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.





Linking to 
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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.




Linking to http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

I am Able

You see me on a chair with wheels,

feeling pity, wonder how it feels

to lead a life of dreary dependence

a life you feel is a forced penance.

You see just my disability

and think I wallow in self pity,

but aren't we all the same-

agile at many, at others lame?

You see me unable to see you,

darkness being my permanent view

and think I’m nothing without my cane

living a life of perpetual bane.

You see just my disability

and think I wallow in self pity,

sadly your eyes can’t see my mind

and its painted canvas one of a kind.

You see me unable to hear or speak;

a world without words you say is bleak,

never to be spoken to, never to be heard

my company you think is just absurd.

You see just my disability

and think I wallow in self pity,

but isn't it sad you need a word

to free thoughts caged like a bird?

You see just my disability

branding me a liability,

since we are all differently abled

can’t you spare me unlabelled?

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Linking to Ultimate Blog Challenge

and http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

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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Linking to Ultimate Blog Challenge

and http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

My Home away from Home

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It is difficult to tell you my story without choking on my words and wetting my eyes. Nevertheless I’ll give it a try. I am an ordinary person just like you. I dream, hope love and want to be loved, just like you. Aged twenty, I live with a group of like-minded people whose stories are different from mine, yet astonishingly similar if you care to pay a closer look.

I always knew I was different. Of course, we are all different, that’s not what I mean. I was different in a way people found unsettling and imperfect. Have you ever wondered what it is like to feel and think like a woman but to be expected to behave like a man because of a cruel, sadistic game of fate? I doubt it. Well, I was intimidated beyond measure that I wanted to shrink to the size of a speck of dust and freely fly around unnoticed.

I may have looked like a man but I always wanted to be a woman; I am a woman. My parents never understood me; I feel they never tried to. To them I was a cursed lump of flesh that grew in my mother’s cursed womb just to bring shame and ill-luck to the family. Taunted, teased, bullied and assaulted, I was the tip of many a rude joke. The wounds family and society inflicted mercilessly on me still feel fresh and the pain, searing.

Unable to bear it any longer, I fled with no particular destination in mind. I began my journey of escape. I soon found people like me and I can’t explain the relief I felt to be taken into their fold, to be seen as part of family. They took care of my needs, taught me how to earn a living and loved me for what I was. I find it strange that my own family saw me as a stranger but a group of strangers made me a part of their family. This was where I belonged, before my soul lost its way and entered the lump of flesh in my mother’s womb by a fateful error.

For the first time in my life, I felt at peace. It felt good to be back home, away from home.

This post was written for the IndiSpire prompt
Write a story ending with "..... It felt good to be back home."#MyStory

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/
and http://ultimateblogchallenge.com/ 

Palette of Colours

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My white is your black

your strengths, I lack,

My fairy tale is your nightmare

about things you ignore, I care,

What I want to have, you don’t

become like you, I won’t.

The reason for my smile

brings you tears that run a mile,

What you’re proud about,

if I have in me, I doubt.

Your tastes are miles from mine

But I find no reason to whine

We'll accept each other,

in our palette add more colour.

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge

The witch in white

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I am the witch in white

considered an inauspicious sight,

my vibrant being bleached till light,

my hopes and desires knotted tight.

I am the witch in white

widowed by a feudal fight,

spending a day so bright

like it were a moonless night.

I am the witch in white;

to freedom I have no right,

but I dream of a charming knight,

much to my heart’s delight.

I am the one you call the witch in white,

determined to use her might

to break free from this plight

and to soar the sky like a kite.

Share a Tiffin

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With just a day left for the Blog to Feed a Child campaign to end, I thought of writing one more post to do my tiny bit in eliminating classroom hunger. The number of young stomachs that go hungry in India is huge and classroom hunger is one of the reasons behind students dropping out of schools. Want of money for meals drives children away from school, to work as labourers, mechanics, cleaners and cooks.

If the RTE and all other campaigns towards ensuring better and equal opportunities in education for all children of India are to bear fruit, elimination of classroom hunger is a must. The government already has a mid-day meal programme running and several NGOs notably the Akshaya Patra foundation are doing a great job in this regard. But the number of mouths to be fed far exceeds the output of these community kitchens and there have been serious flaws in the execution of the mid-day meal programme of the government.

