Friday, December 31, 2010

नया साल मुबारक..

खूबसूरत से दिन
और उससे भी मीठी रातें
कुछ खुश्क हवा..
तो कुछ गीली रेत
मस्त सी बारिश..
वो मिट्टी की खुशबू..

माँ की गोद
पापा की डांट  
दोस्तों की वो सीटी..
छेड़-छाड़ वाला प्यार

बोस्स से surprise gifts (!)
colleagues के साथ coffees
shopping का मज़ा
और वो लुट जाने का uncomfortable ख़याल  

वो नयी वाली गाडी
वो occasional tyre puncture

drawing room के लिए एक नया flower vase
और उसमे (बसंती या चमेली)  के फूल (:P)
..

किताबें
जूते
मिठाई-aan    
बधाई-aan  
कुछ उलझने
कुछ शरारतें
कुछ नयी हिम्मत
और कुछ कभी न छूटने वाले साथ..

वही रोज़मर्रा की आम बातें ..
पर ख्यालों की नयी दुनिया..

बस inhi सब से बना हो..
इनकी ह़ी मिठास में घुला हो..

एक और नया साल
आपका नया साल..

:)

Last Day Do Hazaaarr Das..!! (Angry, hungry, hasty scribblezzz)

Dear blog..

Dunno why life does what it does.. and you know just what am talking about.. (I mean I just...with great difficulty..  in midst of like hajaar relatives and cousins and cooking and phone calls.. wrote our customary year end blog... and the draft doesnt get saved!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)))

But just want to scribble and say ..
Life may do what it may..
but i Shall blog..
Come what may..
and share myself..
just with you..
like with no one else
that i do..

So while you are me..
And shall remain my truth

Dear my me..
here's sincerely wishing you a very happy new year.. newer times.. and a newer life.. ahead.. with just no looking back..

:) Smiles sprinkled year to each soul that i know.. or do not.. and who does like me or does not.. but reads these reflectionz.. your life and mine..

Love,
S

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

My lil' neighbour..


Today, I passed on a 10 rupee note to a lil' boy at the crossing today.
I felt ashamed that I only passed on ten rupees. Very very ashamed.
..

As I am typing this away, I am sitting in the cosy recluse of my home provided by my parents. He lives, less than 5 minutes away from me. Maybe he qualifies to be called a neighbour. I don't know his name but I know his home is that hard, tiled, rocky and cold footpath, under the flyover, at the crossing that I stop by on my way back home every evening.

Nine out of times, I brake at that red light. Ten out of ten times, I wonder about him and his family.

I maybe talking over the phone or listening to some loud music. At times they even find me crying. At times, they find me laughing by myself. But as I watch their faces everyday and stare at them, I always look for something. A story. An expression. Any expression. I never find it.

Their faces are always mute. Just always.

In my mind, I think of what I always think about. That I must not turn my face away from them. That I must, face the reality. Not their's, but mine. The fact that I don't know what I have done in this lifetime to deserve a warm enough home and a computer in front of me.. and the leisure and a platform where I could type away my thoughts like I am doing now. And what has my lil' neighbour under the flyover done to not deserve it. Just what?
..

I was born in a middle class family. My entire clan belongs to those of civil servants. So not much money, but a standing neverthless, made of good values, good books, good taste in literatue, drama, music, at times bad govt. flats, but life made colourful by multilingual neighbours, mean kids for friends, best friends for kids, deadlines at home, worried parents, old grandparents, fighting aunts & uncles, adolescent cousins.. and in the midst of all the conflict.. some love..

It took me lot of time to decide to buy myself a new car. Am yet to get myself an SLR camera. These days, it keeps gnawing at me. The thought of playing with a lens. Today, when I stopped at the crossing, I had thought, a lil' ashamedly, but nevertheless - 'what a shot it would make.. if I had a cam, I might just get down, go near that homeless famly sitting huddled together, and without a word, just click away. Let them stare at me. No issues. Let them look into the camera. No issues. Will they feel offended and drive me away? I would take my chances. Will they feel hurt to be made a subject of? I would..still.. take my chances.'

'I maybe helpless in providing them with a home. But I might make great pictures of them .. and maybe hold a photo exhibition one day. I will walk the streets of Delhi, in the cold, but find out their reality, and put it up for the others to see...'

Until, the reality walked upto me.

