Tickles of Wind - Part 6

Haridwar.

The whisper of immortality rang true in these streets. Crowded and rich with the smell of sweat, flowers and temples. A challenge to the stories that dream of the apocalypse.

I walk in the streets and I am welcome in their indifference. I am only a pilgrim, a customer, a passerby. My presence is lived and forgotten in a eyebat.

In their carelessness, I felt immortal.

I caressed the scent of marigold and basil garlands as I walk. The gopuram shined in gold. The majestic form of Lord Shiva, the undertaker who rose to immortality, towers over my vision.

Today, intoxicated by these garlands and incense, I smile.
I feel you Lord. I feel immortal. I could challenge you and survive.

I stood there trembling until a passerby stood next to me. He stood watching the form, unmindful of my presence. In his eyes, I saw.. humility.

The eyes that see, the thoughts that whisper, in its ideals and vision, we each stood immortal.

I shrugged and continued my walk. Today, I meant to dig and guard skeletons of my own.

I took a turn opposite the temple doors. I walked for a while and turned left again. I reached my destination and looked around.

This is where we parted last time. She said you remembered her. You know each other, only, I don't know how. 

Never mind that, today is the day I challenged the undertaker. I shall unearth your secrets.

The street is filled in two rows of at least 9 houses each. All the houses share a boundary wall. I walk along the street willing my heart to beat harder at familiarity.

The houses as I walked were at least 25 years old and almost all felt ancient and worn down. Like my grandfathers.

I heard a shout from behind and I continue walking. The shout got louder, oy, oy girl, I am calling you.

I turned and saw an old man, who would fit into any Hindu old aged person stereotype. I smile, and walk to him.

Oy, I called you many times, are you lost? he asked me. No, I said, I was looking for a boy of ten maybe, with a sacred thread and visits temple every day. I ask him if he could help me find his house. Um, no boy here lady, he tells me, I know every one of this household and no, no boy here. Are you sure you have the right street? Do you know his name? he asked me. Yes and no, I replied.

I stay silent knowing that there was a secret I was keeping. How would he react if I told him I know a young girl who knows him and they are probably in love? That the boy is wise beyond his years?

He looks at me and details every household in the street. He says most of the residents have moved out and have rented the place for tourists. But no, no long term residents and no boy anyways. Which young boys want to visit temples these days, he asked me, they are content in their little tv boxes and jeans. No, no boys here lady.

I smile and acknowledge to him that he has been helpful. I look back at the street and yet, something in me does not accept defeat.

Why, in this issue, I can trust no one. I must keep my own counsel.

I sigh and tell him I will walk the length of the street anyways. He volunteers to walk with me.

We walked together on that street. He had difficulty breathing and was slow in his steps. Lucky for him, today I covered seas and mountains with my every step. So I was glad to keep his pace.

I look at each house in the array and felt their stories. Old, preserved and forgotten. Like a beckoning that is dying to be heard.

He catches my hand and settles on a veranda. I sit next to him and ask how long he has lived here. I am a tourist myself, I tell him.

Too long, he told me. I smile because he felt that way. Like life was an unrelenting burden he carried for years without relief.

As I turned, his next words, shook the earth from my feet. Too long, lady, to see a young one die. 

I shook, trembled, and watched as the old man fought against hope to ease his burden. His face, wrought with lines, left no sign of acceptance.

As my eyes blurred, I could see the majestic form of the God beyond him.

Lord, I could challenge you today. For you are stone and water. For our eyes see, our thoughts whisper ideals and vision. We are each immortal. It is our curse. 

I could challenge you today and outlive. 

For I know I survived a young wise boy. Now I share this man's burden.

Is this my purpose?  

I look at the old man, who grips my hand to stand again. Today, I could ease his burden.

But I thank him, and walk away. For like him, today, I defy acceptance.

Tickles of Wind - Part 5

The next morning was beautiful.

We both got up early, thanked the landlord for that thing he called breakfast, gulped it down with heavenly coffee, and got out to meet him.

Both our hearts thundered in our chests.

I was dying to tell him, no, show him, that I wasn’t alone. That I belonged in this place, where I had no friends, no relatives, no past.

She slipped her hand in mine and gripped tightly. She was just seconds from breaking into a nervous laughter. We smiled at each other and reached the tree where he sat yesterday.

He was there, looking at the crowd inching to see the deity. He murmured silent prayers and moved the beads in his hands. He nodded to himself, turned around and smiled at us.

