nibeditas-world

[nibeditas-world]

Collecting the scattered pieces of me.

[nibeditas-world]

I met this guy on a train journey to I-dont-remember where. For the first 2 hours, we just awkwardly smiled at each other, when our eyes met.

Then, we avoided each other all together, facing the window, earphones stubbed in ears, swaying with the train and the music in our heads. I guess he too was listening to music too.

The aunties and uncles, with whom we shared the compartment were busy with their non-stop discussions. May be they were meeting after a long time for someone's marriage. Marriage in India is almost a festival.

When the tea seller arrived, we all asked for tea in unison, apart from the guy. I didn't have change to pay the tea seller, neither did he. So, no tea for me.

Then the guy pulled his thermos from his side and offered me. Initially I hesitated but then I gave up, (duh! It's tea).

For the rest of the journey, we spoke more than those uncles and aunties.

We became tea-buddies.

[nibeditas-world]

My grandmother never recieved any flowers from my grandfather in any occasion.

But he made sure to plant some flower twigs next to the well.

In the winters, when the marigold blooms in its full glory, he would hold them together with both hands and sway over her face. The flowers still intact to their stems, would sprinkle water on my grandmother's face, when she sat by the well.

My brother once got some flowers for my grandmother and she sprinkled water on them and asked him to sway over her face.

Then, she said, "Maza nahi aya!" (Doesn't feel the same!)

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There are pain, which time keeps reminding us of, like the broken knee from the fall, I learnt to ride a bike.

When the name of the place accidentally gets a mention, where my heart was broken for whatever times.

Then the constant pop-up of the reunion cards in the month of May, which I deliberately archive but never attend, for whatever reasons.

Then the first drop of rain brings along the painful memory of getting fired.

[nibeditas-world]

"Should I play music?" The cab driver asked.

"No, I want to read my thoughts or maybe nap," i replied.

30 minutes went by, he didn't honk even once, carefully navigating through he dropped me at my destination.

I had only blinked once, and dreamt of a distant grandfather during my short nap.

#cabchronicles #chroniclesofanapper #serielnapper

[nibeditas-world]

Hey Fall!

Some days i forget the name of the person i am thinking about,

And then the next day or after a couple of days, when I am bathing or on my way back home or during my evening walks or while staring at an empty isle in the local store,

I recall their names but then i forget their faces.

Once in a while I can point out their peculiar features, one after another with so much ease,

Then the very next moment I forget why I am thinking about them at all.

Our association is getting erased inch by inch,

I am the one walking on the rope and then forgetting how to stand on my feet,

I am losing my memories little by little every day, and I cannot do anything about it.

just like the trees that stand helplessly counting,

their leaves fall one by one,

until there is none.

It's fall,

We are on the same page again,

curling toes in fear,

coz it's the season of losing one and all.

[nibeditas-world]

Memory is a tricky thing.

As we move ahead in our lives, accumulating bits and piece of moments, etched in our memory, to carry them to graves.

But age intervenes and rolls it's dice. Sometimes blurring these memories, while sometimes leaves them on cliffhangers, to edit it as we please, only to realise later that, noone cares to adventurise it, unless asked for.

And when asked, it's way different from original. It feels all concocted with lies and dishonesty. So memories are best when shared with those, who were involved in making it as one.

In "An artist of a floating world", Masuji Ono, a retired artist is constantly battling with his own memories. His paintings during the WWII had gained so much recognition for him but there were constant guilts, doubts and suspicion running underneath. He is having tough time connecting with his daughters, especially his younger daughter during her time of marriage negotiations. His conversation with his grandson Ichiro, clearly reflects the generation gap while still connected with a common thread.

It takes mammoth amount of courage to swim against the stream which he had done in his growing years as an artist, in all his capacity.

Kazua Ishiguro beautifully reveals the human side of the characters and narrates organically, the friction between them brewing.

[nibeditas-world]

काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा

ये काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा,

लोग आते जाते अपने नाम लिखते हैं,

फिर कुछ दिनों बाद,

या तो वो नाम खुद अजनबी बन जाते हैं,

या फिर मिट जाते हैं,

को जाते हैं,

कहीं सिल��टों पर।

ये काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा,

जाने कितनी यादों को समेटे बैठा है,

किसी दिन ज़ोर की बारिश हुई,

आंसुओं की लहरों के चपेटे में आगया,

और कमज़ोर होगी इसकी सतह,

रात भर मोमबत्ती की लौ को देखती रही मैं,

ताकि उसकी गर्माहट से सुख जाए,

इसकी सतह।

ये काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा,

सपनोंऔर कविताओं की पंख लगाए,

उड़ जाना चाहता है,

एक आजाद परिंदे की तरह,

पर जाए तो जाए कहां,

नाज़ुक है न, नादान सा,

ये काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा।

कभी फुर्सत मिले तो,

आजाना पढ़ने किसी दिन,

वो जो लिखा है और

लिख जाना वो जो नहीं लिखा है,

साथ में एक फूल लेते आना ज़रूर,

पन्नों के बीच में कहीं छुपा जाना,

ये काग़ज़ी दिल मेरा,

रखेगा संभाले उस फूल को,

जैसे रखा है तुम्हारी पंक्तियों को।

[nibeditas-world]

