I once had come upon a bedraggled painter who when he was not drunk painted with oil on canvas and sold them for a living. His name was Bhaskar and he was quite good at his art but drink would mostly get the better of him. He charged about six to eight hundred for a canvas of size six by four ( this was 2008). This being very affordable for small time art lovers like us, we gave him pictures to convert to canvas. Mostly, he returned with a painting in about a fortnight or more but sometimes he simply went underground for days, trying our patience to the limits. We managed to get him to do about three or four paintings but in the case of the last one which I had kind of commissioned personally, he simply disappeared into thin air and was never seen again. This picture was one of a pond full of water lilies, the ones we call shaluk in Bengali. I adored that little picture I had picked up from a desk calendar and it cheesed me off no end that Bhaskar never returned this picture back to me.
Later, I heard that he had succumbed to an alcohol induced illness.

I came upon a lovely watercolour of lotuses growing in a shallow pond and have tried to reproduce the same.

Leave me a word of encouragement, your good deed of the day😁😁😁.

I'll upload three pictures today:
No 1:The Pond Lotuses (My work)
No 2: A pix of my worktable ( JLT)
No 3: One of Bhaskar's paintings

Don't forget the comments.
( The best comment wins my framed and autographed shaluk painting😁.)
And yes, of course this offer is a blue blooded bribe to garner comments)

My first attempt at Hindi. Forgive the grammar and spelling.

आज बड़े दिनों के बाद धूप खिली थी:
मीठी धूप, नीला आसमान, पंछियों की संगीत।
बादलों का कोई नामोनिशान ही न था।
था, तो तिरंगा, पटाखें, भांगड़ा;
थी, तो Twitter की चहचहाहट;
था उतकंठ इंतजार, उमड़ती खुशी , और कड़ोड़ो आॅखो की नमी : बेटा जो घर वापस आ रहा था, देश का बेटा।

जिला बेगुसराय, गांव बलिहार के एक छोर पर, उस टूटे फ़ूटे मकान के बाहर, जिस पर बादल आज भी कूढ़ रहें हैं,
पूलवामा की मां ने मैले आंचल से आंसू पोंछे और कहा: राम करे, सारे बेटे ऐसे ही घर वापस आ जाए......

The Soldier and the Terrorist

The Soldier and the Terrorist met just beyond death.

There were no boundaries here, in this realm that was neither dark nor light, neither now nor then, where the past was inconsequential and the future non-existent. It was easy to talk here and so they did, if you can call it talking. But then, it did not feel any different from talking as they had known it.

I’m dead, then. The Soldier remarked. Matter-of-factly. As if it were an absolutely normal thing, as if he had known that it would happen someday.
The Terrorist looked around himself. And then nodded. Yes, this is death. Un-surprised. He had no doubts.

They now looked at one another: the Soldier and the Terrorist. And found that they were both young men.

The Soldier was curious: You drove that car-bomb into our bus?

Yes.

The next question came automatically: Why?

The Terrorist answered: We seek revenge. Mechanically, as if it was a reply he had rehearsed often.

Revenge. The Soldier muttered the word to himself, under his breath, weighing the syllables. Revenge. But I don’t know you. Never met you before.

The Terrorist paused and then checked the Soldier’s face. No, he agreed. We’ve never met.

…And yet, now we are both here. The Soldier breathed deeply and smiled. Waving to the nothingness around, he said: There doesn’t seem to be much to do here.
Come, let’s sit.

The Terrorist hesitated, a split moment in that timelessness and then sat down. Cross legged. Beside the Soldier.

That was one hell of a bomb. Ekdum Atom Bomb. The Soldier laughed.

Yes it was, wasn’t it? The Terrorist asked. Without much enthusiasm.

Everything just evaporated, bus, bodies, everything. And you too.

Yes, and me too. The Terrorist was musing. I became air. Along with you. And everything else.

Not everything though. The Soldier corrected him. Few things remained. Mangled steel, a leg here, a finger there, a tatter of skin, a sliver of bone, a shard of bullet-proof vest……

And blood. Pools of thick dark red blood.

