Princess

 O my dear princess,

This isn't a fairytale,

This is life.

Your luscious blonde hair don't reach for your knees,

And your baby pink gown is seldom seen.

The only corset that binds you is that of society.

Your glass slippers don't crack, but your heart does.

No charming princes,

No fairy godmothers,

No magic.

Just you.

Each new day comes with a new challenge,

Not with a new dress.

Your weapon isn't your gullibility,

It's the sword of your robustness.

The witch of doubt arrives each day to haunt you,

And you fight back with perfection.

So my dear princess,

Be the warrior you are.

And fight your battle everyday,

With the world.

And with yourself.

Home

The fragrance of warmth touched my heart.
And the doors of glee opened.
The arms of familiarity wrapped around me,
And the angel of dwelling kissed my forehead.
The bed of dreams floated towards me like a vision,
Translucent and vibrant.

The rustic green walls were all the same,
But their shine was new.
The snapshots on the walls appeared real,
As real as the memories they encapsulated.

 The bitterness of my cup of coffee,
Had vanished by the aura of benignity it carried.
My window pane wasn’t broken anymore,
The passage of time had fixed it.
The old chair let out a new creak.
And the torn curtains gave me a glimpse of my soul.

It was then that I realized,
My home wasn’t a building of four walls,
It was a building of four million memories.

The fierce eyes

An atheist. That’s who I am. I am the one who doesn’t pray or doesn’t like a tika on her forehead, or even the one who goes to pujas merely for Prasad. I never really question my judgment of being an atheist, for I never really feel any emotional or as they say “spiritual” connection to God, or rather shall I say idols of God. As a lover of history, I find solace and my emotional love only in historical monuments. I simply feel mesmerized when I go to any, and just exult and submit to even the not very attractive, but certainly the most beautiful monuments.

Its Navratri, and the festive season in India is in full swing. I am a huge foodie and usually attend festivals to relish the Prasad. My favourite festival of all times is Durga Puja. I have an affinity for Bengalis I guess. Be it their literature, their music, their culture, or even their food, its all a part of my heart. I go to Durga Puja every year to admire the gorgeous pandal and idol, and obviously, munch on the yummy Fish and sweets.

Every time, Durga Puja for me is about how delicious the Fish Fry was with the mustard sauce, or how the sandesh was super soft and simply yum. But this time, it was something beyond that. Something I didn’t expect it to be.

Everything was the same this year, the pandal, the food, even the location. I guess there was just something different about me. The idol, as usual, was surrounded by many other devis and our dear Ganpati bappa. When I stood at the door of the pandal, I could see just Durga maa and the devis surrounding her.

With a majestic crown on her head, and a garland of bright red flowers embellishing her neck, she sat comfortably on the fierce lion, looking stronger than it. Her ten hands each held a weapon, but the most powerful one was her eyes. Big, bold and vigorous, they stared at all who surrounded her. She didn’t look girlish, but she was certainly feminine. With her unafraid eyes, and her blood-like red garland, she merely gave vibes of female strength and power.

As I moved closer, I saw something new. A demon. Who was crushed underneath the mighty Goddess’ feet. He didn’t look afraid really, had a slight frown on his face. But Durga maa clearly overpowered him. I looked into the idol’s eyes. I felt afraid, to be honest. The strength in her eyes was penetrable even into the heart of a girl who didn’t believe in her.

I came out of the pandal and satisfied my hungry palate with a sumptuous meal of Fish fry, chicken biryani, cham cham, rosgulla, and sandesh. I enjoyed it a lot, as usual, but couldn’t get the stunning yet fierce eyes of the Goddess out of my head. I just couldn’t place what I could relate it to.

Well, it did strike me in the end. The mighty and vehement Goddess is a reflection of the women today. I have been reading a lot about the #MeToo movement in recent times, and am a huge supporter of the same. I realized that all the women standing up for themselves and protecting themselves against the hopeless harassers, are so much like Durga Maa. They have the power and the strength to stand up against all those who outrage their privacy, their modesty, their self-confidence. They have the guts to crush all the demon-like men under their feet. They are stronger than the fierce and rigid lion-like society, which attempts to overpower them, but always fails. They do sit on this lion, but with their head held high and their demeanor and willpower forcing the lion to retreat and surrender to them. That’s who Durga Maa represents now. The women of today. The women for whom fear in non-existent. The women whose ferocious eyes penetrate into the ‘physically strong’, but mentally weak hearts of the men who dare to confront them. Durga is strength. Durga is power. Durga is today. More power to the #MeToo movement. And ofcourse, Durga maa ki jai!

Agatha and Sophie

She was terrified.

She was petrified.

She couldn’t let her best friend die!

Sophie lay beside her,

Storian speared through her heart.

The war around her ceased,

But the war within her perpetuated.

She stared at Sophie,

At the witch who was a princess,

At the witch who had saved her life.

Agatha didn’t know what to do.

She didn’t know how to save her.

She wrapped her dying friend in her trembling arms.

And tried in vain to fight the staunch wound,

With a bed of tears.

