Following the dream

After several days of winter thunder, I finally got the glimpse of hot sun. The warm sunlight peeped through the clouds giving a soothing warm feeling. The Kelly-green color of my leaves were turning into the shades of neon. The bole was shining like gold. The branches were stretching themselves as they woke up from an elongated sleep. Oh! I must exclaim I was looking more beautiful today.

I have the widest bole with extended branches densely covered with leaves. And, I am deep under the soil with my roots, that strengthen me. Also, I know others are envious of me and they should be. Although everyone in this jungle knows, I am the predominant one here. I had more number of travelers sitting under my shade, when the sun performs his best and when the cloud cries loud. I like to play hide and seek with the travelers sitting under me, I move the branches from slight left to slight right to give them, the sunrays and shade alternatively.

I remember those days when I was like an adolescent in this enormous jungle. I had the dream of being the biggest tree of the jungle. I nourished my dream for countless years and today I am here, established. I was happier than ever.

But, somewhere my happiness was getting measured. It was a bad day either. As soon as the morning sun made me brighter, as soon as I was in the eye of others, it ended too.

Before the mid of the day, a group of loggers came to jungle and I was the selected one. They had their logging tools to tear my joy, break my dreams, cut my hopes, and joggle my strength. I saw my neon shaded leaves converting into moss, and scattering on the muddy ground. I was crying, shouting for help, but a tree, a strong big tree like me cannot even save itself in this world of humans. One by one, my branches were cut into pieces. Long branches were stacked together; small twigs were left disseminated, leaves crushed under their feet, and my heart wept on my demolition.

And they left, they went with my branches leaving me behind as a bare bole. I kept staring the path they were going from. I kept weeping for the loss I faced today. I kept wondering I am not the largest tree of the jungle anymore. Bereft of leaves, I am a standing snag.

Days passed and night’s cold breeze killed me almost every time. Waiting for a hope of life again, a leaf, a twig, a new branch. I was impatiently waiting to be green again and emerge out of my deserted existence. But, with every morning my optimism was fading out. I see my regular passersby sitting under different trees. I can see the envy in others’ eyes has been turned into mock and pity. I am a loner.

I am not able to count days, but definitely, I have seen all of the four seasons, and the summer is back again. And, I am still a snag, almost a dead tree.

That evening, sun was about to leave the sky, making it red in color. I was trying to feel its losing existence. But it does have a hope of coming back tomorrow again, where I have been lacking now. Suddenly, I feel something tickling behind me. I turned back, and I saw some green. Oh! Is it what I saw, I wasn’t able to hold my excitement. I turned back again to have a close look. Yes, it’s a leaf. A tiny little leaf, in chartreuse color. I can’t believe, but it’s true. Sun left the sky and moonlight didn’t help me, have the glimpse of new leaf again and again. But, what I can see was that, I am going to be the biggest tree of this jungle again. This one leaf, will be the first step and soon I will be shining.

I earnestly held the fire till dawn, the moment first-light peeped in, I turned back to have the sight of my new baby leaf. I tracked the trail of its existence. Ah-oh, the twig this leaf belongs to is attached to a small, thin, wobbly plant. Oh! this is not possible, I must re-check, I did, but yes, it was. My dreams were broken again. It wasn’t my leaf, it belongs to that tree, the tree which is smiling at me. It must be making fun of me. I turned my back towards it. But wouldn’t hold my sorrow, I cried once again. I died once again.

But then again, the leaf kept on touching and tickling my bole. In days, its branches stretched, and some more leaves came for the company. These leaves played and giggled, whole day, backing on my trunk. I was getting annoyed. I am not a play area for these tiny giggling greeneries. How can they sit and play on me?

It was now a day to day practice, making me irate. I glowered at the tree, but it did smile back. This young little tree was making fun of me, while sitting on my bole. I can't take this, I need to revert back, push it hard with my full strength, and give aback what it deserves. I can definitely pull my roots and fall on this precarious young tree. The weight of my dead bole can decease it. Nonetheless, I am a dying tree, I am of no use, standing with no leaves, no branches, no life since long. There will be no harm to me, despite of it will be demolished. I did have made up my mind.

Let the sun be down, let all the trees be asleep, let this young one slumber and I will hit it. I was staring at sun, anticipating for its disappearance. Suddenly, I heard a diffident and stammering voice.

