Knock knock...you there?

I know a little girl who wishes there was no Fathers day that would remind her of the emptiness she’s felt all her life। And I know a little boy who lost his dad a few moons ago under tragic circumstances. He wishes for this day to quickly pass so he can get on with his life pretending to be happy.

The two good hearts bond unknowingly, the common thread being the physical absence of a father’s love. They do not talk about it though. They joke and pretend and watch over one another. They share how lucky they are being best friends. They feel the confidence that exudes only with a sense of belonging to someone who cares and will be around under any circumstance.
Father’s are indeed special and hold the key to emotions that one realizes only when it’s gone or not there in the first place। They bring with their presence a special emanation that cannot be matched.

I’m always struck by the god like characteristics kids bestow on their fathers। How they proudly flaunt them around. The hero worship surprises me when an undeserving human is put on a pedestal by his child and bestowed qualities unknown to the man himself.

Most of the fathers struggle and succeed in maintaining the picture perfect image. And then there are others who are not equipped to be selfless as parents ought to be. They are not bad people. Just self absorbed! The aerodynamics of love that propels a father towards his child is just not there. This is a rare breed. But it is this percentage of fathers whose children are lost.
The waifs look for their dads everywhere and yet nowhere। And then they build on their imaginations. They live dreams of time spent together. Of laughter echoing in the vast expanse of meadows filled with flowers. Of sharing an adventure that belongs only to the two of them and will forever remain itched in their memories.

The hollowness is suppressed and life goes on। But somewhere this festering wound that is deeply imbedded keeps oozing. A trigger here and there can collapse the strong fortress like walls they build around their hearts and mind.

Perhaps even a stranger’s heart would bleed reading this. But there is nothing much one can do but feel compassion. No one can replace a father's love and this every father should know and instill in his sons mind. The role that nature allows a man to play does not end just with procreation. It is so much more than just holding a baby and being proud it has your features.

©BuntysBanter २००९

Disclaimer : Picture downloaded from the internet

The guardian angel who speaks Hindi!

As I travel through life looking for a meaning in every purpose, I luckily come across people who move me enough to start believing in goodness in a different way। What makes them think this differently is beyond my understanding? Such people have shed what they were conditioned to believe in and cleared the wilderness of their jumbled thoughts with the hatchet of their own making। The hatchet that has sharpened with each grind of an experience felt deeply and cleared the path of Pavlovian behaviour। The strength of the paper thin edge shines above the regular blunts.

Such is this messiah of the downtrodden animals residing in the hills close to Mumbai। A foreigner who settled in India about 51 years ago and speaks fluent Hindi as she barks orders to the workers building her abode and coos proudly as her eye rests on her pet Ox. Handsome is what she calls him and indeed he is a comely example of his lot yet different in his dealings with people. Have you ever heard of the adage “as tolerant as a bull”? Well this one is!

Then there are the mongrels that she’s picked up from different situations। A road accident, an abandoned pet, puppies who lost their mum, sick dogs and flea ridden pariahs. And with a graceful wave of her kindly wand, she sprinkles gold dusts of eternal happiness on the destitute as she tends to a broken leg and another’s broken soul!

There are dogs that are miss fits। Scarred due to abuse and violent enough to not be allowed to mingle with the rest. She happily accommodates the restless and watches over them as a mother would be watchful of her challenged child.

Tall and slim, this blessing from the lord himself is a selfless human who shelters these animals on her property. The quarters are clean and the animals healthy and well looked after. She does not owe allegiance to any NGO nor accepts donations. She does not want to be featured nor photographed. In her own words, “I do this more for myself. The animals don’t need me as much as I need them. They have changed my life and made it beautiful!”

©BuntysBanter २००९
Disclaimer : Picture downloaded from the internet

Fickle Lover!

The gold dust settles
Amongst the fragrant petals
Emerging in the dark
Is a heart that’s stark
But you don’t wanna do a thing
Coz fickle Lover….you just don’t know how to cling!

The sand on the beach
Is as clear as a peach
Little dunes moulding dreams
Caring hands patting themes
But you don’t wanna do a thing
Coz fickle lover…you just don’t know how to zing!

In the middle of the night
You get up restless and tight
You yearn for the touch
So very much
But you can’t seem to share your thoughts
Coz fickle lover…your ego’s up in knots

The summers we spent
With a romantic bent
Splashing in the lake
Nothing seemed fake
And then you made new friends
Your absence made amends
Of working hard in life
To manage an upkeep of a wife
But fickle lover….you forgot the rules of life!

