Why should she have to choose?

Why should she have to choose between career and family?
Why should her decisions make them question her sanity?
Why should she have to choose between him and her dream?
Why should they care about what her actions might mean?

She knows that her life could demand sacrifices.
She knows that she could have to make some compromises.
She knows it won't be easy to keep all her dreams alive.
But why should she give up before she even tries?

Why should she have to choose between science and dramatics?
Why should they say that her ideas are not pragmatic?
Why should she have to choose between money and peace of mind?
Why should they think she has to leave her world behind?

She knows some parts of life could have to take a back seat.
She knows that some of her dreams might have to face defeat.
She knows it won't be practical to chase all her dreams at once.
But why should she not chase them anyway and see what she becomes?

the flight

What would you say to a ten year old who wants to fly?
Not on feather-wings.
This is the 21st century. Kids know what they are talking about.
He wanted to be a pilot.
Not the pilot of boring passenger airlines.
He wanted to fly real aeroplanes. The fighter planes.
He did not remain ten years old forever.
He grew up to be the topper of his class in 12th standard, science stream.
And is studying computer science in the most reputed engineering college of the country.
Did growing up always mean growing out of your dreams?
Was 'being practical' always synonymous with 'following the herd'?

the story of a young boy

He had spent his entire life in that gully playing street-cricket and dancing in the rain during Ganesh Visarjan; it was the only home he had ever known. As he looked at his mother's kholi one last time, a tear trickled down his round cheek. The bulldozers had arrived.

Mitali

The golden sky turning blue and then fading into darkness had always been a part of her life. She wouldn’t miss it for the world. Every evening, since as far back as she could recollect, Mitali had found herself sitting on one of the benches lined in front of the park, looking at the familiar saffron disc sink into the lake. The scenery ceaselessly amused her. Soft lavender flowers of deadly water hyacinth that was choking the lake lent an undeniable charm to the beauty of the breathtaking view. The graceful white birds flying in the sky gave her a sense of freedom while the kites hovering far above made her feel uneasy. She loved the brightly colored boats bobbing lazily in the calm waters but the sight of the run-down shed of the abandoned boat-house gave her an eerie sense of loneliness. Soothing sounds of a bell ringing in the Devi-Temple visible on a piece of land jutting into the blue expanse emanated a sense of peace and calm. She felt like a part of the scenery. The sunset could not be complete without her.

She didn’t really do anything while sitting there. Who would want to read a book when there was poetry all around, and the birds never let her miss her walkman. She had made friends with some of the other regular visitors of the park though. Mister Ramanathan always greeted her with a smile and had a special Hersheys Milk Chocolate to offer whenever his son came home on a rushed trip from the US. Mrs. Rathod could be seen power-walking on the walk-way every Tuesday and Thursday. She managed to convey her greetings without a break in the rhythm of her steps, never waiting for a response. Radha and her friends, on the other hand, made it a point to sit and have a long chat with Mitali after they were exhausted with their day’s quota of Chor-Police and I-Spy. They thoroughly enjoyed the treasure trove of stories that Mitali seemed to have amassed. She had endless tales to tell of her various escapades as a child. She told them stories of her adventures in the haunted woods behind the lake and of the fishing trips with her friends. In the rains, she taught them how to make sturdy paper boats that didn’t topple while flowing in the gushing water of the nallah. The children were her favorite company. They reminded her of the best times of her life.

Mitali was born normal; a healthy 3 kilo baby with patches of golden-brown locks all over her round head. Her uncle still called her Goldilocks. She was the liveliest and the prettiest kid in the locality, an apple of her parents’ eye. The only child of her parents and the youngest of the grandchildren in her extended family, she was used to being under a spotlight at most times. Leadership came naturally to her. Being the youngest didn’t deter her from persuading all her cousins into playing wild games she invented. Jumping off the swing while it was at the highest point in its trajectory was one of her favorites. Being stronger than she looked, she never hesitated in picking a fight with children older and bigger than her. When she started going to school, she was the teachers pet and the naughtiest girl in school, all rolled up in one bundle of boundless energy. Sports like basket ball and hockey came easily to her. With a healthy team spirit and an athletic body, she was the first choice for any girls’ sports team in school. She never stood first in class, but clearing her courses was never a problem. Life seemed like a deam come true.

