'Tis the time...

If I was someone else before I met you, I don't remember it. My parents say I am though, so I should take their word for it.

I guess I understand changing but now? Now, I won't be able to recognize my old self.

When I first met you, you seemed so promising. I told everyone about you, I told them about what all we would do together, I knew, I knew things would be great.

But someone sitting up there just laughed.

I can't blame you for everything. Some of my decisions were self destructive, and I brought the effects upon myself.

As I got to know you better, things started going downhill. Things that should have happened didn't and those that shouldn't have did, there were disappointments and hurt and drama, and it was hard you know? Hard.

Some things worked out though, and I feel good about that.

I can't say I'm sorry that we're leaving you behind, but I want to thank you for all the lessons you have taught me. And you did teach me a lot.

I don't remember who I was before I met you, 2014, but I think I know who I want to be now, and hopefully, I'll get there.

Reverse Psychology

I look at my list again. Here's what it says.

Husband - Divorced - pain. Discouragement - Mark in his custody.

No job - counselor post offered - should/should not take. why.

Have to pay rent - after divorce - find better environment.

How to connect with Mark again.

Cabbage.

I take out a pen and immediately scratch the last thing on my list. Cabbage. I already bought that.

I look around me again and feel a sense of hope ballooning inside me. Maybe change is possible. Maybe after I talk to this counselor, maybe, just maybe I can patch up my life again.

My session starts at 4:00, and there about five minutes left. I scan my surroundings again. There are little kids on the carpet, playing with toys, there are large posters on the wall telling us that we can do whatever we want to, all we have to do is try. There is a large Tweety Bird staring at me from the other wall. The walls are painted warm colors, comforting shades of blue and light yellow and orange.

'Mrs. Deeney, your turn,' A woman wearing a bright blue nurse's uniform taps my shoulder.

'It's Ms. Deeney,' I say through gritted teeth, and allow the woman to show me the way.

'Here we are, ' she finally says and points to a door, painted purple.

'How dare you! - No, you don't get it! Shut up!' I hear faint, ok, not that faint, shouting from behind the door. I look at the nurse in alarm.

She shakes her head, 'Don't worry Ms. Deeney, Dr. Fern Itcher is slightly...uh, different, but still a very effective doctor.'

She opens the door and we both get a glimpse of Dr. Itcher, a plump blonde haired woman screaming into the phone.

Even the nurse can't hide her surprise, but she pushes me forward and softly says, 'Dr. Itcher, your patient, Ms. Deeney is here. She's a first-timer here.'

The woman doesn't even look the nurse's way.

Dr. Itcher's room is a large one. There's a black reclining chair, and after standing awkwardly at the doorway for two seconds, listening to Dr. Itcher's, 'No! Listen to me, you daft dumbo! Oh, yes, hon, I just called you that. Oh no, you didn't!', I decide to sit down.

Finally she slams the phone down and for the first time, since I came inside, looks at me.

'My dear husband, that sweet darling,' She says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, 'doesn't know the difference between soya milk and regular milk.'

I decide to respond to this rather strange proclamation by giving her the wide-eyed-confused look.

There's a pause.

 I decide to take advantage of this fact by starting, 'My name is -'

'In fact,' Dr. Itcher says sitting down in her seat behind her desk, 'My husband doesn't know the difference between anything. It doesn't matter to him whether the shower curtain is open or closed when he bathes, nor does he know the difference between green and blue. Green clashes with pink, but blue doesn't. But of course, my color blind, lazy ass husband doesn't care.'

 I'm staring at her now, open mouthed.

'I'm sorry, ' she says, shaking her head.

I let out my held breath, and feel a sense of relief, 'Oh, it's quite all right..'

'I'm sorry. The person I should be complaining about is my brother. At thirty two, with no job and a pot belly, he still thinks he can attract women. He stops at my house every Sunday hoping to catch me with one of my girlfriends. Of course, my husband doesn't mind. Birds of a feather flock together, don't they?' Dr. Fern looks at me in the eye, as if daring me to go against what she's saying.

'I, well speaking of women, my husband decided -'

'Yes, speaking of women, can you believe that my brother was considered a catch? He used to work in the army. That's where he met my brother-in-law. My brother in law..' Her gaze drifts and I realize what must have happened.

'Oh, I'm so sorry.' I quickly say.

'Yes, I'm sorry too. My brother in law actually came back alive. Now he lives to control our lives. My husband has absolutely no spine of his own, and Older Brother is his constant mentor. What a dictator.' She huffs.

I know a thing or two about being told how to live constantly. 'You should tell him yourself. That you don't appreciate his constant mentoring,' I say.

Dr. Itcher looks at me, 'I've tried. But he's a soldier, who can go against him? Every time I say anything, he goes all, 'While you  were partying, I was busy defending my country.' How can you argue with that?'

I consider this for a moment. 'Don't counter it, go around it. You're a counselor, tell him you've counseled his fellow soldiers and tell him that they thought he was too bossy,'

'Hmm...' Dr. Itcher closes her eyes for a minute, 'so...lie?''

'Alter the truth, more like.'

'Well, I've tried altering the truth with my son. You know, the birds and bees, and all that? But he knows everything. How many second graders do you know who ask for Axe Men's Perfume for Christmas?'

I burst out laughing.

Dr. Itcher shakes her head, 'My daughter  is no better. We disagree about everything. Brands, boys, bands, everything. She just thinks she's right about everything.'

'You have to show them who's boss,' I say, 'I was a teacher for quite some time, teaching ninth graders, that too. You have to be firm, it's the only way that works. If you have a hard time, practice in front of the mirror.'

'I don't have the energy for anything. As if counseling isn't exhausting enough.' Dr. Itcher says, 'I'm an excellent counselor, though I don't really know what I do. All my patients say they have a change of perspective. I don't know what I do, I suppose it's innate.'