It was a nine or ten year-ed frame.. or maybe slightly older. Am bad at guessing ages and the kids on Delhi's streets are malnoursihed. I have always wondered what they eat for dinner. Do they buy the chhole kulche off the street vendors? I think you get at least one plate for a ten rupee note. I am sure they earn that much a day at least, selling newspapers, magazines, roses of all colours - red, yellow, pink.. toys, balloons, Christmas masks this week. Its common enough to be bugged by these roadside salespersons. Lil' kids, begging away to give them a rupee.

At times, its a young mother holding an infant or a baby, tied to her body with a ragged cloth. You almost wonder how on earth and where on earth could she have given birth to a child! I mean, most look much younger than me. Doesn't she know, one doesn't have to have kids, if one doesn't want to. Doesn't she know, one doesn't have to have kids if one can't afford to. She only seems to know that she has to keep hr babies with her after they are born. Like some instinct. The young mother always look tired. And ready to faint. But she drags herself to your car window. You give her a rupee, she has the same expression. She gives you a salaam. You pass on a 10 rupee note, she has the same expresssion. She gives you a salaam. Nothing makes a difference. She leaves the responsibilty of making a difference on you. She just holds her lil' baby, that clings to her bony body. And she just gives you a salaam.

With time though, her babies grow into lil' kids who beg. With time, these lil' kids grow into slightly bigger kids, start holding a steel katori or a container, pick up a small picture of a devi maa, put it in there, and beg of you in the name of god. When they grow tall enough, they start to start clean the windsheild of your car with a dirty cloth and insist for a rupee or two. These days, they even shove their hands into the window, trying to touch you. You shout at them and threaten them that you'd get them thrown into the jail. They don't care. They just giggle and scoot off. Its a very common thing. Very common and very irritating. If you are a Delhite, you'd know.

They generally bring in a lot of innvovation to their business. A lot of determination, lot of grit, lots of dedication that they show the whole year long. But they give it up in the cold Delhi winters. They lose to its cruel chill. They huddle together around a small fire they make. I automatically remember that its harmful for the environment to burn those dry leaves. But I shut my mouth up till such a time, that I am able to show them a way to a warm shelter. Education can happen later.

This is Delhi's reality. Delhites like me, have grown up with it. Are used to it.

But the grown up reality that walked towards me today.. I couln't watch it.

A boy of nine or ten, holding a sack like thing over his shoulder, got up off the tiled foothpath and walked towards me, as soon as I braked at the regular crossing on my way way back.. for home. I realised a second or two later, that it was a lil' baby in his hands. His family was huddled up around a very small flame. I peeked to see but couldn't make out if it was enough to keep them warm. But they didn't notice that. They never looked up. But the lil' boy holding the lil' baby snug, walked up to the other side of my car window. I was used to watching lil' girls taking care of the lil' ones in their family after their mothers, who are either working to earn some dinner, or who knows, even dead. But this lil' boy, something about him, stuck me today.

It was the way he held the baby. Snug. The way he comfortably got up, without stumbling. And the ease with which he walked towards me. My car, I mean. The way, nothing seemed out of the place for him. Like it was allright. Yes, he was suffering. Yes it was very cold outside. He looked hungry. He looked depressed. His irises weren't really clear, his dead soul reflected there. Its a tough world out there for him. Everything about him spoke to me of that. But he would stick by the lil' one, no matter what. Like he had accepted that he was just meant to. Like he was never meant for anything else. He had already grown up. His reposnsiblity was the lil' one in his hands. He, himself, never had a childhood. It meant nothing to him. Worse, his eyes spoke no complaints. He was just tired and cold and hungry. Everything else was allright.

I immediately lowered the left window, stretched out my hand and passed on a ten rupee note. He took it. I don't know what he felt. I don't know what he'd thought. But there was no change in the expression. And I knew I wasn't doing enough. When he looked at me, I couldn't meet his eyes.

He walked back, to his footpath.
I went home.

Does he have a name? I wonder.

Courtesy: While I am still saving up to buy myself a good camera, a photographer friend has kindly lent me images from his lens: To check out more stuff by my favourite picture man… jz click at the above pic.
..

Saturday, December 11, 2010

I forgot to say, I love you.

Everything is perfect... and that's scary!
..


I am 25. I have grown from being a girl to a young woman. I look around and at least five people smile at me and tell me what a fantastic person I am. I love them at times. I get carried away at times. I recognize both at times.