Our hearts thundered in our chests.

We walked towards him, as if bidden by a secret hand. She looked at him sheepishly and smiled. He did not, could not, take his eyes off her. She blushed and ran away towards the queue.

His eyes followed her until she joined the line and then he turned to look at me. He sighed, smiled and closed his eyes again.

I joined him in the tree, stretched my legs and smiled. Why do I feel so free? I had no answers, but I was happy and it was enough.

We sat in silence until she entered the agrahara  and vanished from our sights. Seconds passed. My happiness, piqued, now fell slowly into a tumultuous nerve of emotions. Second thoughts raged until I could contain myself no longer.

You are wrong,  I told him. I am here because I can be here. This is a vacation and I am just a tourist.

He smiled, said nothing. He then got up, and stretched his hand towards me. The sun shone brilliantly to frame his kind face. I took his hand and we walked.

He stopped near a stone set below two figures. The lady and the man was carved with their backs barely an inch from each other. Their features were remarkably neutral with the lady braving a slight tear in her eyes. In her hand, she held a flower and in his hand was a water kindle titled towards the ground.

He noted my curiosity, smiled and pointed towards the stone. In it, read:

"My mind storm in thoughts,

Ripples created by slight words,

Every lost moment,

I became what you made me,

Of ten thousand souls that wander alone,

I feel lost amidst them all,

My heart aches and wishes for a death,

Hope of mercy,

By the swiftest wind,

But if every wish I wish went answered,

Oh, won’t I be the queen of your dreams,

But my life isn’t mine,

A forfeit of choice,

One thought that changed it all,

Like the smoke from the fire,

I stand polluted,

Judged by your eyes,

Guilty by your indifference,

Condemned by your absence,

For on my death,

They will sing a song of fire and ice,

Of life unlived,

Of crows that took my heart,

While I turn in my grave,

Weeping, I pray,

Let me have a wish for the life I was destined,

Let me have a choice for one last time,

Let me seek redemption from my withering corpse,

And from where you stand,

You turn and smile,

Cruel and kind,

And nod the acknowledgement,

Of a pitiful existence alive in your eyes,

My eyes whisper shame and hope,

whilst my lips move to resurrect what was once yours,

and I pray to you thus:

Ah, but if I shall have one last wish,

Let there grow a flower, I say,

Of breeze and beauty,

That shames the gloom,

While the earth hums a lullaby,

Of curses,

Of vultures,

Of petals that are trampled,

By a heart of fire and ice.

The wind turns your soul,

And I wonder if I saw the ice burn in your eyes,

But you simply walk away,

Melt in the crowd of cloaks,

While I close my eyes,

And die unsatisfied,

And there grew a flower,

Of such beauty and fragrance,

That shamed the gloom,

Inviting whispers of songs and lore,

Of my heart that got stolen away,

For a price too high,

And laid to rest,

For a sleep that would haunt your dreams,

And yet,

Little did I know,

That the flower grew in salt,

Remnants of your tears,

That went unshed,

Whilst you carried my burden,

Deprived of salvation,

With a soul that burned,

And scarred your fate.

And so the song was sung,

Of fire and ice,

Of truth and lies,

Of hearts and swords,

Of flowers and boots,

Of life and curses,

And O my love,

Of you and I."

I did not know what to say. He smiled and stretched his hand again. Mesmerized, I walked as if in trance, guided by a hand bidding to follow.

The deity shone from a distance dressed in blue. She was seated near the agrahara alone. He took me closer to the deity, looked at me and pressed a finger to his lips. My heart thundered in my chest.

And in that silence, she sang. Her voice echoed through the walls into the hearts of everyone who stood. Her notes perfect, it pierced deep into my soul and I stood shocked. Transfixed.

Breathless, my eyes wept a silent tear as she sang the song of Fire and Ice.

I do not remember how I came to be near the lake. I sat in the sand, listening to my heart. How can a boy of barely ten years unnerve me so? How is it that my anonymity be disregarded so slightly by this city as if I just returned home? What is it about everything here that I am missing?

I sat and looked away while my mind obdurately played the tune.

But if every wish I wish went answered,

Oh, won’t I be the queen of your dreams.

Tickles of Wind - Part 4

The thunder shook me from my thoughts.

I walked involuntarily to the window. Outside it poured rage, as if held by a restraint that demanded the patience of a millenia.

In the score of lightning that followed, I could see the wheels of the vehicles slowly tread the dreadful rising of water.

