LIGHTER SIDE

OLD MAN UNDER THE TAMARIND TREE

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 07:41:15 PDT

I danced to the tunes of the Kucha roads- the crowded bus that usually carried more people than it actually could; the people- vendors, farmers, teachers; and their goods- everything became a part of my life. Years of travel in the same bus, I had learned to be friendly with the broken seats and sweating people. I was a part of their lives, each day- and so, I was a part of their stories. But in my story, there was one man, whom everyone knew- and also, did not!

All day long, he used to sit beneath the tamarind tree. He was very old- some said he was over hundred and a few- over thousand! All I knew was- he was old- he wore clothes that were dirty and torn at odd places. He had an old shawl to wrap himself at night time. Sometimes, he was smoking, what they call- a Beedi. Most of the time- he only sat there- did nothing but stare hard at the sky.

I felt oddly pleased to see that man everyday. Just looking at him, made me smile- I felt that he was inspiring me in some way- I saw no purpose in looking at him- but I looked at him everyday, nevertheless. It gave me a satisfaction! And my liking for him, had what made him a part of my story.

Mausiji. That was how we called her. She was so loud that people at the bus, dreaded her sitting beside them. She sold flowers at the nearby town and that day, I played her host! Mausiji was full of questions. About my name, my family, my profession- and she was full of suggestions. She had her opinion on everything- from the colour of my shirt to the furniture in my house. She said that her generation really knew the way the world functioned. She knew everyone in the bus- and had opinions on them too.

"You see him? The one with the white cap- he sells milk. He had been trying to save all his income. But he has this wife who eats like a pig. Poor fellow! All his saving goes straight into her food! And that Kashiram? He gambles away everything! I always say…"

I switched myself off, mentally, when she came around to that. But suddenly, my attention was brought back when she said-

“See that old man under the tamarind tree”?

“Yes.. Do you know anything about him”?

"Of course. Don’t you know? He used to be a big man- very rich- a Zamindar(landlord). The whole village had belonged to him- but that is past! He’s lost everything. All that he’s got now is- that shawl. He sits there all day long, waiting for his son, who’d gone off, somewhere! They say, he was a very bad father- he’s repenting! I always say…”

Poor man. I wonder how he feels. It is really bad- to own everything and to see them go off your hands- yet, unable to forget the past- for everything always stays in front of your eyes!

All night, I was unable to take him off my mind. I tossed and turned in my bed- I felt sorry for him. The stranger, though he was- however, a part of my life.
Govind, the milkman- was always pleasant. When he smiled at people, they felt light and happy. I’d always liked him.

“… and our Sarpanch(village-chief) told us that he’s speak to the big officers. We’ll soon another bus”.

He had news about the village, about the town- about people.

“… they were telling me the other day that Prakash was arrested- did you know? They’ll soon arrest the old man under the tamarind tree too, I hope…”!

“What? Arrest the old man! Why”?

“Oh, don’t you know? He’s a bandit”?

I couldn’t accept the dear old man being a bandit. A Zamindar worked better with me, however. But, I certainly couldn’t help myself- being curious.

“He was a notorious bandit. Years before, he looted people and killed them, mercilessly. People were terrified. They say, he sits under that tree, all day long, guarding all his booties. No one dares go near him for he had laid a curse upon the tree. If anyone else, but him, goes near the tree, their nose would start to bleed and they’d die. Munshiji told..”

The old man was a bandit?! I couldn’t get myself to believe about the curse, but at least, it proved why he sat beneath the tree, always! I still couldn’t accept him being a bandit- so the information only increased my curiosity.

From that day, I stared looking at him more closely. I noticed that there was a mark on his cheek- a sort of scar left by a deep wound. I was beginning to believe Govind- and I was fascinated. The story of the old man was becoming more intriguing- each day.

It was around 8:00 pm. I was tired. I usually reached home by eight. I had had a busy day. The bus moved so slow. It made me think that I could walk faster than the bus. But I was tired. And all I could do was- to wait till I reached home.

Suddenly, there was a jerk and a noise. The bus had stopped. Break down. Some of us got down and pushed the bus to the nearby village. It was the old man’s village. But there was no old man beneath the tree! I felt strange to see the tree without the old man. It felt odd- vacant!

I joined the others, who were gathered at the nearby tea stall. I bought myself a cup of tea. The people were talking. But I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them- until I heard- “.. the old man under the tamarind tree, vanished..”

I turned around so fast that the man behind me, who was just speaking, spilled his tea all over himself! I apologized and enquired about the old man.

He said, “Don’t you know? He vanished”!

“What do you mean- vanished”?

“Vanished! He evaporated! Gone off to the Himalayas where he came from. He was a holy man- a Siddha- who knew the past, present and the future. He’d been under the tamarind tree- meditating, for hundreds of years; protecting us all. He’s gone back to the Himalayas to finish his penance. We’ve planned to build a temple for him, under the tamarind tree- where he’s left behind his spirit for the benefit of the villagers. The Sarpanch…”

So the old man was gone. And no one knew where- but he had left behind his memories- for everyone to remember and to share. For me, he’d always remain as the old man under the tamarind tree- a part of my life, my story.

WHAT DID I DO?

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 11:57:33 PDT

Dark. The night was as dark as the heart of a murderer. But I felt safe. Mother was beside. Her warmth protected me against just anything. All my anxieties wither away- just one touch of hers, does wonders to me. The quiet night, was only destined to be quiet for a while. But we were not supposed to know yet. I felt the eternal quiet- a night, so calm and peaceful- an assurance brought about due to the sense of another being present beside- one whom you could touch and trust.

I lay lost in thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I was just too happy. Everybody had been so happy that day. The day I was born. Father said that he had not ever been happier- than the day I was born. I knew he had spoken the truth. His eyes had never lied to me. My mother had probably guessed that I was not sleeping. She had started to pat me… gently. How come mothers know that? I could never understand that.

It had been an unusually quiet night. So quiet, that I could almost hear my own thoughts. I turned in my bed. I could see father. I think that I had got the best father in the whole world. Mother had been complaining since a few days back about “difficult days ahead”. I never understood what she meant by that. But father! He had never complained- about anything. He had always made sure that we were happy. He said- “It’s a man’s shame that his women complain. I would never let my little princess cry”. And he was a man of his words.

There were noises. Distant noises- coming closer- slowly- then rapidly. And all of a sudden- it ceased to be a quiet night. There were cries everywhere. People ailing. Crying out in pain- agony. People angry. People, in rage. In panic, in despair. It was a moment in my life when I felt all the human emotions- simultaneously. What was the cause of this commotion? I wondered.

Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted up by such a force- that I was being pulled back onto the firm ground from the land in my dream. It was mother. I could see her crying. Why was she crying? Father was beside her. The look on his face… What was it? Could that be fear? No. But it was fear. A strange helplessness- despair, had crept into him. I had never seen him like that. He looked at me. I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I felt that my doubtful, uncertain glance at him had only weakened him. We were running. Like fugitives. Like animals being hunted. But why?