Change of perspective? I see what they mean. Suddenly, my problems don't seem that bad. I think.

'And don't even get me started on my patients. They are all so exhausting, always trying to tell me their  problems as if my life isn't hard enough. You know the other day....'

Suddenly the door bursts open.

'Excuse me, Ms. Deeney, I'm afraid your time is up.' The same nurse who led me to the room is speaking.

'Oh, well then,' I say, 'Nice to meet you, Dr. Fern.'

The doctor nods at me.

As the nurse leads me out, she asks, 'So, how was it?'

I shrug. Surprisingly, I'm feeling better. At least I've decided something on my list.

As I leave the center, I take out my mobile phone and dial a number.

'Hey, Mom. How are you? Yeah, remember the counseling post that was offered to me? I think I might take it...'

The Road Much Taken

When the traffic gets worse,

My mom begins to curse,

Stuck on the Bangalore roads,

She feels the need to unload,

Unburden her frustration,

Her anger, irritation,

And so she honks and hurls abuses,

At whomsoever she chooses,

And so you dare not cross her path,

Or else, you’ll incur her wrath.

By other’s stupidity, my mom is pained,

But we are thoroughly entertained,

We watch my mom’s vocabulary rock,

Every single time her car’s blocked,

It’s not often we see adults,

Lose their cool and insult,

Other grownups they pass,

Call them an idiot or an ass,

When it’s not us, who take the blame,

We quite enjoy my mom’s cursing game.

So Sachin and I sit at the back,

As mom pursues her verbal attack.

It’s important to note, dear reader,

That my brother turns cheerleader,

He might as well have pink pom-poms,

He constantly encourages my mom,

And even offers to pitch in,

And help her while she’s bitchin,

He finds the whole scene quite fantastic,

I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic,

As when my mother’s stuck on the road,

For Sachin, swear words are the way to go.

As for me, I remain amused,

When too many vehicles get confused,

She reminds me of angry cartoons,

When her head pops like a balloon,

I give a snigger, and a snort,

Because my mom’s usually the calm sort,

I just thank my lucky stars,

That I’m not the driver of those other cars.

To all those, at work,

Who have never seen her go berserk,

You actually think she is calm,

And she can be, my mom,

It’s a trait I share with my mama,

We both tend to do drama,

But otherwise she’s cucumber cool,

Is chill, and follows the rules,

If you do not always agree with her,

If you beg to differ,

Challenge her in the office, or on the streets,

But never when she’s in the driver’s seat.

And history repeats itself...

It's no mystery,
That my favorite subject is History,
My teacher is different, a bit unique,
But this class is what you history buffs seek.
My teacher is more obvious, more apparent,
She has no secrets, she's transparent.
She is much quieter than others, she makes no sound,
And she's quite bouncy, feet always off the ground.
She appears suddenly through the door, out of the blue,
But you have any question and she'll answer you.
She answers questions in a confident fashion,
Her life is history, it's not just a passion.
She knows what happened millennium ago,
And we're like, 'Ma'am, how do you know?'
She laughs and says, 'It's like I was there,'
And she fixes us with her rather pale stare.
She always seems a little out of breath, but she's also so cool,
She's the only one approving of parties in school.
When we passed with flying colors, she said, 'let's enjoy, let's hear it,'
I'm telling you, my teacher is a very lively spirit.
Let me give an example to show what I mean,
Take the case of last Halloween.
We had a fair at school, entered History class,
The effects were wicked, rather bad-ass.
Lights flickered, a chandelier hung,
Werewolves howled and banshees sung.
There were mean looking elves,
Things moved by themselves,
Goblins and trolls,
Blood on the walls,
Nails raked the board,
Weird eyeballs were stored,
I didn't know how to feel,
It all looked so real.
Then, I realized,
Why should I be surprised?
It should be obvious, I should know,
That a freaky Halloween party, my history teacher would throw,
After all what do you expect, when the host,
My dear History teacher, is herself a ghost?

Charactors

Sometimes, in my dreams, I become her. I crawl into her skin and her clothes, and I find myself in the same unpredictable situations that she finds herself in. There are cars racing about, explosions, betrayal, guns, blood. I feel her fear and her excitement – which are not really my own. I feel her feelings.

I know that I have to run, but I wait anxiously, watching, watching the top of that building, because that’s where he is, and I can’t leave him, I can never leave him. And as I see his body arch back gracefully, the scarlet blood pouring out of the bullet wound, I feel the strongest of terrors seize me, ‘JOHN!’

I wake up with my head pounding and tears in my eyes, tears that aren’t mine, tears that are hers.

Will grunts, and turns away from me. He’s awake, I know. There was a time when he used to comfort me when I had such dreams. He would rock me in his arms; sing lullabies with silly lyrics just to hear me giggle. He didn’t understand my fear, but he understood that I was frightened and that was enough for him.

Not anymore, though. I know what he thinks, what he suspects. And he knows that I know. He’s told me too, casually, of course. He wonders why I shout John and never Luke. Because she’s in love with Luke after all, not John. I don’t know, so I don’t answer.

A part of me falls a little more in love with John every time I see him. It’s not surprising considering my half and his half come together to make a whole. I see the love in his eyes, in the genuineness of his smile. He means it, he means his love.

Our relationship isn't describable off screen though. While it’s obvious that Luke loves Maya more than anything else in the world, with an earth-shattering romantic love, it’s hard to put into words what John and I have between us. It’s not sibling-hood, or friendship, or romance, it’s just love. Maybe that’s why I shout John in my dreams, because to me he was always John. Even when he portrays Luke, I see a bit of John in him, just the way he sees traces of Janice even in Maya. This doesn't have a bad impact on our acting though; in fact critics have praised our "chemistry".

