sleep

with abandon they sleep
after a days' labour
of searching for food and shelter
of searching for family

@ a relief camp in supaul district, bihar.

enroute patna (from supaul....)

the village was one among many which was flooded not directly by the swollen kosi but by incessant rains trapped in faulty infrastructure.
this is a yearly feature though this year it is worse because of rivers on the rise everywhere.

a lazy saturday

chai

friends

jhula

and fresh air

what more can one want?

(music, chicken included)

in the high

i am swirling
i am there
it is the space
it is the time

want to stay in this cloud
want to fly
in the high

no food for soul

this online music site has made me waste time. made me upload download whatever 15 artists then upload download whatever 45 songs then it does not play.
it is not fair. i am a simple small town woman. this should've been simple. all i wanted was to listen to music.

@ A Happy Sunday

Regret, redefined:
Sanity realised when the damage is done

Realisation, redefined:
When the ego takes a back seat and misplaced pride is accepted

Stupidity, redefined:
When you don’t know how to go back when you have realised the right path

Loss, redefined:
When you don’t want to go back when you have realised the right path

Giving, redefined:
When you can surrender without losing yourself

Gift, redefined:
When you can give it to someone because you like it so much for yourself

Joy, redefined:
When you feel a tangible lift of something within you even when your life is not as you would have wanted it to be

Maturity, redefined:
When you can separate the good and the bad; build upon the good, understand the bad and work to make it good

Impulse, redefined:
When you would not act upon something in the light of the day

A good idea redefined:
When it would seem good, be it night or day

Imagination, redefined:
When you see things because you want them to be

Obsession, redefined:
When you start believing that your misplaced imagination is the reality

Faith, redefined:
When you know that even if the present is tough, good things are bound to happen to you

Avarice, redefined:
When you don’t know when to stop

Liking redefined:
When you can accept the negatives, yet feel great fondness and the wish to stay on

Love, redefined:
When giving does not depend on getting

Beer, redefined:


:)

the jodhpur-noamundi connection

@ Mehrangarh Fort, Jodhpur.

I had similar clay dolls, bought at a Durga Puja fair (way back)
I had christened them as Mr. and Mrs. Dutta.

Mrs. Dutta was voluptuous in a green saree and red blouse
and wore a big red bindi
Mr. Dutta wore white dhoti-kurta and carried a black umbrella
What better name than Mr. and Mrs. Dutta, right?

They were quite famous with my kid-neighbour
The kid would love to shake their spring-heads
Jing-jing-jing
Up and down….
He would make Mr. Dutta look down
And Mrs. Dutta, head up, as if she was commanding Mr. Dutta, “To-bey Thaak…”

One day Gopal- the kid, came running to our house
asking to play with Mr. and Mrs. Dutta
Mr. and Mrs. Dutta, the real ones (who were Dad’s friends) had come visiting us that evening,
Needless to say, they did not look too amused

Nevertheless they said….. “yeh bachey…”.

The real Mrs. Dutta was actually really good
She would make out-of-the-world dal-luchi
(back then, Durga Pujas used to be quite a treat)

The real Mr. and Mrs. Dutta had a parrot called Polly.
Polly would screech himself shrill….. “P-A-U-L-L-L-E-E…tumor naam ki”
“P-A-U-L-L-L-E-E…tumor naam ki”
“P-A-U-L-L-L-E-E…tumor naam ki”
“P-A-U-L-L-L-E-E…tumor naam ki”

Could and Would anyone be able to resist pulling his long tail?

I should have introduced Gopal-the–kid to Polly
He would have made P-A-U-L-L-L-E-E’s head go jing-jing-jing….
Up and down…

:)

Dil ki choton ne kabhi
Chai-n se rahne na diya....
Jab chali sard hawa
Maine tujhe yaad kiya…
Iska rona nahin
Kyon tune kiya dil barbad…
Iska gham hai
Ki bade dair mein barbad kiya....