Yet.


I turn the other way around.. and another five faces from the past, present and future, stare at me. Their eyes are sad. Some neutral. But they keep staring at me. They tell me am not so fantastic. At times I hate them. Most times, I try to forget about them. But I let them exist.


You may think these two sets of people are very different.
No. I am scared of both.


And at times like these, in the middle of the night, I feel like going back.. to that feel of starch, or at times chiffon. Crispy it was. But a softness.. only I had found.
..


I was a small kid then. I don't think I was as complicated. I couldn't have typed my thoughts so fast then. I didn't even know I would ever blog. I didn't bother. All I cared was, the touch of a cotton saree. To run into it.. hold fast..close my eyes and the smell..


Her hands were never feeble. I knew her every touch. Her every helplessness. Her every pain. Her every thought. Every heartbeat. I knew as she lifted me up...I recognized only too well.. exactly when they didn't feel very strong. I simply knew.


And yet, from those never tiring arms, I drew my greatest strength. I slept to the lullaby that was her voice. Her skin, soft, pillow-like. She smelt of roses. Whatever it was really like, it was called roses in my world.


I used to feel scared of her too. Whenever she would be angry at me. Other people tried to save me from her. But no one knew that the only way I would ever feel OK..would be to be with her. To rest my head on her chest. To get her hug. To feel her sigh. To listen to her heartbeat. Nothing else could secure me.


And yet, I started running away.


As I grew up, I started running away. And fast. I started forgetting to say, I love you. l suspect she did neither. But I maybe wrong. Entirely mistaken. All I do know is, I did forget.


I kept chasing a perfect life. Good work. Good friends. Good standing. Five people to cheer me and say am fantastic. Five people who stare, but those I easily know how to forget, how to ignore.


I fight to make my own destiny. I break hearts. I win battles. I keep moving. Moving ahead. Moving on. I just keep going.


But in the middle of tonight mamma, I suddenly feel scared. Scared of the world that I have created around myself. The perfect world that I have built around myself. Maybe, perfection wasn't what I was made of. Maybe, perfection wasn't what I was made for either. For I scare, despite it. Even perfection, I realize, isn't a perfect feeling.


And now I realize. That Love, is despite. Despite it. And despite the lack of it.


Now I know.


But its too late in the night now. And although I am awake, am not sure if I could wake you up too. If I should. I don't know...


Tell me how do I come to you. You don't wear that crisp cotton saree any longer. I could have easily hugged you then and simply murmured how much I enjoyed its touch. You would have known the reality though. Both of us would have been happy and satisfied. But what do I do now? Maybe its my fault all the way. I don't know. Maybe you left wearing those cottons, after I stopped hugging you. Is that so? Or would I never know?


Sorry Mamma, I forgot to say I love you.


.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

When we are hungry... love will...

Its about a woman called Sita - and this is her story!

As I sat by the must-be-50-year-old Nepali mother…I couldn’t initially figure what she was trying to tell me...

“Jab mera baccha log chota tha na.. to hamare ghar mein tv nahi tha… padosi ke ghar jate the.. ramayan, mahabharat ya cartoon dekhne ke liye.. to bhaga dete the… dadi ke ghar jate to TV band kar dete. Aankhon mein aansoon leke vo mere paas aati thi…bolti thi ke – mummy tv nahi dekhne de rahe. Mujjhe bohat dukh hota tha…Main kehti thi..jab tere naseeb mein nahi hai to kyun tu…”

She trailed off. I was still listening. But I still hadn’t imagined where it was going.

“Meri bachi ko bachpan mein tv nahi dekhne ko milta tha…par aaj meri bacchi tv pe aa rahi hai..”

Her eyes were wet. I went and sat on the arm of the sofa that she was sitting on edgily, my hand rubbing her back. I knew that it wouldn’t help. Mothers, you know the way they feel, get overwhelmed and all. It may have looked like I was trying to comfort her. But in reality, I was just sitting as close as possible.. to feel her love for her daughter…

Then we just sat there and watched TV.

A day before, I was running along to finish an assignment for the WORLD AIDS DAY. That’s when I met 28 year old Sita.

The moment I saw her, I realized she was nothing like I had expected her to be. The email info had read - a 28 year old widow and mother of 3 children. HIV +. And TB +. And well, TB free now. And that she’s ready to talk openly. I had imagined a downsized face, just short of a ghoonghat. Wanting to complain about life. Of course that was what I needed for my story.