I don’t know how to respond to these opinions, and so once again, I don’t answer.

Will and I fight very regularly now. It wasn't like this before. Before, he used to look at me the way Luke looks at Maya, and when I point this out he shouts some more.

‘Get your head out of your TV show! You’re letting it mess with you, you’re not you anymore! Where’s the Jan I know? The sweet one who likes extra sprinkles on her cupcakes. Not this tough, aggressive woman in front of me!’

‘I am me. What the hell do you mean by saying I’m not?’

‘See, there you go again! Aggressive!’

‘You’re accusing me unfairly, Will. I’m angry; don’t I have a right to show it? And what’s wrong with being aggressive?’

‘It’s not you, Jan.’

‘And who are you to define who I am?’

‘Goddamn it, Jan. I miss you. I miss you and I want you back to how you were. I’m sorry for ‘trying to define you’ but I just want you back.’

‘Will...I’m right here.’

‘I want Jan, not Maya. Jan.’

It’s Will’s birthday. I've told him I’m coming from work late, but actually I’m waiting for Martha to finish baking his favorite cake. Chocolate with nuts and a bunch of other ingredients that Martha puts together.

Martha’s is not some regular bakery, where they have the standard cakes that you order from. She’ll make what you want, and give it to you fresh out of the oven.  I asked for this cake yesterday, and in about half an hour, it’ll be ready for me to take home.

I read the magazines as I wait for the cake. Martha’s has got comfy sofas and armchairs and lots of magazines. Martha loves gossip though she’ll never admit it. ‘I just like seeing what they write about you celebrities, Janice. I know the truth, you are much better than they make you sound.’

I honestly find the magazines funny. They don’t really have much to report about me except for the fact that I have a close relationship with John. But then the tabloids have so many pictures of John with Sophie kissing, that they can’t really accuse me of anything.

‘Here you go, darling!’ Martha calls, and she shows me the beautiful cake before stowing it away in a box. I pay her the money, and leave, excited. I can’t wait to see Will’s expression. He seemed a little put out when I told him I am coming late, but we are making an honest effort to improve things and I know he’ll be delighted to see the cake.

The house is silent when I enter, the lights are off. Maybe he’s sleeping. I turn on the switch and wait for the lights, calling, ‘Will...’ No response.

The light flickers on. And I see the living room clean. Completely clean. Not one book on the table or newspaper under the chair. I turn to the kitchen and see a handwritten stuck on the fridge.

My heart beating fast, I near it, the cake still in my hand.

I’m sorry. I miss you Jan.

-          Will.

My heart stops for a second. It stays completely still. He’s gone. Gone.

I put down the cake before rushing to our room. His cupboard’s empty.

I feel a wave of shock wash over me. He can’t be gone, he can’t be.

But he is.

And in the end?

I’m left with a chocolate and nut cake. And a broken heart.

‘Shhh.’ John holds me as I cry. Tear after tear falls, and they seem to have no plan of stopping. Sophie watches me worriedly, the tea she made for me still in her hand.

‘Janice ...’ she starts. John shakes his head, and she quietly leaves the room.

‘Hey, Jan. He doesn't deserve you, get it? He didn't accept you. He isn't special. I can sing lullabies, too! See, Rock-a-bye beetle in a clay house...’

I smile with a sniffle, ‘That’s the lamest thing I've ever heard.’

‘There ya go.’

He holds me up so I look at him, ‘You want me to be honest with you, Jan?’ he says in a serious tone.

‘Yeah.’

‘You've got the cutest nose of anyone I've ever seen.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Totally. But let me tell you something seriously, Janice.’

‘I know my ears are cute too.’

‘They are, but I prefer Sophie’s.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Janice.’ John looks hard at me. There’s no trace of amusement on his face, ‘He doesn't deserve you.’ Oh, I wish it’s that easy. He doesn't deserve me. I wish I could I believe it.

‘Jan, does it look like I’m lying? When have I ever lied to you?’

John’s right about that, though. He never lies to me.

‘What makes you think that, John? Why doesn't he deserve me?’

 ‘He didn't appreciate your love for him.’

I think about this. I remember the accusations in Will’s eyes as he saw me with John. I see confusion in Sophie’s eyes too. Sophie is ... different. She doesn't blame John for being like Luke sometimes. She understands how attached an actor can get to his character. And besides, she herself was an actress. She understands the feelings. She even acted in our show as Holly, a minor villain. When John (as Luke) killed Holly, he had actual tears in his eyes. Technically, Luke wasn't even supposed to get along with Holly but John and Sophie's amazing chemistry convinced the script-writers otherwise. There was no doubt that from the start John and Sophie clicked, but even she can't understand our relationship. No one can. Not even us.

'John?'

'Yeah?'

'Who are we?'

'Two people who love each other.'

***

I'm alone in a wooded area. The sun shines brightly through the leaves. A calming breeze blows. I feel like my negative thoughts are oozing out of my pores, leaving me peaceful.

'Janice.'

That's all it takes. One word. And the resentment and anger are back.

'You.' I turn around. She's sitting on one of the shorter trees. Her long black hair flies in the wind. She looks at me keenly.

'You blame me, don't you?' She asks. Her voice is soft but precise.

'Yes. You know I do. Can't you leave me alone this once?' I ask, my voice rising with every syllable.

Maya hops down from the tree. She's supposed to look exactly like me, but she doesn't. Even in my mind, her hair is longer, her eyes are more cat-like and a more olive shade of green. Her body is more tanned and leaner. They are such subtle differences, but make us look more like cousins than twins.

'Oh God, look at me.' I moan, 'I'm blaming a fictional character for my breakup. How messed up am I?'