Wah-wah-wah-wah
Am going to listen to The Maestro himself. Am so excited.

cont…..
Humko kiske gham ne maara
Humko kiske gham ne maara
Ye kahaani
Phir sahi
Kisne toda dil hamaara
Kisne toda dil hamaara
Ye kahani, phir sahi

Wah Wah…again!

shoe-flowers @ quarter # 6

i ve always wanted to have an unruly bush of shoe-flowers by my gate.

red-pink-white...

single layered-double layered...all types of shoe-flower

like the ones i had at quarter # 6, noamundi (jharkhand)...

we were in that township for 3 years. this old house beside the forest, was called quarter no. 6.

quarter # 6 where ...

i had my 1st malaria (and many others followed, till we moved from that house) there..

i learnt (to my embarrasment) that bhindi (okra) should not be washed after cutting...

i learnt that being differently-abled does not rob a person from enjoying life

i learnt that the said man could effortlessly drink tea with his toes..

and would not be embarrased at being stared upon

i discovered that guavas taste the best when stolen from neighbours' gardens

i learnt that hiding quinine inside your mouth will only make you throw up

i learnt that aches and pains proclaim themselves only in the night

i learnt that mothers do not believe you when you writhe of stomach ache in the morning

i learnt that hiding behind the big oak, waiting for the school bus to leave..

would only make 'bansi' the driver, honk the blue bus with red seats, till mother would come out

i learnt that there was no need for a net between compounds for a badminton match

i learnt that triple riding on your hero-cycle, with little children of the neighbourbood would always, not be safe

i learnt that the mother cat of your one-day old adopted kitten can eat up your pet guinea pigs

i learnt that crying as you bury them will not rid you of the guilt

i learnt that calling out for your pet puppy 'timmy', with dad's boss 'jimmy' around, was actually funny

i learnt that brother's friends will treat you as a kid even if you suddenly turn coquettish

i learnt that your 1st crush may not appreciate it if you name him after your handsome dog 'buzzo'

i learnt that shifting from quarter # 6 to quarter # 15 had more of "i learnt's"...

i also learnt that i shall forever want those pink-red-white shoe-flowers around my compound and by my gate..

single-layered, double-layered...all kinds

:)

jia's pink frock

i made this tiny frock from a tiny piece of flannel for my niece jia. for 5-day old jia (Dec. '07). i took ages to stitch it and poked my finger more times than through the pink flannel. And touched and glossed over it more times than it was actually worn.

Bela

@ some village road beyond Khandala. (Here: Urmila and I).

This picture reminds me of Bela and Bahadur (God knows why). Bela of Indrajal Comics. Girlfriend of Bahadur. I remember liking Bahadur because he did not appear to be the type of man who would say or even think "Me Tarzan...You Jane"...


And Bela rode a bullet (if I remember correctly). Skilled in martial arts, she lay flat the dacoits and robbers. Tall, svelte and beautiful, she worked hand in hand with Bahadur to rid Jaigarh (I think) of its nefarious elements. In bell-bottoms and fitting tops (mostly green, I think), she did not need to wear high heels or show cleavage in order to look smart.

(I dunno how reading about her would feel now)

A picture of Bela copy pasted from someone's blog


(http://thecomicproject.blogspot.com/2005/07/comic-24-bahadur-dictates-of-destiny.html)

another time another place

I can feel the warmth of the rock on my back
The coolness of water on my feet

I look down to see the river bed rise up in brown cloud
While silver fishes tickle my toes

I can feel each pebble poke my feet
And I see my shadow disappear

my calender and i

the highlights are mute
my pages dry
i dont dwell
yet pause from time to time

I look at the pink
and the green
at those marked dates that dont mock me
but show the plans undone

i pick it up often and run my fingers over
put it back yet again
and carry on

the malshej weekend, july 6, '08

the banyan
Originally uploaded by Reena Tete

@ ganga nature camp

Rishikesh. The much awaited trip finally re-happened.

Between jobs, me and 4 other friends finally packed off for rishikesh. This trip, unlike many others was not improptu. Infact Disha and I did a lot of searches and finally selected ganga nature camp over aquaterra for obvious reasons. (and to my shame, I also prepared a format for comparison between the shortlisted choices). Aweful. But thankfully, I was true to my basic procrastinatory self, so nothing really came out of the excel sheets.

Let me redo the trip through a fototrip...

@ Suncity Bus Service from CP (N. Delhi) to Rishikesh. 9350918952.

(Beware of the bus owner. He can be very illogical).