Right. Did you see how deeply red my blood is?

Mine too. Such dark red.

Laal rang se yaad aa gaya. Valentine day bhi to tha.

The Terrorist’s brows scrunched together. Disapproving. You have a girl friend?

The Soldier laughed shyly. No no, I’m married. She sent me red roses. Photos. On Whatsapp. And a poem. A pensive shadow passed across his eyes.
You didn’t get any roses? He asked, brushing the shadow away.

The Terrorist did not like his question. Love is frivolous. He was full of scorn. Wasteful. He said, in deprecation.

The Soldier however, smiled softly. She had packed boondi ke laddoos for me. And my mother had made namakpadas. Two whole dabbas. Love is not such a bad thing, you know.

The Terrorist did not reply.

They let the emptiness flow between them for some time. There was no hurry.

Then the Terrorist spoke once again. My mother had shoved four five hundred rupee notes into my ferhan pocket. The day I left for my examination. “Buy a pair of good quality sneakers," she had told me. "These ones have their soles all worn out.”

What did you buy? Reebok?

I didn’t.

The Soldier looked into the Terrorist's eyes. You didn’t take the examination.

No. I went away for training.

What kind of training?

Rifles. Machine guns. Grenades.

Why?

They said that training was needed to defeat the Enemy. To take revenge. For the Cause. For the Gods. For the Land.

So, I’m this Enemy? The Soldier was smiling. Tell me, who are these ‘They’?

Great leaders. The Terrorist had awe in his voice. They bring to us the Word of God and Righteousness.

The Soldier smiled, amusement glinting at the edge of his eyes. Ah ha. And see, now we both are here. And none of Them are.

The smile remained for a moment on the Soldier’s face. Gods talk in such hard-to-understand languages. And, frankly, I’ve never quite understood why they are so possessive of us, these Gods.

The Terrorist shifted focus and challenged. You tell me why you became a Soldier? If not God nor Land, then what?

How would I eat otherwise? So many mouths to feed and food so expensive.

The silence woke up once more between them.

Why do you beat us up, drag us out of our houses, maim us? The Terrorist’s voice was almost peevish.

Why do you pelt us with stones, ram us with bombs, snipe at us behind our backs? The Soldier countered, equally petulant.

The Terrorist had no answer. Neither had the Soldier.

Now they want to avenge our deaths. The Soldier suddenly remarked.

Good. We’ll see more of your clan joining us here then. The Terrorist guffawed.

And your tribe too. The Soldier retorted.

Suddenly silence descended, like abrupt curtains at the end of a stage play.
A realisation surged in the ether between them.

Whose war is it that we fight? The Soldier asked.
Is it Our war or is it Theirs? The Terrorist echoed.

No one answered.

No one was there.

Only Death, the great Leveller, who watched over them in implacable silence.

And far far away, beyond reach, throbbed the endless sounds of sorrow: weeping mothers, grieving daughters and the lament of lovers………….....

Snow and Wistfulness

Snow and Wistfulness

It never snows down here.

Up there, on the slate-sharp hills, almost every day, without qualm. But downhere,
Never!

Never, not even when the demented winds rush down the slopes, like meth addicts on a high;

Not even when the rain congeals all around, like sheets of cold grey gel;

Not even when the old woman with snow-hair and wrinkles like the crags on the face of the hills predicts: “It will snow down here, this time pucca.”

So, in my chilled gray garden with the snowed hills around me, I sit and dream:
Of tiny flecks of snow, like soft candy floss;

Of thin icicles, with old sunlight trapped inside;

Of a spider-web of snow, over the strawberries;

Of pine trees wearing woolly caps of snow;

Of the kids' park in front, under a duvet of mink-snow;

And of that last red rose,
Fossilised in ice!

What's this thing with me and snow?

A longing: old, unrequited?

Perhaps.

It snowed late last night, quietly, stealthily, as I slept.

