Footprints

Constraint: 600 words and a character must leave the town and a character must enter the town.
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“What are you sifting mom?” I had asked amidst the bustling activity in my maternal grandfather’s, nana’s, house. Dad was moving about groceries for the post-twelfth day ceremony, called baaramu, of passing away of nana. The whole village was to be fed. I myself had been fed many times that summer as death seemed to be the only recurring event that year.

But nana, well I never thought that he would give in. Not that he was not old enough. He was 95 and his frail body seemed to have wanted him out. As if it was tired of carrying him all these years and just wanted to rest. But his soul never seemed ready. He has been ‘mukhia’, the village head, for 40 years and has seen it through the times of prosperity, decay, battles, crimes you name it. I still remember the heated debates between him and my dad who was hell bent on the urbanization of modern India and where it is to take us versus nana who was as much hell bent on the ‘tree is as strong as its roots and the villages are India’s roots’. His soul seemed more attached to this village he has served all these years than his own body. May be that’s why his body had felt neglected and wanted to desert him.

“Well I am just sifting to get a very fine sand in the plate. It is said that if a soul is reborn as a human, an infant’s soft footprint will appear on the sand on the twelfth day and we will know that his soul is not astray anymore”

I still remember that moment vividly. For an eight year old’s mind that was a swell of an idea. I was excited. I followed mom to the little temple we had inside the house where she lay the plate among small oil lamps and scented incense. I sat next to it.

Mom reprimanded me “now don’t just sit there”.

But I didn’t listen. The idea of small footprints appearing out of nowhere was refuting everything that modern science was trying to teach us. Possibility of this miracle, an open ended challenge to science was more exciting than anything.

So... well.. I sat there. Just waiting for the miracle to happen. Half an hour.. hour.. hour and half.. the restlessness of a kid’s mind was unsettling me and I was running out of patience. Science seemed to be laughing in the face of lamps and scented incense in the house of god. Finally I got tired and went to dad who was busy arranging things for the cook.

“Dad when will the footprints appear?”

He didn’t seem to know what I was talking about. To stop me from pestering him he said
“Just go and make sure lamps are not running out of oil”

I stood there for half a minute hoping for an answer but when none came I went back to the temple to check on the lamps. And there.. and there, there were two little soft footprints on the sand. My heart was racing. Dhak.. dhak... dhak.. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “mom mom mom” not finding her in the house I ran out looking for her. “mom”

And there she was holding a newborn baby of our neighbor. There was a smile on mom’s face and tears rolling down her eyes and I remember what nana always insisted during the debates with my dad,

“I can never leave this village and if I ever did I will come back right away”

A fallen leaf

Fell a green leaf of the branch
on a sultry winter morning
Blew a dry breeze and it fell
miles away from the tree

Came the days and went the nights
And stolen was the moisture
Flushed were veins and dried was leaf
as severed it felt from the tree

Blew another breeze and away it took
in the distant that longing leaf
in it alive were still the memories
of the veins broken from the root

calls the tree sometimes with whisper
the distant aloof fallen leaf
but prevails drought in the dried veins
As it waits to drench in rain

Lavaris lafz

Kavitaaen meri jo tumhaare wajood se joodi thi
Anath hoke tar batar aaj vo bhatak rahi hai

Fir kisi hasin ki khoj me dil me dhokhe ka dard chupaake
Par lavaris se ye mere lafz apane maayane bhool rahe hai

Aur unaki har aah se nikal rahe hain kuch naye labz dard ke
Fir bunenge wo dard ki daastan jo waqt ke sailaab me beh jaayegi

Aur fir na bachega dard ya bachega mere alfaazon ka ehsaas
Bas reh jaaaynge bikhare hue itar bitar mere lavaris lafz

Udaan

Jal ke raakh bhi nahi hota Aur jalan kam bhi nahi hoti
Na is astitva ka ant hai par astitva bhi to nahi hai

Bandhnone baandh ke pakad liya hai sansaar ke
Aur lagi hui hai aag bas chaaro aur
Na in zanziron ko tod ke bhagane ka dam hai
Naahi hai in lipato me lipat jaane ki himmat

