The dog named “Cow”

I am one of those kinds who doesn't get ‘feels” in a certain movie when Will smith is killed by the zombies but does when the German Shepherd dies! I love animals, especially dogs. Not that I love Labs or pugs or any pure bred ones specifically, I love “dogs”, strayed, street, diseased, angry, thieves, bullies, pirates, all of them! I cannot keep as many pets as I wish because I don’t have a supportive (animal friendly) family. So, I sometimes foster homeless ones I find on streets until they are adopted. Even my “cold hearted” folks have loved them eventually while I have had my share of scolding and lectures, but none of them ever stayed permanently. (The guinea pigs, the mighty cat, the lab rats, and a couple of other creatures being an exception.)

One of cold mornings this January when my dad went out in the garage, he saw something that made him yell my name. Intrigued, I went out to check and I will never forget what I saw. I clicked it for remembrance. A furry little puppy shivering in cold was curled up in one of the stairs. Prima facie it appeared that the puppy had strayed away from his home as he would howl(cry) all the time, specially at night when the streets would empty. However, he would stop when I would come out to check on him but would start again when I would leave. I kept feeding him hoping someone would surely come looking for him. He was a cute furry li'll puppy after all. But nobody turned up. Over a couple of days, the howling became a nuisance to the neighbors as it broke the monotony of their boring domestic life. So began the mission “get rid of the howling motherpucker”. Several failed attempts were made by the "mob" including my dad, who had been unanimously chosen as the unspoken “messiah” to salvage them of their miseries.
So the puppy was dropped far off, across the ridge, by the canal that was miles away, into the park, and I assume even into the Mordor itself. But somehow the almighty "Hobbit" puppy returned every time, found his way back to our door. It was weird and like all the misfortune I was blamed for this one as well. Few had also started smelling foul play. People had started whispering and our garage door was looked at slyly, it was after all where he would come to rest after he had made lives miserable during the day.

I continued to feed him, against the wish of “victims” that had fallen prey to one puppy! The next door “Agony aunt” was the best of the lot, she attributed the troubles of not just the neighborhood but the entire economy to him. There were days she would give me looks and vibes as if I was harboring an Al Quaida terrorist. But, terrorist, he turned out to be! After settling in, he showed his true colors that had people formulating theories how he was purposely abandoned by his owner as this was a dog sent by the "Satan" himself, straight from hell. An average Indian makes quite a conspiracy theorist!

So, over the next few months, it had its share of thrashing from frustrated uncles and aunties in the neighborhood for littering, pooping on their door, peeing on their cars, breaking and entering, stealing their gold, almost everything. I was frowned upon for trying to save him. Also, he nearly died after being run over by motorbike twice. Survival of the fittest, Darwin said and this one somehow did and made his space amongst the other dogs in the street.

It was sometime around April, when we were out for vacations, I got a call from our uncle whom I had asked to feed him in my absence, to inform that the “notorious, evil, son of Satan, Giglamesh” dog was no longer seen on the streets; he went missing the next day we left. They said that he must be loitering around with other dogs and he will be back. Nobody cares beyond this for stray dogs. A few days later, one of my cousins called to inform that the dog had returned, but malnourished and he won’t eat. He described that he was weak to an extent where he couldn't even move and sooner or later he will be dead. I could picture people celebrating on the streets as they had been freed of their miseries. “Jejus” had finally answered their prayers.

We returned after weeks and I looked around in hope to find the dog's body to give it a burial at least It was then I saw a skeleton crawling, wagging its tail from under our car parked in the garage. Every bone visible under his dirty skin, eyes popping out of the starved frame. Hours of futile debating whether to take him to a vet or to call an NGO next morning as the “Evil dog” might be rabid or diseased and might infect the humanity, he was left on his destiny. It made me sad and very angry. I tried to feed him that night and surprisingly he started eating and became better. When I took him to the vet few days later, I was taken aback when the doctor said that it had no particular disease other than being malnourished.The vet said that it’s rare that dogs starve themselves to death when their “master” leaves them. Like humans dogs also get depressed. Depressed of what I wondered. He survived all the thrashing and accidents! And this one lived on street, fed on garbage, what “master” was he talking about? Like everybody else, my father was astonished at the extraordinary behavior of a street dog and proclaimed the dog "Special" and gave him a permanent shelter in our garage. He was no ordinary dog now. Since then we have made several attempts to get him adopted but the "Giglamesh" hasn't lasted anywhere more than a night.


Oh, the name you must wonder! My new born niece who is a year old speaks half god and half gibberish. One of the words she can utter is “couv” (cow) and to her every four legged is a “couv”. So, every time she looks at the dog in our garage she point her finger and exclaims “Couv eyy”! (look, a Cow!). So the name "Cow" stuck. I liked"Giglamesh" more! ~~

"That" January morning

I failed to see the evilness that day.