In the morning, clumps of snow clung to the edge of the road, the edge of the steps, the edge of the flower pots.
Sparse, scraggly.

When touched, it melted. Into nothingness. So easily. So disenchantingly.

Snow is just water.
Only colder.




Picture Credits:
Frozen Love: Rose in Icicle by Dr Swastika Jha, Dhauladhar Snow Ranges by Dr Shailja Karki

I am devastated.
That good for nothing app Google+ has died an untimely ( though well deserved) death and has carried with it all my blog comments to the Netherworld or where-ever e-words go after death.
Oh, my precious, precious comments......how I mourn their passing....
Today, as I opened my blog, it was like opening your bank locker to find it completely empty of your of all your jewellery.
It seems most of my readers who left comments did so through their Google+ account and therefore today, nothing of their precious words remain.
Since all the comments ( ALL) were encouraging, positive, complimenting, they were my Xanax during bad times and now with them gone, I am left empty and grieving and in withdrawal.
As I lament to Other Half, he pontificates: Virtual duniya poori hi ek ghor Maya hai....iske chakker mein mat padh...

I can tear my hairs in frustration, dear Readers....Arrrghhhhh

How I hate Google+. May he rot in e-hell, may he never rise to be online again, may he never have even a single subscriber there in hell.....

The only solace, if you can call it one, is that one can still comment on the blog. And one can now do it anonymously too....So dear readers, do keep the comments coming....

Mimie: A Requiem

Mimie: A Requiem

           I have died recently. In this space I now habitate, Time is not a dimension. Not just Time but Length and Breadth and Depth also do not exist.  Of course, that doesn’t worry me at all because the space-time conundrum was never of any importance to me even when I was alive. Surprised? Well, for a dog, time and its three sister dimensions are of no consequence. Since I was a dog, a rotund cream-white Labrador Retriever, time had meant nothing to me. I had never counted its passing, neither by the ticking of the clock nor by the movement of the sun across the sky or the seasons over the hills, nor by the number of laboured breaths I had to take before life ebbed away from my fur covered body. So I am not at all distraught or even concerned by this dimensionless state of existence that I currently find myself in. On the contrary, I am quite comfortable with this light airy feeling, this sense of weightlessness that fills my being. What makes me sad though, is the state of those two-legged tailless creatures with whom I had been living before I landed up dying. I can sense them and the cloud of sorrow that surrounds them because of my passing. This cloud is thick and grey and almost impenetrable, like the monsoon clouds that overcast the July sky.

I can see them clearly: the tall dark one stands over the pit they have dug to bury the cream- white fur covered shell that had been my home till now. He is crying, red eyes and a rasp in his deep bass voice. The short fair woman, his companion sniffles. Her constant buddy, the cell phone is in her hands. The little one from the home upstairs stands beside them with her father and I can clearly feel the question amidst her sorrow.. “why?” Death is not new to this little thing, for her dog had died not long back and I think like Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter, touched by death, she too can see the Thestrals and therefore, perhaps she could see me. Jaya, my ever favourite is also there. I know how fond of me she must have been to venture out so early in the morning this wet snowy dreary day. She calls herself a ‘one-dog-woman’, the one dog in her life being me. She now watches, with a sad, silent face.

They place my furry home into the depths of the soil and the tall one places my bowl and the Chewie treats I adore beside my shell. When they start to pour the dark earth over it, the Short One cries out, ‘I want to say something!’ She reads from her cell phone:       

“vasamsi jirnani yatha vihaya navani grhnati naro 'parani
tatha sarirani vihaya jirnany anyani samyati navani dehi”

              Her voice breaks, tears streaming down her face……They cover up my shell with earth as the Short One lights a diya and the Little Thing places a single pale pink Christmas Cacti over the dark earth.