Maya raises one perfect eyebrow, 'I'm not fictional.'

'Yes, you are. You are fictional. You have a fictional story with fictional friends and family and you live in a fictional place and work for a fictional company. You. Are. Fictional.'

Maya looks at me with a small smile on her face as if she knows better, 'I don't have my own body, but I have my own story and friends and family. I have my own character. That makes me real, Janice. We define people who are original and down to earth as real. So I am real. Character isn't tangible or visible. We sense it, so we know it's real. Besides, if you really think I was fictional, why are you talking to me right now?'

I refuse to meet her gaze. I need to blame someone right now.

'He thought I was turning into you. He thought the show was all I cared about. He was right.' My voice is hard.

'Will was jealous, Jan.'

'Because I am so close to John?'

'He was jealous of you.'

I turn around immediately. 'What?'

Maya smirks, 'You loved your job. He didn't. For him, work ended with his coming home, but for you, your work was everywhere, it was in the way you saw the world.'

'But I took it too seriously.'

'Maybe you did. But that jealousy never went away. Anyone could see you cared for him, he refused to see it. That jealousy turned to resentment and then anger towards John and your change in character.'

'But I have become more aggressive.'

'I've rubbed off on you, Janice, the same way one person rubs off on another. Will refused to see the part of you that was still sweet and caring. The thing about a person is that they are made of a series of core values. People influence them, they add layers to this core, but they don't really change it.'

'You're confusing.'

'I'm right.'

I shake my head, 'I shouldn't be so close to John.'

Maya shrugs, 'No, you shouldn't. But he's the only one who's still good for you.'

I try to take in this vague reply.

Maya steps closer to me, becoming ... transparent. She comes even closer.

'Come on, ' she says, now nearly invisible.

She takes one more step and she's inside me, 'Let's kill some bad guys.'

A Walk in the Park.

The other day I went to the park and saw my old friend Bertie. I hadn't seen him for ages. I'd gone to Central Park with Fred because I really wanted to go for a walk, and naturally I pulled him along. We were strolling casually down a secluded cobblestone path when I heard my name.
'Hey, Charlie!'
I looked over and saw to my great surprise, Bertie, standing not too far away from us, with Margherita (of course, he came along with her!). I couldn't control my excitement, and Fred was quite happy too. We decided to go to a nearby cafe to catch up on things.
While Fred and Margherita walked together, I chatted with Bertie. He was a war chap, with a hefty, well-built frame I could only dream of. But his leg had been injured amidst the fighting and he now walked with a permanent limp.
'How ya doing, old fellow?' I asked.
'Yeah, all right,' Bertie said rather half-heartedly.
'How's that lady you were seeing, from Upper East Side?'
Bertie laughed, 'That's old news buddy. Has it really been that long since I met you?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'Well, that never really went ahead, Charlie. Right now, it's just me and Margherita. My health hasn't been treating me too good, though.'
'Oh, pooh. It'll pull through, you'll manage, you always do.'
Bertie looked at me, and some of the light in his eyes faded, 'I'm serious pal, the doc figures I've got a few months left.'
I stopped in my path, just looking at my old friend. I'd known him forever. Even the thought of him gone shook me. It wasn't possible.
'Come on, bud.'
I continued walking.

We reached the cafe soon enough, but I hadn't said a single word. It just wasn't fair. Bertie had survived too much. While Fred chose a table, Bertie came and sat next to me, 'Hey, it'll be all right, it always is. I'm old, pal, and I've had good times, good friends like you, and a good life in service.' 
He said no more, just comforting me with his presence.

*                                                                     *                                                                      *

Meanwhile, Fred and Margherita sipped on their coffees.
'I'm sad to hear about Bertie's health.'
'Yes, me too.'
'It's just amazing how close Bertie and Charlie are, isn't it, Marge?'
'It's pretty darn amazing all right, we've got ourselves some amazing dogs, Fred.'

OMG.

Because everything's within your reach.
               EVERYTHING'S within your grasp.
You can aim high,
        And  you can get there.
Nothing is impossible,
         Nothing is just dreams, castles built in the air,
NOTHING is wishful thinking.
                   You are at your greatest potential, now.
But...why doesn't it feel like that?
           Why is every part of you aching to be anyone other than yourself? (And why are you so dramatic?)
THEM DRATTED HORMONES, THEM.
 They enter,
     little chemicals,
RUINING YOUR LIFE.

Because, now everything is a big deal.
            Everything hurts.
The highs are too high, and the lows are even lower.
And there are boys and girls and everyone, everyone hurts you.

EVERYONE.
Especially you.

Oh, being a teenager.

The Tale of the Monkey and the Multipurpose Biscuits

One of the main lessons I have learnt,

Are that there are many uses of a biscuit that’s burnt.

In case this statement has left you foggy,

Think about it... they can never go soggy.

And I tell you, these burnt to crisp treats –

Provide a real workout for your teeth.

So hard that the teeth they almost break,

‘Tis the result of a cookie that’s over-baked.

And before you I’m about to present a story,

That shows the Burnt Biscuit in its glory.....

Once upon a time, a monkey was able,

To slip into our home and reach the dining table.

And on this table, stood a box,

Full of burnt biscuits like sweet flour rocks.

On the other side of the table, sat my father,

By this sudden visitor, he was startled rather,

But all his courage he did gather,

And got ready to face this furry, tailed rival,

Who decided that essential for his survival,

Were the biscuits that my mother had cooked –

So, the monkey turned into a crook.

The biscuits had a sudden appeal,

And so the biscuit box, the monkey tried to steal.

Enter my father, drawing up to his full height,

Chased down the monkey, who in his fright,

Dropped his dear biscuits, such fear he felt,

And in a case of quick thinking my father decided to pelt,

The monkey with the biscuits he had so desired,

Daddy opened the box and he aimed and he fired.

