5th February 2006 - Turning 32

Today...well, actually yesterday (since its past midnight) .. was my 32nd birthday...

The first birthday I did not share with my college gang...despite being in Delhi..and despite being in touch with them...

It was the most intimate affair..with only my "Chaddhi" buddies - Rajan, Rohit, Sushil and Vineet - actually only Sushil & Vineet qualify as Chaddhi buddies - having known each other now for a good 24 yrs....Its after a long long time that the three of us are together in Delhi on my birthday...with Vineet in Dubai and I in Dhaka for the last 4 years, we seldom got together in Delhi at the same time...

Next year is the silver anniversary of our friendship..and we have resolved that no matter where we are we shall be together in Feb..on a date to be mutually decided.

Rajan and Rohit are more of the short-pant or "nekkar" buddies..having known them now for about 15 yrs ...since college.

The gang was supplemented by Reena (Sushil's sister), Rinku (Roheit's wife) and Sonia (Rajan's wife)...

The highlight of the evening was Rohit's very cute daughter - Hiya - all of 3 mths now...and bright eyed as the morning rabit :D

The evening was eventful to say the least with the guest of honor - myself - waiting for a good 1 hour in front of the restaurant for the party to arrive !!...

Birthdays are strange affairs....you have to wait for all the guests to come, cater to everyone's whims for what they want to eat, pay a humongous amount for the bill, cut a cake only to have it splattered all over your face...in my case, I was made a virtual clown with a cherry nose and pineapple slice beard and a ghost-white whipped cream face !! ....and then have your butt kicked by all your friends....their grudges for the last one year translated into harder and harder kicks on the butt (in my case, I escaped this...being well, healthy, has its advantages !!)....

....but despite all this, at the end of the day you still feel nice :D ....how cornier can this get !! Being grateful and feeling nice for having your butt kicked !!...lol

Well, the day came and went..increasing the age counter by another year....

The wonder that's life, The wonder that's me

As the flower opens I see
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

New leaf replacing the old I see
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

The morning sun on top of the tree
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

The sun that's bright, the air that's free
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

If I wasn't here, where I'd be
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

When I look at him
The baby smiles right back at me
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

As he grows up, I unfold in thee
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me

From despair, hope grabs at me
The wonder that's life
The wonder that's me.

(c) Asheeth Manu

Chehra...

Aaj subah apne chehre to aaine mein dekha
Pehli baar nahi
Phir bhi alag sa laga
Kisi kone se Zindagi ke hadsaat
Lakeerein ban ke
Mathe pe mere
Shikan ban ke
Jaise mujhko
Mere maazi ki yaad dila rahe the
Woh syah balon mein se
Zindagi ki dhoop mein jale hue
Kuch lamhe
Apni mojudgi bayaan kar rahe the
Meri zindagi ke ache bure sab lamhe
Jaise kisi qitab mein likhe aksharon ki tarah
Mere chehre pe jhalak rahe the
Main padne ki koshish kar raha tha
Kya aaj jaisa mera chehra hai
Kal bhi waisa hi hoga?
Ya phir aane waale hadson ko likhti huyi lakeeron se
Yeh roz badlegaItne saalon se roz dekh raha hoon is chehre ko
Phir bhi kabhi iski ghehrayon mein
Nahin dekhaLekin khushi aur gham
Mere chehre pe ek si kyon hain
Lakeerein to hai par alag to nahin
Shayad jo baat main ab tak na samajh saka
Woh mere chehre pe hi hai
Gham mein khusi
Aur khushi main gham hai
Shayad yeh chehra mujhse kuch kehna chah raha hai
Yeh ankhen meri
Udaas hain
Khush hain
Naraz hain...
Pata nahin..
Kyonki aaj yeh khamosh hai
Shayad inhone kisi ke jaate kadmon ko dekha hai
Ankhon ke neeche
Bahe unbahe aansuon ki lakerien
Galon pe jawaani ke haadsaaton ke nishan
Hoton pe jawani ki tishnagi ke nishan
Yaad dilate hain beete huye palon ki....
Guzre kal ki
Par is chehre mein aane wale kal ke liye
Koi intezaar kyon nahin hai?
Aaj maine apna chehra pada
Kyonki aaj mera chehra padne wala aur koi nahin hai
Zindagi ke safar ka humsafar nahin hai
Aankhen hain par palak nahin hai
Honth hai par pyaas nahin hai
Aaj woh mere paas nahin hai
Aaj woh mere paas nahin hai

Zindagi sawal karti hai

Zindagi meri mujhse kayi sawaal karti hai
Guzre huye haadson ka hisaab karti hai

Dekhe undekhe khwaabon ki masoom khwaahishon ko
Haqeeqat ke baazar mein nilaam karti hai

Dil ki baat bata kar to dekho....