      They have buried my shell but are unable to bury this constant cloud of sadness that envelops them and follows them around like a grey shadow. The dark one spends too much time on the bed, empty ramblings on his phone and brown shadows deepening the lines on his face. I love him though; I cannot tell you how much for as I have told you before, I have no sense of dimension, of measurement. But I love him enough to read his emotions and feel his thoughts and want nothing more than to sit in comfortable silence with my bum against his side (except perhaps an extra chicken leg). Our companionship and our camaraderie prompts the Short One to say, half joking: “Mimie, you are stealing his affections….!” She actually thinks I love him more than I love her; but she is naïve like all other tail-less two-legged  creatures. She doesn’t know that my love is not ‘more’ or ‘less’, it is simply ‘love’! I have tried to tell her that but she doesn’t understand. But on certain days, on our walks outside the house, when I stop to wait for her to catch up with me and the Tall One, I think she senses the endless love I bear for her. 
      Sometimes I have noted her feeling that she herself loves me a lot less than the Tall One. That of course, is only her two-legged frailty ……. She doesn’t herself know the depth of her love for me, the silly thing! I catch her almost every day, tiptoeing back into that cool blue room where I died, misty eyed, hoping against hope that she could see me there. I’ve even followed her venturing out into the cold winter night to stand over my earth covered shell, her heart drumming her hopeless wish to see me there. I’ve caught her sitting over her work, spectacles on her nose, water rimmed eyes glinting behind her glasses and heart beating her question, “Oh why, why, why……..?”

If this is not love, then what is……………!

Their sadness envelops me and binds me to them. But Karma beckons and I must move one, from this dimension-less realm back to the physical world. Yet I cannot bring myself to do that till they conquer their sorrow of loss. So I send them my love through the one way I think would help them cope and recover: I send them Bliss, the three legged pest, I send them the chocolate fudge Alu, a Pahari dog with the gentlest eyes in the universe, I send them tiny Oreo, gray, husky-like, born only a few nights back and finally, I send them the Seven Siblings, Alu’s babies…….

And just like I had known it would, they are healing now: all of them: the Little One from the home upstairs, the Short One and the Tall One.

Still sometimes, though much rarer now, when the sorrow draws back over their eyes, I stand by them and whisper:

‘vasamsi jirnani yatha vihaya navani grhnati naro 'parani
tatha sarirani vihaya jirnany anyani samyati navani dehi’

-As a person puts on new garments, giving up old ones, similarly, the soul accepts new material bodies, giving up the old and useless ones…….

I tell them: 

Don’t be sad darlings.
I haven’t gone anywhere.
I am a part of your existence and have always been so, since Time was born. 
In varied roles and new forms, I am here with you 
.....and will be forever……

bliss

This little thing is a guest on my porch this night. This night is cold: biting, bone chilling, soul numbing....
A torn cardboard box, a second hand wool sweater from the streets of Janpath, an old single bedsheet, a bright red discarded pillow.... and he is happy-one ear up and one ear down, snout nuzzling between pillow and cardboard wall........You see: he is rich today- tummy full, a warm soft bed, two excited little girls and an jaded middle aged woman keeping vigil over him... yes, he is rich and happy today! Today, he has a name too, 'bliss', an apt name for his current state of mind...
I peer into his eyes...he must be five or six months old but his eyes are old, shines with patience and understanding.....understanding of the foibles of these two legged creatures on whose mercy his fate lies...
But he bears us no ill will,  not a bit, despite that demented car that fractured his leg, that surgeon's scalpel that finally severed the dangling useless broken leg from his frail little body, that strange person who adopted him for two days, called him Scooby and then discarded him on the third......

Two little pixies who live in the house above me and who are stop-gapping for the Guardian Angel of dogs, found him and brought him here and gave him his name ' bliss'....

I live in a mountain town called Dharamshala, south of the mighty Dhauladhars. I would have loved to adopt bliss but can't as I have two dolts ( Labrador retrievers) of my own. If you would like to give bliss a home do get in touch with me. And if you cannot, please share this post with friends and family and dog lovers....
bliss is sweet, affectionate, intelligent and wise....he would enrich any home he went to....I know, for I have seen it in his old young eyes...

In this Christmas time , this season of kindness and giving, do spare a moment for this gentle creature and spread the word...

Thank you