And now that I’m gone
You sit and fawn
At our pictures together
Tickling desires with a feather
That which we had painstakingly built
And raised on a stilt
At the altar of cupid
Now sounds very stupid
You drove me away
Turning my heart into clay
Coz fickle lover….your love just went astray!

(This piece is inspired by a movie I recently saw on Hallmark).

©BuntysBanter 2009

Fickle Lover!

The gold dust settles
Amongst the fragrant petals
Emerging in the dark
Is a heart that’s stark
But you don’t wanna do a thing
Coz fickle Lover….you just don’t know how to cling!

The sand on the beach
Is as clear as a peach
Little dunes moulding dreams
Caring hands patting themes
But you don’t wanna do a thing
Coz fickle lover…you just don’t know how to zing!

In the middle of the night
You get up restless and tight
You yearn for the touch
So very much
But you can’t seem to share your thoughts
Coz fickle lover…your ego’s up in knots

The summers we spent
With a romantic bent
Splashing in the lake
Nothing seemed fake
And then you made new friends
Your absence made amends
Of working hard in life
To manage an upkeep of a wife
But fickle lover….you forgot the rules of life!

And now that I’m gone
You sit and fawn
At our pictures together
Tickling desires with a feather
That which we had painstakingly built
And raised on a stilt
At the altar of cupid
Now sounds very stupid
You drove me away
Turning my heart into clay
Coz fickle lover….your love just went astray!

(This piece is inspired by a movie I recently saw on Hallmark).

©BuntysBanter 2009

What am I looking for?

What am I looking for?

I look at the image staring back,
And marvel at this piece of carefully orchestrated man jack
The well manicured spheres in the brain
That refuses to drain
That which is logical
And makes sense
Out of nonsense!

Emotions in the heart
Flee and depart
As I compartmentalize
And assume it is wise
To be this way!

This feeling that has swept over me
And refuses any plea
Of sorting out the mess
Coz I do obsess
Over the mental picture
Of the unconquerable
That’s part of the fixture
Of my very being!

I breathe the silence
And smell the violence
The tragedy that befell
And has now cast a spell
That propels me to seek
A clique of acerbic delights!

So what am I looking for?
In the middle of a desert
And wish that the pert
Comes knocking at my door!
As I lay sprawled on the floor
Being the epicenter of a tornado
I hope sooner than later
It spills over to newer frontiers
Leaving me alone
To rebuild my Eden & throne।

©BuntysBanter २००९

Disclaimer : Picture downloaded from the internet

At the end of a rainbow!

I’m tired and drag my feet
But the moment I see you,
My heart misses a beat
What is it about you?
that makes me stay
and be available every single day?
The tolerance that is generally rare
Is at its best when you’re there
I stare at a better me
And wonder how that could be
And then the trickle of a notion
That points at an emotion
That’s been there all along
And synchronizes with your song
You must have a heart of gold
Coz I’m frequently told
Of the glow that beams
At spangled dreams
Of exulted joys!
Transcending and mending
A beauty that I see thru your eyes
That comes as no surprise
Coz I’ve hit the pot of gold
At the end of a rainbow!

©BuntysBanter 2009

From Shakti to punching bag!

Women – where are you in this fast evolving world of rapid changes? There have been discoveries, inventions, progress and most importantly from a social perspective - cultural changes.
As the pillar of the human race, you climbed the mountainous slopes of evolutional metamorphosis and the moment you reached a certain comfort zone, the downhill journey commenced। There have been so many positives around you and yet, you’ve allowed only a negligible part of the rays to reach the recesses of your mindset।

You dear reader might be wondering what this rant is about? Let me get straight to the point। I’ve been following this utterly disgusting case of the Chauhans from Mumbai who over the last 9 years have been involved in sexually abusing their daughters। The first reports suggested a Tantrik advising prosperity in business if the father slept with his 12 year old daughter. Both the Tantrik and the father took turns over the last decade to scrape the oozing wounds of this poor girl’s soul. It was only when the duo’s cross hair fixated on the younger daughter did the older girl break her silence and stunned the entire world with her ghastly story. Their maternal uncles helped the girls to lodge a police complaint and book the culprits.

Most of us read this news in the comforts of our homes, frowned at perverted mentalities and sipped on steaming cups of teas mentally multi-tasking about the various agendas that were lined up for the day।

The reports next day were gorier! The mother had abetted this unforgivable happening for years and she was witness to many a ruthless abuse.

But what got to me was the victim’s plea in the court of law। While they requested the strictest of punishment be granted to their father and the Tantrik, they sympathized with their mother. They wanted her no harm and acquitted from all charges quoting her helplessness before their domineering father. They were protecting a woman who herself had an affair and consensual sex with the Tantrik for years.