I saw people on the road. Some were holding up torches. The flames from the torches were not as bright as their eyes that shone with mad pleasure. Some of them had swords. Some- knives, spears. They were beating and killing everyone. I could recognize some of the people who were running along with us. Those were the people, who were being killed- tortured. We ran faster and faster. The noise around was unbearable. May be, we were dead. And we were in hell… What else could it be?

Suddenly, I had fallen off my mother’s clutches. And before I could realize what was happening, my mother had ceased to run. In fact, she had ceased to move, talk or cry. She was not… was she? Where is father? I looked around. Some of the men with swords were holding him. I started running towards him. He looked at me, and when he fell down, he was still looking at me. The men with swords were coming closer, towards me. I was not running. I was not crying. They were standing, now, facing me. Judging me. The noise was dying down. I could now see, only their eyes staring into mine. I heard myself say, “What did I do”? And all I could hear was, the echo of silence…

DIYA

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 23 Aug 2009 02:10:45 PDT

***

Some time back, I met a friend. He was a good man. But he let things change in his life. Disrupted the order of nature. And his life was never the same again. He was repenting. I felt always happy to hear people say that. Approve of my ideas. It feels good to see people share your belief. Say ‘you were right’.

***

That is how my life is. The way it should be. Not an inch on this side of the life. Not one inch on the other. Just there. Where it should be. Where it would stay safe. Uncomplicated. Traditional. Natural.

***

In my life, there was no place for madness. The way I am, is good. I saw someone on TV the other day, who said something like- “.. chaos happens when an unstoppable object meets an immovable one..” That is exactly what I hate. I am immovable. And I don’t like unstoppable objects.

***

I found this girl near the Jogger’s Park gateway. About twelve. She came unto my waist. Covered in rags. She was unconscious. I took her to the hospital. The sight of her, back at that moment- was disturbing. It was as though- it reflected the poverty of the entire world put together. I couldn’t help it. It was not in my system.

***

She stayed with me. Always. I had to teach her to talk, eat, walk properly. There was this sense of another being beside you- constantly. I was trying to get used to it. Meanwhile, she gave me a name. ‘Dada’. I didn’t know, what that meant. But I thought, I should probably give her a name too. I asked her, what her favorite name was. ‘Diya’. She became that.

Diya was an unstoppable object. She spread throughout. Like water, like fire, like life. The extent to which she had influenced my living- I had no time to think about it. There used to be a bird inside me- that usually popped to remind me of time. But it doesn’t do so anymore. It was as though, it had gone away from me. I was not myself without it. The bird was free. And I am never. Or so, I thought.

***

She liked to swing. I bought her one. I could see her. Full of life, whenever she was swinging. It was a pleasure to see that. It brought me something that I had never experienced before. Happiness? Sorrow? Elation? Depression? I don’t know. But whatever that was, I felt good. Like never before. I felt like I was living to see her swing. But one is suppose to live for oneself. Then how is that, that I’ve come to like this feeling. This unconditional love for the girl in rags, who had no name. ‘Diya’?

***

Something was not well. I could feel it. I was trapped between her world and mine. And this was not alright. When my one feet was in my world, the other was in hers. This was not me. I was never like that. I was beginning to experience traces of chaos. I was beginning to see nature being man-handled. When you’ve carried a belief for this long, it always felt hard to see it crumble. I had never seen me the way I was now. I was beginning to sense danger.

She had made a drawing. She just loved colours. I always found her attracted to colours. I liked black. And white, at times. But she liked all the colours. The brighter the better. The drawing was full of colours. Just like her. But I never liked colours. And she was making me like what I did not like. I hated her for it. But I loved her for it. This was the beginning of chaos. I was crumbling the drawing. I was crumbling her smile. I could not stop myself. I was torn between who I was and who I am. I could see tears in her eyes. I felt tears too. But I felt like they were coming from one of my eyes. She was trying to tell me something. I could not hear what that was. I was beginning to collapse. I? I didn’t know, who I was.

***

The swing was swinging. Only, no one was on it. It was as though an invisible being was the master of the swing. The sight of it- it gave an odd pleasure. The swing was doing what it was suppose to do. An order in things that exist- for the sake of existing. This is how it should be. This is the way I like them, to be. The swing was swinging. But there was no one on it! And why did I feel happy about it? She was not present on it anymore. I was no longer ‘Dada’. I was I. I should feel happy about it! But why was I not feeling so?

***

May be this was why people liked to change the way things should be. For the fleeting moment of happiness that they get to experience. To sense their heart getting heavy and light all at once. I now knew, why they liked it. It was a part of nature. It was a part of the order too. One can never evade it. One has to live with it. Chaos completes natures’ orders. It completes the life with nature. But I had lost my chaos. My sense of being complete. And I need to be complete. I needed to find Diya. I would go looking for her. I would like colours. All of them. I would be ‘Dada’ forever. That was who I am. Who I should be. That was what nature had planned for me. I would bring back the order in my life. I would complete my life. I would bring back, my Diya…

******

Goddess of Sin

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 12:02:20 PDT

For more, the heart and the senses yearn. Deprived of pleasures, a million around. For more, it screams in agony. The scream becomes the pleasure then. Forever a necessity- yet reduced to some cheap luxury- it stays up there. Awaiting for the being to reach it. Taste it. Feel it. It stays up there, untouched and welcoming. Its virgin surface spilling purity all around. Purging moral from air- the minds, vacuum from the sense of penance. Pleasure, they call it. An omen of sin.

Strange are the ways, the mind of a human works. Somewhere inside, a clock ticks- a constant reminder of being human. The animal within, put to sleep. A sleep, when awoken- seeks the pleasure. Or tries to seek. What is pleasure? It wonders. It was, after all, created by the same Creator. A kin to hope- brother to grief; sister to happiness and a cousin to pain! Why then these barriers? Why this cage? A desire to melt away the irons of moral- creeps in the animal and gives it the strength. Strength so strong, stronger than mind, itself! Pleasure- the magnet, emerges out- winner!

Pleasure- lies in things forbidden. Pleasure lay within guilt. Guilt, a proof of pleasure, experienced. Pleasure, felt. Enjoyed. Guilt is- the child. Why shun the child? What sin has the child committed- to be left abandoned? Denied? Pleasure becomes, the wronged lady. Doomed to bear, the burden of guilt. What was my sin? Pleasure wonders. Is it crime to be the way I was created? Is it my fault that the animal is awake? There could never be, an answer- ever! Guilt is guiltless- and it is only fair, to accept it.

