Shadows in the moonlight

silver turns to gray

raindrops mingle with tears

streaking down cheeks astray

blackness smears

the cold is here to stay

Disclaimer: Some characters, events and circumstances in this series are completely fictitious. Some are productions of my imagination but I’m having real difficulty separating those figments from reality. Some moments are very cherished parts of my reality.

I’ve tried hard to remember my toddler years. Really hard. I’ve had glimpses of situations and dialogues in bright colours but never quite remembered the beginnings or the ends of these. It always amazes me when in novels the main protagonist vividly remembers what happened to them when they were four. They can recall all those events with clarity that helped shape them into who they are when they step into the world as adults. I’ve read a little bit of psychology and I don’t know how true it is that your past can so deeply define your future. I think a lot of my early memories are simply random pieces of Lego that don’t quite contribute to the final structure but lie around just the same.

I would like to start this story from when I was eleven because I remember the most from that age. But then I figured if I am going to write this story it would be unfair to leave out the random bits I remember from earlier on. I mean there might well be some who are able to somehow fit these random pieces of Lego into the final structure. Who knows, they always say the picture is clearer from outside in.

I remember hating bitter gourd and spinach as a kid. I must have been five or six and I would sit at the dining table picking at my food long after everyone had left hoping my mom would finally give up and ask me to leave the table. It never happened. It was a rule. I had to finish everything on my plate before I left the table. Some days I would just gulp it all down like the most obedient kid on the planet and others I would cry and fuss and later sit at the table dragging the food off the plate into my mouth while dry tears shuddered through my body.

I still remember the dark starry nights when mom and I would sit on chairs in our big roofless balcony. We used to live on the first floor and there were apartment buildings with jus four apartments each. The two upper apartments had these large open balconies where at least ten kids could run around and play tag. My dad would be away a few days every month on exercise duty as he is an Army officer. Ocassionally, my mom and I would sit on chairs in the balcony and she would brush my hair. A hundred strokes. Everytime. She would brush it and I would count it.  ‘Why do you have to do a hundred mommy?’ ‘It’s because your hair will grow long and thick and shine’, she would say. And I’d feel so special and pretty. She once told me that trimming it on full moon nights would make sure it remains long and beautiful forever. We trimmed my hair that night. I haven’t quite done it since those kindergarten years.

I had a birthday party on that balcony once. I was five years old and a lot of my friends had come home. My dad was the co-ordinator. He conducted all the games and played with us and taught us little tricks and oh how we all loved him! He had dark brown hair, an easy smile, a boyish laughter and he was so tall. So we played musical chairs and blind man’s bluff and a game where your supposed to hop on one foot and then try to tag someone. That one was never happy for the catcher. My dad then made us play coin in the circle. He filled a bucket with water and then placed a bangle inside the bucket and drew a line a foot away and gave us a coin. The one who got it inside the circle or closest to it would win a prize! I think some other girl did and I did feel a little miffed. I was the birthday girl afterall. Then we cut my birthday cake and ate all the yummy stuff my mom had made and the parents came to pick up their kids. Mom and I then sat on the bed and tore open all the gifts, gossiped about the evening and divided the gifts into liked and disliked piles. I don’t remember how that day ended but it was simply beautiful. I had quite a few birthday celebrations like this till I was about 12. It was amazing being the birthday girl.

We had moved to New Delhi. I was six or seven and went to school by bus everyday. My dad would walk me to the bus stop every morning at 6:45 and wave my friends and me good bye. I studied at Army Public School. It was humoungous. At least for a short scrawny kid it was. I’ll never forget this incident. I got into the bus at the end of another school day and my friend asked me to hold her ten rupee note while she put on her coat. I put it inside my coat pocket and forgot about it. We chatted and sang songs and played silly pranks all the way home. That evening I showed dad the ten rupee note and told him that I’d found it on the road outside the school building and I was going to go to the Lost and Found department to turn it in the next day. He said ‘good girl’ and that was enough for my heart to bloat with pride. I don’t know why I lied. And such a silly lie too. We walked to the bus stop as usual the next morning. The minute the bus arrived, my friend came running to the door and yelled anxiously ‘do you have my ten bucks? I’m really worried because my dad got angry with me for losing it and…’ I never heard the rest of that sentence as I was just horrorstruck by my dad’s expression. My cheeks were flaming red with shame and i couldn’t meet his eyes. His eyes. They had the most disappointed, sad and ashamed look in them. I saw myself stumbling downwards in them. All day in school that day I kept wondering what explanation I would have to give my dad in the evening. Evening came and my dad didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t mention it at all. Everything was normal. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression on his face.