I have very rarely felt such revulsion for my own clan! We talk of woman empowerment, the epitome of Shakti and what not. And here are perfect examples of people who have been so perversely conditioned that they have lost all judgments of acceptable human behaviours.

We women are not helpless. What we lack is the courage to blaze our own path when we are wronged. What we lack is the strength to look at reality in the eye and not be afraid. And above all, what we lack is the belief in the inner strength that each one of us so possess that can move mountains and make history. But we cower in acceptance of any barbarity that is cast our way simply resigned to all things familiar. We want the easier path. We rather lead a banal life with sleazebags than wander into the harsh unknown territory.

We keep repeating clichés like “it’s a man’s world and his rules”. The question is why did we let them have their way? We may be physically weak but even the men admit that we are the stronger one when it comes to emotional resilience. Why did we not strategize and use our bargaining skills to get them to take the middle road? How did we come to a point whereby any behavior was acceptable?

Most of us are just panhandlers who haw and hum and carry on with our lives. There is not a single filament in our insipid bones that wants to bring in any attitudinal change. And if we the sufferers are so passive, how can we expect any ground moving changes from the men folk? I rest my case as I append a well know Durga stuti that sums what I said perfectly.

(In Sanskrit)
Ya devi sarvabhuteshu, Shaktirupenasamsthita, Namastastyai Namastastyai Namastastyai namo namaha.

Meaning –
To the Divine Goddess who resides in all existence in the form of energy
We bow to her, we bow to her, continually we bow to her

©BuntysBanter 2009

Govinda! Govinda!

Today is Dad’s first death anniversary. And there will be many more to come. The void cannot be filled up and yet he talks to me through others. Last year definitely tested my resilience. And if it wasn’t for a few who held my hand as I faltered, it probably would have taken a bit longer accompanied by a few more crapulous seasons of despair.

Dad even in his absence has been instrumental in cementing our bonds as a family in more ways that one. He shines over each one of us sniffing the turmoil and whispering sapient solutions that strike out of the blue. Mum says he advises her about investment plans that has left her finances mostly unharmed when the entire world is reeling under a financial meltdown. He has brought a certain discerning gait in my brothers actions and as for me, I’m learning fast to be a fatherless child.

I miss my exasperated mood when his messages bombarded my personal space. I miss his antsy calls when I would be out late. I miss him whistling softly to get my attention as I crouched on my laptop in deep attentiveness in my room. And I’ll miss his loud unabashed voice as he sang “Happy Birthday to You…May God Bless you” in a few days from now.

He rarely visits me in my dreams and yet I feel his presence in the air around me. I’ve grown stronger!

I’m proud to belong to him and want to keep his presence alive for the rest in the family. So the Lord himself comes to my aid! Dad revered Lord Balaji (who is also known as Govinda) so much so that he uttered “Govinda! Govind! Goooovindaaaa” on any occasion whether it was an auspicious or inconsequential moment. So I’ve taken the baton and in all the auspicious occasions in our family, utter Govinda’s name on Dad’s behalf blessing the occasion and bringing Dad back amongst us.

Love you Papa and thank-you for all those moments that made me walk chin high!

Govindaaa! Govindaaa! Gooovindaaaa!

©BuntysBanter 2009

The Fugitive Love dance! (शोर्ट फिक्शन)

He does not like to wait। And yet he waits. This streak with a combination of good looks is deadly. We met through common friends and never looked back. His passion is satisfying and yet his intensity is equally frightening.

Our parents were ecstatic since the long wait and endless arguments over marriage proposals had after all borne fruits।

Today is the engagement and my love wants to meet me in private before the ceremony। He loves living dangerously and I’m becoming a sucker to such streaks myself. Guilty by association I guess! :)

It's an ancient temple where we’re getting engaged। A crowded affair and the peril of sneaking a rendezvous seems like utter madness. And yet the longing is building up. The butterfly in my stomach seems to flutter quite wildly as I leave the company of my folks on the pretext of tiding my saree drapes along with my friend Maitri. She escorts me to the far end where he’s waiting looking tall and handsome in his traditional Lucknowi silk kurta with a slender box in his hand.

He quickly pulls me behind a pillar away from Maitree’s inquisitive eyes and wraps his arms around me looking mischievous like a kid with the stolen fruit। My protests of spoiling the neat drapes falls on deaf ears as the combination of his warm hands and something cold touches my hips. His lips have trapped me firmly and I’m feeling this juvenile flutter of mindless joy and the cold tingling sensation keeps tugging me back to my senses. As Maitree signals about someone approaching, he leaves me breathless dashing off blowing a kiss that makes me weak in my knees.