But when I did set my eyes on her in a cabin-ed NGO room, all I could see was a young woman, clearly in her prime, a nice simple haircut that suited her, in a grey woolen coat that fell upto the knee of the salwaar kameez that she wore underneath. She was eager to meet me.

I met her eyes, but I couldn’t find a ghoonghat. Her irises were clear. Very clear. I just gave a tight smile.

“Now I must explain this clearly before we start shooting with you. You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, you know. We are fine with hiding your identity. We just want you to voice your story.” She looked across at her colleague, Harish Singh, HIV+ too and almost double her age. Both shook their heads. “Jo baat hai so hai. Mujhe kuch nahi chupaana.”

Frankly speaking, I had hoped for it.

Mera naam Sita hai. Main HIV+ hoon. Mujhe nahi pata ke mujhe HIV kahan se hua. Ho sakta hai ke mere husband se hua ho…kyunki vo driver the. Ho sakta hai, needles se hua ho, ya fir khoon se. Mujhe nahi maloom.

I was meeting Sita today because of some statistical reasons. I mean, statistics that made sense only to health journalists…like more than half of HIV+ people in this country die due to this preventable disease called TB.

Mujhe HIV ke vajah se TB bhi ho gaya. Magar mujhe ek doctor bolta tha ke aapko TB hai. Doosra bolta tha nahi hai. Ek hospital confirm karta tha. Doosra negative. Kayi baar jaanch karaane ke baad.. kam se kam teen mahine ki bhaag daud ke baad.. unhone bola ke mujhe TB hai. Bohat time lag gaya...jisse Tb badh jata hai.”

Itni bhaag daud. Aur mujhe kaise pata ke kaunsa doctor sahi bol raha hai? Hamareliye to dono hi bhagwaan hote hain na... kitni baar jaun?? Main aapko kya bataun mam'.. sorry aapka naam kya hai? Main bhool gayi.. Shaalni…?? Shalniji main aapko kya bataun..aap sunoge to pareshaan ho jaoge…mere jaise na jane kitne log honge jinke paas paise bhi nahi hote ilaaj karane ke liye...

In the midst of explaining her crisis, she was mentioning others as well. I noticed that. Does she draw strength from that thought? I wondered.

How much does the NGO pay her? I asked. She had just joined one as an HIV activist. 

Mushkil se 3000 rupaye...
I tried imagining her in my head. Living in a small rented house (I suspect maybe only a single room) somewhere in JJ nagar in Wazirpur in Delhi. With a family that comprised of 3 adolescent children, an 18 year old sister, a must-be- 50-year-old mother. Did the children go tot school? Yes, a govt. school. Sita herself never got to study beyond 6th standard. So all she could do is find work in factories now. As labour or as skill, earning her livelihood. Earning bread and butter, or roti or chawal, or I suspect, whatever the most subsidized cereals are, for herself and her family. Her husband had died more than 2 years ago. Cause of death unknown. Could have been HIV. But unknown. After him, Sita was left as the only earning member in that small rented house. And because of the infection, she herself falls ill and very often.

Main Nepali hun na.. isliye mere liye aur bhi mushkil hai. Naukri nahi milti aasani se. Sarkaar kuch bhi dene ke liye pehle ration card maangti hai. Main kahan se laun? Mera makaan maalik likh ke nahi deta. Isliye jo ration milna chahiye vo bhi nahi milta..

Maine padhai likhai…zyada nahi aata merko. Isliye chota mota kaam karti hun. Magar main vahan bata nahi sakti ke main HIV+ hun. Maine jab pehle baar bataya to mujhe nikaal diya gaya. Isliye agli baar jahan naukri mili…vahan maine nahi bataaya. Magar mujhe aise achha nahi lagta hai.

What must it be like to live in the shadow of fear? The 25 year old amongst was thinking. I asked her again if she then really wanted to do this interview. I wasn’t sure any longer if I wanted it. What if she lost her job?

Jo hoga so hoga Shaliniji! Main darti nahi hun.

I just stared at her. Almost confused. That was coming from a woman who earned less than 4000 a month, has a lifelong infection to deal with, costly medicines without which she may die a painful death, special diet, 3 children to feed and an 18 yr old sister to take care of, an old mother…If I were her, I would have been angry with myself. I just stared at her. She must have noticed that.