Branded- the omen of sin; left to rot deep within the layers of thoughts. Thoughts of so-called God-fearing souls. Hypocrites, who fail to accept creation, as it is. Fail to see, the beauty of it. Refuse to embrace the truth. But deep inside- the animal lives- killing the pleasure- or trying to do so. Death was something, that could never reach pleasure. For the urge to kill becomes the child of pleasure! And so, the pleasure lives- doomed to live a half life. Neither out, nor in. Neither felt nor denied. A fate so cruel- waiting to be changed. Waiting for the doors within, to be opened. Waiting to emerge out as not an omen, but a Goddess, of sin!

DIL SE...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Wed, 13 May 2009 10:31:30 PDT

00:01 am, 12th May 2009

The bus was gliding through the silhouette of hills and trees. A white ray of light from the moon- highlighting the roads ahead- the moon followed me, wherever I went. ‘E-Ajnabi’ from ‘Dil Se’, filled my heart with joy of unknown happiness while the moon filled my eyes with dreams. I like dreams. The song always made me dream. But today, it was special.

I was in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with only the moon above me, and ‘E-Ajnabi’, inside me. I didn’t remember, what happened the day before. Not that I should. Not that I would. And I didn’t care about what lay ahead. The moon was there, as ever and so would be- ‘E-Ajnabi’. So many things, flashed through my mind. Yes. I would be voting for the first time in my life! I would be home, in few hours time. But now, I was- in the ‘middle of nowhere’- with the moon and ‘E-Ajnabi’.

‘Ghost of the smile’ that I had smiled, earlier that day, had stayed back. I didn’t want that to leave me. I needed all the happiness that I could get- to carry along- into the day ahead. It had already become, my best birthday, ever with 'the ghost of my smile’ aftermath my birthday celebrations, the moon, the place somewhere at the ‘middle of nowhere’ and ‘E-Ajnabi’…

THE TUNNEL

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Tue, 07 Apr 2009 01:26:08 PDT

There is a tunnel that has no exits. The exit, it has, but cannot be seen. The tunnel has no light, no windows- to let its travelers have a peep. What lies beyond is not for the eyes of the traveler. And when one indeed sees what is beyond, can never travel again. Yet, every traveler tries to guess- the sight beyond the tunnel, dark. Most keep guessing, while a few claim to know. A few others just don’t bother, and a handful- well, they might actually know! The tunnel has a definite structure- a kind of maze. It has its sources and a destination. The travelers travel together- sometimes alone- but most of the times, together.

The tunnel has in hold, many surprises for its travelers. And each traveler, takes in these surprises in different ways. The tunnel keeps a track of all its travelers; judges them by the way they take its surprises. A traveler must never displease the tunnel. For the tunnel, always expects its travelers to like its surprises. This tunnel also has a strange sense of humour. Sometimes, the tunnel starts playing games with its travelers. The travelers must play along. For if they don’t, they won’t be able to move on! They get trapped. The could neither turn back, nor move ahead. Wicked, though it may sound, it is, but a part of the path that the traveler has to take, through the tunnel. The tunnel, knows.

How long is this tunnel? That is subjective. How big is the tunnel? No one knows. For the travelers never have known that they are in a tunnel. The darkness inside the tunnels has prevented the travelers from knowing the truth about their path. Some of these travelers have tried to light the lamps. But these lamps failed to help them know the truth. Instead showed them lies which took them ahead- towards their exit. While many other travelers, have ceased to find the truth. They prefer to take in the surprises, not to displease the tunnels- and move ahead on their journey- safely. Safely? Their ignorance is the source of their safety. And this ignorance is their bliss. Is this what the tunnel wants? Its travelers cease to try and find the truth? No. It wants the travelers to try. For only then, it could show them lies!

Through the darkness and through the lies, as the traveler journeys along, the tunnel unleashes its final surprise! The dark humour of the tunnel, never ceases to test its travelers. A few travelers, who’d traveled enough, know all about this surprise. The tunnel is not “entertained”. Yet, a few others are completely taken aback! And the tunnel, celebrates! For, the tunnel is particularly proud of this surprise. Some of the travelers, try to fool the tunnel. The tunnel humours them. It lets them believe that it is being fooled. And throws in this surprise, so suddenly, that they never get the chance to even realize that they were the ones that were fooled! The mysterious, yet the most precious surprises of all- exit. This surprise, puts and end to the games of the tunnel. It helps the traveler, realize the truth, see the light. And this surprise, answers the travelers. Strange is this tunnel- the dark, cruel; yet great, merciful, is this tunnel, called- Time!

THANK YOU, ALL...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 10:21:45 PDT

Hey all..

Your comments for my previous post, LOST, really helped me out. But the reason for my deleting the post- I just thought it made my blog depressing.. But your comments shall always be cherished!

Once again.. Thank you all...

LOVE- LOST & FOUND

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 11:13:29 PST

[Based on facts.. I thank the unknown traveler...]

A slit. And I’d break free. I’d float into a world where there’d be no suffering. A world, free from misery, guilt and treachery. A world, where I can be myself, and live for myself. A world, from which I need never return. A world which would be mine.

I took the knife into my hands. I positioned it over my left wrist. The knife was shining- smooth and sharp. Just the way it should be. The setting sun shone its blood red rays over the knife. And the knife- looked jubilant.

I could see myself in that knife. No. It wasn’t me. My eyes were never bloodshot. This was someone alien. No. And I put the knife down. I turned around. I could now face the mirror. I could see a stranger.

A stranger- who’d lost his smile. A stranger- who cried like a child; who hated himself for what he’d become. A stranger- who was in me; whom I’d never invited in me.

Her eyes. It grew large every time I surprised her. Oh! She laughed like a baby! A laughter- that had no sleight, no grudge. It seemed, as though she grew younger, each day.

And one day, when she held my hands, I looked into her eyes. There was no one but she and I. No world, no universe. But she and I. I spoke. Only she would hear it. I smiled. Only she would see it. I loved. Only she would feel it.

But when she started to speak; the stranger crept in. For I was incapable of hearing what she said. And she would never love this stranger if she’d never loved me. No. It was this stranger, whom she’ll never love. Not me. She’d love me. She has to love me. But the stranger wouldn’t leave me. So, I’d kill him. I returned back to the knife.

The knife was back- over my left wrist. I heard a cry. Somewhere, on the road. It made me pause, for a moment. It delayed my journey.

I saw a baby. Round the corner- left out to rot. The stranger, lifted the baby off the trash. The baby stopped crying. His eyes grew large. He looked surprised; amazed at his own luck! The stranger was ebbing away. It was now my eyes which looked into the baby’s. The baby smiled. A smile, so pristine; sans sleight, sans grudge. His nimble fingers, gripped my shirt. And- my smile, returned…

"JAI HO.."

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 21:36:32 PST

“Beauty is Truth
Truth Beauty
That is all
Ye know on Earth
And all ye need to know..” - Keats

A morning of Joy! Eyes brimming with tears of happiness, as I receive the call from my dad, and see people jumping with joy and bliss all at once, in the news channels. Messages keep coming in from friends to whom I’d promised a treat- asking me to decide the time and venue! I shout, I whistle, I jump- I feel like I should be out there with people, bursting crackers..