The cold feeling again! This time I look down and see a beautiful thin gold waist band clinging to my body possessively।

© Buntysbanter 2008

Wordless whispers!

Wordless whispers that touches the heart
A gesture that caresses the mind
A feeling that frees me from my fears
Of a lonely tomorrow!

Wordless whispers that resonates
the wall of inner beauty
And travels through timeless space
To explore the fervid waters
Of a warming friendship!
Wordless whispers that promises to quench
And yet keeps you gasping for more
Heady in intensity
Just does not let you go!

Wordless whispers that floats around
In a lagoon of still moments
Moments that are stolen from the time zones
That fail to acknowledge
The grace of still quantum!
Wordless Whispers that touches the heart
And makes me celebrate this feeling
That grows bigger within me each day
And propels to find happiness
In little things that mean the world!

Wordless whispers that celebrates the presence
Of a will so strong that it fails to muffle
The emotions that can be felt only
If there is not a word spoken
and yet a thousand promises made!

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

The Child Saint!

Phagun* had brought with itself a rich experience of germinating life all around Chittor। The pea fowl’s soulful calls floated across the expanse of lush green as Meera hurried to collect flowers for the morning puja of her Prabhu*. Her husband Prince Bhoj Raj could never fathom her intense devotion for Lord Krishna. A devotion that bordered insanity!

She was all of 17 and a blooming mystical poetess with such wisdom that her family had begun to feel restless। Her bhajan’s * celebrated a volley of emotions that stirred the listener and endeared them to her Vasudev*.

In another Kingdom, Tansen was an extraordinary vocalist and composer who occupied the significant position of one of the nine gems in Emperor Akbar’s court। His appreciation of Meerabai’s bhajans enamored Emperor Akbar to the poetess who was fast earning a saintly position amongst the devotee’s of Lord Krishna.

Akbar’s curiosity of the spiritual saint brought both, Tansen and him to Chittor to witness Meerabai’s devotional outpourings। Chittor was enemy territory and therefore they wandered about in disguise.

The sheer magic of Meera’s composition in Vraj Bhasha* was enough to enrapture their admiration for the young devotee। Her boundless love for Krishna who she perceived as husband, lover and master swayed Akbar’s evaluation of the celebration of love. As a token of appreciation, Akbar placed an exquisite necklace at Meerabai’s feet and left.

A restless calm spread all across Chittor as Bhoj Raj fumed at his arch rival meeting Meera in disguise। His jealousy blurred coherence and in a fit of rage, he commanded his wife to commit suicide by drowning herself in the river as repentance for encouraging his enemy.

Meera accepted her fate silently and carrying her journal of bhajans began the last journey of her mortal existence। Her face radiated the tranquility that one feels, rich with the knowledge that the atma* would finally meet with the parmatma*.

As she sang “Mere to Girdhar Gopal…dussaro na koi” the weeping pilgrims followed her to the river bank। The moment she crept into the enveloping inky waters, there was a burst of bright light as Prabhu himself spoke to Meera and guided her to not take her life as it was precious. He asked her to move to Vrindavan and be a guide to the troubled there, bereaving them from their worldly woes.

The Lords words had such cogency that she accepted this as her spiritual guidance and slipped into the darkness with a bunch of followers towards her new home in Brajbhomi*। As word of her bhakti *spread far and wide, Bhoj Raj realized his wife’s true calling and remorsefully approached Meera beseeching her to come back to Chittor.

Meera relented but when later Bhoj Raj was killed in battle with the Mugals, she returned to Vrindavan once again living a life of a hermit and celebrating Lord Krishna’s love in Brajbhomi. Her physical and spiritual union with the Lord had finally come to term.

Word count – 494

Glossary -
*Phagun – Monsoon
*bhajan’s – Devotional hymns
*Prabhu – God
* Vasudev – another name for Krishna
* Vraj Bhasha – Local dialect of Vrindavan
*atma – soul
* parmatma – Lord
* Brajbhomi – Krishna’s abode
* bhakti - devotionNOTE : Picture uploaded from the internet.

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

The playmates! (flash fiction)

The dusty squiggly written journal from the past was enough to get Pratik aka Purna nostalgic about his childhood। He was the fouth child of a toddy* gatherer. His father rose much before day break each morning and went about unloading the toddy collections in earthen pots that were tied to date trees. His palm climbing skills had earned him the name “Hanumanta” and people from the 40 odd hamlets preferred to engage him for their half yearly coconut plucking and preening to do away with dried fronds before monsoon set in.

