“Meethi, don’t walk so fast! It’s pretty dark out there. Wait and walk with all of us.”

“Its ok Papa, I know the way back home. Don’t worry.”

“But there could be dogs there, wait till I come to you.”

“Then come fast na!”

“Wait a bit beta, Mom cant walk so fast.”

“OK! You come with Mom, I going ahead.”

“But the dogs! They will start chasing you!”

“Where are they Papa, I cant see any!”

“They are there, just around the corner.”

“I am telling you na, they are not there. And if they are, why should I be afraid? I have done anything to them. If anyone should be afraid, then its them. They should be afraid of me. I am already five, I am not afraid of dark or dogs!”

She was five and not afraid. May deep down, she knows, papa is there, right behind. Or may be her five years, have not shown her, how things could change; towards where it shouldn’t have. Even when she is right. Even when everything around her is right; it could still turn bad. Sometime we fail to believe in fairies, and they die. And demons take over. Hell raiser returns.

Home-works done, the kid with the curly hair, sits on his table. Looking at the ten yard sky visible from his window, he knew the clouds were gathering. He quietly starts building an elaborate grid with the pack of cards. One by one the layers started taking shape. A few more cards left, the anticipation made the breath move slower. He tried to hush the entire room, that all he commands. A quick glance at the grey ten yards, a few more layer added to it, an air of apprehension floating. Two more, may be three… and a gust creeps in, sweeps over the table, and… gone…

While rest of his family was enjoying the surf, the kid was oblivious to all his surrounding. Sand is stronger than cards. And he has collected shells and stones to decorate. Red, green and even a few little blue ones. The house was coming to shape nicely. The doorway, windows, terrace, wall around the open space around it. The floor above was also complete. The decorating pieces fell in place one by one. Just to create a drive way.. through the wall, to the main entrance.. he looked up, tried to find out rest of the known faces. He wanted to share his pride. Wiping his sweaty forehead, he pans his eyes around, and a smile was about to break on his lips; he found them. But he felt cold on his feet; it was not smile the tat broke, the surf had silently crept up. The dream was gone… washed out… before he could share it…

Bricks are stronger than sand; and definitely more stable than cards. One by one he carried the bricks from the narrow lane to the second floor roof top. One by one he started putting them together. It was not as intricate as the card house. Definitely not half as beautiful as the sand house. But its stronger. The strong roof top wind blowing from the river side couldn’t budge it a millimeter. There is no chance of sea waves creeping up to wash it off. He decorated it with the Shiuli and Jaba. He took his cousins dolls and placed them in it carefully. A few broken branches around it, made it look a bit softer, covering the barren bricks. He ran down the stairs to call his mother, and grand mom. Asked them to leave their cooking for a while and have a look at his dream first. He ran back upstairs, to make sure its still looking as beautiful, till they come. Beautiful? It was already a ruin. Only the fleeting tails of the monkey army gave him the hint. Its gone, once more…

She told him, “You looked like an angry kid, sitting in the corner with all doors and windows closed. Cross at the entire world, silent, damp eyes, hands and mind closed.” She was right. And then she came, to open the doors and windows. The light flooded the room, sun kissed his cheeks; Looking at the silken strands, tilted head, angled smile, he stood up; stepped out in the rain; only to look back and see, the wind gushed in through the window, surf washing in through the doors, and monkey army once more running amuck. And he went back to his corner.

The smell of the smoke coming out of the soldering iron was heavenly. The curly hair head was leaning onto the circuit board, the gleaming eyes were feasting on the plot unraveling slowly. As the expert hands slowly kept putting the pieces in the exact place, soldering them neatly, like a magician he was putting together the pieces of jigsaw puzzle. Occasionally he was glancing up, to record a view of the master; pride filling his heart for this man he knew as his father. Slowly, a foundation was getting laid. Snapshots and recording of the general, who silently and elegantly took over the roles of chief organizer of kalipujo, tantra-dharak and the leader of the Prasad serving team. The person who always took pride in his innumerable broken bones, yet never taking pride in the selfless eldest son of the family. The person towards everyone looked up, yet when the time came, he silently passed on the mantle. The dependable became the dependant.