My heart, heavy and light all at once- I am Living!

Silence is the best form of music. He lives with it. Music, best illustrates Truth. His persona speaks loads of it! And as He says to the world “Ella pugazhum Iraivanukke..”
I can only Pray- “Jai Ho, Rahman.. Jai Ho..”!

LETTERS FROM MAWLEY...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Fri, 20 Feb 2009 00:20:05 PST

As promised, I have here, a mail that my father sent me today, 20th feb, 2009.

Sub: The perfect alibi.-for non-performance

Our External Affairs Minister Pranab Mukherji is never tired of asking Pakistan to hand over the terror –fugitives. Well, the most pertinent question in this context is, what will you do with them? For what the cognoscenti of the country know, they will be kept in fortified bungalows, with star-style living facilities; Crores of rupees will be spent endlessly, for their upkeep-with special hospitalization for their further rest and recuperation, from time to time; Lawyers from both the countries and elsewhere, would make a big kill…the cases would be heard and re-heard by different judges, who will keep retiring, yielding place to the new ones, who will hear and re-hear the cases.
.ad nauseam…Meantime, 20-25 years would roll by; the “accused fugitives” would celebrate their sons’/daughters’ weddings, in royal style; all the political bigwigs and the Bollywood celebrities would attend the grand party-never missing the attendant photo-ops.. the media will get sufficient material to cover such “ important” functions , for a few issues, each time;

You think, I am being too pessimistic? In the parliament attack case, ( 2001 ) our Supreme Court handed down the final judgment, convicting Afzal Guru, with death sentence; what are we doing about this ?Our Home Minister says ( the Hindu dt 1st. Jan.2009) “ the Home Ministry was examining the case “ ( sic ) What is there to examine? How long will you keep ‘examining’ the case? Then, how did the Govt. present the case in the various courts and finally in the Supreme Court? And, on what basis the Supreme Court passed the final verdict?

This is only an illustrative case; many such convicts similarly “sentenced” ( e.g.) in the Rajiv Gandhi assassination case , the fellow who killed and then roasted his wife’s corpse in the Tandoori oven ) are enjoying themselves enviable govt. hospitality…( some of them may even be at large, leaving their proxy in the lock-up..! don’t be surprised at all … money can buy anything … )

While courts hand down their final judgment, courts also mention some time limit for appeal; does it not mean that once the time for appeal expires, the sentence must be executed? Is there no time limit for execution of sentences passed by the courts? To a simple mind, it appears, non-execution of court sentences after the lapse of whatever period, must by itself constitute a “Contempt of court”..

Is it good law that permits a ‘convict’ to simply present a petition to the President/Governor and thereby naively convert the Death sentence into a life-sentence?

The point that I want to emphasize is that in this country ( my dear Motherland ) the police, judicial and administrative machinery have completely de-railed…and I see no light at end of the tunnel…Very sad indeed…

Yours truly,
Mawley.

THE TEST

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 09:17:48 PST

(When Karthik told me sometime back about the 55fiction fad, I didn't realize what he meant by that. But I happened to come across a few which inspired me to try my hand at it.. )

“… this is an insult! Say no to that impertinent girl”!
“Absolutely. What does she think of herself! HIV test before marriage?? How embarrassing”!
“.. But ma, there’s nothing wrong with it. I’ve already taken it. And would get the report any minute now”..
(Door bell)
They wait, as Prateek reads the report.
“So”?
“Positive….”!

THE MARBLE GAME

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sat, 31 Jan 2009 11:39:55 PST

The blanket was torn at really odd places. Shantama could never let Tipu sleep with that blanket on especially during the morning hours, when the street is all crowded! Tipu wished he were Mani- Mittoo's dog- it slept all day long. No one dared go near Mani.

Tipu's morning was vapid and disgusting. Shantama had been quarrelling with Kamla mausi all morning. Why? Tipu never cared. They were always quarrelling. The asbestos sheet above was broken. So was the cot. Tipu stepped out of the house.

Mangoo and his asinine crony- Bhatti, were walking towards him. Tipu was in no mood to fight. They had had a fair deal, the day before. Tipu had won- and so he got Mangoo's four marbles. End of the story. But Mangoo was not happy. Besides, Mangoo was twelve, while Tipu, only nine.

"Give me back, my marbles"- Mangoo had a bossy tone. But Tipu was not scared. "They are mine, now. I won them", he said- a tone so true and as pure as truth, itself. Mangoo pushed him down while Bhatti caught hold of his hands, tight, Mangoo took out the four marbles Tipu had kept in his trouser pocket and spoke thus- "They are mine . And will always be mine. Get your own marbles if you wish to play today. Else, forget the game.." . He kicked Tipu hard on his ribs, and left along with Bhatti.

"..only ten rupees, ma. I need to buy marbles. If I don't have marbles, I can never play the game again with Sukhi or Hari and all those other big boys out there ma. Mangoo took all my marbles..". Shantama was worried. She hardly had any money to get rice for the dinner. But she could never be happy unless Tipu was happy. She said, "I'll ask 'Baiji'. If she could get me, I'll get you marbles".

Shantama- a single working parent. She was a house maid. She was not a very good one too. People who let her work, let her do it for they only pitied her. She was weak and always sick. But a very sweet woman. Soft, and one who can be trusted. "Baiji" - as Shantama called her, was the only person, whom Shantama could depend on. Thanks to " Baiji", Tipu attends the local school. “Baiji” was her only hope.

"Baiji" had left to Shirdi. And Shantama could not go anywhere else. Tipu was heart broken. Today's game was the most important one. It would change his life. If he wins today, he would get twenty one marbles- he'd be rich… RICH… And then, he'd be the leader. And Mangoo won’t be able to do anything about it.

Tipu could do nothing. The sun was in high spirits. The road seemed everlasting. Tipu could feel the void inside his heart. He was vexed. He cursed Mangoo. He cursed "Baiji". They had ruined his life. But suddenly, he saw something on the road. A piece of paper. An important piece of paper. Money- an end to all his miseries! Ten rupees!

Tipu was filled with life. All his hunger, anger and helplessness, vanished. Mamaji's shop was just around the corner. Full of life, he held one hand high up-in the air, a ten rupees note, tuck safely inside his fist, he ran. He ran past the quarrelling women, hungry children, past the lame beggar, toiling labourers. Finally, when he reached Mamaji's shop, he was sweating- it seemed as though he had bathed in sweat!

"Mamaji, four marbles.."

Mamaji was busy attending other customers. He took no notice of the panting Tipu.

"MAMAJI, FOUR MARBLES..."

Mamaji turned. He saw a shirtless little boy, drenched in sweat, a ten rupees note, clasped tight in his fist, dirty feet, dry hair, bright sparkling eyes.

