In the memory of the godhra riots 2002

Us khoon ke kuch chhite hum par bhi ude the.
Mitaane chaahe, lekin bade ziddi the woh daag.
Chhupane chaahe, par kambakht dikh hi jaate hain.
Aur sharm se aankh neechi aaj bhi ho jaati hai,
Bas, kyon ki, us khoon ke chhite ude the hum par.

Searching for a lost me

I stared out of the window at sundown,
Waiting to see that face I had once known.

I still remembered the voice as it broke into peals of laughter,
Even as I stifled sobs  of my own.
I remembered the innocence of those eyes
Even as I tried to hide the disillusionment in my own.

I scanned the sea of unknown faces to find the one I had known
From long ago.
But of course I would recognise
The contours of that face I had once known,
As well as my own-
Soft cheeks, unlike the wizened wrinkles on mine.

Searched, I did. Scanned a million faces.
But I never thought of looking into the mirror
To see that the face I had known
Was my own.

A world of Armchair Activists

I keep getting emails and Facebook requests to sign petitions, reply to stop deforestation at coal mine sites, post in order to get criminals arrested, post in order to raise my voice against injustice, share to make a statement against vices...the list is endless. And every time, I think, how many of us have felt virtuous after having complied with the requests from the said posts and emails. We sign, and we have made a difference. We post, and we have made a difference. We share, and we have made a difference. But, have we stopped for a moment, before the mouse click, where have we made the difference? Have we even thought about the difference we think we have made, after we have clicked and shared and posted and signed?

We were always a country of armchair critics. Our discussions at chai thelas on cricket and politics did not go beyond criticizing how Zaheer Khan (or Ravi Shastri, or B S Bedi) should have bowled that over, or how Manmohan Singh (or even Morarji Desai) can't utter a word to save his life. With the reach of the internet and spread of Facebook, the space of criticism has spilled over into virtual domains as well. Our disappointment with our cricketers and our government is more visible, and reaches them faster through social networking. Or at least, so we would like to think.

We like and we think our voices are heard. We share and we think we have made a statement. But that isn't where my problem lies. Making political statements on politics and cricket on social networking does have a reach that a tea stall can't. social networking has a proven and time tested potential of connecting people and there are a lot of good things about it.

But unfortunately are getting too used to this medium. Our world has been reduced to our social networks. We seem to think that our responsibilities are also confined to the world of internet and particularly, Facebook or twitter. We believe we can make a difference to scores of other less privileged individuals by just sharing and liking posts or signing petitions on the internet. I am not refuting that we can't, but that's not the only thing that can make a difference. We can't afford to move on to our apolitical real lives and make political statements only in our virtual public lives. We can't swear by our ideals in our real lives if our responsibilities towards others are limited to the internet.

I share this on Facebook. And close the page.

Change

I have changed. For the better or worse, I don't know. But I have changed. May be grown up. May not be. But I have changed.

So what?Everyone does, you may tell me. You may shrug and lose interest in reading more. But I have introspected - and felt - that change. And so, I feel the need to write about it. After all, it is "from deep within..".

Refer to my earlier posts, and you shall see reluctance, an acutely aware reluctance not to change. Each piece wants to hold on, not change. Each wants to keep going through the same experiences, not moving on; reacting in the same manner. But then these are the very experiences that have changed me. I feel the same things differently; I react differently.

My eyes would well up with a tear or two on newspaper articles, feeling extreme sympathy for the victims or appreciating valor, truth and integrity. But now, I don't seem to do that anymore. I think "Shit happens." And move on to the sports page. On the sports page too, I believe Tendulkar should retire. I don't take personal pride in Virat Kohli's achievements. I did not feel like waxing exultantly about VVS Laxman on his retirement.

As a matter of fact, I hardly read the newspaper now. See?

I have changed.

This one's for the gentlemen

I have to be provoked to write. Blood curdling, eyes with tears, not of sorrow, but from anger, goose bumps. All of this has to happen to me before I can type away furiously, all of it to vent out these intense emotions.

I feel tired of crying hoarse, having repeated arguments, questioning the same flawed notions, but I am just not able to give up. It isn't that we are some lunatics screaming our lungs out because we have nothing else to do. But you have left almost nothing else for us to do. You treat your dog better than you treat us. You want to save the tiger because there are only 1411 left, but you do not realize we form half of the human population, but you still don't want to treat us like you treat the tiger. Go ahead. Save the tiger then.

I know you accept that rape is horrifying. I know you have accepted us in your workplace, in your classroom. You even sometimes work for some of us. You don't even stare or ogle the way some of your species do.But it isn't even about that. Why do you even have to steal a glance at us in that way that you know makes us uncomfortable? Why do you go to watch all those movies and laugh on all those jokes that you wouldn't crack on those of us who are dear to you? Why do you discuss us in whispers with more of your kind, in office, outside class? Why do we have to become a topic of discussion at all? Why is it still a big deal if we are smart and intelligent? Why do you still expect us on first judgement to be dumb, mute objects of beauty? I just ask, why?

This post started out as an outlet for my intense anger after watching this video http://nocountryforwomen.com/. But then, I thought those men who are on those videos aren't those who, in all probabilities would read my blog. So I went ahead and wrote to all those who I know will. The men I know; may be men I don't, but who are like the men I do. And hence, the tone changes even in this very short post.

Regrets..

I wish i could see the painting to correct my brushstrokes in time..
I wish I could start again, and change a few things,
Regretful as I am.

I wish I had spent more time with people who stood by me
In times of crises,
So that we could be around now when I am happy,
Wish I had heard what they weren't saying,
Instead of the introspection i was caught up with..

I wish I had understood the meaning of friendship,
Before it was washed away into distance
By the vast seas of time...

Kalam meri naaraaz hai mujhse

Kalam meri naaraaz hai mujhse,

Kehti hai, “Aaj kal tum humari taraf dekhte kyu nahin?”

“Tumhare haath ka woh ehsaas,

Diary ke un panno mein tumhaare hi kuch raaz,

Kya tum un palon ko bhool gaye, jab main tumhaari zubaan thi?

Tumhaare zehen mein aaye hue un khyayaalon ko,

Tumhare dil ke un jazbaaton ko,

Main hi toh padh paati thi, main hi toh likhti thi..

Kyu roothe ho mujhse?

Bas ek baar chhoolo,

Kahin meri siyaahi na sookh jaaye.”