A new boy joined class right after the half yearly exams. We were in class two. He was made to sit next to me. For an Indian kid he looked quite angrez. He had sandy brown hair, very fair skin and was different from every other boy in class. He had a black pirates patch on his left eye! So cool and intruiguing! Even cooler than my glasses! I had been the only kid in class who wore thick glasses and everyone ooed and aaahd about it. But this boy simply stole the limelight! I remember the first conversation we ever had was about blue whales and how they were the largest creatures in the world. I don’t know why I remember that conversation but I do. I remember us talking about it excitedly and animatedly trying to one up each other with information. I used to be one of the most participative students in class but this boy added an element even there. Now everytime the teacher asked a question his hand would always shoot up too. I think it made me want to study harder. We became fast friends. His house was just a ten minutes walk from mine and he would come over some evenings to play in my back garden. We used to try and catch cotton balls that flew from the cotton tree. I think I liked him. He invited me for his birthday party. I was the only girl invited. I can’t begin to describe how cool and elevated that made me feel. After a few months we moved away but I always remember him and his black pirate patch.

A new city, new school, new friends and a new house. I used to both love the new and dread the new. When I was a kid it hardly mattered as every kid was a friend and we only wanted to play and there were no groups. I used to play with all the colony kids in the open spaces between the blocks of houses. There were at least twenty or more of us. We would play gallery and tag and hide and seek and all sorts of running games. Thats the beauty about living in India; you always have kiddie company and people to play with after school. One of the girl’s had a birthday coming up and she had tiny invitation cards in her hand which she gave out by calling each one of us in turn. I know it didn’t happen on purpose and being so many of us it was easy to miss out on a name or two but she didn’t give me an invitation card. Oh how it hurt my tiny little heart. I tried standing around putting on a brave face and smiling at the rest. Nobody noticed my agony and then I ran home the first minute I could slip away. I cried like the baby I was. My mom was horrified (she always was when things upset me) and kept telling me it was okay and that we wouldn’t invite that kid for my birthday. She had totally made up her mind that the kid was a villian. Bless her. My dad took the sobbing for just about ten minutes when he’d had enough and said ‘whats the big deal, she must have forgotten and there’s no need to cry. If she’s a friend go ask her what happened and if you can’t well there are many other birthday parties to go to.’ I don’t remember what I did but I do remember the hurt of first rejection and feeling like the odd one out in a crowd. It might be silly today but not at seven it was not.

Ah memories. Once you start tapping into them they come pouring out. I always think that everything has a purpose, a lesson to teach you but somehow with memories I can never quite figure out their purpose. The one thing I know about memories is that they’re hard to share but I hope that as I get to know you and open up more I’ll be able to tell the bad ones, the sad ones and the ones I’d dare not mention. I think I have had a very colourful childhood and there are so many more stories to tell. I’m hoping you’ll help me piece it all together.

‘Where am I headed?’ It seems like the commonest question asked. Any elder would say its a question that comes with your age. In time you’ll get there. ‘But where?’ You’ll know once you’ve arrived that you knew all along.

Philosophical bull crap.

There’s too much to do

the yearning’s strong

I fill out the lists

but the priorities are wrong.

And with all these desires

to be strong, smart, successfull and well known

who am I?

And how do I find my own?

There is a clash of personalities

not out there but in my own mind

I want it all…wealth, experience, stature

and an urge to be satisfied for having lived wise and kind.

Why does it all seem like different paths…

Why can’t there be one road to all destinations?

Where are the signposts to guide us…

How do I take all the baby steps to fulfill my resolutions?

Do I lack will?

or some unknown strength of character to pull it off?

Have I missed the light

or am I just following the wrong prof?

The lanes seem so many and so winding

my songs tunes keep on changing

Why can’t I just know?

Where sleeps my intuition?

If I could just see…

How to make my dreams come true

to be better and grow into this misty ideal

to walk on a sure path with shoes that just knew.

But the answer is still hiding

this life is so long

and yet time is running out

Sleep calls…tomorrow might bring the right song.

If only…

Tags: answers, if only, life, Poetry, search

Don’t be fooled by the look, by the cover of the book.

Behind the make-up, the done-up hair, don’t miss the little tag: ‘Handle With Care’

I gave it a lot of thought about Alpha women. So strong, so proud, so firm; yet so kind, so gentle, so soft. I think an Alpha woman though strong and stubborn against the world, is looking for a man stronger who can make her feel secure in her weakness and proud in her meekness. A man with whom the strength can come undone because he will take care of the rest.

The wait might be long, the hours swamped with ambition and passion.

The filly might be strong, with fine muscle powerful against a gleaming well groomed coat.

The defences might be stubborn; seeking to find integrity stable and steady

The eyes might playfully sharp, pausing the imposter in his tracks

But when he comes along; like just another ordinary guy, unpretentious and unasuming

The hours condense into droplets of evergreen time, of peace, calm, serenity and knowing

That strength, passion, courage, hope and love have come together and are at home.