"Who gave you the money?" Mamaji demanded.

"I found it", came the reply.

Mamaji seized the money and shouted, in anger and disgust-

"You thieving little brat! Get lost.. Never set foot inside my shop, again. For I would kill you if you do. Get lost.."

Tipu stood there, transfixed, seeing his dreams land safely into Mamaji's cash box..

U'R ATTENTION PLEASE...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Wed, 28 Jan 2009 11:07:20 PST

So many things happened in such less time, that I hardly have time to turn back and see where I was, a few months from today! Busy? Nope. Can't exactly say what that was! Anyway, friends, I'm back!

So many awards! Thank you, Karthik, Karthik. R, rampantheart, for the awards! :)

An announcement- no, there's something that I would like to share with you all. My father, keeps writing to me. About this, that and everything. Recently, I had been to a book store, where I found this book- Letters from a father to a daughter- that is, Nehru's letters to Indira Gandhi. This inspired me.

I am planning to post this series- "Letters from Mawley". Not on a regular basis, but whenever I should get a letter from him, I would post them on my blog. My dad is happy about the whole plan. I'd been pestering him to start a blog of his own. But he could never find the time! So, this seemed perfect. Hope you'd like it too!

Would be back soon, with a new post! Until then...

NEW DAY...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 02:05:18 PST

The clouds keep floating- where they go- no one would ever know. And one would never see the same cloud, again. Time. The changing times, bring along the future. The sea has depths- no one knows what it holds in it. Pearls, coral- sharks!

Mirror has no memories. Reflections do. Looking back, it may think of smiles and tears- about how different they are from how they were. The past had no future. While the present is full of them. Tomorrow is no today. And today is no yesterday.

A shadow is trapped- somewhere between somewhere and nowhere. There is no darkness in that untrodden land of mysteries. There is no place to hide. The light rules the land. There is blindness, all around- caused by the light.

Today- is not tomorrow.. Today- is never tomorrow..

ЭνιℓℓινЄ WITH A VEIL ON...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 06:16:30 PST

The eyes remained closed. Calm. Serene. There was no way anyone could tell, what lies deep inside those closed eyes. Back and forth- as the chair rocked, the clock ticked away, unable to stop itself. The phone. She glided towards the mobile. “Hello”. Silence. “Hmm”. Silence. She looked up, at the clock- 8:06 pm. “Fine”. She kept the mobile down. Her eyes fell over a photograph on the table. A girl, standing beside her father. The girl, innocent, unsure, afraid- and barely living.

“… you see, she doesn’t have a mother. She died, you know. And I’m a single father. How do you suppose that I can manage a girl all by myself? I mean, look at her. She’s always crying and eating. You are very beautiful and smart..”

He was smart too, her father. She could never forget him. He kept bringing home new mothers, all the time. Some were kind, some- didn’t care. And one, kept beating her, all the time. But one day, everything changed. That was the day, when she swore to herself that she’d never let people, use her. And that made, all the difference.

“.. you can’t beat me anymore”, she said, firmly. The woman only smiled. “And who’ll stop me? Your drunken, good-for-nothing father”? “No. I Will”, she said. The woman started laughing. “Oh yeah”? And she advanced towards the timid, little girl. The smile in her eyes turned into fear. Bloodshot eyes. She was gasping for breath as she slumped. And the little girl, stood there, with the blood stained knife in hand. Her eyes spoke a new language. A language of power- life!

The phone. She set aside the photograph and picked up her mobile. 8:25pm. “Hello”. Silence. “By 10? No. Finish it up by 9”. Silence. “Yes, I have it”. Silence. Silence. “Alright.. 9:30”. She looked up, again. 8:27pm. She turned back to the photograph. She took it out of the frame. Turned the photograph. A poetry. The heart, that understood her- Jennifer.

“.. I know, child. It might be very difficult for you, with your father in jail for murder. Was it your mother”? “No”, she replied, “step- mother”. “Ah! You poor child. Don’t worry. You are born to live. You are God’s special child. He’s sent all his angels to be your friends. And you’ll find them all, here. I promise”.

But she found only one. Jennifer. There was something in Jenny, that made her get close to her. They became inseparable. At times, she felt as though, Jenny knew her more than anyone else.

“.. Is that you and your father, in that photo”? Jenny asked. “Yes”. “Do you miss him”? She wasn’t sure whether she missed him or not. So, she said, “Sometimes’. “Will you miss me, if we ever part”? Jenny asked. “Yes. A lot”. Jenny smiled. “Let me give you something that will remind you, about me”. She looked at Jenny, curiously. Jenny was looking at the sky, thinking and smiling. “Let me write a poem about you”. “About me”? she asked, amused. “Yes”. Jenny got the photo from her, and began to write the poetry..

8:42 pm. She dialed a number. “Do you have the cash that my husband wanted you to get from the bank”? Silence. “Good. Leave it in my husband’s car”. Silence. “That’ll be fine. Thank you”. 8:45 pm. Another number. “It’s in his car”. Silence. “Good”. She moved back to her chair. Now, she’d wait. And as she waited- she sailed, back again, through her memory- her life.

“… I know. This promotion means so much to you. But you are still new around here. You understand me? The boss is so sorry. He thinks you are very good, no doubt. But still.. you get me”? “Yes Mr. Trivedi, I understand”, she replied. “That’s better”. Mr. Trivedi smiled. He knew, she’d be no trouble at all. This young female- she was beautiful and intelligent. But only, woman. He turned to leave, when she spoke suddenly. “Congrats, anyway, Mr. Trivedi”. “Congrats? Why”? “Well, obviously, if this promotion is not mine, it’s yours, isn’t it”? Trivedi was not sure how to react. He managed a smile, however. “Well.. well.. You sure know everything that’s going around, don’t you”? She smiled. A kind of sheepish, yet, a pleased, you-flatter-me kind of smile. “Ah.. not everything. Just a few things. Like, there’s a loss of .. how much is that.. 4 Crore ? about which many people here, have no idea.. and a few others.. you know- the 5 bedroom flat, a beach house and 3 days- 3 nights holiday package to Malaysia.. you know.. all these kind of stuff..”

She was promoted, the next day.

9:05 pm. The phone. “Hello”. It was her husband. He had a nice telephone voice. “.. guess what. Everything is planned. I’ve got the tickets. I’ll reach home by 10. Packed your things”? “Yes”, she replied, and smiled. “Great. We are going to have a great time, I promise you”. “I’m sure, we will”, she replied. “Bye. See you soon”. “Bye”. 9:07pm.

She moved her fingers across “Love, Jenny..” written below the poetry, on the photo..

