joie de l'écriture

Honest lies

Dimpled chin and rosy lips,

Like the teacher’s pet in the nursery rhymes,

One last look and I knew she was mine,

My daughter whom I last saw when she was six

Quick bucks, he said he would keep her neat

I last heard from her on her 16th birthday

Said she was in a black limo, her gift for the day

Time passed on, like it always does

I saw her photographs in the antique frames

Hoping someday she would come running,

Throw her arms around me and say,

“Mama I love you, I thought of you every day!”

The day never came until his funeral,

When she was there to read his eulogy,

She hardly wept but I could see she was hurt,

Deep inside she knew, she would miss him so much

He never had time for his little daughter she said,

But he kissed her goodnight everyday to bed

When she was a teenager, he gave her allowance

A raise often came before she could ask for one

One day she spent it on a roll of cigarette

Today she realized she had made him infuriate

“I would never ask you sweetheart of what you want in life,

I know you would get it all, all right,

But if I may ask you, would you a promise keep,

Never lie to your father, not unless I sleep…”

And they both had cried that day by the fire place

He in the rocking chair, she wrapping him in her delicate arms,

“If ever I lie to you dad, it would only be to get mama back to you,

I miss her dad”; “I miss her too…”

And they both spent the evening fighting back tears

As they flipped through the pages of her scrap book,

“To our Sweetie, with lots of love- Mom & Pop”

Read the snap,

In which we kissed her on either cheek,

It was her last birthday in the old apartment,

Old friends, had come to say goodbye

And then one by one they had left, me too

Never to return until that day, she always wondered why?

She ended her father’s paean on a very touching note,

“Dad always said I would meet my mom, when he is gone,

And he was always a man of his words,

I know you are there ma, somewhere in this crowd,

But I am my dad’s daughter too, and I shall keep my words

I had promised him I wouldn’t lie, but to bring you back

And he’d asked me to be truthful until he is gone,

Today we meet again, on the occasion of his death,

And if he had just one more day,

I would have stolen him from you for a moment

And whispered, “Dad, just for you I lied under my breath…”

Unfinished tales…

Like how a caged bird yearns to fly in the open sky that seems to beckon it, enticing it with different hues- a yellow sapphire, a glistening gold, a shock of peach, sometimes a pale azure with puffs of cotton clouds, or even a blazing red, a vibrant pink with streaks of royal purple, and at night a dazzling black - so have I attempted with little success to write about the myriad experiences that have lately weaved colour in my fabric of life. I can hardly tell if I attribute this to lack of time or to an uncanny unwillingness to transliterate these conversations in the mildest syllables of life into something as real and as tangible as words themselves.

Not everything that these dull eyes see evoke a tear, not everything that these vexed ears hear provoke a thought, rarely has a human touch been so powerful and little are we blessed to see in a lifetime death and life being juxtaposed like the two facets of a die that is set rolling on the table while the rest of the world watches the die come to a staggering rest with little interest. The stories of the destitute and the ill are always told with brimming emotions to sensitize us towards their problems and it only follows that we develop this inherent capacity to sympathize with the ‘underprivileged.’ But for these same ‘underprivileged’ that have chosen to emerge from the abyss of social stigma to embrace a new life, like how a phoenix rises from the ashes, we are completely oblivious. The reason I believe is man’s constant endeavour to prove his supremacy to his ever-struggling inner self and blinding himself from reality. We live contentedly in a world we believe we live in. Are we any less impoverished then?

I doubt if all of us would be endowed with the opportunity to meet living legends with awe-inspiring stories about life that have never found a mention in history journals because these were not about sacrifices and philanthropy. These weren’t stories about a famous person going overboard to express his love for the nation. These were in fact stories of people who had to first search for an identity in the very world that had conspired against them. These were stories about human rights being sacrificed, hope being trampled by a dogmatic society, voices being stifled, and humanity being crucified under the juggernaut of mindless acts by the human race. The fight was not so much against others as it was with the self. It wasn’t about proving one’s worth but about convincing oneself that all is not lost. To find hope when the darkest hours cast their ugly shadows is one of life’s toughest challenges which only brave hearts can survive.

The vision of one man can create a renaissance and rekindle the fire of optimism and self-worth amongst millions. An iota of kindness can have such a powerful impact in the lives of many, imprinting permanently an indomitable spirit to excel. Befitting this realization is one of my favourite songs, “I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean…” Everything I’ve done, whatever little I’ve achieved, everything I see people striving for, the biggest names, the greatest achievements…suddenly seemed measly. The place carried an aura of purity, almost like they talk about heaven. It spelled the ‘garden of bliss.’ It was simple and soothing, where honesty of character and genuineness of deeds found haven. It was where the homeless found a family, where the blind understood the colour of love, where the mute learnt to express it and the deaf could listen to the heartbeats. Some things just happen to touch you like how a dew drop rolling off the edge of a leaf stirs ripples in the heart of a calm pond. This was one of those.