Looking at the figure smaller than his forearm, lying between his proud parents, he remembered,

“Two little hands and a zillion watt smile
Can make me work like hell and run a thousand mile”

Yes its shared, but its there. He needs to treasure each moment. Maybe this is one of those opportunities that life has thrown towards him. One of those small packages, with a promise of a life time.

Promises, or were they silent expectations? Unfulfilled desires and dreams, lost in the war of life. In course of delivering the “needed” and “expected” to all around perhaps the very personal “aspirations” were wrapped and tucked behind some unwanted wish list. Just lighting a small candle or hope and prayer, that maybe – just a “maybe” another eldest will take care of them. That “maybe” might have been defeated by another “maybe”. This eldest might not be as capable as the “eldest” senior. And a lot of those tucked up aspirations just fizzled away, unlike the crackers they were bursting a few days back during Diwali. That day, the mute eyes and a clenched fist proudly declared that he fought his last battle with all his heart, and came back from the brink. But he was unaware that the last battle was still left, as he sank back. And this time the face turned only to show a pair of tearful eyes, telling “Sorry kid, I tried my best. I really gave my best shot. But my best was not enough. I lost it. I don’t have another battle left in me anymore. Please don’t ask me for it!” Its me who is sorry. I failed. “Maybe” I didn’t had it in me. You deserved better, much better. I know you dreamt for that peace and love all of your pears were enjoying. And just when the youngest gave you a piece of it, the time was up.

It was a bad time. The streams never stopped, not yet by a long shot. The bottle with the blue and pink pills kept popping in and out of its place. The sales of Cipralox saw a steady growth. Many said, 07-08 was worst for a long time. I knew its just another of them. They keep coming back. 91-92, 97-98, 02-03 and now 07-8. Amazing accuracy! It’s apparent, 09 will see the change; one more fight back, another resurrection. Another beginning from scratch. Another buildup, pieces being put together, and a wait for the storm to come and snatch it away. Well, when you are in the battle and still alive, you need to pick up the sword and keep swinging. Just that the kid went back his room, locked up, closed down; this time might not be for the monsoon to come back. His mind-brush keeps painting, a welcome note for 09, come lets begin the fight!!

For The ERO (Eternal Romantic Optimist), the choice is not difficult, its those everyday steps in the darkness that takes it toll. He knows what he wants, his destination never sways, he keeps the snippets of memory flashing across his vision, as he keeps looking for the next step. When all his friends shouts from the other side for him to step into the light, he smiles back. This is not the light he dreams of. His light is much brighter, yet calm. It doesn’t burn but nurtures your vision.

He remembers that smile and a faint hint of smile emerges at the corner of his lips, unnoticed by all; and he starts crawling ahead again. Just one prayer in mind, “God please keep her safe and happy till I reach!” He pauses only to gather few drops of life, stored deep inside his eternally optimistic heart.

People keeps laughing at him, looking at his improbable journey, they declare him a madman. They laugh at his decision. They laugh at the path he chose. They cant see the destination he keeps looking at. He knows he has made mistakes. He knows he has swayed away from his path. He knows coming back to his chosen path has become harder. Yet he knows that’s the only way forward.

“Double or Nothing !”

It was the fiercest battle ever. The battle of chaos and order; the battle of day and night; the battle of storm and sky; the war between Seth and Horus. They were related, or were they the part of the same duality? The evil and the good? The two sides of the same coin? Castor and Pollux? Whoever they were – the war didn’t spare anyone. All those were around were sucked into the vortex. All those wanted to remain on the horizon were fighting with their life to stay away. Even the gods were forced out of their abode to witness the war of odds.

Seth was powerful, knew the world and magic and Horus was just a child, learning to see the world, attracted by the light. It was a battle of deceit and just. It was a battle between the master of chaos and the pupil of hope. While the darkness rose and covered the world, the little kid sought help from even the tiniest of hope floating around. Tried to grab all that he knew to be his. Called for all those he thought to be beside him. The roar of the raging dark waves submerged his cries. The impregnable veil of confusion shielded the visions of his nearest one. And he lifted his fist in despair.