“.. my husband’s going to leave me. Tomorrow, we’ll be divorced. And the day after, you’ll both be married. This is what you’d always wanted, right”? Jenny was shaking with rage. “Jenny, you know very well that I never wanted it that way. Everything, just happened. I couldn’t do anything..” “Oh you could! YOU and only YOU, could’ve done something about it. YOU- can do anything. And YOU know, YOU CAN”. Jenny’s fists were clenched. She was trying hard to control herself. “Calm down, Jenny. You are very disturbed. Sit down..” “Shut up.. you..” Jenny was breathing. In and out. In and out. She waited. She’d let Jenny speak. And Jenny spoke. Her voice, calm, tired- dead, “You know why we were friends? Because it was I and only I, who’d understood you, completely. I, knew you. And yet- I believed that I can be friends with you. You know why? I was foolish. I thought, I could change you. Help you get better. Thought you were a girl who’d been hardened by the miseries of life. And I was wrong. Only later, I realized that the reason people fear Evil is because, just when you are beginning to understand it’s course, it changes it’s course. Evil is evil, because it is unpredictable, for the good. You are Evil. And you’ll Live. Always. Goodbye”.

Jenny died, the next day- depressed.

9:35 pm. The chair was rocking. Clock ticking. She was holding the phone. She was tensed, for the first time ever, in her life. She dialed a number. No reply. She dialed again. No reply. The chair was rocking faster. But the clock, at the same pace, as ever, ticking rhythmically.

9:46 pm. No reply, yet again. Her heart beat started rising up its pace and she could feel the beat. She quickly rose up and decided to make the phone call. The last phone call. She dialed a number. She waited. She waited. She waited. A cold voice spoke from the other end, “You husband’s dead. I have the cash”. She felt relieved. As though she was plunging into deep, cold water- celebrating her freedom from the scorching summer heat. “Good. I should never hear again, from you”. “You’ll never”. 9:57 pm

A week later-

The eyes remained closed. Calm. Serene. There was no way anyone could tell, what lies deep inside those closed eyes. Back and forth- as the chair rocked, the clocked ticked away, unable to stop itself. On one hand, she had a letter from the Board of directors, requesting her, to join the board. On the other hand, she held a photograph- with a poetry on it’s back, that read-

VEIL

Soft muslin, light and tender
The breeze playing with it
Hides the rosy lips and dimple chin
And the emotions that lie within.

Days roll on, years pass by-
There's no muslin and no breeze;
Yet, it's those rosy lips and dimple chin
That hide emotions, deep within!

love,

Jenny.

She remembered Jenny. She remembered Jenny’s words. And she knew, she was Evil, who’d Live with her Veil, on, always.

"HOME" CALLING...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 09:33:08 PST

"Tokyo Drift". I have felt the music to be appealing. I usually let the phone ring for a few minutes, when the call is from 'Home'. I liked listening to "Tokyo Drift". I did the same thing today. Mom- with her ususal list of Do's and Don'ts. I reply to her call with only "hmm.."s and "ya"s. "Don't go alone, anywhere. Don't go in the auto, alone. Don't go to BIG hotels.." . Mom, I presumed, got upset after watching the news. Of course, she was. The whole nation was. Only that, the 200 and 300 people who are dead- they don't seem numbers anymore.

Gopalakrishnan. P. K., AGM., State Bank Of India, Mumbai, a father, a husband, a brother and a maternal uncle, received a fatal gun shot at Taj, last night(26th Nov) where he had been dining with some of his friends.

News of terrorists shooting down people pops up almost everyday. But, being some where so secure, protected., they have never had an impact on me. I feel bad about it. But I also forget about it. But now, when a mere number flashing on screen right below the yelling Barkha Dutt, remains no longer a number- I feel as though something's over there- up and above my head- something evil, mocking at me, saying to me- "What would you do now? I am now, into your life too..." I am helpless.

Away from home. Away from people who I know. Nowhere to go. Yet, no tears come out of my eyes. A strange numbness, has become a part of me.

Mama's last words were the names of his two children. I hope, they find strength enough to carry on...

PS.: thank you, Karthik, for the link.. A report about his death in Times Of India.. Click Here..

YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE.. RELOADED!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 16 Nov 2008 08:22:15 PST

The roads are flooded with busy people. Cars, buses, autos, fly past the 'busy bodies'. Horns reflect the anger of the ones behind the wheels. Trash and junk, ornate the footpath- where some hungry dog would try his luck, sniffing a dirty polythene bag. The place is never dark. The city never sleeps.

The water filled the bucket- and now, it wanted to get out of the same. The pale blue walls of the bathroom looked inhospitable. The mirror was dusty. A hand wiped the same- and the mirror revealed a life, about to begin, again. A smile. And the mirror smiled back. It couldn't do anything else also! Whatever has been going on has been going well. Yet why should the smile be forced? Some questions are best left unanswered.

The auto stops by an office building. A smile, again. No one smiles back this time. Yet, the smile prevails. Once again, I board on the next train- and now, my stop would be- Chennai!

NOW

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 11:44:13 PDT

Now- A fragment in time
A dew on a leaf
A fleeting moment
Soon to be, the past..

An invincible truth-
An invariant lie-
A word, sans meaning
Yet, pregnant with space..

Now, is the star
Now is this sky
Now- is smile
Rest is, but lie!

Now, is happiness
Now is the sorrow
Now, is this life
To be lived, tomorrow...

FOR THE CHILD OF HAPPINESS!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 02:52:49 PDT

It’s been years since I’d stopped looking at faces- stopped recognizing them. Faces- good, bad, not good, not bad; however they may be, they made me feel bewildered. I was always in a muzzy- nebulous wreck, once I started looking into the faces.

I had settled myself for the legs. I recognized each leg I’ve ever worked on. Day and night, I looked at those legs, those shoe clad feet. I worked on them.. I loved them.

But I worked not for the pleasure that I felt in touching the crisp wafers of currency. No. It doesn’t seem credible, but I work for the mere smile that I get when I see my hands work wonders on those dusty shoes that walk nowhere! I feel happy when my hands work swiftly- right to left to right; over those shoes- black or brown.

Those shoes were of all sorts. Big- fat ones, long- thin ones, flat ones, pointed ones, those that did not fit in those wrong legs, and those worn- only to make others jealous. But whatever type they might be- I worked on them- until I saw them give me a glowing smile.

All days of the week, I worked. The sweat which rest on the tip of my nose, as my eyes drilled on the movement of my hands- evaluating the perfection of my job, knew that they were born out of a man who was happy. They were our children- I, the father and my work- the mother.

A man is happy in his life, as long as his wife keeps him happy. I had two wives- my work and Shanti. And they both made me happy. I earned just enough to run our family and keep us smiling. Shanti too, never wanted for more- not ever. She had learned to read my thoughts and resonate with my smile. And I had learned to smile, when she wanted one from me!

For the past few days, I felt that she wanted less of my smiles. Something had changed. She had changed. She felt weak- and the more she tried to hide it from me, the more it was conspicuous. I decided to take her to the doctor.