“Dear patriarch, I have always been fascinated to see you, I always wanted to grow like you, to be the biggest one in this jungle. But, my stem is not as strong as it should be, my branches are growing but my stem is not able to hold the weight of my branches. Sir, if you won’t mind it, can I have the support of your big, strong bole? My branches can sit on you, and grow. My leaves will soon nurture me and my roots, and I will be strong enough to hold the weight of my branches. Till then, please do allow me to be dependent on you.”

Oh! I can see the same dream in its eyes, which used to be mine. Is it asking for my support, my favor, or still amusing me? No, I sense the truth in its voice, its feelings seem to be prudent. It’s not bluffing with me. But, why do I help it. What will I gain out of it? I had already planned to thrash it tonight. I must stick to my plan. But what do I benefit if it falls although? I was muddled in my thoughts; the stumbling voice came again.

“Don’t you think so, Sir?”

“Umm… you can, my dear child, and some day you will be the prevalent one. My blessings with you.”

Surely, that day I felt the life again, I started living with that young tree, and it was following my dream.

Usool–e–Naasoor :: The Rule Book

1980, Lucknow

Nuwha (Noóha), a fifteen-year-old girl from a Muslim joint family, brought up by her Phuphojaan. She abides every advice given by her Phupho and compiled them in a book, she named Usool–e–Naasoor, The Rule Book. Nuwha orphaned before her third birthday, and Phupho turned into her guardian, adjudged by her grandfather.

Phupho was unwed and stayed in their joint family, was the eldest sibling of Nuhwa’s father. Due to abnormally short in height (dwarf), the well-known and orthodox family of Lucknow could not find a match for Phupho.

A house crowded by cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandfather, Nuwha had a complete family, still, she was close to Phuphojaan only, and expressed herself afore her. Considering, Usool–e–Naasoor, girls were not allowed to express in front of elderly and male figures.

The Rule Book had twelve chapters in total, some named Saleeka, Tahzeeb, Zubaan, Google-e-Fatima (rules by her dearest friend Fatima, who advised stories from Google). Nuwha kept adding the instructions and rules in different chapters wherein they fell. She began amalgamating these when she was 12. The book comprised rules, ‘Dupatta sar se neeche na ho’, ‘Chalte huye pairon ki awaaz nahi’, ‘Sote huye kharaate nahi’, ‘Ladkiyan jamhai nahi leti’, ‘Paad nahi maarti’, ‘Jaldi jaldi nai bolna, oonchi awaaz nahi, aahiste bol’, par ‘Ghar ke kaam sikho’, ‘haathon me har kaam ki shaffa honi chahiye, kadhai, silayi, bawarchikhana’, and many more.

Nuwha followed these regulations to satisfy Phuphojaan but she never agreed. Her expressions on these were far opposite. She wanted to shout, wear jeans, run on stairs, make noises while eating, dance, and fly kites. She questioned, why these rules were applicable only for girls. Boys need not to follow any rules. They were unconfined and have the liberty to fly kites for hours. She always dreamt herself flying kites, but she was allowed to serve tea and kababs, not to play and enjoy.

Nuwha prepares kites for her brothers, before every season. She used variety of colored papers and designed the kites amazingly that even her brothers fought to pick the best one for them. She was surprisingly so good at it, that even the neighbors envied the kites she hand-crafted. Nuwha was scolded by Phuphojaan, for making kites. But on insistence of her brothers and her passion for kites, she stole time for kites. Still she was unable to fly those creatively designed kites. No-one will ever let her fly kites. She too had written in Usool–e–Naasoor that kite flying is not a girl’s game. Thus this enjoyable game can be rejoiced by boys. And, truly this rule was the biggest naasoor for her.

One night, Nuwha dreamt of the most elegant kite, a big white swan, with white feathers all over, flying high in the sky. She woke up with gleam in eyes at midnight, and remained sleepless in exhilaration. She earnestly held her fire till dawn.

The moment first-light peeped in, she set for school. The elation of describing her dream to Fatima was irrepressible. Her depiction was so detailed, as she can envision the kite. Nuwha said without further a-do she will start making it. Fatima exclaimed, ‘But for whom are you going to prepare this for?’ Nuwha thought for a whilst, but after a gasp she blurted, ‘This is for myself.’ Fatima mocked her and said, ‘But what will you do with this kite? You will sleep with it, or talk day and night?’ Nuwha lost her cool, she murmured ‘I will fly this kite.'

Nuwha get down to create the dream kite, and spent endless nights on it, hiding from everyone. She made tiny feathers with white crepe paper, and glued together to make wings. A long neck, black eyes and orange beak, with paint and materials she picked from Phuphojaan’s sewing box. Lastly, she accomplished. It took over a month to create the white swan resembling her dream kite.