Turtles all the way down by John Green

The story is beautifully narrated and one can actually relate with Aza, the protagonist of the story. It speaks volume about people dealing with mental illness and about those who are part of their lives, like best friend, mother, and an almost boyfriend.

People will support tirelessly and will try to understand what goes on inside a person suffering from mental illness but there are layers to it.

Somedays the support will wear away a little bit, and understanding can take some rest but It doesn't make them bad people or their love any less.

And for the one suffering it, is dealing with so much more underneath those smiles and laughter. Somedays the feeling strangles them so tightly that they can't even confront their own feelings to themselves, and they actually do not know the right way and right words to express them.

There is no proper answer or a procedure to follow what's the right thing to do.

My take away from the book:

Sky gazing

[nibeditas-world]

बहने दो ना,

मत समेटो इन लहरों को,

न ही रोको इनको तुम अपने शब्दो की बांध में,

ये बांधो में बांधने वाली नही हैं।

कहने दो ना,

कभी सुनलो तुम भी मेरी बातों को,

और जवाब में अपने किस्से मत जोड़ों इनसे,

कुछ ख़ामोश लम्हों को बैठने दो हमारे दरमियां।

बदलने दो ना,

पुरानी सी हो गई हूं,

सिलवटे पड़ गई हैं मेरे अस्तित्व और अभिमान पर,

अब थक सी गई हूं खुदको समेटते समेटते।

उड़ने दो ना,

कबसे बस घड़ी के कांटे की तरह गोल गोल घू�� रही हूं,

कब सुबह हुई, कब रात होगी, कुछ नही जानना मुझे,

बस आंखें बंद करके उड़ जाना चाहती सारी झंझटों से दूर।

[nibeditas-world]

Covid is a myth, until it visits your loved ones,

Until you see someone close to you, running out of breath,

But what about those who don't have loved ones,

Those who see votes not voters,

Those who think their hollow words can buy you better tomorrow,

Then, who you go to running?

When there is chaos everywhere,

When your loved ones don't get a bed in hospitals, or oxygen cylinders to live another day or another hour,

When you are fighting with hundreds like you for basic needs,

Unable to blink in peace, thousands of bad thoughts rush to their minds,

And kick sleep out of their eyes, hunger out of their systems.

Their one eye keeps a watch on the gate, while the other one cries for those struggling to breathe.

The doctors tired, exhausted,

Can't rest their feet, but cry behind their face shield,

Who do they go to, and express their grief?

They have left their families months ago,

They are in the middle of a sea of patients, and their limbs tired from swimming,

They don't have floating tyres around them,

Hope is waiting at the shore and shore is far away from sight.

There are patients outnumbering the beds and dead ones waiting for their pyres,

The air feels heavy with stench and fear,

I see children peeping out of their balconies with masks covering their childhood,

My neighbours too afraid to say hello,

With every ambulance siren, the fear grows stronger,

We have families far across the borders,

With eyes shut and trembling lips, we whisper prayers,

The chaos grows everyday, the sun doesn't shine bright enough for some people,

who are running around with their infected babies,

Begging for some medicines, breaking fingers to get connected to some help,

How long will that son have to wait, before he cremates his father,

How louder the daughter has to cry, to get her mother some cure,

Life seems cheaper than oxygen cylinder,

The crematoriums are choking the city,

Who will provide breathable air to humanity!

[nibeditas-world]

After watching the movie "The Lunchbox", I immediately called my elder sister over whatsapp video and asked her if she had had the chance to watch the movie as well. To which she denied, so I played the movie on my laptop and over whatsapp video I showed her the glimpse of Sajan Farnandese, played by the late actor Irrfan Khan, and by the end of it, she said "Isn't he exactly like Manoj Chacha?"

We had a great laugh on this subject. Manoj Chacha is the Sajan Farnandese in our life. He is my father's second cousin, who lived two houses right to our home in the neighborhood, back in village. The grumpy, cranky and always with a bad temper, middle-aged man. He never comes to any family functions, that we organise in our ancestor's home, neither does he invite us because he never celebrates one. He lives alone with his bedridden mother.