Shanti had to be admitted in the hospital. I needed money. We had managed to save a little. But more was needed.

I now worked for the pleasure of feeling the crisp wafers of currency. My sweat was not my child of happiness- it was only the price for my labour. There was so much to do. And there was never enough time. I felt pressured and hassled all day, everyday, seven days a week. And each day, was a day long of drudgery- a struggle to succeed in a deadly game with fate. And in this wrestle, I must win- to save a soul who had only lived to see me smile. And my defeat would only mean that, my smile would be gone.

The pleasure that I got to see my hands move swiftly over the shoes, were no longer pleasure. I had learned to work without passion. I had learned to live like many others- an ordinary humdrum life- devoid of smile but a rage to win; devoid of passion but a compulsion to earn. I was a man- of the Earth!

She was going to be alright. She smiled at me after days of agony. A smile, which relieved her of all her agony. A smile- that left her eyes devoid of light, yet she kept smiling- as though she could never stop smiling- as though she could do nothing else anymore- not fight anymore- and not suffer anymore- but smile and only smile..

It’s been years since I’d stopped looking at faces- stopped recognizing them. I had settled myself for the legs. Day and night, I looked at those legs, those shoe clad feet. I worked for the smile that stayed with me, forever. A smile- and just a smile. But for the smile- Shanti was only a vegetable. And as my first child of happiness- left me- I worked to see my hands work forever- swift from left to right to left to right to left…

YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE...

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 21:56:42 PDT

New Day. The dawn speaks a thousand dreams. Hopes of a new future- bring out a smile, somewhere deep within. Yet, a tiny tinge of fear, constantly infest the smile of the uncertainties that lie ahead.

New life, new faces, new lessons to be learnt! Will I Live the new Life? Yes. I am dying to Live! A thought had crawled up, a few months ago- about Life, being an institution and I, a student in it. But when the doors have actually opened, the thought seems mere words!

Prayers. Blessings. Wishes. Pour in from all over. Thank you, all. The Life, awaits for a passenger, who needs to move on. One step forward- I board in the train. Bags packed. Tickets reserved. And dreams- overflowing, out through my eyes- I’ll be around, I promise- but adieu, for now! The train is off- I move on with it- the next stop- God’s Own Country!

SUNDAY SPECIAL!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 11:30:43 PDT

What does Sunday mean to you? Sleep until 8 am? (I am a slugabed..) Shopping? Movies? And many other things. To some, it's just another day, in a week-full of days. To some others, it's just a Sunday. For me, Sunday is- Special food day! After all, we live in a country, where people worship food- where people are proud of their cuisine and where, to the grannies, you shall always remain, looking under-fed, even though you can fit in, the entire 70mm screen, all by yourself!

So, what's "Sunday Special" (“S-S”)? Before I answer that question, I should mention about my parents. Both my Mom and Dad, cook really well! How well? I think
you'd be able to guess that, once you get to see me! My mom, does all the traditional- Sambhar, Rasam, Aviyal varieties. My dad- he's the Star! He likes to experiment, create new enticing taste buds and try out, new dishes. In fact, you might be surprised, my dad watches all the cookery shows on TV and tries out those recipes!

"S-S", as you might've guessed, by now, is all about my dad! Sunday is his Day! A day, when he's given a "free reign"! The kitchen, becomes “out-of-bounds” to mom, and dad, takes over! Why? To prepare his "S-S", a mouth- watering, steaming hot, treat to the palate. His "S-S" is a force that enhances the holiday flavour in us. An effort that is never wasted. Creativity- in it's best.

It was on one such Sunday, I decided that, I should do something to show my dad, that I really appreciate his efforts! Further encourage and motivate him? On that Sunday, the "S-S" was Pulao and Aloo Mutter-, all original colours and appetising flavours- that I couldn't help myself, but do what I did! Take pictures of his "S-S"!

The pictures you see here, epitomize fond labour, gleeful pain, raising hunger! I can be ruthless, when I'm in-charge! I was bossing around, while my parents had to do all the cleaning of vessels, dusting the table- kind of chores. I did, only the Final arranging-on-the-table part. They say, the test of the pudding is in the eating.. While I was arranging and re-arranging the “S-S” to take snaps from “different angles”(!), my mom almost lost her patience and asked me- “When can we eat, ra”?! But at the end of the day- it was the most memorable "S-S” with a plateful of seducing, mouth-watering dishes- that proclaim familial bond and affection- framed in frozen time!

AN AWARD? FOR ME?!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 11:34:19 PDT

Thank you, Vinay and Karthik. I am really pleased. This is my second award on blogger! Some rules that come along with this award are-

1. When you receive the prize you must write a post showing it, together with the name of who has given it to you, and link them back.
2. Choose a minimum of 7 blogs (or even more) that you find brilliant in their content or design.
3. Show their names and links and leave them a comment informing they were prized with 'Brillante Weblog'.
4. Show a picture of those who awarded you and those you give the prize(optional).
5. And pass it on!

And now, I pass on this award to-

Scribbler- What a poet!
Vrinda- Brilliant writer! The way she narrates is great!
Vanilla Sky- There's something in her blog that attracts me to it, everytime! Her posts sound genuine, are pleasant and down to earth!
Arjun- Has a great imagination and a really good sense of humour! Do pay a visit to his blog!
Nithya- Her tamil blog is great- humourous, colourful, lively! I've read some of her better posts on serious issues like- funding orphanages, visit to old age homes, etc. Her tamil blog is so simple and enjoyable- that even me, who literally struggles reading tamil, take pains to sit for hours and read the entire post! Great work, Nithya!
Karthik- It's high time he receives an award for his "Impeccable English"!
Priya- She'd come under the "brilliant content" catagory! Has a very good poetry blog! Do visit!

Thank you again, Vinay and Karthik!

A LITTLE DREAM- CALLED HOPE!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 00:20:35 PDT

“I just had a dream, Radha! I’m sure, it’s a boy”!

“Vimmi.. Stop for a second.. I just don’t get it. Relax.. Now tell. What was in your dream”?

“I dreamt of Lord Krishna, playing with his friends.. and Mother Yashodha is watching over him, smiling proudly, at her son..”

“That’s great, Vimmi. This is such wonderful news! I think we should tell this to Sarlaji”!

“You both seem so happy.. Now what is it that you’ve got to tell me”? Sarlaji had entered the room. She was a kind and pleasant looking, middle-aged woman, under whose care all the ladies over that place- at Anand, came to know, what was it like, to be in heaven!

“Tell me what, Radha”?

“Sarlaji, Vimmi is going to have a boy! Lord Krishna appeared in her dream”!

“Why, this is such a pleasant news! Vimmi, meanwhile, you should start being more careful about yourself. For now, you are not going to be, just you. Krishna is also, now a part of you”!

Vimmi felt elated. She had never been so happy before. She couldn’t imagine.. How it began.. And now, this!

