For Anahita

I heard you put a gun to your head last night, girl.

Girl, oh girl.......!

Vodka bottle, cigarette stubs and a few drops of dried blood on the wall. 
A green screen on my cell-phone's WhatsApp, that's been dumb since. 
A page 5 news of 6 lines, camouflaged between a PWD tender and someone's Uthala notice. 
Some lascivious gossip here and there, that's died out now.

Girl, oh girl....girl, girl, girl............................................

Vodka fumes, rings of cigarette smoke, cuss words and late, late nights: oh, you could have flaunted these right in their faces and watched them quake with indignation.
You could have let them slow-singe with impotent envy at your credit cards, fast cars and the sweet sweet jingle of the luscious balance in your bank. You could have blown away the solitude of your long-distance marriage, the bitterness of your disillusioned love and the sharp cravings of your empty womb like sunanda seeds blown in the wind; and laughed out loud in pure "couldn't-care-less"ness at the quiverings of their outdated righteousness.

But you put a gun to your head girl!
And now
There's nothing left to fight back for.








PS: I have called her Anahita here.
She was younger to me by more than a decade and we were separated not only by our years but by our values and mores. I had met her in the course of my work and in this initial first meeting itself, and notwithstanding our differences of opinion, we had taken to each other and within the short span of about three hours she had told me her entire life story. We had exchanged cell numbers but surprisingly in spite of the enthusiasm shown during our only meeting, she did not seem very inclined to stay in touch. I had not given her much thought till one night I was woken up at 2 am by someone informing me that she had killed herself. 

I am glad that I'm not a salesperson.
That my life does not depend on the pitch of my sales or the whims of my buyers
That I do not have to run from pillar to post trying to sell my wares.
That I do not have to cow down, bow down, grovel before these pillars and posts made of unmoving concrete.
That I do not have to turn into a wily fox, to devise new ways, each one more devious than the next to trap the unwary customer.
That I do not have to morph into a crafty mind reader, catching a poor buyer at the point where he is most vulnerable, to induce him to buy what I have to sell.
That I do not have to sell myself to sell my goods.
That I do not have to display Oscar worthy histrionics to coerce a stoic man into a malleable hapless buyer.
That I do not have to face rejection of varied hues: a blank see-right-through stare of pure ignoring, a sweet, sweet smile veiling a complete disinterest,  a promise ("of course", "sure") that is never honoured, an exhausting haggle that never culminates into a sale, a barrage of undiluted rudenesses, bottles of unwanted advice, flings of veiled abuse and many such others things.
That I do not have to lock up my obese self respect and puncture my bloated ego when I step out each day to sell what I have to sell.
That, at the end of the day, I do not have to open my faded purse with a jittery hand and count the notes and the coins to see whether they add up to enough for tomorrow's lunch.

I thank my stars that I am not a salesperson.


PS: Dear Readers, do not forget to buy Of This and That, a meandering of verses written by Indrakhi Bhattacharjee Mandal, an aspiring poet. I know her well. Her writing is not that bad. You can hazard a look without any risk.

a day: shining, moist and slightly warm.
the grass: a crystal green.

an ant, large and black
climbs a blade
of this crystal green grass.
climbs fast but quite deliberately, its feelers quivering with the deep intensity of its purpose.

all around the incandescent green day buzzes with a million sights, sounds, smells....
but the ant only climbs
and climbs,
higher
and higher....
i'm agog with suspense: what drama waits to unfold at the crystal grass' tip?


at the flourescent end, it stops, the ant.
there is nothing ahead.

on the verge of that nothingness, it sways, surprised feelers probing the weightless air around.
then it turns and crawls down the old path,
all the way back,
into the cocoon of warm, moist grass at my feet.


When you have climbed all mountains you felt the need to climb,
When you are done with all that,
Come sit with me on this slate stone under the olive-leaved tree whose name I am still to learn.
On this day: shining, moist and slightly warm,
With the grass, a crystal green
And the smell of holiday in the air-
(very restful as if all is finished and done).
Lean back against the rough bark of the tree-trunk.


Here... now.......
Eyes can be closed.

Siddhartha

Siddharta or Gautam Buddha, that gentle man with his beautiful teaching of Ahimsa and the practice of the very practical Middle Path and finally his view that attachment is the root of all evil....
I've always been drawn to him....

My salute

A Shorty

The mountains have caught the heat virus from the plains and now it's sweltering here....

Though one quick drizzle did happen yesterday and pink Rain Lilies have promptly sprung up here and there, still मन नहीं भरा.......

As I wait for a real downpour, a tiny verse has danced into my mind.....



🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

"Drizzle me with your words

And I'll bloom:

Like these Pink Lilies,

At the touch of rain!"

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

PS: Am working on a Rain Lily watercolour and if it turns out good, I'll post it here.