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..."