If at all we invade in his premises accidentally, he gives a sour look and chases us away from his balcony.

While watching the movie, I thought if he too had similar thoughts and vulnerability like Sajan had. Eating lumpy food, smoking alone in his balcony and peeping out of his lonely life at other's lives through a small opening in windows. If he misses someone he had longed to be with, and express his hearty content with anyone, a sense of pity took over my childishly foolish feelings.

So didi and I were discussing how misjudged that man is and how terribly we had behaved with him without knowing his shoes, in which he has walked all his life.

We added my father in the same video call and asked him about Manoj Chacha. My father informed us that he has sold his house and has moved to the USA two years ago. He was a very bright student and was selected in one of the best colleges in India but he couldn't pursue his career because his mother had a severe stroke then. She was bedridden since then and he became a dedicated son taking care of his mother, leaving his career behind.

Two years ago when his mother died, he too let himself free.

We ended out conversation but the thoughts kept lingering in my mind.

[nibeditas-world]

The Last Kiss

The first time we kissed after our 6th date, it was so intense that when I reached home, I could still taste him on my tongue. I rushed to the bathroom and closely watched my tongue, it wasn't mine, it was his, which means he had mine then. We exchanged our tongues.

In these six dates, there wasn't a single thing we didn't have our opinions on, but our opinions were poles apart and so were the books we read, music we preferred, courses we were in and movies we watched.

After sixth date, we met after a month because he went on a boys trip to SriLanka, which for him was no using of phone or social media kind of thing. He says he absorbs the surrounding in those trips and borrow time, space by being away from his phone.

"I understand".

But on our seventh date, he gave me a shell, inside a brown paper bag, which he got for me from some beach. He looked restless and his eyebrows were knitted together since he first saw me on that date.

Then we kissed again and we did with the same intensity as before. After that we left, no goodbyes, no hugs, no parting courtesy was exchanged between us.

When I checked on my bathroom mirror, my tongue was bruised and bitten so badly in places, because my tongue refused to voice his opinions, thoughts.

He returned my tongue but with bruises.

That was my last kiss.

[nibeditas-world]

Voids in the universe

The other day in the park I saw a dead tree, frozen in its moment till it melts away into the soil, where it was born from, leaving behind a tree shaped void on the atmosphere. 

I thought to myself, when I leave, there will be a me shaped void in the universe. My mother and my father will look into the void and look for me. My brother will walk past the void, to get an imprint on his heart. My husband will hug the void at night and sleep next to it, throwing his arm on the pillow so the void could place its head like I used to place.

Never even I thought any of my friends would acknowledge that there is a void in their memory after I am long gone. To discuss all that we discussed, to laugh on things we used to laugh on, to sail away gifts on my birthdays or on New year's. But that evening when I was sitting with an old friend in a dimly lit room, we talked about everything then she said, "you have become so silent. Who are you? Do I even know you?" I said, "maybe maybe not. Would you care if I leave a void on your memory and in this universe?"

She said nothing. Her eyes leaked and she avoided eye contact with me. She was searching for words in thin air, her throat was parched of words. Her smile betrayed her intentions and she lifted the phone to dial in kitchen's number. She ordered a huge pizza and a bottle of rum. We waited nervously for the order to reach our room, she switched on the television to make room for the silence to sit between us, I desperately searched for a meme on my phone to ward of the uncomfortable air.

The doorbell broke the awkward silence, pizza and rum were patiently waiting outside the door.

After we clinked our wine glasses and dug into the pizza, two tipsy souls hugged. Then she said, "I don't want to share pizza and wine with anyone but you, when we grow old. I want us sit by a beach, get tipsy on beverages and give a toothless smile to each other. No one's leaving a void in the universe before that."

That was more of a demand wrapped in wine painted tongue and words soaked in love fell from your lips.

We hugged a little tighter after that, I squeezed your tiny frame a bit more, as if imprinting your love and words on me, to keep the negative thoughts outside my door, whenever they knock, I must ignore their calls and never look in their eyes.

I hope I be your cushion, so that when you are tired you can crash and rest upon.

[nibeditas-world]

"Olanj" 🍊

Ranu drew an orange on the wall with a piece charcoal, that she had found on her way out of her grandfather's place. The brown muddy wall gave it a rustic look of a spoilt orange. That one broken wall with a broken chair is where her grandfather often takes her, on his way to steal some puffs of the bidi from her grandmother's eyes.

Ranu's grandfather asked her what she had drawn on the wall because little Ranu's sketch betrayed her intentions and turned out as a sloppy circle, upon which a line was trying to balance it's frame. "Olanj" is the word that slipped its way out of her mouth, politely excusing the candy & her tongue, splashing on some saliva.