Dil ki baat bata ke to dekho .... (Inspired by the Airtel Ad)

Duniya mein gham bahut hain
Kisi ke chehre pe khushi la ke to dekho

Chalte Chalte raahon mein bichad jaate hain humsafar
Kisi bichde ko apna bana kar to dekho

Rozmarra ke shor mein gum gayi hain dil ki aawaaz
Koi tarana gunguna ke to dekho

Aa jaayega rutha hua meet bhi
Ek baar mana ke to dekho

Kaanton mein ulajh rahi hai yeh zindagi
Tum koi phool khila ke to dekho

Hamesha nahin rahegi kismat tumse ruthi
Tum kismat aazma ke to dekho

Aa jaayengi manzilen paas tumhare
Tum ek kadam utha ke to dekho

Dil ki baat bata ke to dekho.....

(c) Asheeth Manu
11 November 2005, 1820 hrs

Rishtey

Rishton ke jangalon se guzarta ek tanha rahi
Ankahe, ansune hadson se ghabraya
Milta hoon bhinn rishton se - prem, kaam, krodh, tyaag, vireh..
Phir bhi kabhi aane wale rishte ko pehchaan nahin paata

Is jangal mein kab main kahan kho jaunga
Mujhe nahin maloom
Bas chal raha hoon kisi aisi manzil ki talaash mein
Jis rishte ko na main jaanta hoon
Na pehchaanta hoon
Phir bhi......

Sochta hoon kisi ko kabhi is jangal mein
Woh mila hai jo woh khoj raha hain...
Ya phir sab bas yunhi chal rahe hain
Ummeed pe ki hai yaheen kahin
Milega kabhi na kabhi

Kya yeh meri kami hai ki itne saalon se
Rishton ke saayon peeche bhagta main
Ab thak sa gaya hoon
Ya phir rishte woh mrig-trishna hain
Jisko dhoondte hue khatam ho jaana
Insaan ki kismat hain?

Kyon jo main chahta hoon
Main nahin paa sakta?
Rishton ke is bhanvar mein
Yuhi dafn hota main
Ek tinke ka sahaara chahta hoon
Jo nahin milta..

(c) Asheeth Manu
November 2, 2005 2350 hrs

Raha hoga....

Samay ki chatakti shaakh se koi lamha gira hoga
Shayad kisi ne palkon mein koi moti pira hoga

Nahin chal rahe saath magar aaj bhi raaste ke pathar yeh bayan karte hain
Kabhi yeh hamara raasta raha hoga

Yeh soch soch ke duniya rashq karti hain humse
Tu chand lamha sahi, hamaara humsafar raha hoga

Hanste chehre ki lakeeren batati hain hamen
Kitna mayoos kabhi yeh chehra raha hoga

Zamane bhar ke gham hum samet le phir bhi
Tere gham ke liye daman yeh hazir raha hoga

Aaj hum hain akele woh nahin hain paas
Shikayat toh hai magar, dosh hamaara hi kuch raha hoga

Fisalti jaa rahi hain haathon se ret si yeh zindagi
Sochte hain kya haq ispe kabhi hamaara raha hoga

Jab socha tune kisi aur ke ho gaye hain hum
Dil yeh phir bhi tera hi raha hoga

Kahen kya kisse ab apna hale dil kaho
Ajnabi se aaj sab hai, kaun razdaar raha hoga

Mat dhoond sahaara un shaakhon ka pakhi
Kal jin shaakhon pe basera tera raha hoga

Jhukti palkon ke isharon ko samajh na sake
Hamari zindagi ka raaz unme raha hoga

Aaj dil ka hain haal is tarah se kuch
Masjid-e-viraan mein khuda koi raha hoga

(c) Asheeth Manu
November 2,2005 2330 hrs