With Lipika, the cute algae

@ Laxman jhula, 6:30 or so after chai n a cold ride in the dark to this bridge (where a homey pigeon walked the entire stretch of the bridge infront of us. Gues, pigs fly, so pigeons walk).

@ Ganga Nature Camp, Between Rishikesh & Shivpuri. 09412050478. (Rajeev).

No, swimming is not allowed. Not seedha. Nor Ulta.

The camp is very basic (read sand pit toilets). The food served is good, esp. the roasted mixed veg.

.......afternoon fillers... a baby trek to some waterfall, a dip in absoLUTEly chilled pool by the same waterfall, rappeling by the roadside 'tall-rock' (what else could it be called?)

Dumb Charade sessions, if you can come up with innovative n original names like...(i) lomdi ko ho gaya pyaar (ii) tahkhaane mei chudail

Recommended:

Include in your team someone like Lipika who can come up with the wierdest of ching chong names.

Our Lipika obviously took ages to decide.
She would look up to the movie-Gods for inspiration.. again take ages to decide.

Finally when she would manage to whisper to Disha, both would again take ages to laugh about it. Reconfirm yet again and laugh some more.

Her love for ching chong movies is so gr8 that Disha had to enact Once upon a time in 'China'. (Oh! to have heard Antonio Banderas speak with a chinese hangover). One also has to enact part I - IV as well to the names Lipika comes up with.

We did a lot of posing as well.

All of Us

Junta was on the move, while we waited our turn
Quite a traffic that weekend

Some would shout

Hey babby wo babby

Hey babby WO

So after some dunkings

and some more

We too hailed Jai Bharat and the ride started

Day 1 was just about 12-13 kms

Day 2 was about 27 kms.

Day 2 had some great rides with gr8 names (now i just remember 3 blind mice).

Remo, the funny instructor would come up with funnier annotations for the rapid-namesakes.

He was equally inovative in funny games like making us balance at the head of the raft.

Left-Forward...Right-Back...Left-Forward...Right-Back, he would shout the command. And Dunk would go our balancing act. If only we could capture the concentrated expressions with which we had been trying to balance. The best one being just before either jumping onto the raft or falling into the river.

...Disha and me

.......Mohit and Lipika

But The BEST among Remo's antics was

DISHA in her HOT SEAT.

Here goes...

Remo the funny man takes us to this rock by the bank. Makes Disha climb up and sit on the seat like formation cut out at the face of the rock. Mohit helps her and he jumps back immediately, and all of us back-paddled...instantly at Remo the funny man's command of BAAACK PAAADDLE.

Here she is...

Disha was astounded. Then she laughed. Then was irritated.

We ofcors, could not stop laughing.

Then she screamed.....Ok guys .... enough!!!! come back....

GUYYYSSSS!!!

mat aaaooo...mero ko kya hai....
GUYYYSSSSS!!!!

Well we did take our time to return.

We also sang saathi haath badhaana... while we helped her down
Some more foto sessions....

Kriti, the babe
Lipika, the joker

Some Cliff Jumps

Thats Mohit

Thats Me

My 1st jump was at a slant and how I ached :)

But the 2nd was perfect. I loved it.

(It was much higher than as seen in this foto ofcors. This clarification is since Mohit and I bragged so much about the thrill of the jump).


Back in camp. Our home for two nights n three days...

Lovely dark night. The sound of rushing Ganga and chilly air, a heady combination

Back into our 10/- raincoats bought at Ram jhula

and back to Delhi.

and back to Mumbai.
and back to Work.

Mala's Story

The story of Mala (name changed) is of a nineteen and a half year old girl from Nanded, Maharashtra. Driven by social conditions and socialisation, her story is perhaps like that of many more young girls who are married off as children, face an abusive situation at their husband’s home and driven by torture, they leave home in a fit of anger.

Mala’s story brings out the harsh realities that make women and children vulnerable to trafficking for commercial sexual exploitation. Married at 12, Sold for sex trade at almost 13, HIV positive at 13 and battling for life at 19 and a half, is the story of Mala.

Quote Unquote - Mala (name changed)

I am Mala and this is my story.

At a time when girls my age are looking forward to a bright future, I lay battling for my life. I’ve seen it all before my 19th birthday - deceit, mental and physical abuse, HIV AIDS, and now I lie awaiting my death. I am not afraid of death now, but the fact that saddens me more is that I’m not the only victim in this situation. Mine is a common story. A story written by the very society we live in.