Nuwha revealed the kite to Fatima. She was thrilled to see the kite and asked, ‘You will fly this kite?’ Nuwha, was ambivalent that how is she going to fly this kite. Be that as it may, she needed to and she will. If she goes by the book, she can’t. She supplicated Fatima, ‘I wish, I fly this kite, you need to help me.’ Fatima glared her astonishingly. ‘You must be having bats in the belfry. Your longing for the kite has been actualized. If you expect this kite to touch the sky, you must entrust Aadil bhai (eldest cousin of Nuwha). He is incomparable. He can take it to top in a sudden gust of wind.’ Fatima formulated her thought.

‘I know this is the most desirable kite; and apropos for competition. But I want to fly this kite,’ Nuwha came on strong. ‘I dare say, are you thinking of supersede Usool–e–Naasoor?’, Fatima queried. ‘NO’ Nuwha reciprocated firmly. ‘Okay, then we need to cook-up a plan around it,’ Fatima winked with a smile. Both giggled in enthusiasm. On spur-of-the-moment Phuphojaan entered, hurriedly Fatima outstretched her dupatta masking the kite. Phuphojaan bore into her bust, lacking dupatta. Nuwha countered, ‘Phuphojaan, we are thinking to adorn it with gotas.’ Phuphojaan glared at old musty dupatta.

Execution of planning starts from taking the kite to school. They packed the kite between clothes. On a Sunday, Nuwha went to Phuphojaan seeking permission. ‘I need to get these dupattas in new shades Phuphojaan, they look pale.’ She pulled the dupatta forward and covered her forehead. Phuphojaan approved with a smile, acknowledging her small gestures.

They turn up to school, however the gates were closed due to Sunday. Fatima threw a small stone towards the right lane beside the school. A young boy holding his white cap came running in couple of seconds. Nuwha gazed Fatima inquisitively, ‘Who is he?’ Fatima replied, ‘He is Ismail, son of our school guard. He has the school keys and will open the gate for us.’ ‘But how the hell do you know him?’ Nuwha gave a dirty look at Fatima. Fatima exchanged back and indicated her to rest the escalation. The boy ignored the hot-air, and unlocked the school gate. Nuwha and Fatima looked both ways and went inside the school. They rushed to their classroom, to keep the kite in the almirah kept there.  

Nuwha spent the night absorbed in feelings of kite-flying. Biding the time till last class, they let the girls leave the classroom. Fatima had the manjha and string, and they climbed stairs towards terrace with kite. It was a broad and lofty terrace and one can see the whole Lucknow from there. However, the towering height not let the people has the view of the terrace. Fatima held the kite in her hand, and Nuwha held the manjha, and whoosh, Fatima left the kite to fly, but Nuwha was not able to hold it long, in a moment it came down. They tried intermittently, but it doesn’t work. They have seen their brothers flying kite, yet it was half-baked, and appeared a troublesome undertaking. Nuwha felt wretched, ‘Phuphojaan was right, and the rule book is right, these tasks are not for girls. We can’t fly the kite.’  Fatima, too was disappointed. They cleared out the school deserting the kite on the terrace.

Ismail entered the school, for cleaning. He went up to terrace and found the swan-kite. It was a surprisingly wondrous kite; he has ever seen. He hankered for flying it. Soon, the exquisite kite danced gracefully in the glowing blue sky. Fatima and Nuwha had the view of kite while going through the paths of school. Both hurried back to school, climbed the stairs to terrace and saw Ismail flying the kite. Nuwha exultantly ran towards Ismail, staring him astoundingly, and again the kite in the sky. Overlooking the rules of Usool–e–Naasoor, she spoke to him (a stranger), ‘Will you teach me how to fly kite?’ Ismail nodded. Fatima exclaimed, ‘great, every day after school, half-n-hour!’

   

‘Why are you late today?’ Phuphojaan enquired, as-in-when Nuwha entered the house. In joy and excitement of learning kite-flying time slipped out of her mind. She stammered, ‘Phuuu…phooo…jaan, I got only 10 marks in mathe…maaa..tics, and teacher asked me to study half-n hour extra every day, with her.’ Making a fake sad face. ‘Alone?’ Phupho, questioned. ‘No…no.. Fatima will be with me, she got fiffff…..teeen.’ ‘Both of you are useless, better you girls stay at home,’ she mumbled and left the room.