Main ye ladai sirf apne liye nahi lad rahi hun… sab ke liye lad rahi hun…

I just took a deep breath. It was one thing to tell HIV activists that they were doing a great job at it. But, this? To watch someone’s life, livelihood at stake? I mean…

I just shook myself and went on with the interview

Aap ka TB status kya hai abhi?

Kal mera final report aana hai… shayad TB khatam hai ab. Pata hai kyun? Maine apna bohat acche se khayal rakha. Ek din bhi dawai miss nahi ki. Aur sahi tareeke se khana khaya. Chalees kilo ki ho gayi thi main.. aaj baawan ki hun. She smiled sheepishly. Magar bohat log aisa nahi karte. Vo maante hi nahi hain ki unko HIV hai ya TB hai. Ek aurat ne to mere saamne report faad ke faink di thi. Kaha ke mujhe HIV ho hi nahi sakta. Maine bola usse.. behan.. test galat nahi ho sakta. Par vo maani nahi. Maine dawai li…aur main theek ho gayi. Kaash vo bhi aisa karti..

I sighed. I was learning the meaning of my own script now. More than a million HIV+ people at risk of TB deaths. I thanked god that the woman sitting in front of me was TB free now. But I knew very well that for Sita and many like her…it was only a small triumph in a bigger war.

Mere doctor ne mujhe bataya tha. HIV ke baad TB ho jaye to…death bhi ho sakti hai. Magar dawai hai. TB ke liye dawai hai. Maine kahan unse..mujhe jeena hai...

…par haan…HIV ke liye abhi koi dawai nahi hai na. Isliye ham kuch nahi kar sakte… par fir bhi mujhe jeena hai… main ladna chahti hun isse…

Her ease almost shook me. Her innocence almost shook me. Not that she was the first survivor that I was interviewing in my career. Not the first ever +person I had met. But it was her very positivity that was almost unbelievable. I decided to pull the final straw.

Aapko pata hai…aapki umr shayad zyada na ho? Jaise aapke aas paas ke logon ki hai…

Haan pata hai.. kabhi kabhi sochti hun main… ke main itna nahi jiungi…par fir mujhe lagta hai ke…jab thoda hi jeena to… to khush ho ke kyun na jiyun? Chahe ek pal ho, ek din ho, ek saal ho… jitna bhi ho…kyu na main khush rahun, acche se rahun, apni phamily ke saath time bitaaoon… 

Mere gaanv mein sab mujhse ghrina karte hain...meri behan ko bolte hain ke iske saath mat reh, isse baat mat kar...Main jaanna chahti hun kyun? Isme meri kya galti hai? 

Par fir bhi...

...Main batana chahti hun logo ke... ke ghut ghut ke nahi jeena…yeh nahi ke HIV+ ho to mmm… aise mooh banake … dukhi hoke… nahi nahi nahi.. aise nahi jeena…khush rehna hai… haso haso haso…haan aise…hamko bhi ache se jeena hai… dikhaana hai duniya ko.. ke ham bhi kuch hai… hai na?

I do not know what my expressions were like. But her broad smile was enough. The sparkle in her eyes was enough. To be alive, seemed just enough!

We wrapped up the interview.

The story ran all day long. In the midst of a busy day, I kept fidgeting, wanting to blog. But something about this amazing woman was stopping me. My own admiration for her. For though it was a day away from her regular routine, a nice meeting, heart to heart chat, it hadn’t changed her life in any other way. I knew she really had nothing to look forward to. No help dawning immediately. Her rented flat had no windows. And with the infection, her life felt rented too. Never knowing when it’d be time to simply leave…

And yet, till that moment, to live and to not be able to leave. I didn’t want to imagine.
And to have to fight for something, constantly, in a losing battle. I didn’t want to imagine.

And to still see life eye to eye. And with clear irises. What was this woman made up of! I couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t write either.
In the evening, we invited her to the studio. She was excited.
As she sat inside, chatting with the anchors…dekhiye jo ho gaya so ho gaya…ghut ghut ke nahi jeena chahiye…I sat by her must-be-50-year-old Nepali mother. We both watched the television. Each with a different kind of pride.  
...
After seeing them off though, the words flowed automatically. For at last, it dawned on me, what really kept this awesome, chirpy, smiley, happy Sita, with every reason to be otherwise, going in life! What really kept her positive!

Love does keep one alive... I thought.
...