My parents belong to the Kaikadi community and we are considered as "untouchables". I was the youngest of seven siblings and was married off before my 12th birthday to one of my distant cousins. This was the beginning of an endless nightmare for me.

My husband was pressurised into marrying me, although he was in love with another girl, and so, I became the target of his frustration. He abused me. Unable to bear his aggression, I sought respite from the torture. My parents convinced me that the abuse was probably my karma, my destiny.

I tried to make a more sincere effort to change my karma. It was difficult to bear the harassment but I continued to suffer in silence, until one day I decided that I couldn’t bear the agony any more.

I left my husband’s home. I had nobody to turn to, no house to seek refuge, no support of any kind and no inkling of what the future held for me. All I knew was that I had to escape from that living hell.

I walked and walked for what seemed like an eternity. In my mind, I thought of ways and means to support myself. What I didn’t realise was that I would be an easy target for people who are on the constant lookout for vulnerable women and children like me.

As I rested for sometime at a government bus stand, I noticed the unwanted attention I was drawing and panicked. I boarded the first bus that arrived and reached Aurangabad in the middle of the night. Scared, I began looking for a place to rest. I was a little wary when a middle aged woman approached me but after some time I was comfortable and even accompanied her to her house.

She took care of me and gave me food. She also convinced me that she had a job for me in a another city. I accompanied her from Aurangabad and after several hours of train journey reached a station where we were received by a woman who took us to her house.

She was to be my employer and she told me to change from the saree that I was wearing into a salwar kameez. Thus attired, I was taken to a place an hour away in an autorickshaw. From the moment I reached there, I sensed that this place was different. Something was terribly wrong. I had reached G.B. Road – the infamous red light area of Delhi.

When I realised the situation I was in, I attempted to run away but I failed. I was locked up in a room for several days, kept hungry, beaten up and abused. Several days of torture broke my spirit and I gave up. From there on began an ordeal which made everything I had gone through before, pale in comparison.

I now entertained several customers daily. I found many girls from Maharashtra, especially from Latur in that brothel. We befriended each other and soon realised that all of us had a similar story to tell. We had all been duped and sold into the flesh trade. The abuse that we faced at the brothel was unbearable and I attempted to escape several times. I missed my mother a lot and wished that she would be there to comfort me. I wondered if I’d ever get out of this place alive.

Then one day came the turning point. The Police with a Delhi based NGO had raided the brothel (2000). I was rescued alongwith some other girls. I was placed in a Delhi based shelter-home for rehabilitation of trafficked survivors, where I received vocational training. After two years at this place I was entrusted to Save The Children India (STCI), Mumbai on December 14th 2002.

Between the period 2000 and 2004, 20 other trafficked survivors were transferred to STCI, Mumbai. In the meantime a medical examination revealed that I was HIV positive. Inspite of my deteriorating health, I am well looked after and I receive a lot of medical care and attention. STCI located my family and I was reunited with them after six long years. My family was very regretful that they did not support me when I most needed them.

My story is very different from what a lot of girls dream of when they are young but ironically it would be very similar to every girl’s nightmare. There are perhaps thousands of Malas' out in the world who are married off as children; face an abusive situation at their husband’s home and run away. Such girls very easily fall prey at the hands of traffickers.

I know that my end is near and it’s inevitable but all I wish for is that other "Malas" be saved.