Next day, they were back on terrace after school time with Ismail. The lessons of kite-flying were simple, yet profound. Ismail helped them to understand the wind, height, force, pressure, and pull techniques. In a span of weeks, Nuwha was able to fly the kite. She learnt all tips and tricks of kite-flying. Ismail was indeed a proficient kite flyer and a good teacher for Nuwha.

Meanwhile, she broke numerous rules of book, flying kite, conversing with a boy, who is an outsider. She has had lost her fear of following the book. She became assertive and self-reliant. She felt the cold wind touching her face, she felt like a fledged bird in the pristine sky, not obligated by rules. She recognized the freedom under control. Still, she was frightened of everybody, in the event that anybody become acquainted about this, she won't be saved.

The Kite festival was close, a competition to see whose kite could climb the highest and stay aloft the longest. She was assiduously working on new kites for her brothers. And a big colorful kite for Aadil bhai. Everyone knew, that he will be the winner this year as well. Fatima questioned ‘Don’t you want to be a part of this festival? Now even you can move around the sun.’ Nuwha thought for a while and stated, ‘No, I can’t, yet yes I will make one for Ismail, as he helped me follow my dream.’

‘Hmm.. what are you going to make for him?’

‘A Falcon.’

Before the Kite festival, Nuwha thanked Ismail with a falcon kite. He was flabbergasted to see the kite.

‘Will you fly this kite on the festival day?’

‘Yeah, sure, but I want you to fly this kite with me.’

‘No, I can’t fly the kite that day, my brothers will be flying kites, and girls are not allowed to, if anyone get to know, I will be punished badly.’

‘Then, what is the use of your learning?’

‘It was my dream to fly a kite, it doesn’t mean I can compete with my brothers.’

‘It is not about a competition, it is about to see yourself as an individual in this world, your existence between all, your independence to live your dream, let everyone accept you as you want to be, let them know you.’

Nuwha looked amazingly at Ismail. They had developed a friendship in this short span, but haven’t had any long conversations.

‘But, I can’t.’ She closed the discussion and left. However, she couldn’t take herself out of the thought that she too can fly the kite on festival day.

Two days left for the festival and all his brothers were busy in preparations. Some were busy in practicing and some in arranging manjhas and dori. Aunts were busy making had been busy in arrangements of kababs and pakoras, easy to eat snacks in quantity, as boys will be spending whole day on terrace. The festival is celebrated with a bang every year.

Finally, the festival day arrived. Brothers were thrilled, exhibiting their kites to each other Nuwha made for them. Soon, the sky was hued expansively, miles of strings tangled, and kites aspiring for clouds. Surrounding was awash with chatter and laughter of boys. Nuwha were making rounds to terrace with tea and kababs. She stood at the terrace for a while to see the kites and feel the enjoyment. Her cousin shouted, ‘What are you looking at, you shouldn’t stand here, go back to kitchen.’ This made her infuriated, she hurriedly ran downstairs. 

Nuwha, adjusted her dupatta on head, and rushed to the main door of the house. Phuphojaan, shouted out, ‘Where?’ ‘Fatima fell on stairs, her ammi called. I am going to see her Phuphojaan.’ Nuwha replied without looking back, and left the house.

She reached the school street, threw a stone towards the right lane, and Ismail came running holding his white cap with one hand. Seeing Nuwha alone, he was surprised.

‘I want to fly the kite on this festival day.’

Ismail ran back to pick all the stuff, the falcon kite she presented her, the manjha and the school keys. He was back in minutes. They rushed to the terrace of the school. Adjusted the kite and wind, and by and by the falcon kite was awakened to its need for liberation. Up and up. In a short time, it was part of the vivid sky.  can be seen between all the kites. And there was kite of Aadil bhai, in competition.

Here, at Nuwha’s house, her brothers too can see a big falcon kite flying in competition, Aadil tried to pull it down and be the sole flyer in the sky. The competition between two was tenacious. Aadil fidgety, asked his brother to chase to the source of kite. ‘Who else can fly the kite in my competition?’

The boy scorched, chasing the falcon’s string and reached to Nuwha’s school. The gate was open to his surprise on a holiday. He climbed to the terrace.

Meanwhile, the competition benefitted Nuwha and Ismail, and, Aadil’s kite descended. But before they can appreciate and relish the win, the boy reached to terrace gasping, and saw Nuwha with Ismail alone, flying the falcon kite.