Like scores of other young boys and girls in Bombay, Mitali too went to college in a local train. A first class pass on students’ concession and a walkman on her father’s consideration got her through the long journey from the suburbs to the hub of the elite – St. Xaviers College of Arts and Sciences. It was the first youth festival she had attended and the Rock-Night was not to be missed. Lost in the rhythm and the energy all around her, she did not feel the time fly past. The yelling and head-banging made her feel high. It was the most memorable night of her life.

On her way back, she got into the first class ladies compartment as usual, and regretted it instantly. At that late hour of the night, she and her friends Lalita and Rohini were the only occupants of the compartment apart from a lanky man who had hopped in as the train left the platform. The girls felt uneasy, but they had no choice, at least till the next station. Finding three well dressed girls cornered, the ruffian decided to take advantage of the situation. Approaching them with a knife in his hand, he demanded that they hand over all their valuables. The girls hesitated, but another look at the glistening blade of the knife dispelled all their doubts and reservations. They handed over whatever money they had in their wallets. Realizing that the next station was approaching, the man started moving towards the door. That is when the gold chain peaking out from under Mitali’s t-shirt caught his attention. He made a jab at her but the excellent reflexes afforded by years of an active lifestyle helped Mitali dodge the attack. The thug lost his balance. He fell out of the moving train, dragging Mitali along. A train running on the adjacent track took the man’s life and Mitali’s legs.

The golden wisps of sunlight had given way to inky blackness of the night. The mosquitoes made it impossible to sit by the grass. It was time. Raghu Kaka was just a phone call away. He was a fast but cautious driver, having been a part of her family since Mitali was a child. Putting an end to his talk with the chanaa vendor, he rushed to take ‘Baby’ home. As the white car turned around the bend, a keen observer could notice a small sticker on the windscreen of the car – Professor Mitali Deb, Humanities Department. Mitali would be back for her sunset, no matter what.

Four Legged Followers

As I walked into the corridor at 7 o’clock in the evening to go to my lab, I noticed a dog following me. In fact, it was following me from the front. This is an art the dogs of IIT Bombay seem to have mastered, having been persistent practitioners possibly for decades now. They walk in front of you. Wagging their tail, tongue hanging, a perfect picture of beatitude, doing exactly what they love. On every fork on the road, they wait for you to show the way and then continue - following from the front.

Some of my friends say animals have an unusual affinity towards me. Last evening I was sitting in Hiranandani with a friend of mine, having a sandwich, when a white street dog approached. That was quite normal. Dogs do come when they see people eating in the hope of being treated with some leftovers. But then a brown dog too came over. Okay, probably they were friends, or had a deal to share every meal, or seeing two not-so-thin people eating they thought that food was available in excess. When a third dog, a black one, came I stood up feeling rather uncomfortable. “But you should be used to such things by now!” said my friend. That is when I realized how I had come to be associated with animals. It seemed to have become a defining trait of my personality.

I must say, my friends aren’t really all that unreasonable. What they say does make sense to a certain extent. A monkey did come running after me and caught hold of my leg while I was walking down the corridor one day. I shrieked in fright and tried to run. The only thing the security guard could do was smile with an amused expression on his face. The monkey relented soon, but I was quite shaken by the experience. Since then, I try keeping a safe distance from those cunning trouble-makers. My adventures with animals are not a recent occurring though. Having stayed in this nature-friendly campus for almost all my life, I have had various amusing experiences with the four legged. My friends and I were once attacked by a herd of cows while going to the weekly classical-music lessons. But that happened a long time ago. I was a little kid then. I do have very graphic memories of the incident, but I’m afraid most of them must be fabrications of my imaginative mind. I barely give credit to the idea of young children being able to fend off an attack as brutal as the one I seem to recall and get away unscathed. A relatively more recent occurrence would be the encounter with a pack of dogs. I do have more distinct memories of that incident, and by the nature of their not being too fantastic, I think they might be genuine. I was going to school. My father had miraculously agreed to take me in his car that day. When I kept my bag on the back seat, I suddenly realized that I had forgotten my water-bottle upstairs. I was already getting late, so I ran towards the stairs. A small pack of dogs had chosen the parking area of our building as their shelter for the previous night. Only half of them seemed to be awake. As some of them saw me running, even though in a totally different direction, they got rather excited. I still remember it vividly. Five dogs ran after me, barking like maniacs, their teeth bare and mouths frothing. Of course, I freaked out. But common-sense prevailed soon. I was a bright kid you know. Somehow I gathered enough courage to stop while being chased by those brutes and turning towards them I screamed “Get lost you stupid dogs!” And that was it. My dog-adventure was over. I think it must’ve been surprise, or rather shock. Those dogs might not really have expected a young girl to turn back and yell at them. Whatever the exact feelings my actions might have triggered in them, they promptly put their tails down, stopped jumping at me and went back to the parking lot to resume their repast.