*******************

Mala passed away on Jan 18, 2008

Absolute Nothingness

People draw inspiration from loss, from love. I draw, if inspiration it can be called from nothingness.
What is my purpose. I know not. Man without a purpose is the highest depravity of all, someone has said.
Process. Evolving.
These are words I relate to very well. I have lived it and will continue doin so. 'Coz that is how it is supposed to be. But the nothingness grows.
Here
Not a leaf shivers to give respite to this sultry heat in dry monsoons at 12 in the night in this far off village. The buzzing of mosquitoes and constant zing of jhingur and occasional barks in the dark is the only sound. And my tacking of the keys.
A lone lizard waits in the corner, my fearful eyes darting upwards after each minute. Its pitch dark here. On other noisy towns they sleep or chat with friends.
Its another night of stolen electricity for the villagers here. The women who were proudly showing what they can now read and write would also have slept by now. They will have to wake up at 4 and start their day in the cover of darkness. By 6 they will be done with their chores of cooking, cleaning and packing lunches. From 8 to 8 they will break their backs in the fields. At 930 they will come for night lessons in the dimly lit room with a blackboard and slogans of women empowerment.
How motivated they are to learn ka, kha, ga, gha….. The little children, some still in their blue school tunics, had promted their mothers when they faltered while reading the alphabets. Each one so proud to show what they had learnt. Guddi, the girl in blue (who accompanies her mother to the night school, daily) had recited a rhyme for me which I did not understand. The young teacher called Naina, daughter of one of the women of night school said how much satisfaction she gets out of teaching the women. “For the 1st 20 days, they could not even hold the chalk properly. Their hands would shake while writing. Partly out of feeling shy.”

“…….If my husband stops me from coming, I tell him that its only 2 hours that I spend on myself…..”, a valiant one had commented.

What motivates me? I know not. Nothing seems to matter. Not even appreciation for myself to have facilitated some kind of change in someone's life.
Now
Slight breeze lifts my red sequined dupatta which serves as a curtain for the night. Shit, the lizard has moved from its corner.
Something rattles outside my window. A lonely peacock also cries somewhere in the dark outside. The dogs seem to have slept off. I keep flashing my torch to check the movement of the lizard. And scratch mosquito bites.
I light another cigarette. My companion of the night.
And let my mind go blank. 1232 am.

Good Bye

He died at 27. Young and charming, he was also quick to temper. He could befriend the young and the old alike. A dear heart to women of all ages, a thorough buddy to his friends, he did not know how not to be happy.

Quite suddenly he passed away. With no illness, with no premonition, with reservations made at a quaint lodge in the hills for his photo shoot the next day, he passed away.

The family cleared his pending bills using the little savings that he had made. He had lived life on his terms, made his fast buck and spent it on all. They lovingly remembered him and attended to visitors who came for sharing in the grief. For much loved that he was.

Friends wrote about him, some sang his favourite songs, some lovingly remembered anecdotes from his days. They remembered aloud how he cared, how he laughed. How he gave his two bits even when not needed. This they remembered not aloud. They remembered times when they had to tell themselves..."If he is hard on us, he is harder on himself." For he expected the best out of others.

Today almost 7 months later there was no one to tease his sisters-in law, to ask about the girl-friends of the little nephews. He had more often than not brightened the dinner conversation. And sometimes strained it by his ethics. Quick on advice and critique he was, many a times unappreciated.

...."Had he been here now"..., they thought, ...."he would comment upon the falling marks of the adolescent niece, the decision of sister-in-law to quit job and take care of growing children, the demand of a mobile-phone by the 7-yr old nephew".

'Everyone cannot be like him. So what if we give into our weaknesses?', they had in their minds so often, thought.

“But why do people die, mama? Why can’t chacha come back?” little nephew asked the silent one’s around the table. They all had listened to all the other friends in grief, intellectualise about death, yet did not have an answer. Why can’t he come back? I will tell him that I have made a kite for him. What fun we’ll have. Won’t we, mama?”

He came back. Wearing his charming smile, he stood at the door.

Time stood still. It was them and him.
He read the emotions running on the faces of his family. Reflections of their conflict flashing like coloured images in the kaleidoscope on their faces.

Was 7 months too early to move on? Was 7 months too long to want to retrace?

His beautiful smile fell. He turned and without a backward glance, passed away. For good, this time.

no cheers to bushi dam

the plan was to go to malshej, which for some reason did not happen. So we went to the cliche`d Lonavala. A sumptious lunch was in mind which thankfully did happen. But Bushi Dam - damn ! also happened.

This is what it was like.....
(misty therefore hazy)

Many more like us from Mumbai and Pune had headed to Bushi Dam...

(Like a short cut you know about and cleverly give a miss to the traffic jam

and discover that ...so do a lot many people).

anyways....

How do you reach Bushi Dam?