She was back in the house, everyone gathered in the courtyard. Dadajaan, and everyone gave her evil eye. Questions floating around, ‘How can she fly a kite? How can she be with a stranger boy? Who was he?’ Dadajaan accused Phuphojaan for her upbringing, ‘How can be you so irresponsible, because she is not your own child?’ Phuphojaan wept.

Nuwha too broke into tears, but couldn’t see her beloved Phuphojaan lamenting. She went to her room, picked the book Usool-e-Nasoor and a matchbox, and went to Dadajaan.

‘Dadajaan, you questioned how Phuphojaan raised me, see this book, she taught me every damn rule that needs to followed only by girls, girls of this house, girls of this society, girls of Lucknow or girls of India in together. But, why the rules belong to girls only?? I, a girl is not a perfection to prove, I am substance of my own, I have my rights to live. I don’t want to follow the rules written in this book, I want to live my dreams, see myself as an individual, not like a puppet who have to nod her head for all your wishes. As my name given by you, Nuwha, it means, I have this ability to think, let me think, let me actualize, let me breathe, Dadajaan. And, Phuphojaan, you are the best mother I can have. You taught me everything that needs to be. For me, the sky is very high and I want to fly. But, I can’t limit myself with these rules. I must burn this book before it burns me.’ And she took out the match and burnt the book in front of everyone.

Vijaya

When hope fails…

Running barefoot on a stony muddy path and wearing a frock with small red polka dots on cream base, there was a girl. Her two long braids with red ribbons were swinging in air as she was running and her eyes were on the path so long.  She was in a real hurry, she wanted to reach somewhere on time. She was tightly holding a double layer steel lunch box in a hand.

I was staring at her from my white ambassador; she was able to manage the speed with my car, as my car was running slow on this stony path. My curiosity let me to ask my driver to stop the car. I called her out and ask her to come nearer.

She paused, hesitated, but later came close. I magnified her once more, and asked her in my best possible gentle voice, where are you running towards my dear. She wiped her forehead with her right wrist; took a long breath between heavy gasps, and replied a small word. SCHOOL.

I was not in front of mirror, but I knew there was a big broad smile on my face. She must be six or seven years old, and her attire was telling that she belonged to a poor family. Still she managed to attend school. We are really progressing. Not to mention I offered her lift to the school and opened the car door and let her in.

She entered inside the car and sat on the back seat with me, locked herself in a little space, folded her dress neatly, and kept the lunchbox on her lap. She gave me a feeling that what a mannered child she is. She hesitated for her bare feet, as they were full of mud. I locked her strands behind her ears and asked, where is your school, direct the driver. She quietly said one right then left.

I asked her, what your name is. She replied in a confident voice with a smile, Vijaya. This was the first time she smiled.

‘Do you know what it means?’

‘Yes, mother says, I will succeed in whatever I will do. I always win in kabaddi. Even with the boys, I am able to win. But I am not allowed to play much. They are frightened I will beat them. I run too fast also, and I can fetch more pots of water from the river in less time than others.’

‘And tell me about your studies, what do you learn in school?’

She didn’t reply me and turned her face towards windows, and asked ‘right from here’.

I wondered why she was not carrying her school bag, any books and note books. What kind of school she is going. This was my first visit to this village and I was not much aware of the localities here. I was here for an inspection of a solar plant that my team was installing nearby this village. We moved as per her directions, and reached the school.

The big signage board of the school says ‘Prathmik Bal Vidyalaya’.  She got down from the car, and entered the main gate, followed by a playground where boys were playing. Soon she was lost in the crowd and my big smile turned into distress.

The Mute Bird

She was standing along the porch and watching the sunset. The vermilion shades of sky were reflecting on her face and impression of bright yellow sun in her dark eyes. Her long hair was tied in a big bun, with a few strands falling on her face. Her knee-length dress had purple flowers on white base, adorned with the chicken laces on sleeves and bottom. Her left arm was resting on the railings, while fingers of right hand were writing something in the air. She was lip-syncing an old Bangla song.

The clock behind her was about to strike seven. And he is coming towards the main gate of their house. He is never late for a single second. His grey hair was shining with few white streaks. He was wearing a short half-sleeved brown checked shirt and loose black double pleat trouser with black leather sandals. His thick glasses were making a convex shape of his eyes gazing at her.

As soon as she saw him coming she opened the entrance gate for him, and headed towards the kitchen. She kept a pan on the stove for boiling two cups water. She just turned fifteen last October on the day of the first Durga Puja. And he was completing his fifty seven, but still she is a mentor to him. She does everything for him, from cooking to washing and ironing clothes, making his bed and cleaning of the house. Her soul was imprisoned in this house for years. She never went out for a long time. As the water started boiling, she poured two spoonfuls of Darjeeling tea leaves in it. She opened the sugar pot, but it was empty. She walked towards the Puja room, to fetch the sugar from the big can kept there.