Red flames of cremation ground outlined the deep dark sea. The sky broke loose and was raining fire. The dry parched land was covered with poisonous crawlers. All the oasis has turned into bubbling muck of mud and grime. The cries of dying hearts were shredding the notes of pianist. The painter’s brush was only spewing red, brown and black. The shoulder bearer’s eyes told it all – he was all but lost. Child king knew, now is the time of death. May be one, may be all of them – will surely not see the glimpse of the days to come. They were midst of a battle of survival. The fight till death – the fight to live.

The battle was to create order after the chaos. The war subsided only to raise his head with renewed vigor. It raged and rotting smell of corpses kept filling the atmosphere. As it was destined may be, Horus won, killing Seth on the command of Isis. He drag the beheaded body of Seth on the dust filled path. Yet he lost his left eye, the eye of dreams. As the gods have decided, the evils of Seth were removed from the face of the world. Or is it? Isn’t that great snake lurking underground is the same Seth, preparing to strike again in time?

The dust was settling down; a bleak pale sun was trying hard to pierce the cover of the smokes. The wintry chill of the air was freezing the bubbling earth under the feet. And there was silence. Silence of death. Child King raised his head, using his palms to shield his eyes, he was searching for survivors. He couldn’t hear the notes of the pianist. He couldn’t find the colors of the Painter in the haze. The whiff of air brought a mild fragrance and he knew. He was searching among the ruins, looking for remnants that he knew so well. He found the brush of the painter. Held close to his chest, the painter was fighting the death. Picking him up he searched for others. There, behind the ruins of the broken piano lied the pianist with his fingers smashed. Further down he found the shoulders. Only the shoulders of the bearer, buried under the weight of fallen heads. He searched for his remain, and searched, without success. He picked it up. He knew the pianist might heal his fingers, which will dance on the reeds again. He knew the painter will collect the colors from the sky once the dust settles down. He also knew the fragrance has already told him that some still wants to rest her head. Now the shoulders will support again; but not as the shoulder bearer. The shoulders will wait for the fragrance to get spread someday, anyday. The dust will settle down; the sun will shine again. The clouds will cover the sky. The rain will soothe the battered earth. Butterflies will dance again, the garden will blossom in time. But the time wont be the same again. The battle looks to be over for now. He just waits for the fog to lift, for a new day, just beyond the horizon.

And Horus? He lost the eye with which he dream. His left eye was no more with him. The dreams and colors and hopes may not be seen again. The eye that absorbed energy will never open again. The eye buried in the sands of Sahara, will remain lost forever. He is the king, one who can perceive the time better without the conscious non-stop interference of the un-worldly visions of that left eye. He will be more righteous king, one who has no dreams, who cant dream. Who can only do the right, and strive to take on the reign of life.

So what is happening? That’s a question I was being asked by people and in turn I was asking me. It looks its pretty much the same story that’s all around. So many things happening, pulling in all different directions that’s its difficult to state which direction its moving or what is actually happening.

In one side I am daily looking at Sensex gaining acceleration. The speed at which its scaling new heights is mind boggling. And people at every corner seems to be watching with wonder the progress of Indian economy. Sensex at 18000, India’s plan to achieve annual growth rate of 9% and foreign investments and forex reserve leapfrogging. Indian Rupee gaining steadily against the US Dollar. All seems pretty cool. Or is it? A closer look shows that the market movements are primarily because of FII money. Most of the money pumped in are by foreigners in the stock market. What happens if they pull out? What happens if there is a shift in economic policy or parameter change in their country? The Dollar and the Pounds flying back, the FIIs will certainly book their profits. And then? A magnanimous crash and Indian investors again getting the short side of the stick?