Her friend didn’t deserve to die,

For with her last breath,

Agatha would cease to exist too.

Sophie’s eyes flickered with life.

Sobbing and shaking,

Agatha kissed Sophie’s cold forehead,

Hoping that the magic of love would take away the evil death which resided in her.

The dead ground wept.

And Sophie’s silent heart faded.

The bright blue Storian turned a dull grey,

And Sophie’s luminous skin allayed.

Her cheek was wet with Sophie’s blood,

But Agatha continued to cry,

Until the blood vanished.

Sophie’s dead heart lived.

And her spotless skin glowed.

The deadly red blood evaporated.

And the tinted soul returned.

“Sophie?” Agatha murmured with difficulty.

“Aggie!” Sophie answered with a faint yet lively enthusiasm.

They smiled.

“Who needs princes in our fairytale?”

Sophie exclaimed.

With the strong gush of wind,

The Storian blazed with new life,

And returned to its tower in the sky.

The two girls retreated.

Smiling at each other constantly,

Their bodies shimmered and shone,

Gradually turning translucent.

Tedros ran towards Agatha,

For he didn’t want to lose his princess.

But it was too late,

The eternal fairytale of the princess and witch,

Culminated without a prince.

This poem is based on the book School for Good and Evil by Soman Chainani.

School ke din-2

SST, or the long Social Studies, was, for me, a class I looked forward to. But since half of our class was of engineers, and the other half of doctors, the whole class wasn’t particularly fond of this period. This was the period where our dearest Geeta ma’am would put in all she could to make the class interesting and interactive. We used to have all sorts of innovative activities and our andar ki teacher used to be introduced to our dear XC.  There is one activity in particular that I remember; it was on my favourite chapter, The Indian National movement. It was a complicated one, so to be brief, we had to pass around questions written on a sheet and had to write the answers in 1 minute. We were in teams. And my team just rocked. Even the SST haters turned into curious and active people, who gave many answers. The best part was Dibya and I fighting over a date, which had a difference of merely a year!

The next class was English, which was our stress buster. Amit sir used to be our “dream teacher.” A master storyteller, who transformed every cheerless Ali into a determined Patol Babu, and who used to treat the not-great-hunter Mrs Packletide as a person who was as brave as Julius Caesar. He was the perfect mentor for an aspiring writer like me, for he didn’t just teach us the school course, but taught us much beyond that. He always encouraged us to be unique and think outside the box. He taught us that even sky is not the limit. He was, is and will always be our coolest teacher. We have had our share of funny moments with him, but on serious note, he has truly changed the way we all look at our lives.

Next up, we used to have Hindi. Well, not everyone really likes Hindi. But I must say, Shraddha ma’am certainly tried her best to make it interesting. The most memorable Hindi lessons were the ones when we learnt the particular chapter- “Tattara-vameero katha”, which was essentially a typical Laila-majnu type love story. It was written with so much prem-bhav, that our class of science and maths geeks just couldn’t figure out where the logic in that was. It described how Tattara and Vameero just stood and looked at each other for one complete evening, without talking and fell in love. That’s really bizarre. Then the end, in which Tattara breaks the island into two distinct landforms, and Vameero goes berserk was just crazy. I mean, if Tattara had the power to cut the Earth into two pieces, couldn’t he just run away with his beloved Vameero? So this Tattara-vameero was the new Priya Varrier in our class. It was viral, and everyone was really interested in making fun of it, and making ‘verbal memes’ on it. Ketaki had made one which I remember now. She asked everyone which Bollywood song would play when Tattara would break the Earth. When nobody had the answer, she started singing the song ‘Dharti hilade’ from Ajab Prem ki Gajab Kahani.

Apart from all these lovely classes, a time I really miss a lot are our lunch breaks. The perfect way to describe all of us during this time was the song, “Chahe koi mujhe jungle kahe..”  Foodies and bhukkads like me used to roam around the country i.e. our class. Others used to go on international trips i.e. to other classes to search for even more interesting dishes. We used to not just eat, but also jump around and unleash our wild sides. We used to do really lame things, like playing badminton with chalks and newspapers, or calling random people and in their response to ‘Kya hua’, we used to reply,nothing. There used to be spontaneous Shinchan dances, with some terrible songs, which self-proclaimed singers used to sing. It used to be like our little party.

Once school was over, we used to proceed to our buses again. Now, this back-to-home journey is the part I miss the most. We used to cherish our day and talk about it to each other, and Srija had some or the other complication and confusion from the day and used to be frustrated, and we all used to make her smile. Sometimes, we used to eat, and especially Srija’s tiffin was pounced upon. When it had chicken biryani, it was difficult to distinguish the chicken from the rice as most of the chicken was eaten. Then ofcourse, there were the lame jokes and unique conversations. And well today, the only bus I sit in is my dear bus number 166, and the only tiffin I eat is mine, and the only thing I truly miss is well, my school. 

School ke din

A morning in the past. A morning to look forward to. A morning at school. Mornings I miss. The ones I miss a lot. I miss it all.