Purna’s day started with his mother giving him the left-over rotis* from the previous night along with hot piping tea। He then had to run up and get a few ounces of milk from Bhola dada after which he was free to play with Pinti, the fawn that his father had found abandoned in the jungles on his way back home. Perhaps Pinti’s mother had ended as sustenance to another carnivore!

Pinti was a handful and in taking care of her, Purna had lost some of his own playfulness। He was constantly thinking of ways to provide milk for his infant pet. He stealth into his neighbor, Bhola Dada’s barn where Savitri the goat nursed a recent litter. Savitri had accepted Pinti as one of the claimants to her bulging teats. All was well in the barnyard as the oblivious Bhola dada went about adding water to the milk he sold to the villagers.

Purna and Pinti squeezed through the thorny hedge that separated the dwellings and would run hither thither in bridleless impulse to the sparse grassland that they had chanced upon. The secret pad cradled a few palm trees. The duo spent many a mornings watching the weaver birds build their nests and flaunt their brilliant yellow plumage in an attempt to attract the females.
Pinti had now grown two feet tall and wasn’t that pint sized anymore। She had a mind of her own and had charmed Purna to tow her line. Her appetite had improved much to Purna’s chagrin and had thus weighed down more responsibility on his little shoulders. They had now started on the reckless path of bold rampage of corn and cucumber fields.

The playmates would steal fruit and roughage from the orchards and fields। Then sneak into their secret hiding place and enjoy the booty resting on their backs against the palm trees. Once in a while, they ran into Ajgar the python who stared at them with emotionless eyes. Purna would quickly retrace his steps and find another place to play on such days.

It was the morning of Vijaya Dashami* and winter had brought in a few chills. Purna was surprised that Pinti had not come to wake him sniffing his ears and face. He pranced out to the courtyard calling out to her. She was nowhere around. His eyes then fell on Ajgar perched on the mango tree. She looked a bit pregnant he thought.

Word count – 498

Glossary -
*Toddy – An Alcoholic beverage made out of the sap of various species of palm trees.
* Hanumanta – Hanuman the monkey god
*Rotis – Indian bread
*Vijaya Dashami – Festival of Dussera which is celebrated to rejoice Lord Rama’s victory over Ravana।

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Jihadi Genius! (Flash Fiction Entry)

Phil squinted against the glaring sun as he tried to put his finger to what it was that he found familiar in the child standing on the opposite side of the dusty road. Weather beaten vehicles with passengers hanging out whizzed past with increasing regularity as the sun travelled westwards. It was exactly 4 years since he had last stepped on Pakistani soil to report the turbulence that was so synonymous with the region.

His Vulcan like ears picked up a mortar blast a mile away. It all sounded familiar as fresh adrenalin made his excited mind flick its tongue in the atmosphere to feel the tense current in the air.

A bag full of essentials to last several days, he was hunting for a guide who had his ear to the ground and accompany him to the most sensitive areas in the foothills of Safed Koh ranges wherein the Bugti tribesmen commanded the respect for being the fiercest and most barbaric.

The kid stared open mouthed for a few seconds before disappearing into the sparsely forested patch close by.

Phil trudged to the tea stall near by and ordered a Suleimani chai *that refreshed his raw senses. The prosaic life of the semi-rural suburb stared at his Caucasian looks that made him stand out like a silver oak amongst dry prickly cactus.

The kid this time was peeping from behind a pile of dried cow dung cakes that were stacked in neat heaps. Phil felt drawn to this curious fellow. He just looked so darn familiar!

As Ashfaq the driver brought a pair of skinny men dressed in local garb, Phil inquired if they were successful in tracing Ramzan Durrani the link to Masood who Phil aspired to interview for his latest assignment.

Masood had been topping the most dreaded terrorist list for a while and his fanatical anti-establishment messages had been floating in cyber space that threatened the fence sitters to get out of their cushioned cocoons and pretend to take the hardliners by the scruff of their collars. And this is what had made the present assignment fall into his journalistic lap that supported an illustrious war reporting experience.

Ramzan Bhai was supposed to pick Phil and take him blind-folded into the interiors. He sounded optimistic as he related how Masood had welcomed the idea of spreading his message of Jehad through Phil.

Dawn brought a kind of starkness that ripped any doubts of peace that Phil had toyed with in his mind before he fell into restless slumber.