The monkey ran off, became a brown blur,

As the last of the biscuits bounced off his fur.

If A R Rahman were my neighbour

It's a feeling I would savor,

If A R Rahman became my neighbour.

It would be an extraordinary case,

If our current neighbours he would replace.

The current family next door,

Is antisocial, they're a bore.

They're meanies, don't like peoplies,

And I would be grateful, very deeply,

If I had a neighbour less foul,

Who smiles more often than he scowls.

'Course, if it's Rahman the Great,

Then I would celebrate,

To all my friends, I would show off,

And though they'd laugh, though they'd scoff,

Once they knew I was telling the truth, 

I'd be very popular among the youth.

And when for an autograph, they'd ask,

Why yes! I'd do that task,

Give my neighbour a sheet and ask him to sign, 

And say 'it's for a friend of mine!'

When I first realize he's next door,

With joy, my heart will soar.

I'll say 'hi' whenever I have the chance, 

And internally, do my happy dance.

And when he smiles back, I'll pump a fist,

And tell him I'm a pianist.

That I'm one of the best he'll ever see, 

And that my fingers fly across the keys.

And one day he'll want to hear,

And so, I'll play my best piece with cheer.

He'll applaud and say, 'That came from the heart,

You're bound to be the next Mozart,

And if you want support, I'll have your Bach,

And make sure there are no resources you lach.

You'll be famous at a very young age,

You'll do live concerts, you'll own the stage.

And it's the least to say, you play very well,

You just showed me an excellent version of Jingle Bells!'

We're going to become very close, 

The best of buds, and everyone knows.

Into his house I'll barge,

And he'll teach me music free of charge.

And if by a studio, I'm rejected,

He'll say that their ears don't work, that they're defected.

And one day a studio will see my gift, 

And they will give me a financial lift.

And soon enough, when I'm on stage,

I'll leave all in a dage.

And after the concert, it will be time to thank,

My guide, my teacher, my support bank, 

Who taught me to wait for the fruits of labour,

And the crowd goes crazy as my neighbour,

Mr. Rahman, will walk on stage in hesitatation,

The audience will give him a standing ovation.

***

Do you hear that horrid shouting?

It's my neighbours, back from an outing.

Obviously, something's gone horribly wrong,

For this shrieking to end, it's gonna take long.

Why am I stuck with such terrible folk?

Fate can play such cruel jokes.

To have them gone would be a boon,

Mr. A R Rahman, please come soon.

This was the poem I wrote for the competition at Jyothi Kendriya Vidyalaya. I mean no offense to my real neighbours. They are in fact wonderful people. 

Say My Name

You can't let it go,
Or rather, it won't let go of you...
At the back of your mind, always,
It lurks like a predator waiting for its prey.
And whenever you are hit with another, smaller failure,
This jumps at you, and all the tears with it.
Because its like adding fuel to a fire,
Or like rubbing salt in a wound, these smaller rejections, are.
Telling you that it was not you, in the end, that it was not you.
And you never got the one thing you were sure of,
Positive of,
For so long.
Because others told you, and you told yourself,
Et enfin, they were wrong, and you were wronger.
And you close your eyes,
         wishing you got the thing you wished for,
hoped for,
      desired and wanted.
But you got only rejection,
If only you found what you seek,
If only you could go back in time,
And change their minds,
And hear your name.

Sound of Music

I sometimes ask Mama why I have ears, especially when I have no use for ‘em.

Hey, it’s not like that, her fingers say, one day you will be able to use them. With all the technology we have now…

But I tell her that it’s OK, and I hug her ‘cause I know she didn't really understand what I asked. It’s all right, I don’t want new ears.

Really, I’m pretty OK with me, just the way the teachers say I’m supposed to be.

The others aren't though. They keep making sad eyes when they see me, and tell Mama that they’re proud of me and that I’m a big, strong girl. They ask me how I manage, how I'm so happy despite being deaf. I shrug. It’s no big deal, I say.

The one thing that really made me upset was that I didn't know what music was. I didn't like not knowing... My brother plays the piano, and everyone says he plays well, but I didn't really understand it. Until one day, my teacher said, music is beauty.

That’s all she said. But it really changed me. I asked her to explain music even more and she said she didn't need to, she said I was real smart, and I would figure it out.

And I did.

My brother once told me that energy is neither created nor destroyed, and I didn't really understand it then, and I don’t understand it now, but I guess it means energy is always there. And so is beauty. So when others enjoy what they hear during concerts, I enjoy what I see. For the rest of the audience, music is the notes they hear, but for me, music is what I see. And I see the players being real happy when they play; I see their smile and their concentration. I see their love for their instrument. When I tell Mama this, she says I am real smart.  She says I’m right, that others hear the music, and I see it.

So now, I try to record what I see by writing and painting. I let the colors take over me, and do what they want and I ask my brother if playing the piano feels the same way, if the notes and keys take over him, and he nods and smiles. He says that I've got the real essence of music.

So when others ask me what I like to do, Mama tells them I’m a musician, the special kind who plays with colors and not strings or keys, and that my music is not very different from my brother’s, because in the end, we both create beauty.

Second Birth

I wonder what it’s like to have a story, a past. What it’s like to have memories. What it’s like to look at somebody and know who they are and what they are to you, and more importantly to look in the mirror and recognize the wide-eyed person staring back at you.

The doctor said this might be permanent, this memory loss. I don’t know how to react because I don’t know who I am. The people who love me (and surprisingly, there are quite a few), claim that I’m a person they miss, a person to be admired. But the others look at me with disgusted eyes, and whisper of my betrayal; they know who I am, or rather, who I was, and that’s a lot more than what I know now.