A typical day would start with an angdai and a sense of excitement. The awkward dreams from the night before would still linger in my quirky mind. Every morning, I’d be amazed at my absurd and weird thinking which resulted in my extraordinary dreams the night before.  A sense of excitement would be more about describing these dreams to my dear Srija, and wee bit less about going to school.

With a lazy body language, the tired blue toothbrush would be taken closer to the white Meswak toothpaste, and then the boring process of scrubbing my teeth would begin.  Following this would be the unproductive task of bathing, during which I’d be partially asleep, and partially mesmerized by the beautiful fragrance of the mint soap. Then I’d put on the various layers of clothes and head to the dining table for my favourite part of this monotonous morning routine- breakfast! While munching on delicious food, I’d put on my so-called ‘accessories’ namely tie, belt, ID card, socks and shoes. Then I’d head downstairs and wait for the lovely yellow vehicle which is little a makeshift for us musafir-like students.

After this yellow vehicle would enter the society gate, I’d excitedly walk towards, totally ready to rock this new day, and to have a fun-filled little journey with my crazy but super-fun bus squad. I would run-walk towards the end of the bus and sit on mostly the second last seat with my one and only Srija, who is like my mother at school, and controls the absurd and weird thinking and keeps me tolerable. That’s what’s earned her the name Mataji. Apart from Mataji, there’s also Yash, who is a huge Dhinchak Pooja fan, and is called Lakshmi by all. His Vishnu is Nikhilesh, better known as Bella, who an aspiring Doctor cum padhaku baccha . Then of course we have our juniors- Parth and Divya, who add tad bits of lameness to our talks, and are also there to remind us that we are the eldest ones in the bus, and need to act that way.  The journey is characterized by Srija talking about how she slept pretty late last night, and still couldn’t complete the chapter, and hence hasn’t studied for the test. I pitch in and help her to complete the chapter and summarize it, but am never successful with Yash’s continuous chatter, which imply Srija’s irritated expression and invite Bella’s morning dose of his favourite dialogue- “Fight, fight, fight, fight!”

After this daily dose of noise pollution, the yellow vehicle finally turned into a carriage of some sort, and entered its palace- Our dear red and white school building!  We fought like the horses on the carriage to get off the bus. After this animal rights struggle, we used walk a decent stretch and reach our classes with ease. As members of the cabinet, Srija and I used to head back downstairs to perform the duty of traffic police at school. We used to handle the incoming morning traffic.

After the tiring yet routine morning drama, we’d head to our classes and finally meet our dear friends. I’d usually meet Shruti,(lovingly called unicorn), Tina (Doc from Back to the Future), Tanu and Dibya, who were my jigri dost since 4 years. And my morning was incomplete without scaring Mr Himawari aka Aarya. Then ofcourse, there was Anjil to greet me each morning. But the morning is incomplete without meeting my cuddly bear- Sid.

The first period would start. It was usually maths, and Bhagyashree ma’am, who was also our class teacher would enter the class. We had a couple of math wizards in our class, and I was certainly not among them. I don’t know whether those guys had calculators instead of cerebrums in their heads, or it was just their talent, but they solved the sums even before I could finish writing the formula. So maths class was basically about ma’am giving us some sums, and these guys finishing them in just 15 minutes and the rest of us lamenting the fact that we had cerebrums, not calculators in our brains.

The second period was mostly Biology or Chemistry, which were both taught be Deepa ma’am. I must say that if it wasn’t for ma’am, I’d just be a person who would never understand why HCl doesn’t react with H2SO4 or how why my hair is brown. The best part about these classes was the arguments between ma’am and Sujay which were mostly fruitless and confused me to a great extent. But the icing on the cake were Ketaki’s comments. Ma’am used to be the only teacher who used the ICT regularly. She used to explain everything in depth, which would make me, a student with an IQ of -100 in science, a super attentive spectator of the interesting scientific phenomenon.

This was followed by the short break, which evaporated even before the ingestion process for my first bite of poha could take place. I distinctly remember that Deepa ma’am used to be so engrossed in the concept, that the break bell was never heard. And when our next period, SST would begin, we would just be opening our tiffin boxes.

Lollipop

She sat on the worn-out wooden bench.

Which was bound by solitude.

She was surrounded by clouds of thought,

Which had the same grey colour of monotony and melancholy

Silence was paining her ears.

But it was short-lived.

A girl walked up to her.

She had two pigtails,

Which fell over her shoulders.

She was holding two orange lollipops in her hand.

And was wearing a blue pinafore with a white shirt underneath.

Her white socks reached to her knees,

And she wore black buckle shoes.

Her face was plump and adorable.

Her cheeks had a natural blush.

And her lips were lit up with a homely smile.

She smiled.

And the girl from the blanket of isolation peeped out.

“Hey! Want to share?”

The girl with the lollipop asked with warmth.

With her heart in her mouth,

The lonely girl replied

“Sure, why not?”

She finally lifted her blanket of isolation.

And stood from the bench bound by solitude.

And walked into a new land,

One filled with gummy bears and cotton candy.

And liveliness without an end.

One with a friend.