#Why Me, Son? (Poetry)

     Why Me, Son? (Poetry)

The caring in my Son’s childhood days,

The attention I pays,

Cared, nourished & brought up,

Now, Big Man as he is looked up.

                                                       Going away from home,

                                                        Earning a lot of money,

                                                         Moved to a big house-

                                                        A car greeting from home.

                                                         No Time for me,

                                                          No Space for me.

Invisibility my fate after his marriage,

Daughter-in-law not heeding me.

He forget love

She forget care.

                                                         One day,

                                                          I in Old Age Home,

                                                        No visiting me,

                                                        Bruised legs, long love,

                                                        Drooping back, long support,

                                                         Zoo animals we are visited

                                                         The search for the Son is on.

Am I nearing sunset?

It’s getting dark,

I know I have to go,

Son, love me…

Why desert me?

Why me, Son?

Pooja

    Pooja

Lying wrapped in white sheets with burn and bite marks on the torso, neck and hand looked broken, Pooja’s body is in a refrigerated glass case in the grounds of Nashik’s Hospital. “What does it take for a rape to be declared a rape?, No one practices untouchability when it comes to sex. What sin did my daughter  commit? I want justice”, the father sobbed and said angrily.

Laxman, a passer - by was curious and asked his friend. His friend replied. “It is a long story Bro. I will tell you later.” “No, I want to know it now itself.” “O.K. then let’s sit under the shadow of that tree.”

Pooja was like any other girl in the village, going to school every morning on a bicycle and coming home at three o’ clock. But she was the most beautiful girl of fourteen in the entire village. Though, she was of darker shades but the shape of the face was very charming. No one would miss that whenever they passed her. But this quality of her made many men jealous!

The people of her caste tried their luck in getting into a friendship with her but she refused. The upper caste men too did the same but were unsuccessful. They plotted a wicked plan. As she had to cross a jungle – path  to reach her school in the other end. The upper caste men hid themselves behind the trees and waited breathlessly.

When they spotted her on the way, they pounced on her. Then they dragged her to the woods. They tore her clothes and raped her repeatedly... I was walking through that road and stumbled upon something. It was a dead body. The body was full clothed when found but dress was red with bleeding. There was blood down to her legs. I was terrified seeing the scene and immediately called the police.

The police did the panchnaama and took the body to the Nashik Hospital. The post – mortem declared rape. A case was filed against the culprits and search was on for the accused. Her Father was adamant that he will not bury the body unless he gets justice. They caught the three upper caste men. But they came out unscratched. Their relatives threatened me of dire consequences if I spoke out the truth of what I saw. I sealed my mouth so that my family would live in peace. But then alas! Pooja could not get the justice she deserved. Her Father has come to take the body and give the burial…..

Janet’s Hope

    Janet’s Hope 

She sat at the window smiling. Watching the little children playing and giggling is a source of great joy. Tears fell down her cheeks as Janet recollected her childhood memories of her playing with fellow schoolmates under the shadow of the same tree seven years ago where now the little children are playing.

What fun! We all used to wait impatiently for the last bell to ring and when it rung all hell would break loose. It was like a stampede to get out from the school. Licking the sweet ice-cream from the nearby Raju Chacha’s house was a great source of relief from the sour experience of our teacher yelling at us for no reason. Whatever, we proceeded our march towards our adda – our playground.

Cool breeze refreshed our minds as we walked down the road singing joyfully at the top of our voices. The honking of the truck – driver was very annoying. We never understood what joy he got honking in that stupid rhythm. Was he trying to impress someone or Had he lost his mind?

At last came our battlefield beside the road where our huge banyan tree stood proudly near the lake eagerly welcoming us. She was very large-hearted. She always protected us from rain as well as from torturous sunlight. Running around the tree, Janet could never be caught as she was as sprightly as a deer.

Kabaddi – was the game we all looked forward to. Whether you were a boy or a girl, no one were spared from the dirty clutches of Janet’s hand. No one dared defeat her. Defeating the opposite team was a cakewalk for her. In short, she was a pucca rowdy.

All this continued till that fateful day arrived. We were all playing football. As usual, the ball was in Janet’s control. When she hit the ball, it missed the goalpost and went off the road. Infused with energy, Janet ran quickly to get back the ball. As she crossed the road, unmindful of our shouts and screams, she was immediately knocked down by that cruel honking truck – driver.

Now, after seven years as both of us were talking of that harrowing experience, Janet said , “ I will definitely walk again Sophia. My hope is still burning strongly. I want to run around the tree. I have to go down there right away and feel the water with my hands…

#Power In Your #Hands - The #Inferno

      Power In Your Hands - The Inferno 

Fire is Power

Is in your Hands

                           Enact dreams as the Fire –

                           Power the Imagination

                           Hearts can be broken;

                           Pride can never be damaged

                           But;

                           Power of the Spirit

                           Can never be destroyed.

Attitude is Fuel

Molding our heights

Tracking our Destination

Blessed are those who have the will,

For they can change the world.

                           So,

                                Master the Fire,

                                Pump the blood in you,

                                Being a phoenix bird

                                Rise from the ashes.

Ignite the moral world

& be the Inferno...

#Creative #Writing (Testimonial)

    Creative Writing (Testimonial)

Creative Writing is a source of great joy. Producing a new form which is our experience in some way is definitely exciting, challenging as well as enticing. You become responsible of what you right. Also, it gives us a sense of ownership to our piece of writing. An Anonymous quote says, “Amateur poets imitate, Master poets steal.” The Creative Writing Class gave this dimension in my way of writing.

I got to explore various genres such as poetry, short story, novella and one-act play. I dreaded writing a novella. It was writing a whole lot of chunk on an unknown canvas. Searching light in the darkness, I tried hard to decipher what I was writing. Because most of the time, the first attempts were senseless. Writing, Re-writing and again Re- re-writing gave at least some sense to it. Not that what I wrote is a masterpiece but a sense of fulfillment that I got after putting the final touches to the pieces of writing will always be cherished.

The most interesting component of the Creative Writing is sitting along with our friends. That itself we most of the time look forward to. Sometimes, our discussions have become the basis of what I wrote in my pieces in one or the other way. Sitting in groups stimulates you to write. Creativity can flow from any direction in any way right? ; )

Nevertheless, my experiences in Creative Writing have been fruitful in its own right. It was never a free reign though.  A pen is mightier than a sword, truly, now we can embark upon a journey with a confidence that even if we fall down in our endeavor, we will get up and move forward towards  the intended goal.