You pay for this ticket that ticket (pollution ticket included)
You pass by a purple-yellow-orange-green walled eatery called Chinese-hukkas
You get directed to the damn ooops dam by a lot of young boys frantically waving their hands
You pay 50/- parking

You then cross a big puddle of brown water
Some of your friends might not want to enter into that water
So just you or some other determined one like you might have to go

You pass by a lot of men in ugly chuds
and women with hairy legs showing thru raised sarees

You will also find a bhutta wala selling bhutta right in the middle of the trickling water to the picnicers who eat and hurl the chewed off remnants one after another into the same water

and
When you finally reach up-well almost upto the dam

This is what it will be like...



no it is not a Mela....

they are picnicers squishing their butts to fit in

while the dam'ed water manages to find some space to trickle down

4 more reasons on why to give bushi dam a miss:-

1] as you disgustingly make your way out (having never reached the top), a cow just might raise its tail to shit in that very water you will have to wade thru'

2] you could be caught a traffic jam on your way to and from the dam. Any place with a traffic jam has to be 'touristy' and avoidable

3] the chai you get there will be milky and less than luke warm

4] you still might not like bright yellow chuds on fat men with hanging paunches

What you need to do is head towards Upper Deck which has a steeply priced buffet for an OK meal...but the view is great..and if you are not photogenic, you will be lucky here

And What you definitely need to do is head to Malshej Ghat the next weekend to wash off Bushi

Heres to the Rains

A man in black another in blue, bent at their waists, valiantly pushing a white choked Maruti engine out of the choked Bandra roads.

Another monsoon…another period of camaraderie over clogged waters. Another day when we say, shit! I just had to go to office and mean it as well. Another day when mad Mumbaikers dive on three feet water- more splash than dive, actually.

When I was in the first standard or was it IInd?, I had to write a composition (thats what we used to call it) on any season. I wrote on the monsoons. But more than write, I watched and pondered and went out to experience what I later wrote about. My teacher, I do not remember, if she appreciated my piece, but I did have a great time, I remember.

Walking barefoot on the pavements with water rushing down the sloped roads. Back then the roads would be clean. We used to put salt on the earthworms and watch them squibble as they breathed their last slow breath. We would walk around with pouches of salt. Then when all the killing (killing…it was more entertainment for us!) would bore us…we would play mud splash in the play ground.

Occasional cricket balls from brothers’ gang would hit us or we would be delegated to do fielding. Till we would have had enough of being screamed at. Big brothers are terrors and like to show off that little sisters are at their beck and call. And most times little sisters are. Even opinionated little sisters who hero worship them. Like on the dry days, I would have to hold the colourful kite and walk backwards with loud instructions simple to understand but impressive when shouted. I was a kite holder. I had the responsible job of holding the kite and giving it a push upwards as it precariously made its upward flight.

In my essay on my favourite season, I described my trudge from school to home - slow and many a times backwards, with our olive-green or khaki bags with golden buckles hidden under white and blue and pink flower patterned raincoats or bright yellow ones. We would stop and peer at puddles waiting for worms to squirm out. And jump across puddles, then on puddles.

I don't think my teacher was impressed.

I remember the greens.
The wild doob grass
which would line up
the pavements of Jamshedpur. And the huge trees with huge branches swaying to the beat of rains and splattering fat drops at the hint of a shake. It was a predictable move yet we would try and douse each other underneath the massive trees. Back then Moms used to let children go out to play and explore. There was mud and greens and open roads and huge grounds and friends who would not compete over gadgets but over who could run faster. Back then there was less concrete.

Yes, the greens! I have always been fascinated with greens. It depicts a sense of peace and open spaces to me. Walking barefoot on the green grass with tiny blades pricking lightly at different points on the foot…with the sudden giving away of wet mud underneath the foot.

I tried rolling off a green slope once as they do in movies. My elbows would come in the way and I had to push sideways. It hurt when I got up with skirt all twisted and a pattern with elbow dents trailing behind me.

Madonna is singing sensuously now on VH1. Yes rains and water take a different meaning as an adult.

Like washing off holi colour in river under the bridge of 1935, like taking a dip in river Betwa, like clutching onto someone’s sleeve on a swaying tree house over swollen river Ken, like walking on empty streets by the sea the first day on a new city never visited again, amid loud cracking thunder, like feeling fat drops on naked arms and holding tight. Like lying on white Pondi sands as rain hits the face.

If the clog clears from knee deep to shin deep I shall venture out to bandstand. There is something beautiful about Rain. To me it is the feeling that Rain brings about.