Innocent villagers had been killed in a terror strike as a faction of the rebelling tribes from uphill had vacuously tried to establish their supremacy. As Phil filmed the sight of the massacre, his eyes fell on the inquisitive kid from the day before. His small lifeless toes were caked in blood. Phil realized the similarity that had eluded him a day before. The Vulcan ears and a much lighter skin tone! He then remembered Ruksana!


* Suleimani Chai – Lemon tea (hot).


Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Tantric Love

Tantric Love!

You’re in my thoughts
Exploding right within
A rhythmic sense of pleasure
When the emotions set in!

You barely let me sleep
My tired senses bleat
A fable protest
Coz I wanna rest
And yet want all of you
That I missed all day!

The lingering coolness of a lick
That blazes on the skin with a flick
Completely forces me to surrender
To the ignited promise
Of a love in waiting!

You shake the reverie of content
Replacing it with the scent
Of things that delight the senses
And makes me drop all defenses

A dull craving to feel you
And need you even more
a strange sense of connection
that brings out a reaction
and rages in its depth
of a karmic union!

The whisper of a secret desire
Conveyed is a style I so admire
It transports me to a cortex
That builds up a vortex
Of insatiate orgasmic pleasures!

Oh come my love!
Let’s churn some thunder
And feel that wonder
Of entwining of throbbing bodies
The rise and ebb
Of a unity that’s steeped in sacred worship
Of Tantric love!

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

My dad’s “new” son!

It has been a long time since I have been enveloped in a sea of remorseful mourning for my dear dad who we lost about 4 months ago.

As days progressed into months we miss him even more. No Birthday or anniversary’s complete without him. His booming voice used to wake us from our lazy reverie, transporting us into the realness of a loving family.

Papa was in my dreams last night! I was transported back to a few years.

I was a teenager back then and Papa a brand new father. He dotted over his “new son” with much pride and took his role as a parent quite seriously. And why not! He had all the emotional bearings of enjoying parenting this time around. The joyful experience he had missed out on when he was younger and too busy working to make the ends meet.

This “new son” had come at a time when Papa was in his early forties, doing reasonably well in life and able to enjoy the quite with his family every once in a while.

He would sing loudly to this new entrant into our family who would cock his ears and wonder what the loud man meant. Much to my amusement, the little brat was a face reader of sorts and knew exactly how to collate body language with stentorian utterances and would react appropriately.

The father-son duo bond grew stronger with each passing season. I jealously observed how understanding our dad was when it came to his “new son”. The rascal could get away with murder.

Dad would attend to him early mornings and wake the whole household in his bid to keep the young fellow humored. Despite the fact that jealousy kicked in every once in a while, the “new son” also had this knack of wiggling his way into each of our hearts, drilling huge gapping apertures that erupted warm blobs of contended delight.

Papa was consumed in his new found role to the point of absurdity. He would tag his little coddle at social functions where people silently disapproved. Papa’s selective observations would systematically snip off anyone who didn’t fall in his scheme of things.

Papa would however, willingly hand over the reigns of guardianship to us when the “new son” had to be immunized. The little fellow was a toughie but his dad still had delusions of inhuman atrocities as the needle would get prepared. He would suddenly switch from father to chicken and leave on some pretext of busy schedule.

My resentment towards my kid brother however melted as the following summer approached. It was the anvil of the promising mangoes season and the ones hanging to the tertiary branches looked healthier with each passing day. Our mouths had gotten used to the excessively mercurial salivating as we shamelessly ogled at the pregnantly laden tree right out of our window.

My kid brother was always on his toes and barked an alert the moment anyone as much as passed the modest mango tree. This greatly warmed him to me and initiated him into my world of tramping adventures.

From then on we went into the mango mangroves together looking for an unfortunate fruit that might have broken off due to the fast approaching monsoon winds. Our search greatly saved many a mango from getting lost into oblivion within the collected foliage of dried up leaves and twigs at the base of the tree.

And then it was my friend Dolly’s marriage ceremony. Dolly was a few summers senior with a kind heart. She allowed us teeny bloopers the pleasure of her restrained friendship. How proud we were of our associations with savvy Dolly and never lost the opportunity to flaunt it to the other lesser souls.

(Back to the scene in our household!)

My dad, the ever doting recent father was all prepared to take his little addition and initiate him to our rich traditions starting with Dolly’s reception party. I for one was not too sure that this idea had great potential. Marriages were places where toddlers would be a nuisance. No matter how hard we tried to reason out, dad managed to enervate all of us.

After all he was the prodigal father of an even more prodigal son!

We girls had insolently been gliding around in our gaudy outfits giggling in false excitement when a member of our group blurted “you know, there is an errantly eccentric guest amongst us”.