The first mark of progress, when evolution itself became a mundane fact for that caveman who ran from the flood as fast as his legs could carry.

Dripping sweat, his brain would tell him of ways to survive the terror growing under his legs, threatening to carry him to what would be a pathetic unremembered demise.

And what then, did he believe?

That the wheels would move on and on until he covered the face of earth?

Or was he terrified of life itself, the change, of faces he may forget, of love that would live beyond his desire?

Did he drown in that moment of hesitation?

Or did he live to gift the wheel to a worthy soul?

What, then was the result?

Did it wither in the rains?

Was it buried under a square hole then, giving away the irony? 

The rage of gods against progress? The test of patience which can only be bestowed by a mind of pure conniving evil, worthy of ungrateful, unwavering worship?

Did the wheel fail to turn his life, unlike the ones below willing to tread the flood, one inch at a time?

A worthy ode to his grave then, this patience against rage.

The thunder shook my thoughts, again.

Something gripped my heart. Uncontrollable sorrow, that arose from a place unnerving, beyond my knowledge of existence.

I feared for myself, I have to know.

I turned around and looked at her. She was seated atop the window sill, legs crossed, her little palms stretched.

In the wake of the raw lightning that lit her face, her eyes unblinking, looking below.

As if the droplets that fell out of her hand to the ground, kissed life.

I walked up to her and stretched my palm. Our fingers passed water, together.

I belonged then.

He was wrong, I belonged. Right here. With her.

She looked at me, brushed my tears with her puny hands, cupped my face and smiled.

And in that instant, 
with her eyes as witness, 
my wheels turned.

Tickles of Wind - Part 3

It was a whisper. "You are not home."


I was very sleepy, the way my eyes refused to open. In my gap, I could see it was her, legs folded on the sofa, one hand on her chin, playfully watching me. I smiled. It was a change. To wake up to a face this pretty.


I got up, took the paper from under the door and called my host for coffee. I could hear her constant chirping in the background. "We need to go early. The deity will be dressed anytime now." I smirk at her and then sit to read my paper. She seems restless in a manner that was not right. She came, placed her head between me and my paper and mocked, "You ran, to find something; and unless, that something is in the paper, it would have been better if you did this over mom's coffee." Like you, I agreed. That pretty little thing had a point.


There is something about India's culture, that many fail to see through. Beauty. In every temple, every god and goddess, in whatsoever form they might appear, are portrayed in a manner that best suits your imagination. No one can see a god, that is perfect in every manner, physically and in grace, elsewhere. Or angry. Or sometimes even sarcastic. Every priest, in India, is an underpaid artist. You need to have talent to lure people to a temple, not just knowledge.


I was sitting around a corner, under a tree watching the long crowd, edging each other to see Him, his beautiful face, in the morning. She was among the crowd, and somehow she slipped in the front, craning her neck to see if the drapes were removed.


He was draped in a dhoti, had a sacred thread around his shoulders and came and sat next to me. He murmured his prayers for a while and then with his eyes still closed, said with a smile, "She is pretty!". I smiled and looked at him. He was almost her age, perhaps a year or two older. I said, "Yes." He was seated with his back to me and said, "Tell me, why did you run from home?". I was perplexed, there was no way he could have known. I could have passed being an occasional tourist, but my indifference was not this plain. "How did you know?" "That is irrelevant. Why did you run?" "I dont know. Why do people run?"


There was a pause before he answered. "For answers. Who are you running from?" "Me." He smiled, "are you a bad person?". I smiled, "Yes". The holy bell was ringing. The drapes were removed and I lost her in the crowd. He got up, turned and said, "Come, lets pray." I didnt move. If prayers were my answers, I wouldnt be here. "No. You carry on." "You dont believe in God?" "Is that a criterion?, I ask, to measure me?" "Yes it is." "And how exactly do you measure?", I asked him, tauntingly. "Well, if you believe in God, You believe in His judgment of right and wrong and all you need to do is check yourself with His judgment. And since you do not believe in Him, you will have to tell me how you measured yourself to be a bad person. Now, if you will excuse me, I will be back soon."


I watched him walk in a daze. He stood away from the crowd, directly in front of the deity, closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. It must have been 15 seconds. He came back and said, "Shall we walk? My house is nearby." I look around for her and he says, "She will be fine. Come with me."