Vimmi was sitting by the window. “Banwara mann dekhne chala ek sapna”.. crooned the radio somewhere; and she wondered, “Can we ever stop dreaming”? Smiling to herself, she was now, gazing at the stars. Somewhere, sometime ago, a star fell off the sky to become a part of herself. She slowly, got up from the bed. She walked towards the mirror and looked at herself.

She saw a reflection of a woman who was around 30. She wasn’t fair. No. She wasn’t dark, either. And she wasn’t ugly- nor beautiful. She was a mother. And that made her, sheen!

She could feel little Krishna in her, waiting to come out into the world, see new things, learn new skills- become a great man, someday!

Vimmi smiled at her own thoughts. How quickly does a woman’s imagination fly, past the future! But, now, she needed to rest. Krishna, needed to rest.

Vimmi lay awake as she rolled over in her bed. She was just too happy to sleep. She was thinking about Munni and Sukhi. Her two girls. She had been worried earlier about how well her husband would be able to take care of them. They were just two brilliant girls. Now, they went to a good school, too!

Vimmi had always been a wonderful mother and a wife. Even when her husband’s dairy business, collapsed, she never lost hope. She always knew that Lord Krishna would do something. And indeed, little Nand Kishore had played his flute, yielding to her prayers and shown her a way!

And she saw the light, in her pain. The light filled her life. And her pain was now, her hope!

................................................................

“This is such a beautiful child”!

Vimmi opened her eyes. She could now see the people around her. She could see a woman, a young and very beautiful woman, holding the baby.

“Vimmi, you awoke? How do you feel, now”?

“I’m fine, Sarlaji.. the baby..”?

“Yes. You were right. It is indeed a boy..”!

Vimmi felt so happy. She had been dying to see him.. She gained all her strength back as soon as she heard it!

“May I see him”?

“Sure. Why not”! Said the woman holding the baby- “You have every right to do so”! And she brought down the baby to Vimmi.

Vimmi saw a beautiful baby boy, with unusually bright, big eyes! Just like little Kanha! She was so happy.

A man, standing beside the beautiful woman, now spoke.

“You just don’t know what you’ve done for us. I have sent the money to your husband. His dairy is now going great. I have sent him, more than what was agreed upon. And now, you can ask for anything that you may want from us..”

Vimmi looked at the man who had just spoken. She had seen him before. He had been like a God to her, helping out her family- through their misfortune, taking care of her daughters’ education. What more could she ask from him? However, impulsively, she said-

“Sethji, just promise me, that you’ll name him, Krishna…”

TAG- TAG!

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 01:54:58 PDT

Thank you, Raphael..

1. What have you realized recently?
Boredom drives one, mad!

2. Have you given your first kiss away?
I kissed this book titled “The Fountainhead” after I finished reading it for the first time. If u can count that..

3. If you were to be stranded on a deserted island, who are the 11 blog buddies you would take?
Hmm.. Difficult.. I’d rather take them all along!

4. Where is the place you want to go the most?
I think, that would be Paris.. Also a place named Vijayanagara.. Saw that on Discovery in a show called “Spiritual Nation”.

5. If you have one dream to come true, what would it be?
I usually have only nightmares! So, no, thank you! :)

6. Do you believe in seeing the rainbow after the rain?
Yes, I do.

7. What are you afraid of losing the most now?
Nothing, as of now..

8. If you win $1 million, what would you do?
Buy a new mobile each day of the week!

9. If you meet someone that you love, would you confess to him/her?
Hmm.. I don’t think so!

10. List out 3 good points about the person who tagged you
I don’t know Raphael personally.. So, briefly- A really good blogger!

11. What are the requirements that you wish from your other half?
As of now, I have no idea!

12. What type of people do you hate the most?
I’ve said that in a tag earlier..

13. What is the one thing you can't live without?
Oxygen..

14. If you have faults, would you rather the people around you point out to you or would you rather they keep quiet?
Would want the people around me point out..

15. Raphael's tag shows that this question is missing. What do I do?

16. Are you a shopaholic or not?
Nope.

17. Find a word to describe the person who tagged you
Sweet..

18. If you have a chance, which part of your character you would like to change?
My laziness..

19. What’s the last shocking thing you've seen or heard?
Death of a friend of dad’s. I was the last person to see him alive!

20. Would you rather have love but no money or money but no love?
I am a realist.

I now tag:

Vinay
Padma Priya
My inner world
Karthik

THE OTHER END OF A CIGARETTE

noreply@blogger.com (Matangi Mawley) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 09:25:47 PDT

This would be my 50th post! Thank you for making LIGHTER SIDE possible! I wrote this story on 7/3/2008, to be precise. Yet, I wanted this story to be a special one, for it is my most favorite post after RAJANIGANDHA. Though the story didn't win me any prize for the creative writing contest for which it was actually written, I don't know why- this story remained to be my favorite!

Saket. A dream, a hope- a friend. He was life. I met him on the first day of our college. I was new and friendless- a castaway. He was then, a hand over my shoulder. A cigarette that we shared then, had bonded us for life.

A life lived, shown itself on those lines across face. A face that had once been handsome- charming. Spread on the couch- in an easy, lazy way, with one leg on the couch and other hanging outside it- his shoulders looked as though they could bear not, any more weight.

Saket knew a person by their eyes. He knew almost everything about everyone. May be that was why people adored him, for he never said anything to anyone what they did not want to hear. Everyone needed him and he was there for everyone.

“Can you get some water for me, Shabd”? It was weak- not the one that I was used to- his voice. It was tired.. No, not tired. It sounded fresh. As though it had not come out for years- not that it wanted to, either.

The cafeteria could never be complete without Saket inside. He always had his place reserved or rather the place had itself reserved for him. He would either be treating or be a part of it, himself. Some other time, when crowd is less, you can even find him with some girl or two. Now, he wouldn’t like me to tell you that!

He always drank his water, chilled. But today, he poured some on his face, his body- his mind! And when he let go of the bottle, he looked as though he had never relaxed that way- not for many, many years.

He hardly attended any of his classes. So it wasn’t a surprise when he didn’t attend any of his classes that day. But then, it was odd. He never attended his classes thereafter. We tried contacting him- that day, the next and the next. We tried calling his home. But it was as though his life had had a wash out- a trail on sand, washed away by water!

Saket opened his eyes. Eyes that could once make anyone yearn to see them all their lives- it had lost its soul. Lifeless, he looked at me and smiled. It was a smile that had been locked away in a cocoon, yet bursting to get out after a long exile. And I smiled back; a smile, too true to be expressed in words. How I had longed to see him do it, and it had been worth it!

“Can you light up a cigarette for me”? I did as he asked me to do. He smoked. Saket was born again from its ashes. He passed it to me. And when the other end of the cigarette touched my lips, I knew- Saket would never leave, again. For he, was alive- again!