Well one may say, its not the Sensex which is the only parameter. Look at Indian economy. Hmmmm! A good point. So what’s happening there? Again lots of foreign investment. But in select sectors. So lots of companies are preferring other locations like China and even Malaysia and Philippines instead of us. The currency gaining ground, and the imports going strong. The Exporters, IT and BPO sector getting hit by rising Rupee, rising salaries, attrition and lack of trained manpower. The deficit in trade balance and budget bulging. Whoa!  We still lack the infrastructure and basic facilities. Government still in a tight spot in deciding whether to open up these sectors for foreign and private investment. The friends from the left tightening the noose, to stop it. And even the strategic problem of having private or even foreign companies owning basic infrastructure. A threat to security and sovereignty? We need to find a balance somewhere.

Balance! Ok – how do we find that? In the same way we are doing it for our food grain stock? At one side we are having more than 26 million tones of food grain, some of its rotting and getting devoured by rodents. On the other side we are either having none for the people living below poverty line or grains supplied by our “efficient” PDS system that has been procured from Australia. Australia was planning to sell it as animal fodder and it has been bought with high prices for our socially active government for the poor. Why can we use the grains in stock? Because firstly we need to maintain a buffer stock for rainy days. Secondly if that is let loose in the open market it will send the food grain prices crashing down – hurting the large stockers and big-rich farmers; amazingly – that may also drive the minimum procurement prices of the harvest that are about to come – and in turn hit the poor farmers too. So a big big game of economic balance. And even if we do let those grains to the poor – they cant just survive on grains. They need money to buy fuel to cook them and other food items to have a balanced nutrition. So we save our food stock, gift it to our neighbors and famine stricken African countries and buy additional stock from Australia.

Australia – the thunders from down under are booming once more. The Dhoni dhamaka, seems to be fizzling out already. The villain from Oz, Mr. Chappell is back as coach in India (not for the Indian team though!). The Indian mood is going to dumps again. And more and more Indians queuing up to emigrate to that country, whose government’s latest slogan is – “One for mom, one for dad and one for country!” No they are not asking to raise a toast, but to raise a kid. They are severely sort of population it seems. And I guess that’s the right thing we can export. We need to search more such countries and products that we can export with confidence.

Search! Just saw the advert on TV. Google and Airtel have done it before with the Eskimo stint; but this time they presented a full-length story in three minutes flat. Made all wonder what it is all about till the very end. That was fun. And so was the one from Idea. An idea can really change the world. No one using names but numbers – and eliminating the barriers and class divide. Hmm! That’s a food for thought! Well still watching a lot of adverts every now and then, but not being able to track them, or a having that feeling of deluge. Might be that I am missing some of them!

And that’s more or less what’s happening with me too. Worrying about my economy and future; trying to maintain a balance of physical and mental status; a bit of roller coaster moods; trying to find out a place and job to move on; and searching for life. Yep! Someone recently told me that I don’t have a life, so I should go and get it. Don’t know what is life that I don’t have or what exactly I should go and get. Well I tried to search it the way we do now a days. And google told me to get a 1994 album by Anders Edenroth. Tried to look for it around and found life teeming all around, but none of it is something I can get for myself. Tried to look inside and found that I am coming alive after a long long time. And looked at future and found  - “A Life for Me!” So moving on towards it. Amen!!

Off late I keep on remembering about this friend of mine, a childhood friend, who still remains one because of a special characteristics he has. Most of us has at least one characteristics, that makes us an individual – a different person from the others. Some have physical ones – some have intellectual characteristics. This guy had something, which he could associate with anything. It is his passion. Passion to immerse himself in anything he got involved into.

Ya, ya ya! So what? Lots of us are passionate; we can easily find a passionate sports-lover, a passionate partner or even a passionate foody. Hmmm – but how about someone who is just passionate, about anything he chooses for. When he learned to take the first step on two feet, he became passionate about walking; and so he wandered off his house on the deathly silence of a summer afternoon, away from his father’s state government quarter, leaving a unsuspecting mother sleeping, crossed the village farms and reached the highway, on his two and a half year old feet. And never ever liked to be denied the option of not using his feet. Isn’t that passion?