That garage stair that became his bed

I must starve until I die!

     

       

One of the accidents!

And the others that followed!

He stopped eating again until we bought him back,look at that evil smile!

A failed attempt to rehabilitate him on a farmhouse 

He loves to photo bomb.Whenever he can, he must!

On usual days,returns from the swamp wars 

In spare time he likes to eat the souls of the evil soft toys in our house.

Tragedy of Chemistry

Ain't seen you in quite awhile.

Seems like I forgot how your face looks with that intoxicating smile...


Remember the river divine?

the peanut butter and jelly..

when you were the butterfuly in my belly...

When did you become the apple of my eye...

It was in white of your eyes I saw blue sky...



Camping by the white sand...

as I try to build the castle again...

you hand me the shovel...

and bring me out from hiding...

tell me, tell me where did you learn the art of knowing?


burdened and bounded....

fighting the war of the vanities...

endless stories and revealed secrets...

amidst all that hassle...

I wish I could turn back time...

to the day I first saw you...

I wish you knew it then,

that there's more than what meets an eye...


Your arms are my castle...

Your arms are home to me ~~

Sharma and Me

This is not a story story.. Years back, when I was asked to write for Aurobindo's Youth Journal, I was clueless! I couldn't think of anything that would appeal to the age-group of 16-35 year old! But I found something in my old diary. “Age is just a number”, I use this phrase quite too often because I know an interesting story behind it. It is about one of my best friends, actually odd friends... Sharma. This is the unedited draft that I submitted initially.

I stood at the main entrance gate of the Sarawati Kunj as the nagging autowala wan't ready to go any further. I stood with a brown bag in my hand. From the main gate the house was good 200-250 meters far, where rested a well groomed patio in front of a big bungalow. Sharma’s bungalow.

It was month of August and unusually humid. I looked at my watch. I am not punctual and no matter how much people around me get pissed about it. I started running, as if it would save me any time. Maybe, I just felt like it. I am random. As I reached the entrance, I was already panting. I bent down, staring at my new converse shoes trying to catch my breath. I felt age was catching up on me, quite an unlikely of a feeling at the age of nineteen.

When my pulse was back to being normal, I pressed the doorbell. I continued pressing it until a man with mustache opened the door. I mumbled “Hi Saroj”. That woman needed some serious beauty parlor fix-up if she wants me to acknowledge her as a woman. I always thought that she was a part time drag queen who forgot to shave her mustache off. Brutal. I passed through the hall, the pin drop silence was an indication that some sort of meditation was in process so I tip-toed my way to the backyard. But Saroj tried to state the obvious by making that loud “Shhhhh” sound. That drag queen sure had some charm.

By now, you can figure out that Sharma had this big house, with a garden, backyard and all the fancy stuff. I jumped on the swing with the bag of muffins. I saw untouched tea and breakfast on the table nearby. Before, I could think of anything, I saw Sharma standing at a distance in his signature white kurta-pajama, smiling. “Chocolate muffins?” He asked. “Yeah, look whom did they bring along!” I responded flashing million dollar sarcastic smile.

“C'mon son, give me a hug” he said opening his arms wide open.
It kind of annoyed me, every time he called me “My son”. Being an average looking girl I felt he was drawing comparison between me and that drag queen Saroj!
As I hugged him I mumbled, “Sharma, you are growing old!” to which he responded, “So are you my son”

“By the way, did you find me a "GF"”?

So, you see Sharma was this ancient man (76 years), who I called my “BFF” because we had similar interests. He too talked about GF's, BF's watched Simpsons, Desperate Housewives (I don’t know why?!), listened to that trashy stuff on VH1 along with Ossy Osbourne, John Lennon stuff, liked travelling and had that killer sarcastic sense of humor!

If it’s not too boring of a flashback in flashback I will tell you briefly how this “odd” friendship began in the first place. The first time I met him was at the chemist shop in neighborhood, he was buying medicines. Like all oldies he too lived on medicines. But unlike other oldies he still believed in doing all his stuff on his own, he even drove his own car. When I entered the shop I saw a tall, old man wearing brown shorts and blue t-shirt grinning with a paper in his hand. As I opened the door he looked at me and said, “Thank god! Son, can you help me with this? I don't trust this fella over here”, he said pointing at a shabbily dressed man standing at the other side of the counter. “Old man just because you are dressed up as a dude, there is no way I am letting you in my family! So there is no way you can get away with calling me son!” (I have these monologues inside of my brain all the time, even if I look perfectly calm from outside) I didn’t say anything and I helped him make the purchase. He thanked me and left the store. While I was picking up my stuff I saw that the old man had forgotten his debit card at the shop itself. I rushed outside shouting only to find out that he had left. Damn, that oldie was fast for his age!

