An Apple A Day

She poured out her regular cup of strong tea and lightly sniffed at it. But it was more out of habit as her ability to smell had weakened with the appearance of greys. She sat heavily with the cup by the window that overlooked the street. While she sat calmly sipping on the tea, everyone on the street passed her by in a blur of movement. There was urgency in every step, a fear in every eye. They were all blind to her withered old structure in the dilapidated construction; their only concern was moving ahead, their eyes only looked upward in the search of a heaven.

She was growing restless by now. Then the doorbell rang. She smiled and gently dragged her tired feet to the door. The young postman smiled, “Sorry grandma, there were a lot of letters to be delivered today.” She smiled affectionately and led him to the old dining table. As the young boy set down his bag and retrieved the letter addressed to her, she neatly started cutting the apples kept on the table.

The postman squinted at the letter, “Your son’s writing is becoming more illegible by the day.” The woman let out a hearty laughter, “Of course, he has become a doctor now.” “It is just the usual. He is fine. So is his wife. Their child misses your stories. He will come to meet you soon.” The woman gave a weary smile as she placed the chopped apples on a platter and passed them to the boy. “Don’t mind grandma but I have been reading out these letters to you every single day from almost a year. It is always the same. But never have I seen your son or his wife visiting you.” The woman stared out of the window for a long while as though wishing an answer to fly past. After what seemed like ages, she looked back at the boy and said, “But you will come, won’t you? You will come whenever a letter has my address on it. You will come when you get married. Your children will listen to my stories if not my own grandchildren.” She looked at him with such intense expectation that he just smiled, unable to speak.

As he picked up his bag, ready to leave, the woman glanced at the full plate. “Take those apples home, son. They are for you.” The boy looked at the plate and forced another smile. He gingerly picked up a couple of pieces leaving the rest on the plate and walked out. The woman took her place at the window as the young postman rushed out of the date in a hurry, pausing only to shove the apple pieces into the dustbin.

The woman’s thoughts zoomed back 8 years in time when her son and daughter-in-law walked out of the same house with her grandchild in their arms, vowing never to return back to her stifling presence. She felt a sudden pang of loneliness as she wrote yet another letter to herself. She had to take immense effort to ensure that the tears didn’t roll down on the letter, so that the young boy wouldn’t have any problems understanding the address.

The evening was spent in cooking her son’s favourite food and watching fatigued people return home to their families from that window. Before she retired to a night of fitful sleep, there was one last chore to complete. She wiped a stray tear as she laid fresh and ripe apples on the table.

One Last Night

The emphatically coloured eyes seemed to glare directly at him, compelling him to question his very existence. The light brown slowly became darker until it turned bloodshot. The colour then started spilling out of them. The blood slowly dripped down those white cheeks; and he looked down with horror as the drop slid down his own wrist. The gash on his hand seemed to deepen and the eyes slowly dissolved into darkness.

A cusp between Sagittarius and Scorpio, he was an undecided blend of fire and water and he convinced himself that he was destined to live this dual life. Every night, his features softened, his neckline plunged, his trousers got tighter and his gait became more graceful. This duality often left him flustered early in the morning; but later became a part of his life. The numerous wounds that he had inflicted on himself had threatened to taint his only tool - his body. He now sometimes regretted those careless dives for a gully cricket match that left him with bruised knees and marks that never faded. While he turned his fiery brown eyes into gentle blues every night, he saw his mother's misty eyes looking back at him from his reflection. He remembered those eyes as they watched her youngest son grow from a boy tied to her saree to a young man who had stopped caring. He remembered those eyes from the time he left her at the doorstep with a plate that wasn't eaten from. That sight lasted. So did the one of her lying down in the one room apartment, clad in white, devoid of mourners.

The protective younger sibling of an older sister, he struggled to be protected from mishaps every night. He was a little boy with no vices and a carefree life, who was forced to grow up and take charge in the span of a night. With the death of his mother, his father's turn towards spirituality and the concomitant disregard for his family compelled him to live a life obscured by the darkness of the night. He tried his best to lie to himself. It was easier to pity his own life, but the fact was that this was a faster source of income than daily labour work; and he needed quicker money to get out of this life. But whatever money he got never really seemed to be enough. That little aspirant cricketer was now constantly in and out of police stations, first on charges of unnatural sex and then on charges of soliciting in public places. Drug abuse now joined the list but it was more of a necessity than a choice - heroin reduced pain. In those nights behind bars, he was looked down upon and threatened not only by the authorities, but also by the female prostitutes whose daily living he was snatching away.