So it is time to share responsibility with the government and do our bit as voluntary groups, corporates, NGOs social workers or just as a citizen who cares. Here is a suggestion for what we can do as individuals at a more personal level than donating for the cause.

Sharing Your Tiffin

The basic idea is to encourage children to volunteer to carry extra tiffin box to share with a needy class/school mate. Share a tiffin programme can be of use especially in private schools which enrol students from underprivileged backgrounds through the RTE act. Very often being a minority in private schools, these children face ridicule and isolation by teachers and students that makes them drop out. Added to this the problems of poverty and hunger makes them flee from the intellectual demands of academics. Due to the small number of such children in these schools, there is hardly any NGO that supplies them food.

Nutritional and social inclusion of children can be made possible if sharing a tiffin box is encouraged. It involves other children of the school (along with their parents) volunteering to take up responsibility of sharing a meal (nutritional food) with one class mate from a less privileged background for a certain period of time. Given the diversity of eating habits, number of kids admitted through RTE and their needs, the programme can be implemented differently in different contexts. The whole idea is to bring together kids, socially and emotionally over a tiffin box.

    I am going to #BlogToFeedAChild with Akshaya Patra and BlogAdda.

Let’s talk: Alone amidst the crowd

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He was the tiniest in my class. Cheeky, lively and bubbling with excitement all the time. Except when there was writing or reading to be done. He was an amazing actor, sometimes volunteering to act out parts of stories that I read out in class. I would often catch him strumming an imaginary guitar when the entire class was busy multiplying gigantic numbers or doing the “Chammak challo” act as I cleaned the black board. He could hardly read and write but loved listening to stories. Once, while the rest of the class was playing, I caught him sitting alone in class. I decided to give him company and invited him to a game of dumb charades. He was not in the mood.

Boy: Akka, I want to tell you a story.

Me:  Really? Which one?

Boy: No, not from any book. I made the story in my mind.

Me: Wow! That’s nice. Would you care to write it out in your book?

Boy: No Akka. I hate writing. I don’t know any spellings.

Me: Ok. Tell me.

Boy: There was once a boy who studied in a good school. He never listened in class, never did homework and was very, very naughty.

Me: Hmm..

Boy: He loved to sing, dance and act. But he hated English and Maths. His teachers always scolded him. He had no friends. Nobody liked him. His parents and sisters always punished him.

Me: Oh! That’s sad.

Boy: Yes. The boy felt very sad. He was alone all the time. One day he did not go to school. Then all his classmates missed him. But he was not at home too. His parents were worried. They searched for him everywhere. All over the earth. But they did not find him.

Me: Where did he go?

Boy: He made a rocket and flew away to another planet where nobody could find him. He was happy to be alone in that planet. Everyone on earth cried because they missed him. But the boy never came back.

Me (shocked): That is a sad story. The boy seems to be nice and maybe he WAS loved.

Boy: You know who that boy is, Akka?

I had guessed by then and enveloped by sadness, but wanted him to speak.

Me: You say.

Boy (laughing): Me!!! So easy it was. You didn’t know?!

I was shattered. The words “You didn’t know” kept echoing in my head. I had nothing to say. As a teacher, as a part of the education system, I had failed. The system has no room or time for emotions and sentiments of students. No room for diversity.  Whoever heard of testing students in acting and storytelling skills when there was so much to learn in Maths, Chemistry, History and Literature? So what if a student was lonely, stressed or depressed? In the mad rush by students, parents and teachers to complete the syllabus, prepare for exams, flaunt good grades, meet deadlines and targets, there seems to be no space for such beautiful wild flowers to blossom. They perish, their beauty unnoticed among the endless fields of similar looking flowers. 

Blind Love

They were in love. They had decided to spend the rest of their lives together. Like any other couple their hearts were full of hopes and dreams of a blissful life ahead. They had accepted each other- the rainbow colours and the greys of their being. They walked hand in hand in the local park, dined out, went on romantic dates and drove around the city. They were truly happy.