My friends are so expectant. They jump at my every start, hoping I recognize somebody, something. And a few times I did. The piano for example, the staircase with multicolored steps, and the songs of an artist I hate. All trivial things. But the people around me? I know nothing of them.

It hurts. It hurts every time someone looks at me, wanting me to remember them, and sees the blank look on my face. It hurts because I’m letting them down. Each time I admit that I don’t remember, people believe it’s because they’re not important enough. I explain that it has nothing to do with importance. In fact, I joke, if I don’t remember somebody it means they’re pretty darn important, because what I do remember is of no value.

I walk into her room. I like being with her. Her bed is littered with notebooks and torn pieces of paper. What is she doing? She’s sitting at her laptop, and when she looks up, she smiles. 

‘Hey’ she says softly, ‘How are you?’ 

I look at her, ‘I don’t remember.’ I reply. She gives a small smile, puts her device away, and stands up, facing me.

‘Who am I?’ I ask.

‘You’re a hero.’ She says. ‘Your name is James Bond, and you’re the greatest spy who ever lived. You’re so brave.’ She places her hand on my cheek.

I shake my head, ‘And so fictional.’

She laughs, ‘All right then. How about Harry Potter? The boy who lived?’

‘More like the boy who forgot,’ I say.

‘Sherlock Homes. You go hunting for clues and are extra observant.’ She finally concludes. I consider this. Maybe.

‘This memory-loss thing is awful.’

‘You’ve got a big silver lining.’

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Course. Your memories may be gone, but your head still works, and your heart is still right. You can be whoever you want to be. It’s like a second birth, a second chance.’

‘How poetic. People could take advantage of my no-memory.’

‘Please, you’re stronger than that. You’ll find yourself. Don’t worry.’

And she places a kiss on my cheek and turns back to her laptop.

A second birth? Interesting. It’s amazing how she always cheers me up. Were we like this before? Then I tell myself to focus on the present. The now matters. The is and am, not the was. A second birth. I like it.

This is a semi fanfiction for the TV series Tomorrow People (2013), at least, the theme is based on a character. I also used the words we were supposed to use during our writing competition. This isn't what I wrote, but what I would have liked to have written. 

It's that time of the year...

If you'd come to my school right now, you'd see people roaming around randomly, holding maybe art equipment or cooking utensils, they could be dressed up outrageously. And once in a while (probably in the afternoon) you'd hear crazy screams from the auditorium. And let me tell you, when I say crazy and loud, I mean ridiculously high pitched screams coupled with catcalls and bellows and roars and possibly one or two parrot-squawks. In other words, it is a zoo.
Of course, ladies and gentlemen, this is the part I reveal to you what exactly I'm talking about. My school is enjoying its Lit Fest, which let me tell you here and now, is not centered around literary activities as much as cultural ones, and while its a misnomer, its a very enjoyable misnomer.
Lit Fest is the time a student can win major points for their House. There are events like salad-making, tattoo making, creative writing in English, Hindi, Sanskrit, Kannada, French, debate, play, solo singing, group music and....OK, I'll allow you to catch your breath. Let's just say there's a lot of events.
You know what the best part of this Fest is? You get to see how talented people are. It sounds all cliched, but there is a real beauty in seeing a person do what they're good at. I realized this while watching the boys in my brother's cricket academy bowl. Trust me, I know very little about cricket, but there was something about the way they ran and bowled the ball, the confidence in their step, the complete concentration. They looked good while bowling.
It''s the same during Lit Fest. No matter what kind of a person you are (unless you're like absolutely horrible to be around and have like zero friends or something), if you're good at something, people will appreciate you for it. They will cheer and clap and sincerely admire you.
I love watching people dance like they were born the twins of music, watching people act as if they were made solely for the stage, watching people paint, as if they had brushes instead of fingers, hearing people sing, like they were born with the melodies in their heart.
Then they could like get off stage and totally annoy you. But that pales against the talent they showed doing whatever they do. When you do something you're good at (and passionate about), there's a raw honesty about you that cannot be seen by doing anything else, which is why you look beautiful doing it. Nothing can replace honesty.
Watching my friends win medals makes me love them more. It makes me proud of them, and of their accomplishments. When people do what they love there's a beauty no matter what, and the Lit Fest does a great job bringing this out.

Dissolution

What it would be,
To fly away with the wind,
Become one with the air,
Disappear with the breeze.

What it would be,
To sink into the Earth,
Claimed by Our Mother,
Till the soil and I are same.

What it would be,
To lose myself in the water,
Carried by the currents,
Till I am nothing more than droplets in the stream.

What it would be,
To approach the flame,
Dancing and golden,
And then float away like the sweet smelling smoke.

What I would give,
To disappear without dying,
To rest forever, and awake once more,
Forgotten, but I remember...

What I want (and here's the point),
Is to be a teenager without stress,
And esteem issues,
And exhaustion (though I do nothing)
A hundred other problems,

Sometimes, I just want to dissolve into nature.