There was an air of confidence in this kid of Haridwar. Honestly, a part of me was skeptic being preached by a boy who has hardly reached puberty. But the morning was fine and I was happy to be away from a crowd. "Do you come here daily?" He said "Yes". "How long have you been here?" "A very long time. In fact, I dont travel much." "Why not?," I ask, "this world is big. In fact, a planet. Dont you want to go around and see everything?" He smiled. "I dont have to travel to belong." I look at him and he adds "I dont have to run either. Yes, this is a planet but I already found my place of peace."


I am stunned and hurt. He took my hand and said with a smile, "This is my place. Come back tomorrow, same time. They dress Him in her favorite color blue."


I look back and she is there, her face frozen. I go to her and she hugs me, tearful, "He remembers!"

Tickles of Wind - Part 2 - IInd Half

Part 2 IInd Half


Sometimes facing truth is the hardest thing to do. The final step towards living the truth. The gap that goes between, you would wish your heart could'nt think.


I am a girl of lies. In every second, I build a lie. To myself. That now, today, my fortress is build in lie bricks that cant break cause they are so interwined in my life. One cut and I would die.


My choices are not perfect, my ends are not appreciated, my means are damned, but I am adored as a whole. For the minute to which I belong in a group, I rock their world. The stories I tell, the eyes that watch, the lips that smile, the small dimples and a slight tear, those are moments of truth. For them.


Survival is not tough. You could walk around for hours, steal a few berries, sleep in some un-constructed house, and explore this earth while people walk past you, unnoticed and unaware of your being. You own this planet. Just that, nobody knows you do.


This is the story of my life.


My thoughts merge in the sounds of train wheels. This moment, however surreal it seems, is true. The journey to every place begins with oneself.


I am ready.

Tickles of Wind Part 2

Part 2


What If The Earth Pulled The Sky Down??!!


It was not saturation; But one step before that. Where all memories run like a trailer. Just cut moments. Too fast. Too hard.


She closed her eyes. There was no escape from past. Things she missed to see. Things she missed to feel. Minutes that froze in her eyes. And to her, for that moment, everything felt like a mistake, what she felt and what she didnt.


What is life without memories?? Sometimes, like her friend always said, she did wish she had an undo option in her life. Somehow, in someway, the jigsaw puzzle would just fall into pieces. Sometimes she believed it would happen by itself. Sometimes she imagined a thousand solutions. But something pulled her to do certain things. Same things. Same pits. Same falls. Her life was coming to a full circle, in every fullstop. All she wanted was not to run. Not to hide. Not to hurt. But to taste the life outside the circle. Just once.


The door creaked. She froze, waiting for her legs to take the second step, quietly taking in the blood pumped to her heart. Her father was in the room, immersed in his laptop. Her mother was sleeping. Her bag felt heavy. She stepped out, closed the door and slowly plugged in her earphones. Her head was reeling. For the first time, she felt something she has never felt before. Guts.


The mind is a tricky thing to please. It always wants something that you just left behind. But she needed this. Contradictions to feel happy. Contradictions to feel content in a 10/10 cubicle in the whole wide planet called earth and smile at the saturation point.


The que was long. Her mind was thinking of a thousand places, where no one knew her face, no one knew her name. She was not spriritual. But she liked the idea of being lost with redemption. To leave her next moment sincerely to fate. To Him. For once, it didnt matter if He took credit/blame for her life. She could not have cared more.


It was her turn now. The clock behind the counter showed 4.07 pm. She almost smiled at her luck. With just a bag full of clothes and a debit card with half the peanuts she earned, she bowed and spoke to the railway counter guy and said "Haridwar".



--
---
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She was standing beside me and smiled, the young girl in the red dress. I checked once and closed my eyes. I am not Schizophrenic. Definitely not schizophrenic. But I opened my eyes to see she was still there, smiling. You want to walk the way he did. I did not reply. She giggled. My God, she was beautiful! I took the ticket, the change and sat for my train to arrive. You are not taking this journey alone, she said hugging my neck from behind. I am there, I am always there. I closed my eyes. Her small hands were warm and comforting. I smiled at the rhytimic sound of my train. Haridwar.

Tickles of Wind Part 1

Part 1


Get Out!!!!! NOW!!!!

My grandpa was yelling at my mother. My Aunt was crying on the other side. I was standing behind my cousin, twice removed, and my t-shirt was dipped in tears. It was one of those times where, you have no idea, but if you didn’t cry until your lungs break out, you are definitely on the verge of lunacy.

