Not yet dead!

No amount of rain can wet this dryness inside nor can anything dry this wet, drenced part of me. A half of my heart is dry, withered. Time has squeezed out every last ounce of feeling out of it. Every betrayal, every rejection, every bad or sad experience has hardened it. It is dead. A half or maybe just a small part still beats with hope. Hope for love, hope for justice, hope for happiness for all still prevails...

Another onam?

Dad in his new brown shirt with blue stripes playing cards with his friends, less noisy than usual...his face darker than normal; Mom too in new clothes - a veshti-mundu set gifted by a relative - looking tired, sick and much older than she did just some months ago. My bro in his usual clean white kurta and dhoti; eyes shining with hunger, anger and strong convictions. My slimmer and smarter bhabhi, in new red leggings and kurta, still feeling out of place in our home. My niece in a smart checked skirt and white top engrossed in hollywood movies, egg and milk inspite of a slight distraction in the form of her first menstrual cycle. My skinny nephew in the tiniest shorts and a green t-shirt walking around collecting hugs and kisses from everyone by looking deep into their eyes, especially his appa. Rajesh, in a new red oversized shirt and dhoti, trying to remain sane in the mad lot by staying connected to his world through mobile and internet. Vishnu, in his new arrow shirt, oscillating between being the rajesh type and the kelath type. I, in a dirty brown churidar, looking for signs and signals from within. This was the onam spread at home. An exhausted Dad at the end of the day said, "so this year's onam is over". The silence that followed was eerie

Nanga naach

The nanga naach called life is a show with no audience; all are players, all are naked and all are dancing to the tunes of time. The music has a mesmerizing effect. Only those who can feel the beat are in rhythm. Oblivious to everything man dances away...the waltzing, the head-banging, the tandav-the kind of dance is based on the music one hears. Mankind rocks to this beat. Earth is a sweaty, pulsating and throbbing dance-floor. There is no stopping...

My dad

The initial shock, anguish has turned to gradual acceptance of the inevitable. Malignant cells are taking over my dad's body and we, humans can do nothing about it. At night, with my eyes closed, sometimes open, I see them multiplying. I see myself-the powerful one, exterminating them. I want to wipe them out. I can't accept this helpless state. Neither love nor knowledge is of any help to him. Yet there is this faith that nothing can defeat my dad. My daddy is the strongest. I have never seen him afraid or weak. Now when I hold his hand to help him I abhor time with such intensity. Those strong hands that held my hands to help me through life have become shaky and weak. Sometimes I look at him and wonder how can there be a day when he is not around...it is impossible. These days he talks a lot about the past..about his childhood, his youth, his struggles...his parents and lost friends. I hope for a miracle.

Daddy's girl

The only way a woman can stay young is by being with her father. She remains the apple of his eye and his little girl even when she struggles with her wrinkles. I realised this the day I came to know about my dad's terminal illness. I felt old, terribly old.