"What's an olanj?" asked her grandfather, he has seen oranges in fruits shop, getting fanned by the fruitseller in scorching heat but he had never bought one, so he isn't aware of the taste that it leaves on one's tongue also he only knows the local name of orange not the foreign one, his ears just received.

Ranu chewed her candy and pushed it down her throat, then she said, "you don't know olanj? O fol olanj. Didn't you read in school?"

Her grandfather said "show me in your book then!"

When they reached home, she showed her grandfather what "olanj" looks like from her book.

Her grandfather sighed and said, "it's santra not olanj. Have you ever tasted one?"

Ranu said, "yes my father brings every now and then. Mother peels it and gives me in a plate. It's sweet, sometimes it's sour."

That day when he went to meet his friends over a game of cards, he told everyone about his newly learnt foreign word "o fol olanj 🍊".

[nibeditas-world]

बारिश

कई सालों पहले मैंने दो पंक्तियां पढ़ी थी, "इस साल की बारिश कुछ ज्यादा ही रूखी महसूस होती है, या शायद मेरे रवैये में कुछ रूखापन सा घुल गया है। कहीं ये रूखापन किसिके न होने का अहसास तो नहीं?"

रूखापन से मुझे पारुल की याद आती है कभी कभी, हॉस्टल में वो कितनी ज़ोर से हस्ती थी के दूसरे कमरे तक आवाज़ आती थी और हम सब हस पड़ते थे। सिर्फ हसीं ही तो थी जो बारिश की बूंद की तरह सूखे ज़मीन पे पड़ती थी और पूरा बाग़ खिल उठता था। चाहे कोई कितना भी उदास हो, किसी भी वजह से, उसकी हंसी सुनते ही खिलखिला उठता था।

लेकिन धीरे धीरे उसकी ये हसीं फ़िकी पड़ते गई, और किसीने ध्यान ही नहीं दिया।

कैसे कोई अपने से ही दूर होते जाता है और उसके आस पास के लोगों को पता भी नहीं चलता।

हॉस्टल छोड़ते समय कैसे हम सूखे खोखले वायदे करते हैं "एक दूसरे से टच में रहने का", पर कौन रहता है टच में, सब अपनी दुनिया में अपनी अड़चनों में अपने परेशानियों की चादर ओढ़ के चुपचाप चलते हैं, चेहरे पे एक नकली हसीं को असली हसीं की जगह पे चिपकाए हुए। और एक दिन असली हसीं नकली हसीं में फर्क करना भूल जाते हैं।

पर पारुल की वो बिंदास हसीं को नकली हसीं के पीछे छुपाना आसान नहीं है।

पिछली बारिश में वो बस स्टॉप पर मिली थी, एक चॉकलेट के रंग वाले छते के नीचे खुदको समेट रही थी। मैं बस स्टॉप तक भाग के अयी खुदको बारिश की बूंदों से बचते बचाके, पर मेरी लाल सुती की शर्ट पर कुछ बूंदों ने धब्बे बना रखे थे मानो अपना दायरा खींच रहे हों।

उसने देखा मुझे और पहचाना, मैं तो शायद पहचान भी नहीं पाती। वो खुद आयी और शुरुआत ��े कुछ पल पुराने दिनों को आज में जगह देते हुए हमने कुछ यादें ताज़ा करी। फ़िर उसने कहा , "कहीं चाय पीने चलें? अगर तुम्हे परेशानी ना हो तो।"

मैंने कहा, "आज मुझे जल्दी घर पहुंचना है, फिर कभी चलते हैं।" मैंने उसे अपना मोबाइल नम्बर दिया और घर की ओर चल पड़ी।

वो खड़ी रही शायद कुछ देर क्योंकि उसकी नज़रें मैंने अपने पीठ पर महसूस किया था।

उसने कभी कॉल नहीं किया मुझे, हम उस चाय के प्यास को वहीं छोड़ आए, उसी बस स्टॉप पे, वो बारिश की एक शाम के साथ पिघल गई।

[nibeditas-world]

I think zoos are the loneliest and most cruel places in the whole world. I wonder "What happens when animals in zoo give birth to their offsprings? What do they whisper in their babies' ears? Do they say sorry for bringing them into a world of pain and suffering, or do they hide their pain and welcome them as if there isn't anything better outside? Do they pass on strength or let out words of encouragement and positivity? Do they sing them songs from jungle or do they tell them that jungle is an imaginary place and they shouldn't aspire to go back there? Or do they tell them not to bring their offsprings onto this world to suffer?"

Their sad eyes question, "is your enjoyment worth our freedom at all?"