Like old man I didn’t trust the shabby guy either and kept the card with me. I called bank and told them to inform the old guy about his card. He rang me the next morning and said that he would come and pick it up but since his house was too close from my college I offered to drop it off on my way back. Like those typical old people from movies he was sitting in the garden sipping tea and reading newspaper. We got along like smoke on fire and talked for hours. So, that huge house was not technically his home, he was living there with three other oldie friends sans their families. You know sorta hi-fi old age home. But dude that was some lavish living.. they watched movies, traveled, horticulture, slept whenever they wanted (sheer luxury, I tell ya)... These oldies were having some serious fun. That place was happening more than my college and I began to hang out there more often. Sharma even came to see one of my embarrassing plays where I played a pregnant bride.. It was for spreading awareness against female feticide but the get up was embarrassing as hell. Backstage my teammates often played handball against the cushion in my “fake” pregnant belly. It was that kinda thing that I didn't like sharing with my regular friends specially Rohan as he wouldn’t spare a single opportunity to blackmail me and my kids for rest of my life. But I never felt ashamed in front of Sharma as nothing was embarrassing in front of him. Like typical teenager, the word embarrassment bothered quite a lot then.

I remember once he was going on a tour with his bunch of oldie friends and I went to see him off at the station, you know when you are in college you have a lot of time to spare unlikely the working days now that I usually spend slouching at my workstation. Anyhow, I remember I couldn't think of anything in particular to give it to him for his journey since he would be returning after months... I roamed on that stinking platform trying to think as I saw one of those book stands from where I used to buy books and comics as a kid when I used to set for travel on long journeys with family. (trust me there were a lot of them than you can imagine, my father was an army man) to keep me engaged. I enjoyed those chaney, bhelpuri, kulhad chhai and all that random stuff that is sold only at Indian railway stations. Anyways, since I couldn't think of anything I bought a couple of Hindi comics being sold and gave it to him. I still remember the childish smile on his face and the way he mumbled, “ thank you son”. I hated each time he called me that. Son. I sure had short hair way back then and wore those checked shirts with converse shoes but still I didn't look like his freaking bald son, whose picture was hanging right outside his gallery. So, I always responded, “You know what; say that again Sharma and I will abandon you!” That is one threat I still use with people, though nobody seems to care. Anyhow.  

College days sucked big time then, kids were bunking classes all the time. I was no exception. New found freedom was intoxicating. I worked part time in the evening to earn those extra bucks to spend those bunks in luxury. Three years of paid `honeymoon! That’s the way my mum and dad still describe my graduation. I remember being caught by one of my HOD's for low attendance and being told that he won't let me take my exams. Not that I was any eager! But still, I had to find a way out. And I remember telling him that one of my Kidneys wasn't functioning properly and so I had to take offs to go on dialysis. Gawd, it was indeed the shittiest and lamest lie ever (that doesn’t meant it stopped me from using it again, wait until you hear my PG story!) But you know not many questions are asked when you say something fancy about your health specially kidneys. Touché! I am the most pathetic liar that has ever existed on the face of this Earth. Once I start there is no looking back. I just lose control.

 I told him that the kidney thing was affecting my memory too. It was a rare condition and that my case was being researched on, and blah blah... I guess this was the point he had started to suspect me and asked me to bring my parents. That’s the time I remember calling up Sharma and asking for help, he agreed. However, I wanted him to play my father but I didn’t want the professor to gimme that look afterwards that I was born centuries after my parents married. So I settled for grandfather.

Sharma would often text me to take him out for a movie or find him a girl friend. You know he always said that, because he was a widower. Kavita passed away seven years ago fighting some complex disease that I never asked Sharma about and he never even bothered to explain. But he would often show his black and white pictures that were clicked roaming in CP or the roads of old Delhi. Eating bhelpuri off the stands, roaming around, buying junk jewellery and all the things that people during our time do. I guess CP is one place that has stood through time and still remains the same holding that old world charm but has still evolved with every generation. Anyways, I never noticed all this sentimental stuff back then. I still remember clearly that my first question to him then was, “When was the first time you guys kissed”. With a disgusting chuckle in my voice. He responded, “It was not this simple way back then kid. We were together for more than a year and finally once when we went to Shimla for a trip and let me tell you that it used to be the ultimate romantic place then. I planned whole year to take her out as she always wanted to go there. We had an amazing time and that’s the time we first kissed. I made that 'whoaaa' fascinating face and waited... I waited that he would care to divulge any further details. He looked at me and said,  “What”. I responded back in same, “What?” He made that straight face. “That’s it?” That’s all you guys did? C'mon Sharma don't be a spoil sport. Tell me more. Don't tell me that all you did was have a good time. Please explain “good time” I said that flashing a million dollar bastard smile. He quickly replied back, “No, no stop thinking that! Amazing time doesn't mean what you are thinking of!  We traveled together and we got to know each other more. That’s it. It was way more conservative then and though she was the daring one, it was my decision that we won't do “it” until we got married. You know how girls are; I was really protective of her. Imagine if our parents wouldn’t have allowed us to get married. She would have been devastated. You know how time was back then”. I made the most disgusting face ever and said, “Yeah yeah, were so not daring. Duh!” He said, “Hello, please see where it is even coming from! You don't even have had a boyfriend in your entire life and you are commenting on my love life and try and draw cheese out of it! Some nerve you have kid” I flashed that million dollar smile and replied, “Nobody nice has asked me out yet. You know. People are not that simpler they used to be in your time”. I winked.