I instantly knew she was referring to Papa. You see…I’m gifted with a strange psychic ability in such situations.

She continued “He’s proudly carrying his dog around. Wierdo!”.

The wires in my heart malfunctioned as they threatened to cross-fire. I was consumed with illogical rage as my loyalty towards dad overtook the fun element that I was so enjoying that evening.

The wires that programmed the mind though were more balanced and reasoned that my dad had earned this “public ridicule”.

I quickly downgraded this friend to a few steps lower in my acquaintance and shared with her that the “weirdo” indeed was my very Dad leaving her mouth agape in embarrassment as I walked away।

Jackie was truly a successful son and tugged at dad’s heart strings with much determination। I actually learnt a thing or two from his enterprising nature that later helped me in my negotiating skills with dad in my growing up years.

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Casting the first stone!

We love to judge others. Prepare our special dyes and cast people in their respective and appropriate moulds. Any individual that does not subscribe to our dyes are perpetual offenders. And the sculptures that waver a bit from its original mould are branded warped.

An appropriate widow has to shun bright colours. Dance and music are for the young. Sex is a taboo. Displays of conjugal behaviours are disapproved. The old have past their age to have fun and the young have to be reigned in.

There is this immense scrambling to snuff out anything that spells fulfillment. We thrive in seeing people struggle.

Is being intelligent and having the power to think being suitably used? Isn’t the fungus that’s growing on our mind-set becoming deadlier?

When will we unlearn to cast the first stone? When will we accept people who are different with contrary ideas from ours? When will we acknowledge that someone else might be right? When will we stop calling people “freaks”?

Most importantly…when will non-english speakers intelligence not be judged? The snobbery that I see around me sometimes stifles!

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

A woman in love is a tormented soul!

A woman in love is a tormented soul
She craves for the touch…
A feeling of entwining of the body & the soul
And embarking on journeys of rich ecstasy
That saps away the energies and yet leaves you feeling strong

A woman in love is a tormented soul
She craves for a consciousness that is steeped in togetherness
That brings in an immense aura of exploding galaxies
A bond that glows in thick character and faith
A connection that electrifies the very being
And brings a certain calm to the rapids fast flowing

A woman in love is a tormented soul
She craves the smells that promises his presence
She strings together the feats of selfless gestures
And cobbles up scattered dreams
Pleading with her fate to let them be

A woman in love is a tormented soul
Her world has suddenly shrunk
Accommodating only things that matter the most
Her life has a single goal
To bring a smile on the lips that make her come alive
And pump fire into her spirit

A woman in love is a tormented soul
She’s prepared to walk the path that tests
And brings to its knees great legends
A love so sublime that emits the rays
Of passion that cements forever!

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Finding him in the most unexpected faces!

I have looked for him & found him in the most unexpected faces.

It’s my graduation day. I see mum beaming proudly from her seat. And then there is a void. I do not see him next to her. I miss him!

I have missed him during the festivals, especially Diwali. The building kids would congregate in the compound with their dads & rake up a rukus. They were most kind to me. And yet I would be filled with rage at their kindness.

My birthdays! My school is an odd one. It had this customary thing about the dads dropping their kids on their birthdays. Like all the kids I would prance to school with my uncle and flaunt shamelessly. Of course, I automatically developed selective hearing towards questions about who had dropped me. Some secrets are good for the confidence.

The first rains were occasions of immense frolick! We kids would race up to the terrace & get drenched. We had this funny antiquated jig that brought us immense joy. My uncle joined us in this merry making & would hoist his kids on his shoulders to do a little bhangra. He seemed kind and once in a while I would get hoisted on his powerful shoulders too.

Then that one day when the rains brought havoc to our city. As everything came to a stand still and reports of people getting swept away poured in, I prayed to God more fervently to protect my mum the most and why not? There was no one to look out for her unlike the other mummies. I helplessly missed you then.

I have a creative mind and yet I struggled with the sketches in the art class. As the pressure built up with others submitting beautiful assignments, I began to withdraw into my protective cocoon. And then I saw you peeping out of my art teacher’s eyes. He gathered me to a quite corner & covered my apprehensive gait with his soothing words of encouragement. My pencil lost its stutter from then on.

If ever I was late being home, I saw you in my nanu’s wrath.

In my growing years I was sometimes relieved of your absence. At least my guy friends were not getting grilled unfairly by your possessiveness. On hindsight, I missed that too. Was it right to be let off with a stranger all alone just like that without any background checks etc?

And now graduation day! It’s a whole new chapter from here on. There are bridges to build & paths to thread. One might end-up at a fork with tough choices to make. It would have been easier having you around to help me place my winning bet.