Bas ek panchi ko dekhake ji raha hu
Khwaab me ek din udane ke

काश जाती थम ये रात

काश ये शाम ना आती और काश ये दिन ना ढलता
और ना होती काश ये रात दिन मे तब्दील

बस थम जाता ये वक़्त यहाँ और
पीगलती तुम मेरी बाहों मे ऐसे
जैसे ना तुम होती ना मैं होता
और ना होता ये वक़्त का एहसास
बस होता हम दोनों का सिर्फ़ एक वजूद

पर तुम हो वहाँ मैं हूँ यहाँ
जहाँ रात भी ढलती है दिन भी निकलता है
और वक़्त सिर्फ़ चलता रहता है

बस एक आरज़ू के साथ ही जीता है अब ये बाँवरा दिल
इंतजार की उस रात मे जब
तुम होगी और मैं और होगा ये चौदवि का चाँद
जब थम जाएँगी ये साँसे हमारी होके एक
और थम जाएगा ये वक़्त भी
लिपटके हुमको अपनी बाहों मे

Emancipation of memories

Frail attempts of my ephemeral impressions
Are engulfed by those mighty oceans
Forgotten is history and lost is time
As memoryless shores surrender to tides

And I reflect..

Amnesia blessed o ocean sand
Torment of memories is thy distant land
Reborn with each wave anew you are
While I burn in the agony of past

Stubborn is past refusing to leave me, crying
I AM you, you otherwise amorphous cretin

No, I cry, you enslaver of memories, you past
Emancipation they seek from the spell you cast
Wait they in the dungeons for the mighty tides
When rescued I will be from the fettering confines

Lost in Sunnyvale

Bhaumin told me this hilarious anecdote. I thought I would add some masala to it to and make it an interesting story. So here it is and it is written purely in vein of humor so don’t take any offense, please.

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Our story starts with an anonymous white man who, for the purpose of this story, will be referred to as A. It was a rainy Saturday but A was determined to stick to his appointment as he readied himself to meet his friend in Sunnyvale. Yes Sunnyvale. Now for those who don’t know what Sunnyvale is, and yes ‘what’ is more appropriate here than ‘where’, it is an “Indian” reservation located in the heart of Silicon Valley. The tech industry of Silicon Valley has provided the thriving atmosphere and we the desis (people of Indian sub continent) relish in the glory of “preserving” the culture. Upon one’s visit to Sunnyvale one could witness the abundance of desis per square mile this sanctuary provides. So it was not surprising that A was up for a big surprise. Even within this reservation there exists a ghetto, the techie getto if you will, where all the bad-ass indian techies live. It was here A’s friend lived and for the reasons of anonymity I will omit the details about the ghetto being referred to here.

As A entered the community, our ghetto, the aroma of curry filled his nostrils and he knew he was up for some danger. As he walked through this persisting aroma he couldn’t find anyone around. But as he crossed another block and into the heart of the ghetto, the street was full of desis talking/chatting that suddenly turned into whispers. The mean stares (or rather stares of surprise) were being thrown at him and he was ill equipped handle them. He knew he had to get out of there. He crossed the block and made a right and with quickening pace crossed another block. As he finally caught his breath he wasn’t sure anymore if he should continue his quest of finding his friend’s place or not. Just then he spotted a young lady in saari crossing the street and in her non threatening looks he decided to take shelter and ask for his friend’s place. He slowly and cautiously approached her.

“Excuse me” said A.

“Yes?” replied the lady-in-saari with a surprise.

“I am looking for this place” he asked her as he showed her the address. “Do you know where it is?”

For a few seconds she threw a strange glance at him and replied

“No.. but there are no foreigners living here” and she walked off.

Shock waves passed through A as he didn’t know what was that supposed to mean. But surged back the memories of his forefathers from nearly 4 centuries ago when they had landed at Plymouth and how they would have felt.

We don’t know what A did later as little information is available of that account. But it won’t be surprising if we stumble upon a blog “Foreigner in my own country, welcome to Sunnyvale”.

And what would complete the circle with irony is reading of that blog by a Native American.