But the pain today would not get reduced by any drug. Through the layers of colours that covered his face, he saw just grays. The darkened room swiveled with the muffled tears in his eyes. The smell of alcohol overwhelmed the perfume in his clothes that now lay at the bedside. While he spent the night with a man who picked him up, his sister waited for her husband. The gash on his wrist would be deeper tonight.

Image source - http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?228696

All for the Lord

In the times of immense development around the world, in the times of Nepal being born again as a democracy, the evil of animal sacrifice still persists. Many Hindu practices in Nepal borrow heavily from tantric arts as the place was one of the hotbeds of the same. In the land of Buddhism, it is appalling to know that there is still place for such a ritual.



A piercing clamor resounded in the temple.
It kept him quivering for hours.
He looked skywards and prayed to his god;
The one that didn’t yearn for naive blood.

He wasn’t blessed with words,
Or the intellect of these higher mortals.
But he was capable of feeling despair and pain
As the thick rope cut into his vocals.

The delicacies fed everyday failed to interest him.
He would rather be starved and free.
Then came the day, he was bathed and worshipped;
A beautiful garland adorned his neck.

He was dragged along the street;
The temple bells seemed closer with every tug.
He glanced skyward with pitiful eyes,
As a kite circled the heavens.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

The Divine Enclosure

The Kumaris in Nepal are revered as they believe that the goddess Taleju resides in the little girl that is picked. A girl from the Shakya family (Buddhist), who fulfills 32 feature requirements, is picked to be a Kumari and resides in the Kumari palace at Durbar Square. However the girl falls into a pitiful state when, after she gets her menstruations, she is removed from the palace and another Kumari is picked. During her stay in the palace, she is not educated or trained in any art; also people believe that any man who marries an ex-Kumari will die an early death. Resultantly, most of the girls end up begging by temples or are forced into prostitution.


She gazed down at the eyes peering towards her
Hopes weighed her down, desires of granting wishes;
Her eyes momentarily glanced up towards the heavens,
Taking in the colours before being pulled into the dark.

Her fragile feet were numbed to any feeling.
She longed to sprint across freshly watered grass.
She missed the smell of her sister’s used clothes,
Not days, not months; for years the castigation was to last.

The sense of yearning, too, slowly left her alone;
A life that she knew nothing of, couldn’t call out anymore.
Though the innocence in her was kept alive by the palace,
She had to leave; this young woman was no longer a girl.

She wasn’t royal anymore, or a goddess;
She was just a woman with her eyes to the ground.
She violently fluttered along with life,
Like a tender feather abruptly released in the storm.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

The Incalculable Ganges

She ran her fingers through her graying hair.
This was not how it was meant to be.
A little lamp to fulfill one solitary wish
Shouldn’t cost anyone their two days’ meal.

She joined her palms and inhaled deeply;
The fragrance of incense soothed her senses.
But the deity was hidden behind a donation box;
And the sprinkle of the sanctified water failed to touch her.

She had lived a life at the mercy of others,
She now wished to tread on the path of God.
A silent ripple flowed through her frail and tired body
As the last sight of gray was lost in the holiness of the Ganges.

Photo courtesy - Sean D'mello

A Bed-time Story?

He peered silently from behind the door,
His lower lip twitched harder.
Strong fingers gripped his shoulders;
He wasn’t supposed to be here any longer.

The tyres screeched loudly to a halt
And his nimble feet carried him out.
There was a commotion all around,
But he could only hear a penetrating buzz of doubt.

The image never left his mind.
It was etched in like a million others.
He wondered if he could beg for a lap instead,
Or for someone to feed him the food he earned?

He gazed from behind a pole again;
A drop of saliva trickled down his mouth.
He then tasted the bitterness of a tear
As a dog, wagging its tail, beat him to a meal.

He had been robbed of a childhood,
Robbed of a possibility to a better future;
Tears blocked his vision as he looked around for help.
He lived in a train with no destination.

Photo courtesy - http://spad1.wordpress.com/2010/02/04/the-boy-in-the-rain/