Someone had tipped off the police. They had come in the morning once. My mom hid upstairs when my grandpa negotiated with them. I was watching him when he did. A perfect replica of Sherlock holmes in a white shirt and dhoti. The most respectable man in the neighborhood. The first son among 13 children to built a 4 storey house. By then, my mom was only 5.

And how she loved it! She was his first daughter and so she was the most loved of all. Once she told him in the night, wrapped around his chest, that she will never leave home. Never leave daddy. Little did she know the fate fairy was smiling around the corner thinking “So Be It!”.

Her husband, my beloved dad, had run out on us yet again. A man I hardly remembered! I was still crying when my grandma choked in tears came to me and said, “Shut up, stop crying and find your brother.”

So I went, still crying, trying to find my brother. It was an easy job. I just had to follow that automated wailing noise. He was hiding behind the door of the veena room. Seeing him, I cried even louder, took his hand, came down and sat by my mother. And suddenly, with the jerk, she got up, adjusted her glasses, took us both in one hand each and said, “Let God be on my side”, and walked into the streets through the front door. However, she didn’t take us in the street. You see God’s wit is not for test! She took a shortcut and we started walking on the main path with hundreds of other dhoti clad men and saree clad women walking past. May be it was the air. I had stopped crying.

She was murmuring something. I could see she was lost and she was crying behind her spectacles. I was holding her hand and walking in her speed, when I tripped, lost her grip and fell. I could see that my slippers had broken. I was adjusting it when I heard a mad bell tinkering close to me. And when I saw, the speeding cycle had hit me. I flew, hit the tree and fell down with a thump.

I could see everyone, including my mother, all gathered and screaming around me. As I was lying, I lifted my hand towards the beautiful girl clad in just a red blouse and underskirt smiling at me. While my mother lifted my body, my spirit went with her.

She sat me in the same tree while everyone cleared. I touched the mud dried in my blood. I looked at her and she smiled. I didn’t know then if I was alive or dead. After all, I was only 11. But I somehow felt well. And she took my head and placed it in her lap. And she told me a story.


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The girl was beautiful. Her face dripped in innocence. Her eyes were small but she had blood red lips. Purely natural.

She was in the shower. In front of the mirror and she was pinching herself. She was whispering, cry, cry, cry. But the harder she pinched, the harder she laughed. But she kept saying cry, cry, cry. Please. Cry, cry, cry. Finally she stopped. Her shower was still pouring water. She moved closer to the mirror and she slapped. Slap, slap, slap. Her cheeks were red now. It was not the pain. It was the little tear trail on her cheeks. And she cried. Hard. She smiled in the end. Then she looked at the mirror. She touched her face. Moist. She checked her lips. Red. And she smiled and said in a sing-song voice, “my my, I am beautiful!”

Then she went into the shower and closed her eyes. She cleansed her mind and body. She felt one. She felt the cold water in her head and it cleansed the body. She placed her hand in between her chest and took a breath. It made her feel like a fish. Like she belonged in water.

Finally she heard the screams outside. Time to step out. She got out, still dripping in water. She dressed herself in a skirt and t-shirt. And when she climbed the bed to touch her fan (a small thing to do with a vanity for height!), I caught a quick glimpse of her left knee. It was scarred. A white patch of skin.

I touch my knee. I cant see the scar but it was definitely bleeding. I slowly lift my head and tell the girl in the red dress, Its me. That girl is me.

She smiles and touches my head. And in that moment, I wake up in a hospital bed, with my mom kissing me all over. I looked around the room. She wasn’t there. I look down and saw my left leg all wrapped in white bandage. My mom says, its ok dear, it ll heal. And all it will leave is a scar for you to remember.





That’s weird, I think, I definitely saw a little girl there! I slowly climb down the bed and look around the room. Ha! Too much HBO. I gently adjust my skirt below my knee and step out. And while closing the door, I look at the fan and wink. You are not that far away! I smile and seat myself for dinner. I hear my brother whispering to my sister, she is mad. I smile even more and stuff my mouth.

Tickles of Wind!!

Dear Reader,

I have been working on myself, for quite some time now. But I am facing what is called a creative pause. And now i know why.

In my urge to find something, I have been writing words with no calling; and now inspired by Mr.Richard Stallman, I am going to do what I believe I do best. Making Stories!

In every episode of "Tickles of wind", you will read a new story. In every episode of "Tickles of Wind", I mean to bring myself closer to the calling. The voice I failed to hear for 3 years now.

Feel free to imagine. And feel free to criticize (or compliment, if u wish to blush me that way!)!!