This might be stupid but who cares???
I don't.
You know what I don't care about?
I don't care about the fact that I haven't written for months...I don't care about the fact that I have totaly lost touch and to tell the truth don't even know what I am going to write but here I am..writing...YES!! I am writing and thats the most important part.
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They wished me last night. Many of them. They wished that my new year would be a great one and I have all my wishes fulfilled. But they ignored my very first wish.
I wished that the year doesn't end. Its not that my year was a fantastic one. I mean,yes, there are a few fantastic things that happened this year and the way round as well.
But the one thing that I realized the most this year is that it hurts...it hurts to leave the old times behind...and it hurts the most when old time leaves you behind.
It hurts. Really does.
Showing posts with label Lessons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lessons. Show all posts
Friday, January 1, 2010
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas...as it was
"Baba...Baba..."
One deafening yell...then a crash...and I was on the floor,wrapped in a bundle...quilt,pillows, bedsheet n et al.
The whole house came running.
“What happened?” Baba asked, pulling me up through all that mess.
“He came. He actually came again this year. See I got my gifts. Cake, biscuit, a book and a letter.” I smiled.
Baba smiled too. So did Ma. We all smiled on the Christmas morning.
Christmas is there for that only, right? Its there to make you smile.
When you believe in the fairytale, you smile because your faith is true and when you don’t, then also you smile to the memories…and that faith stored up at some corner of your loyal heart which soon fills your entire mind and sets your imagination free…and ultimately brings a smile on your face.
Fortunately or unfortunately,I always used to get the same gifts from Santa every year…a cake, a packet of Britannia Good day, a book and a letter. The letter was the most fascinating part. Santa knew everything that I did year round and he wrote to me about that. He gave me innovative ideas about how to be all the more naughty…he asked me to be good…to love…believe and most of all he asked me to be happy. He also used to request a reply. I used to reply as well. And not knowing where to post it I ended up handing it over to Ma who always used to know where to find him.
Christmas was definitely a lot of fun...always.
It must have been class-III…the last time Santa ever wrote to me…and I never replied.
May be the child in me had started to doubt or the adult in me had started to grow up…what ever it might have been…I recognized Santa’s handwriting.
It was Baba. He had written the letter to me.
I was shocked, disappointed and hurt.
Hurt beyond imagination because not only was my Santa just fake but he also did not exist. He was simply not there. Not in my house…not in someone else’s house stuck up in a chimney…not in his factory at the North Pole. He just wasn’t there. Nowhere.The child in me lost its unadulterated faith and gained access to the world of doubts, disbelief and rationality.
It was hard to let Santa go... but as years passed…I realized that I don’t need to let go of him…rather I cant let go of him…because at some corner of my heart I’m still grateful to that bearded old man with his huge belly, red dress, reindeers, guffaws, elves and promises to return the next year, for making me imaginative and believing. For making me love, smile and happy. I am grateful to him because he actually taught me the lessons of life as I’d have preferred them. I love him because he kept his promise each year and came back to collect that piece of paper full of spelling mistakes and grammatically incorrect sentences or phrases..whatever you might call it...I love him because he never left me.
P.S:I never replied to him after that little discovery part…but however now…I really wish he would write to me one last time…I promise I'd reply.
One deafening yell...then a crash...and I was on the floor,wrapped in a bundle...quilt,pillows, bedsheet n et al.
The whole house came running.
“What happened?” Baba asked, pulling me up through all that mess.
“He came. He actually came again this year. See I got my gifts. Cake, biscuit, a book and a letter.” I smiled.
Baba smiled too. So did Ma. We all smiled on the Christmas morning.
Christmas is there for that only, right? Its there to make you smile.
When you believe in the fairytale, you smile because your faith is true and when you don’t, then also you smile to the memories…and that faith stored up at some corner of your loyal heart which soon fills your entire mind and sets your imagination free…and ultimately brings a smile on your face.
Fortunately or unfortunately,I always used to get the same gifts from Santa every year…a cake, a packet of Britannia Good day, a book and a letter. The letter was the most fascinating part. Santa knew everything that I did year round and he wrote to me about that. He gave me innovative ideas about how to be all the more naughty…he asked me to be good…to love…believe and most of all he asked me to be happy. He also used to request a reply. I used to reply as well. And not knowing where to post it I ended up handing it over to Ma who always used to know where to find him.
Christmas was definitely a lot of fun...always.
It must have been class-III…the last time Santa ever wrote to me…and I never replied.
May be the child in me had started to doubt or the adult in me had started to grow up…what ever it might have been…I recognized Santa’s handwriting.
It was Baba. He had written the letter to me.
I was shocked, disappointed and hurt.
Hurt beyond imagination because not only was my Santa just fake but he also did not exist. He was simply not there. Not in my house…not in someone else’s house stuck up in a chimney…not in his factory at the North Pole. He just wasn’t there. Nowhere.The child in me lost its unadulterated faith and gained access to the world of doubts, disbelief and rationality.
It was hard to let Santa go... but as years passed…I realized that I don’t need to let go of him…rather I cant let go of him…because at some corner of my heart I’m still grateful to that bearded old man with his huge belly, red dress, reindeers, guffaws, elves and promises to return the next year, for making me imaginative and believing. For making me love, smile and happy. I am grateful to him because he actually taught me the lessons of life as I’d have preferred them. I love him because he kept his promise each year and came back to collect that piece of paper full of spelling mistakes and grammatically incorrect sentences or phrases..whatever you might call it...I love him because he never left me.