I continue my journey knowing that I will once again see you peeping through some face that cares. There is no dearth of angels and yet I miss you…..


Glossary –

Bhangra – Punjabi folk dance.
Nanu – Maternal grandfather।

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Tangy beckoning!

This morning as I look out of the window
A bunch of young, raw mangoes beckon to me
To tug at them, drawing them close,
And taste life’s tangy tastes once again!

Oh when did the tree bear fruits?
I have been oblivious far too long
And missed out on some enchanting moments
Of pure, simple, unadulterated pleasures
That delights our senses
Seeing a pregnant laden tree!

The bulbul has returned
And hopping around in an endeavour
To build a love nest
Where the little ones would thrive
In luxuriant profundity

Our garden creeper too
Is not far behind
Has grown little tendrils
Of the exploring kinds!

Everyone seems to come to life
As summer approaches
With resplendence warmth
And I’m swept once again in its activity!

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

Immersing Dad’s ashes!

I asked mum if she minded me immersing Dad’s ashes in the Godavari at Nasik.* She didn’t look surprised. Simply said of course you must! I’m sure this is what he would like from you. It is your dharma.*

The next morning we (Dad & me) bid the Mother Mary grotto next to our apartment farewell for the last time seeking her blessings and packed off to Nasik in two cars with dad sitting next to me in a small earthen pot wrapped in a crisp red cotton cloth।

Dad was the true-blue Patriarch as Patriarchs are meant to be. One who boomed commands! One whom everyone loved & consulted! One who brought two feuding relatives together! One who came to the rescue of his poor relatives. One who instilled in me the value of the human spirit & the significance of relationships!

His demise has made me seek answers from within. My mind wanders aimlessly into the busiest of streets & the narrowest of alleys. Being strong is getting a bit tiring. And yet one look at Ma makes the resolve stronger.

She’s been a toughie too. Forty-three years of togetherness has seen all seasons of life. Their relationship was like an estuary that accepts both, the river as well as the sea in its folds. She seeks him in his face towel. Whenever the dull ache becomes relentless….she pulls out the face towel from its hiding & wipes her face with it. His lingering smell is her comfort.

Adhesive sentiments are making us hold on to a smell….a letter….a book…a memory! Such is the immense love that we feel around us. It’s as if Dad has enveloped my brother & me in his wisdom of togetherness. We are suddenly closer looking out for each other. I wonder what makes people fight over money when they lose their loved ones. The priceless gets under valued perhaps.


* In the Hindu religion, rituals like lighting the funeral pyre & later immersing the departed soul’s ashes in the holy river is done by the husband, son or any other male member of the family. It is not customary for a female to participate in such rituals.

*Dharma – Duty.

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008

A tribute to Papa!

There was a time when you breathed life into my broken spirit. You held my hand as I faltered struggling with my circumstances. You made me believe in goodness. You believed in the greatness of my destiny as I struggled with my truncated happiness!

And now you are no more! I look for you in dark corners. They advise to keep the lights on while sleeping. I make the room completely dark just to get a glimpse of you dear Papa! Where are you? I don’t even see you in my dreams. It’s as if I have lost touch with you completely.

It feels cold around the heart. The kind of dank coldness that one feels in gothic structures that’s empty. I have been so used to the glowing warmth that I took it for granted. And now every morning when I get up and I don’t see you about….its a struggle to focus on the regular.
Your glasses…your cell phone….your jacket…your slippers. I have hidden them away like treasures.

How I wish I could sit in a corner all by myself & cry. Grieve my loss!

But there are things to do. Look after the relatives that are pouring in by the dozen. Everyone has a tale to share about their association with you. A sentiment that stings the eye! A respect that makes me proud!

You were the nucleus of the family binding everyone with your rather mawkish emotions. You showered love & expected no less. I sometimes felt overwhelmed! You scorned at the concept of “personal space”. You just didn’t understand such intuited object of thought.

My maverick thoughts befuddled you. But I must give it to you that you tried to understand & relate to the things I cared about.

I remember your sulk last year about not writing about you more often. You were like a child who wanted constant attention. Here I am Papa….only you in my thoughts today!

I have been fortunate to be at your bedside when you breathed your last. I have been fortunate to hold that hand….talk to you….take your blessings!

I have been told to celebrate your life instead of mourning your loss. It makes sense coz you went like a king in power. I’m happy that we will remember you as the family leader and not a fallen hero.

I just want to know if you are happy wherever you are। Can you drop me a hint so I can rest assured?

Copyright © BuntysBanter 2008