Xenophobic

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At the sound of the bell mom ran to the door, excited to receive my friend Kiran. We went to the same college in Bangalore and shared a room in the hostel. My mother was very fond of him and made sure she made his favourite snacks whenever he came home.

But things hadn't been so rosy three years back, when I had just joined college. While waiting for the bus from Palakkad to Bangalore, my mother showered lavish doses of advice that sounded like threats to me.“Befriend people from our own community. Beware of students who drink, smoke and eat meat. Dear Lord, I hope the ‘modern’ kids there don’t spoil my son.” she had said. According to my mother, people of other faiths couldn't be trusted. I had tried to erase the xenophobia that plagued my family but in vain. They were extremely orthodox and their blind faith made them intolerant to people whose lifestyle and faith differed even slightly from ours.

Precisely because of this, my friendship with Kiran hadn't gone down well with them. They pleaded with me to seek better friends who were ‘just like us’. What if he tuned out to be a naxalite? A terrorist? Our friendship received flak till the day I was down with chickenpox with no one to lend a hand but Kiran. While everyone shied away from helping me, fearing for their own safety, he had called the doctor, obtained the medicines and had nurtured me to recovery. My parents were touched beyond measure by this act of compassion and realized the folly of their baseless phobia.





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Alive

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It had been just a few days since she got the news of her incurable illness from her physician. It had taken a while for the seriousness of the matter to sink in and finally she had managed to croak “How much time do I have?” to which the doctor, after a few moments of deep thought had replied “A few months if you are lucky.”

In those few days her world had turned upside down and every moment was punctuated by “Why me?” a question with no clear answer. It made her look back at the life she had lived. Had she really lived for herself? She found herself struggling to recollect times when she had followed her heart, doing things for her own happiness outside the expectations from her family. Who was she now? A wife? Mother? What did she love to do? What did she dream of? She was surprised that she couldn't remember.

She rummaged through her cupboard and found her guitar. It seemed like an object from another life. She dusted it and tested the strings. It felt a little awkward, holding it after ages but as she began strumming, her confusions melted away. She soon lost herself in the rhythm. She played like never before, reminiscing the days she when she used to perform for an applauding crowd. The musical notes swept through her, filling her with life and happiness. It was the most perfect moment of her life. She knew she was dying, yet she felt alive like never before.





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The Vigilante

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Here they come, the vigilante
to steal glances at our shared kiss
as they spray together in public
gallons of consecrated piss.

Here they are at a gathering
airing an endless roll
of senseless codes and conduct
which in life, is their only goal.

Even in a game of tennis
unsure of where to look
they ultimately settle for a skirt-
upon it a cover story they cook.

The vigilante never spares
a couple that holds hands
or ventures out on Valentine's;
love exists only in alien lands.

With not an ounce of shame left
they are here, there, everywhere
spend their miserable lives policing
preaching what to feel, think and wear.

Delusional custodians of culture;
much beyond their comprehension
is to tolerate, to include to accept
a peaceful amalgamation.




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Poisoned Pleasantries

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Any social gathering, be it a wedding, a party or even a small family get together has a dangerous tendency to turn into a buzzing hive of gossip as long as there are enough people and delicious food to fuel stray sparks caused by snide remarks and incessantly wagging tongues that seem to have snapped free from the wiring that links them to the brain respectively. These meetings are the perfect times for people to catch up on each other’s lives, being “busy” at all other times. So it is quite natural that questions that prod, pry and probe into others’ lives are shot off at random, amidst the zillion interactions that happen over food and drink.

What I find absolutely amusing, is the ability of people to spice up even mono syllable answers and comments of others into emotional epics of melodrama and serve it to others. For example, a “well-wisher” asked me if I was pregnant, to which I answered in the negative. News spread that we as a couple had decided not to have kids and soon every other person in the crowd wanted my mother to “speak to me (and my generation of selfish youngsters)” to throw light on the folly of our decision. Talk about (bungee) jumping into conclusions!

At another function, someone passed a “well meaning” remark that my husband and I were saving money by eating less (both of us happen to be thin). Some others went to the extent of judging my culinary skills. Such remarks filled with malice defeat the whole purpose of getting together. Instead of going home with pleasant memories, one is often left wondering whether theses forced relations hold any meaning at all. Why make an attempt to keep in touch with people who eagerly try to bring you down all the time, no matter what you do or say?

Once, during a wedding someone went on and on in loudspeaker mode about how ugly the bride looked. I could only pray that she hadn't heard those rude words, for doesn't everyone want to think they look nice on their wedding? If only it is possible to press “mute” when some people talk! Now when I think of it, more instances surface to my memory. People commenting on the colour of your skin, your attire, your diet, your lifestyle choices, career (or the lack of it), how you choose to celebrate, where you go on a holiday, how you spend your wealth and so many other matters which I think are too personal to be dissected in public. People have their opinions, I know. But why air them all unnecessarily? Why is there a deliberate lack of connect between the tongue and the brain?

Of course, one way out is to shut these people out by giving them and their comments a cold shoulder. Sometimes it is not that easy, especially if the person is a close relative. Some people are sensitive and can easily get hurt by these bullets from mindless mouths. I don’t mean to say that we should be hypocrites and shower praise without meaning a word of it. But if we don’t have anything nice to say, isn't it better that we keep quiet. That’s what I do. Remembering the words of Mark Twain: If you have nothing to say, say nothing. How true- if you don’t have anything nice to say, golden is the colour of your silence.

Compare not

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When they first saw the infant,

they spotted at that very instant

a squint of the eye, a scar on the thigh,

and deeply pondered why.

“The older one was fat and fair

with flawless skin and ample hair.”

they quipped in keen observation,

summarizing their evaluation.

Ensued a long, tiring journey

dodging and ducking their baloney;

comparisons many different kinds

conjured up in crooked minds.

Adolescence, youth, middle age;

the war never ceased to wage,

mediocre minds catching up

on stories of not matching up.

Isn't each one beautifully unique?

Do they deserve your hefty critique?

Pry open the windows of your mind

to new vistas, leaving comparisons behind.

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Woman of the Night

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I am the woman of the night,

a dirty secret kept from daylight,

whose day comes alive at dusk

with a painted face and a touch of musk.

My captivating looks seek to lure

a man or two I am forced to endure

in silent pain and a lifetime of grief

so my babies sleep with some relief.

I live this life cursed and infernal

to fulfil instincts purely maternal.

The least I need is your heartless judgement,

an infliction worse than this predicament.

I am the woman of the night

erased from your life by daylight

before a fine gentleman you become

in whose life I’m most unwelcome.