Then when he was hardly able to manage the amar chitra kathas and chandamamas, he suddenly gets his hand on a translated novel on Tarzan, and finishes all of the 200 pages at one go. And then kept on reading all he could lay his hands on; novels, comics, short stories and even original volumes of Ramayana and Mahabharat. Isn’t that again a passion, this time about reading? What about his mastering the art of hiding, with a carefully developed hideout in the middle of the unkempt groves, with entrances only known to his friends. Or cutting all the joints of his index and middle finger of the right hand, trying to learn flying a kite in the shortest possible time, till he had one flying high on a clear blue Benaras sky, unchallenged.

He took his passion to new heights on his games. To play Carrom, his board had notches, and lines showing angles of deflection all over it, because he wanted to master the art of striking from impossible angles. He spend nights after nights to learn the best moves in chess to device a blitzing opening game that can check mate a unsuspecting person in first 7 moves. Or spending long evenings with his partner to master the calls of contract bridge, to converse freely and knowing the exact cards in each other’s hand. Or running, on hazy winter mornings and drizzly July dawns; running the 4-kilometer stretch, sometime with his best friend, and sometime only his breathe as partner. People thought him to be crazy, but his passion was for himself, not to show off, hence he always kept his tries under wraps, it was something only to be shared with himself or those very very close to his heart.

It was his passion to learn, that saw him learn all the tricks of the trade he wanted. No one to guide, except his passion to know, and he spent those hours alone, to fiddle and learn the software’s. He didn’t have any certificate to prove his knowledge, but people knew what he is capable of by the works he did. Bosses came down to congratulate, but he knew he has only done it for his passion.

He carried his passion to his love. He loved someone so dearly that forgot the world around. He was ready to loose all he had. He knew the lurking problems. But his passion for the loved one believed that he could treat them all. He went in headfirst, dived and tried with all his might, for fifteen long years. And after he thought that it’s the end of life, and again found a candle burning for him, he raised his passion once more. The way he loves is only because of his passion. As always, some might think, that he masters his moves to showoff his capability, even when loving. Some seems to think that his ability to love stems from the words and tricks that he has mastered. Some will keep thinking that his craziness for love is a carefully cultivated skill that he uses on others. But he knew it’s just his passion. Passionate about life, passionate about love, and passionate about those he loves. His passion for life means he cannot kill himself. His passion for his loved ones means he will keep doing all in his control to see them happy. His passion about love means he will keep being that incurable romantic optimist.

Just wondering, when will his passion die?

If you look up, towards the hilltop, you might see him. His tiny body, covered in a shirt with half the buttons, a trouser rolled half way up, a stick in one hand, while the other shielding his vision from the sunrays peeking from the dark cloud covers. He checked the cloud forming on the valley of dreams. Everyday he would send the dreams he collected the night before and check the dream clouds grow a bit more. He awaits it to get delivered. The cloud will shower his dreams when they are ready.

Knowing that it’s still sometime before the cloud becomes full, he turns around. He has a swing behind him, on which he swings daily and tries to catch the tree on other side of the deep gorge. That tree has all the flowers he needs for his temple. Everyday, he swings closer and closer, yet can’t be close enough to be there. From where he stands, it seems just a few hands away, yet…

Does the tree choose to move away, just when he starts to swing? Otherwise even after swinging more, why can he reach it? Or does the swing choose to get shorter when he is just about to reach?

No one knew him as he was. No one ever saw, the dreams he kept seeing. No one, except the tree on the other side, that is. She was his only companion. He came to this hilltop, to just sit till eternity, with nothing to do, but thrash his way with the stick in his hand. Once he came here, and looked below, he even wondered how it would be to try and jump off the hilltop. Will he reality have wings coming out, as his grandmother said, long long time back? He was judging the flow of the wind to decide his next move, when he looked aside and saw the smiling tree. A tree amazingly with flowers of all colors and smell, yet no one can see either the tree or the flowers on it from anywhere except where he stood. Did the tree choose to bear all those flowers just for him? Otherwise why are they just like the flowers he saw in his temple in the dreams?