P.S:I never replied to him after that little discovery part…but however now…I really wish he would write to me one last time…I promise I'd reply.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Gratitude
Nobody ever realized your worth.Nobody ever realized how important you are,how your presence lights up our lives and gives us all the memories that we treasure through out.Your happy face,your broken sobs,your insane laughter and then your uncontrolled tears---all of this has so much significance in our daily chores,but still we ignore your evident contributions.We don't give you the deserved recognition.
And today, I apologise for that.I am sorry,really very sorry.
I want to thank you,my friend and pay back all your dues.
Thank you Bad Times! Thank you so much!
Thank you for being there all the time,in my winter afternoons and autumn nights,sometimes taking the backseat and sometimes coming out into the limelight,making me realize all the time that how badly I crave for a happy life,how badly I want to put everything right,not to wrong anyone or get wronged,to put a smile on my loved one's face,to be good,To Live and not just survive in whatever little time I get in your absence.Thank you Bad Times for making me who I am.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Independence Day
I was in Class-IV.
Returning home from school after celebrating Independence Day with much Pomp and Grandeur, I was shouting a lot about the love I have for my country and Independence (etc.).
Baba was reading the newspaper in the drawing room, Ma was trying to concentrate on a recipe book she had taken out from Dinna's trunk and I was--- shouting!
Baba called me, took me on his lap and kept his left hand on my head. I stopped. The calmness in his touch always did that to me. I was pacified and rested on his chest.
"You know, Gurai," Baba spoke, while his hands caressed me, "we are not independent."
A stunned me sat straight. As the words sunk in, I turned to face him.
"How can that happen? That's not true. Big Aunty said,' We are free. We are independent.' She said..."
"You are independent only when you realize your responsibilities and are responsible for your actions. We Indians, neither realize our responsibilities nor do we acknowledge them."
"But Big Aunty..."
"Remember what I said." Baba smiled. His hands still caressing me.
I was in Class-VI.
Baba was admitted in a nursing home in Salt Lake. Both the transplanted kidneys had failed once again. He used to go mad with pain after dialysis. His hands and legs were tied so that he was not able to throw them.
Nobody was there in the room. Just me and Baba.
Baba's hands tied. I was standing at the window, looking at the setting sun over the Salt Lake Stadium. I turned around. A drop of tear was rolling down Baba's cheek. I went up to him and brushed it off.
Baba smiled.
"Gurai,will you do a job for me?" I was running my index finger on the veins coming out on Baba's hand. I nodded. "Take care of Ma, Gurai. Don't ever leave her alone."
I was in Class-VII. It was three months Baba had died. One night Ma suddenly started howling in her sleep. She was crying for Baba. She was shouting. Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. I held her tightly to my heart, wrapping her around with my arms, continuously whispering in her ears, "Its okay Ma. Its okay. I'm here." Kissing her on the forehead, shouting in my mind for help, for Baba. Ma was calming down. I was holding her. She fell asleep. I was still holding her.
Baba had said, "You are independent only when you realize your responsibilities and be responsible of your actions." Just realizing is not enough, no Baba? Just being with her when she cries is not enough.... I fight with her Baba. I make her angry. I get angry with her. I spend a lot more time with my friends, books and other accessories than I do with her. But I'm with her Baba.
All the time---like the Jasmine you planted--wrapping, climbing and growing up along that Cherry tree.
Returning home from school after celebrating Independence Day with much Pomp and Grandeur, I was shouting a lot about the love I have for my country and Independence (etc.).
Baba was reading the newspaper in the drawing room, Ma was trying to concentrate on a recipe book she had taken out from Dinna's trunk and I was--- shouting!
Baba called me, took me on his lap and kept his left hand on my head. I stopped. The calmness in his touch always did that to me. I was pacified and rested on his chest.
"You know, Gurai," Baba spoke, while his hands caressed me, "we are not independent."
A stunned me sat straight. As the words sunk in, I turned to face him.
"How can that happen? That's not true. Big Aunty said,' We are free. We are independent.' She said..."
"You are independent only when you realize your responsibilities and are responsible for your actions. We Indians, neither realize our responsibilities nor do we acknowledge them."
"But Big Aunty..."
"Remember what I said." Baba smiled. His hands still caressing me.
I was in Class-VI.
Baba was admitted in a nursing home in Salt Lake. Both the transplanted kidneys had failed once again. He used to go mad with pain after dialysis. His hands and legs were tied so that he was not able to throw them.
Nobody was there in the room. Just me and Baba.
Baba's hands tied. I was standing at the window, looking at the setting sun over the Salt Lake Stadium. I turned around. A drop of tear was rolling down Baba's cheek. I went up to him and brushed it off.
Baba smiled.
"Gurai,will you do a job for me?" I was running my index finger on the veins coming out on Baba's hand. I nodded. "Take care of Ma, Gurai. Don't ever leave her alone."
I was in Class-VII. It was three months Baba had died. One night Ma suddenly started howling in her sleep. She was crying for Baba. She was shouting. Her whole body was shaking uncontrollably. I held her tightly to my heart, wrapping her around with my arms, continuously whispering in her ears, "Its okay Ma. Its okay. I'm here." Kissing her on the forehead, shouting in my mind for help, for Baba. Ma was calming down. I was holding her. She fell asleep. I was still holding her.
Baba had said, "You are independent only when you realize your responsibilities and be responsible of your actions." Just realizing is not enough, no Baba? Just being with her when she cries is not enough.... I fight with her Baba. I make her angry. I get angry with her. I spend a lot more time with my friends, books and other accessories than I do with her. But I'm with her Baba.
All the time---like the Jasmine you planted--wrapping, climbing and growing up along that Cherry tree.
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