They knew that their parents and others in their lives would never be happy about this relation. They knew all along that there would be a lot of questions to be answered, doubts to be cleared and whispers to be ignored. But they couldn't help getting involved. They felt it was a match made in heaven, with the blessings of all the powerful forces they believed in.

They decided to take the plunge and let their parents know. At first, there would be an outburst, but later they would definitely calm down. He was excited…and anxious. He left his office an hour early to break the news to his mother. She would surely understand. He could confide in her, the deepest of his secrets.

 As he reached home he saw his parents talking to each other animatedly in the study. As he inched closer to the door he went numb. It was as if all the warm blood running through him had suddenly crystallized into sharp needles that were tearing him apart from inside.  The words of his mother resonated in his head,” We will become the laughing stock of the town. Many people are suspicious. They have told me about their doubts. Our son is gay!”

G-A-Y. Could his life, his love story be confined and trashed mercilessly in those three wretched letters which when put together became synonymous to abnormality and shame? He silently turned away feeling cheated, defeated.

 Later his mother would show him some photos of eligible girls from which he would pick one randomly.

Pink, Blue or Purple?

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She was different from all the other girls in my class. Bold, daring, extremely energetic, defiant at times and almost always shabbily dressed. The contrast was glaring, right on one’s face. While most girls  flaunted well-oiled plaits and pigtails secured by black ribbons, washed and powdered faces sometimes highlighted by a bindi or a smear of kohl and neat uniforms, notebooks and bags, this one just did not yield to such expectations. At first I found her queer, the odd one out, a girl with whom one could never associate the colour pink (as is ingrained in us by the media, garment and toy manufacturers and almost everyone in the whole wide world). She would chew gum in class, laugh out loudly, pick fights with boys that sometimes turned into physical brawls, roam around carelessly not the least bothered by homework and assignments, jump walls and climb trees. One could never find her gossiping with other girls about make-up, boys and the like. She was so different.

I soon developed a strong liking for her. May be because she reflected a part of me that was left unexpressed because of the way our family and society moulds girls. There are so many gender stereotypes and roles assigned by the society we live in, that it is really hard to escape being victim to at least a handful of them. She loved sports. That was her world.That was what kept her going. She championed in any sport she took part in. Athletic and agile, determined and dedicated, she was made for the playgrounds, and the tracks marked with chalk. The sound of the whistle, the gunshot that marked the beginning of a race, applause and cheers from the audience and the clinking of medals and trophies were music to her ears. In her I saw my unfulfilled dreams come to life.

However, the boys teased her and called her a “man”. They teased her mercilessly about having doubts about her sex. They invited her to “guys only” parties. The girls too did their bit. They didn't allow her to be their friend. They made it clear that she was not worthy of hanging out with. A friend who could never be introduced to one’s parents. She became an outlaw in my class and I watched helplessly. Gradually she was labelled a tomboy. Jokes about her floated everywhere, managing to creep up till the staff room. Teachers and well-wishers advised her to behave like a girl if she wanted to be loved and respected. Her mother was summoned for a meeting that saw the tormenting of a poor, hapless woman by some teachers. As I watched the mother leave the school in tears, I decided to do something about this. We had a class discussion where everyone spoke openly and freely. I stressed the importance of tolerance to diversity and the need for all of us to bust certain gender myths that plagued society. The students responded well and promised to be her friends. I desperately hoped it would bring about some change in attitude.

Of course it did. By the end of the year Sharmila became truly sharmeeli(shy), stopped going for sports and other activities, confined herself to her girlfriends and their gossips, never answered back or questioned me, came to school with oiled hair, clean nails, colourful bindis and “behaved herself” as the other teachers told me. Everyone except me seemed to be happy about her turning over a new leaf. The boys in class were happy as she had been “tamed” and was no longer a threat (as she was stronger than some of them); the girls were now ready to take her into their fold. She was not the same person any more. Instead of bringing about a change in mind-set of the society, she had erased her own identity and individuality. She seemed to be happy to be loved and accepted by everyone. But the part of me that had come to life after a long period of dormancy shrivelled. May be there will be a time when one can express oneself freely, without the fear of being isolated or rejected. I eagerly wait for that springtime where there is a little cosy space for everyone in this world.