And then there were days, when he saw, a golden bridge, made for him to cross the gorge. He crossed and hugged the tree; or was it he was hugged by her – melting all that was unwanted in him, invigorating and electric. Charging every pour of his body with that will to live and fight, those were missing. He would dance around, play with her flowers, decorate her with his dreams and fairy-dust, and keep looking at her. He lied down with his head on her lap and kept listening to her through the day. And she allowed putting his hand through her stony rough outside and touching those parts, which no one including her knew existed. Touching caressing and feeling the ripples; both were afraid to batter their eyelids, not to miss a moment of togetherness. To treasure each second as they unfolded – each having a story of their own. They were one, till the hands of the clock woke them up – reminding that there is still some more moon-less and moon-lit nights to pass. Still a few more seasons to unfold before the gorge can get filled. As he comes back through the gorge, he can see the drooping branches from the corner of his eye, and he starts blowing his flute, to make her know – its not the end.

Next day, the legs covered in rolled up trousers will again reach the hilltop, to look across and greet her. He knows, what ails her. He knows where she needs to be touched and cared. He knew his swing would only take him to that smelling distance. And he starts swinging, to move close to her, and whisper. Please stay alive, for me – to let me come close to you again, take care of those flower laden branches, caress the roots you keep hidden and hold your hand till eternity. He knows the day is not far, he just needs to dream a bit more hard, make her believe a bit longer, and the cloud will come, it will rain, and gorge will get washed away, the distance will vanish. The day will come – till then the dream-breather will keep dreaming and child-king will keep looking after his hilltop.

gift of two evenings

opening eyes from its slumber

         dream breathing songbird

First the flight :-

The kite soared slowly towards the blue sky, riding on the cool breeze from the river. It climbed up, up and up, knowing that the string is in firm control of that hand that’s flying it. Knowing that the string is also tied securely to the reel. With the air on its delicate paper wings, it soared high into the sky to challenge those birds. Those bird, that one day mocked at the flimsy paper for its wish to fly. Now here he was, among the clouds, steady and watching down onto the vast city, the roof tops and the coconut trees, the mango grove and that little girl with a rough Chinese cut hair, with world of dream in her eyes; crinkled and with the shade of the hand blocking the sunlight. She watches it with amaze, and the right end of her lips curls up in a absent minded smile.

Then, up for grabs :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. All those greedy eyes, which were watching it with envy sparkled with joy. “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” – they all went up in chorus, and ran behind helplessly falling piece of paper. The girl also looked at it with horror. The piece of paper that she thought to be dream is soon going to be snatched. Hands and sticks and all sorts of tools went skywards; it’s a free for all, to grab it and own it, at any cost.

It was brief, as the torture ended; the grabbing hands dispersed; the silent eyes below the fringed hairs on the forehead looked at the remains of delicate colored paper, which a few moments back was her dream, proudly soaring up there; beaconing to take her to the cloud land. She picked up a few pieces, carefully removed the dust, sat down beside her toy house, and carefully wrapped it around her doll. Tilting her head a bit, she looked at it adoringly. As she wiped the sparkling drop of water from the corner of her eyes, she finally managed a careless smile. She still has a few pieces of her dream, and it will be safe in her doll house, forever. She might not be able to ride her dream kite, but will remember it for one day it gave her the hope to soar to hr dreamland.

Or :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. It was flying so high that no eyes ever got trained on it. Only a few, as they knew it was there from the beginning, and they shouted, “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” It was only a jeer, as they knew its out of reach, they didn’t bother to run after. The kite looked down at a pair of eyes, which now were filled with horror. She ran behind it, with arm towards the sky. But it was too late! The wind was high, and the kite was too far. She ran and ran and ran and saw helplessly as the kite disappeared behind the wall of clouds, forever. Teary eyed she ran a few more steps and then was lost in thought about that dream land above the clouds, where rain has her abode. She remembered, the kite whispered to her, just before it went up in his journey – “Will you come with me?”

Someone asked, “So what? What’s the difference between today and yesterday? Is there any?” For the uninitiated, there is none. But for those who know – its “B-h-o-o-o-k-a-t-t-t-e-e-e-y!” nothing more than that.