Though my childhood was adventurous, the most memorable incident is the one with the dog near the tea-stall in Hiranandani. I was in a habit of going there with my boyfriend for a post-dinner tea session. I think that is what got me addicted to tea. I get really restless in the absence of this beverage these days. Anyway, the point being, there are lots of street dogs around that area. Usually they are harmless. Accepting biscuits form dog-loving tea consumers keeps them content in general. But then again, generally I am not around. I was standing with my back-side resting on my boyfriend’s bike, a cup of tea in my hand, sharing a packet of biscuits with him. As it so happened, one of the street dogs in the vicinity did not seem to like the idea of letting things run in so smooth a manner. It started walking to and fro in front of us. That was conspicuous enough, but maybe the dog really wanted its presence to be felt and did not want to take any chance lest it not be noticed. So, with an elegant move it jumped as if to pounce at me and then stood on its hind legs, its front paws resting on my belly. Now that was quite an experience. A street dog staring into your face with its front paws resting on you, all uninvited. My scream would’ve probably woken up half of Powai. The people around me soon came to my rescue, shooing the animal away. After some time, on having duly recovered from the overwhelming situation, we returned to the campus. I am so used to it by now that on an average day I probably wouldn’t even have noticed it, but the events of the evening did not let me ignore our friendly neighborhood dogs following us from the front.

Heathcliff

I can never forget Heathcliff. He had a lasting impression on me. How could a person be like that? This creation of Emiy Bronte put my innocent little mind in distress. He was the villain of Wuthering Heights, but I couldn't exactly hate him. The blend of pity, fear, loathing, anger, awe, sympathy, curiosity, wonder left me confused. Heathcliff made me feel uneasy. Sometimes he still does.
The story started with his being tormented and exploited. Then came the cruel revenge. Even the horrors of his past - the deprivation, the humiliation, the betrayal he had suffered - could not justify the treachery and heartlessness of his vengence.
He couldn't really have been devoid of a heart. He loved Catherine deeply. But it seemed that he had a heart only for her. Her loss drove him to insanity. Torturing his wife, tormenting his enfeebled and dieing son, imprisoning Catherine's daughter, annihilating all those who seemed to be responsible for distancing him from his love, even destroying the lives of their children.
Probably if I had read the book later on in life, it wouldn't have had such an effect on me. But as it so happened, I was an innocent young child then, unaware of the terrible shades human nature could acquire.
Heathcliff is a name that is etched in my memory forever.

Mister Pink-Whistle's Party

I don't even remember what the book was all about. A fat, rosy-cheeked Mister Pink-Whistle smiling benevolently out of the cover of a timeworn book with yellow pages is all that comes to my mind. Well, there were balloons in the background. Probably red, blue and yellow. and it was one of the first few books that my younger sister ever read as a child.
My parents had a tough time getting me to read novels. I would always give-up on them after the first few pages. Also, the first books that they tried to make me read were not the easiest ones to grasp as a child. Enid Blyton was Vineeta Auntie's idea. Her daughter was my age and had a whole cupboard full of Famous Fives, Malory Towers and Saint Clares.
The first book that I ever managed to read, however, was 'The Adventurous Four'. My mother and I read it together. It was fun competing with her to read it and then discussing the story. It was a hard-bound book with a blue cover and had a boat painted in the front. The same boat that led the four friends to a remarkable adventure.
Thus began my adventures in the world of Enid Blyton. Famous Five, The Five Findouters, The Twins at Saint Clares, The Naughtiest Girl in School were all my childhood friends. How the piggy 'runned away' in Billycock Hill still makes me smile. And Mister Pink Whistle's Party sure was a success.