Homecoming

Four score minus seventy five years ago, the Saraffs descended from the airplane, landing in Delhi, immediately hit by the sweltering heat of the city.
That was June 27, 2009. After five years in India (which was celebrated with moong dal, Nutrela, and a broken RO system), we have come an amazingly long way. In fact, the whole US part of my life feels like a dream, it has become an unavoidable fact about me, an inevitable truth, but at the same time, it's about as hazy as the fogged mirror that is a result of long, hot, often melodic showers.
But this half decade journey wasn't just about us, it was also about India. My parents returning here after fourteen years, and my brother and I coming to live here for the first time.
Moving from the US to Gurgaon, and finally to Bangalore, I feel like I'm fitting in more and more. Even when I moved to Delhi, there was something comforting in knowing that I was with my fellow Indians, people of my own country and blood. And after coming to Bangalore, I finally experienced the thrill of living in a place where the people speak your mother tongue (even if you barely know it yourself).
Now what can I say about India? It's a mosaic - there are too many people, and too much poverty, and crime, and corruption, and beauty. People are modest, they work hard. And the best thing about living in Bangalore (apart from the whole Kannada-speaking thing) is the diversity. In fact all cities are diverse. There are people from Maharashtra, UP, Delhi, Gujarat. I love that in one classroom, you have people who speak different languages and celebrate different festivals and still, they can all come together and can support RCB (and love Virat Kohli).
I have thought about this a hundred times, and written about it even more - culture, language, travel. But the thing about me is that once a thing fascinates me, it continues to do so for a long time, and I have a feeling I will always be fascinated by India.
India, I am proud to call you mine, and even prouder to say that I'm yours.

It happened one morning...

All I want to do is rest,
But my sleep's been put to the test,
Whenever I try to sleep, there's too much noise.

Just when I'm about to doze,
Just when my eyelids close,
There is a sudden crash or a loud voice.

The door is creaking.
Is the faucet leaking?
I'm once again up in a snap.

The phone is ringing,
My daughter's singing,
Now I'll never be able to take this nap.

The phone has been answered,
Hubby says, 'The files were transferred.'
And then there's another resounding crash!

"Jeez guys, what have you done?
Now we'll have to make another one,
Quick now put that in the trash!"

I can hear my son yelping,
Do they need someone helping?
I know that they're going to give me a surprise.

Something starts beeping,
And while my heart is leaping,
I once again try to close my eyes.

Something goes BINGA-BONG-BONG,
That's when I know that something's wrong,
I just can't stand it anymore.

Just when I'm about to rise,
I hear shushes, I hear cries,
And my husband and children burst through the door.

My children sing, 'Happy Mother's Day'
While my husband hands me the tray,
There's coffee, my favorite muffin and some toast.

"Mom, it's not much, but look,
we (they exchange glances) can't really cook.
We just want you to know we love you the most!"

'I know', I think, and I'm all smiles,
I won't be angry for a really long while,
But why does my hubby keep throwing glances at me?

"Mom, you're so happy, stay like this a bit longer,
We thought things would be OK, we couldn't have been wronger,
Something's really gone wrong in the kitchen, you see..."

Homa

The smoke,
   A light grey,
               curls up from the flickering flames.
My eyes tear,
        sting, hurt.
To think it's an after effect of a few lighted logs.
The chanting oscillates in a strange pattern,
           between opposite sides of the fire.
Two pujaris chant, and fast, in Sanskrit.
                                      The sounds of which reach my ears,
 But the meaning of which does not reach my brain.
                     When those two pujaris end with a Swaha hay!
The other two pick up,
                  to form a strange sort of,
Shloka rap song.
                             And so it goes on and on.
My grandfather throwing half-fried sweets into the flames,
             My grandmother, adorned in purple, sitting faithfully beside.
The flames reflecting off her large-framed glasses.
                            Photographers at the side -
My dad. So formal in his blue shirt,
                                       weilding one camera.
While my bhaiyya, in a white kurta,
              wearing an orangey scarf, that makes all the difference,
holds the other camera.

And so,
        I sit here.
           My eyes stinging,
                My forehead sweaty,
                     But my heart growing,
As I watch the homa.

Humour Has It...

We all have our guilty pleasures,

Things we’re not supposed to do or have, but we do or have anyway, and that makes these things our secret treasures,

And I’d honestly be kiddin’,

If I said I didn't go after things that are actually forbidden,

OK, maybe forbidden is a word too daunting,

But let’s just say, I don’t look at it my parent’s way,

And I keep doing and having the stuff I’m wanting.

Like when I’m supposed to be studying and attacking my texts,

I’m online looking up Castle, seeing which episode is next,

And when I’m supposed to avoid our huge candy stock,

I might just slip myself an extra choc.

But there’s one pleasure that’s different, and it’s a book –

And when my parents decide to check whether I’m studying, and come to take a look,

And they see me reading, and to cool their anger and my conscience which is wriggling,

I read out a few poems, and soon enough we’re all giggling.

Because this book, which is called Candy is Dandy, and has an introduction by Anthony Burgess,

Gives you all kinds of strange urges,

To manipulate even the simplest of words,

Creating the weirdest spellings that ever occord.

The poems in this book can turn your bad mood off,

Read just a little, and you’ll start to loff.

Let me tell you, it’s quite a miracle,

You start reading and you’re laughing and you seem hysterical.

The poet has written about topics various,

And has managed to make each poem hilarious.

They’re about animals, pianos, money,

Yet each one is special, each one is funny.

He has long poems, but I think the real talent-definers,

Are the couplets, and the four liners.

He’s my favorite poet, and I wish to write,

Just like him, with a humorous light.

And maybe one day I will,

But there’s a lot of work still,

And until that day, I’ll just enjoy my stash

Of brilliant poems by Ogden Nash.

At the Wedding Reception

I watch the bride and bridegroom, the bride who shines in a lovely blue-green sari and the groom who looks well groomed in a brown kurta, and I smile,

They are receiving people, standing on the podium with the background decorated with flowers, meeting and greeting people, one after another, one after another.

The process goes somewhat like this: Say hello and shake hands, accept a hug, smile widely when the people congratulate, and then pose for a picture,

A picture in which there could be anywhere from just four to nearly twenty people squeezed together, 

and the groom gives a smile and so does the bride, but hers seems smaller, like she’s tired,

Which she is. She is tired, and so is the groom, for who doesn’t get exhausted when getting congratulated by dozens of people for your marriage?

But it’s the moments in between each group of people that I wait for.