He called her with a gruff voice, Pakhi.

She turned towards him. He asked her to oil his hair. She forgot about the sugar and rushed to take the coconut oil and started oiling his grey hair. He was sitting on an armchair, with his arms resting on it, and head resting on the back. She stood behind the chair, poured some oil on her palms and her thin fingers started dancing on his scalp.

He took a long breath, sighed, Pakhi you remember Dasgupta, she nodded her head as her father couldn’t see it. He continues he is no more, he left us today. A tear dropped on her cheek.

He didn’t come to the office today, then I called to his home, his son picked up the call.  He told me when Dasgupta was coming to office today morning; he measured about 10 meters of the distance from his house, a motorcycle with two people sitting on it came and parked nearby him, the guy sitting behind took a black revolver and shot him with two bullets. After hearing all of that, I hung up the call and went to the site, the police was still there, a white silhouette was created around Dasgupta’s body, he fell with his face up and one leg folded towards another, his one hand high from his head and one on his chest, holding a rolled newspaper. When I entered his house, his wife was sobbing heavily and sitting on the entrance gate. His body was still with the police and they were investigating. They were trying to find who those men were. His son Subroto introduced me to the Inspector handling the case. He started asking me about Dasgupta’s friends and enemies.

Pakhi has stopped oiling her father’s hair, her fingers were stiff but still on his scalp. Her eyes were getting darker as her tears mixed with the kajal of her eyes, and looking like the black tea she forgot on the stove. Her breath was choked; she could only hear, could not express, could not ask and could not even cry loud. She is mute since her mother had been killed similarly when she was five. Her father continued telling the details of Dasgupta’s murder as much as he knew. But Pakhi went in a vortex of memories.

It’s been ten years now, and she was too young, but she remembers everything of that day. Her mother was sitting on the floor of the porch, plucking spinach leaves and eggplants were there in a basket with a knife. She was going to prepare spinach with eggplant. The time was six in the evening, and Pakhi was playing around with a wooden house. Her mother always wore saree, that day she was wearing a turquoise tant saree with black borders. Pakhi remembers her mother was more beautiful than she is today. A small radio was kept besides the wall playing bangla songs her mother loved.

She was trying to copy her mother and singing the song with her. She didn’t know these would be her last vocals. Unexpectedly, a thin slender man came on a cycle, tying a red towel around his face. He threw his cycle in front of the entrance gate, and entered the porch. In a second before Pakhi or her mother could understand his motive of entering the house he took a knife from his pocket. This knife was bigger and sharper than the knife kept in the basket with eggplants. He inserted the knife in her mother’s stomach and blood was smeared on Pakhi’s face. She closed her eyes and screamed like anything, she didn’t remember what happened next.

When she opened her eyes, she was in her father’s lap. He was sitting along the scattered spinach leaves which were no more green, her mother’s dead body, lying beside. One leg folded towards another, one hand high from her hand and one hand on her stomach, stained with blood. Her gold ornaments were missing from her dead body. Policemen and neighbors gathered around the house. A white silhouette has been drawn around her mother’s body. And police were asking questions to Pakhi, who was the man, how he looked like, and more. But she was unable to reply as she gone mute forever after the breath-taking scream.

Turn the Page

Turn the page before it spells the name,

Before it says what it should not,

Before it asks you to leave,

Before the rescue door closes,

Before the excerpts make you nervous,

Before the thought of left alone,

Turn it to save the smile,

Save thousands of memories,

Save the broken dream,

Save the willingness to live,

Save the faith you have,

Save the treasure unspoken.

Save what you want to for the next page.

Want to paint...

Want to paint some black today…

Wondered from where shall I pick the black..

From the black stole in my almirah..

Or from the kajal in my handbag..

Or shall I pick from the iron pan in the kitchen..

Isn’t it better to pick it from the black book…

Or shall I wait till night.. to pick it from sky..

I want to paint the day black..

Thus there will be no difference at all…

Baatein

Kahne ko hai baatein hazaar,

par shabd nahi,

Shabad bhi jo mil jaye agar,

to koi saath nahi,

Saath bhi jo chal de koi,

to halat nahi,

Halaton ke sawaalon me jo hum phase,

to koi baat hi nahi.