For it’s then that they bond, getting just a little closer I feel. She holds him by the arm, and they laugh, or she tells him something, even when they are in the midst of a photo, from the corner of her mouth, and he listens, giving her his fully undivided attention, and it’s sweet, so sweet.

I see their expressions change, as it goes from a smile, to a slightly more serious look and back to a laugh. They welcome person after person.

The groom seems a bit confused, and I don’t blame him, for there are so many, so many, so many,

Relatives, and they’re of his bride, his girl, and it’s hard to keep up, and yet they smile winningly,

There are so many people around, girls who look like they’ve walked off fashion magazine covers, and men who look like they’ve come from the Wall Street, and others who are just there, from ordinary newspaper pictures which try to capture life in the city.

I turn back to the bride and groom, and they are tired and holding each other’s hands, ready to be by the other’s side during tiring times like these, 

And when its our turn, I congratulate them once, twice and again.

My dad assures the groom that our family tree is hard to learn and he laughs and we lean in for a photo and I congratulate once more, just once more, because it’s all so lovely and sweet, this love marriage that is happening, and I resolve to tell my best friend everything for we are both romantics,

And I ease off the podium as the next wave of people come by…..

Bravery

(This is an old one...)

Knights in shining armour,
Very brave, they sure are ...
The knights that ride upon the horses,
Silver like the stars...

I wish I were as brave as them,
But there's no way, I can see.
I have too many fears,
To show my bravery.

I get shadowed by my fears,
Like clouds covering the moon.
And when the clouds clear up,
The sun rises quite too soon.

But one night when the moonlight streams,
The moon's whole, showing every part.
There are no clouds, and no fears,
Bravery's song is heard in my heart.
 

While You Were Sleeping...

The sky outside is a blue so deep,
And it's as silent as could be.
All the world is fast asleep,
All except for me.

I don't bother seeing the clock,
For so long, I've been awake.
It's as though my sleep's been blocked,
Let me rest, for goodness' sake!

Instead I want to walk around,
Or maybe take a book and read.
But I'll wake others with my sound,
And disturb the sleep they need.

I'll relax, I decide,
Maybe try to sleep once more.
It's probably the tenth time I tried,
But maybe this time I'll snore!

My limbs have gone completely still,
My eyes are sealed shut.
My brain starts to tire, like I know it will,
The train of thought soon gets cut.

I wake up in the Land of Dreams,
Embarrassingly, in my pajamas.
Then the world tumbles - or so it seems,
And I feel a sense of trauma.

Then to consciousness I leap,
I'm jolted awake.
'Priya, Priya, I can't sleep.'
My brother gives me a shake.

I feel angry, I feel annoyed,
It's still dark outside.
'Try again' I tell the boy,
'Even though, you've already tried.'

And so he lumbers back to bed,
To try to sleep once more.
Thoughts start to fill my head,
When I hear a snore.

It lets him sleep, but mine it takes,
That stupid, little nag.
It's what keeps me wide awake,
Thanks a lot, JetLag!

Her

Her name allows me to create a hundred other nicknames for her though her name is beautiful. It's long though. But I like it.
Some of the nicknames have stories behind them, seeming random otherwise, and some of them are direct derivations of her name.
I hadn't ever heard of a name like hers till I met her. And I'm glad I did.

***

She's beautiful. Her black hair is short, her skin is clean and clear, and her eyes are deep, they're expressive. I like her eyes the best.
She used to have long hair, but to think of it is now is like trying to remember moments of a past life. But when she first cut her hair, it freaked me out. For a week. Two weeks, even. And then I finally got used to it.

***

She's into music. She sings well and knows how to play the keyboard. We had plans for a band, the name was set - it was so dark and dramatic, and there was even that song we'd sung for assembly, which flopped because of me.
We were songwriters too, we'd made a whole song on the word floccinaucinihilipilification which means worthless and has an overwhelmingly large number of is. We sang that song in computer class. Talk about joblessness.

***

Art wasn't really my thing. And I don't think it was hers either. Our third best friend was great at art, on the other hand. But we tried, oh we tried. There was this time we had to make a life-sized portrait of ourselves, though I don't recall if that's what it was exactly. And she? She drew a girl whose dress was made of magazine cuttings of the elements - there was fire and water and the sky and plants all in one dress. It was pretty fantastic.

 ***

You don't know the meaning of teased, until you get teased by her. She reduced me to tears, she and our other friend, or at least got me to write angry poems about them.
Because I was the 'polka-dot' and that made me lame and bad-weird, while she was the 'stripe', daring and the cool weird. It was like some sort of personality test with patterns.
She's saved my number as 'pichki polka dot.'
She tells me this, and she laughs.

***

When I told her what I considered my deepest secrets, it took 5 minutes outside our classroom. She listened to me, and I don't know how she felt or how she would react, but she accepted everything about me.
She told me more about herself during the breaks. We'd roam the hallways and the playground and she would tell me. Sometimes it's over email, sometimes it's on chat, or on the phone. But if there's something to tell, it will be told.

***

Football was our thing. So was running. We had a bunch of activities that we were into together. Me and her. I remember days out on the football field, the sun blazing on our necks, a lazy breeze was the only relief. We had two continuous periods of games on Fridays, and honestly, it was the best. We'd run around for no reason, imitate others, and even score self goals.

***

As a person, I think she knows me better than most. She knows me completely, all sides of me, unlike some others, which I appreciate. We've been out of contact for so long, and I really want to apologize. She tells me that she spoke about me to a group of fifth graders, and they were simply blinking. I hear this on the other end of the phone, and grin.
She's crazy. She's hyper. She's smart and talented and bindaas. She gets drunk on Coke. She's like my partner in crime.
Every fact is another reason to laugh at her, or roll my eyes at her, or agree with her, and love her.