It was three years of smooth sailing and final year got busy as hell and I hardly had time for volunteer work, job and Sharma and yeah studies too! I still had time to bunk and roam places with college friends but I guess my priorities changed. He would often call me saying that it has been long and that I should drop in sometime or text me that it’s some interesting movie is being released and I should take come with him. Not that I didn't have time just that I was occupied now. Mentally. Maybe because I was dating someone. Sooner I started working and my time was skewed further. I hardly called him and saw him in months. Sometimes I would just drop in with and give him a surprise, talk and leave. We stopped having conversations. Then I finally decided to study further and do my post graduation and started going to college again. Films were also one of the subjects that were taught in my college and every Saturday a movie club called 'Twilight' would screen movies. From Alfred Hitchcock to Meklaf, movies by all acknowledged filmmakers were screened. I remember watching this Spanish movie about this young guy and his professor. It was based on this bestselling book by Mitch Albom called 'Tuesdays By Morrie” that I had read long time back in school and had forgotten too. That old chirpy Morrie somehow reminded me of Sharma. Lively, happy, friendly and full of love. (See, I told you that I have mellowed down over years) I went to see him the next day with his favorite chocolate muffins.  We sat and spoke for hours like old times. Catching up like long lost friends do who have grown over the years. He told me that he was going to US to spend a month with his son. He asked me how my studies were going and if I was dating someone. I had so much to tell but I just smiled back.


On 15^th of August this year I was working with a bunch of other losers as our radio had undertaken some special programming initiative. Being a media professional is perhaps the most “pain in neck” job ever but sure it is interesting as hell. It was not a happy phase that I was in so I didn’t mind working all the time to keep my mind off that “craap”. So, this radio station I am working with was taking this road trip from Agra to Wagah on this Independence Day to spread the message of peace and brotherhood (I know it sounds phony). We were interviewing people who have survived the freedom struggle and have interesting stories to tell. I don’t know from where Sharma’s thought came to my mind. As he was above 80 now and I was sure that for the interesting person he was, he sure would have something to share. I called on his mobile phone that was answered by a lady. It was Saroj. I was glad that I couldn’t see her mustache over the phone. I asked for Sharma. She took a pause and said that he passed away three weeks back. His relatives from US were there and they are leaving day after tehravi. I usually don’t know how to react on news that is unexpected. I was already going through a bad phase so I guess breaking down came easy. I went into the washroom and cried....

Black

Lush nights

Rainy fights

Drop by drop

as it came off...

the painted happiness...

broken promises...

black to blindness...

Black, the one's that carried the summer haze...

Black, that used to set the world ablaze...

Black,that was once best friends with those eyes ~~

Season of Shadow and Light

The drops came falling

into the cup of coffee...

damping the poems...

new born conversations...



riding the cotton clouds..

sowed dreams soaked in joy ...

as the foghorn blowed from the coast..

germinated what was lifetime ago

the street drenched with desire...

carrying scent of a lover lost.



And when,

the rain and randomness...

made way for the night of thunderstorms..

tossing and turning with the lightning.

lying in soft silvery moonlight bed...

talked to the cold air crying in delight...

frogs in my pocket sang all night...

eyes watched return of the fireflies

fears perished with the aftermath

and fell in love with the disaster bought.


...

surviving the wading puddles...

came the morning after...

left behind the grave of the season divine...

surviving as a myth..

and a lullaby chime...

Children of the Damned

Summer, 2008

I knew he was special since the first time I ever saw him on that bright sunny day. He was sitting in the stairs near the mess hall, engrossed in what appeared to be a small book or a magazine. He held it as if it were a very precious piece of some treasure. He would look into it, grin and then look back. 


He appeared to be around 5 or 6 year old. Fair, brown hair and small eyes, wearing half pants and a shirt, hair combed neatly; he looked indifferent from rest of the kids living at the shelter home. As I walked towards the main office and walked past him, my eyes stayed glued to the boy. I felt walking up to him and taking a peek into his little book and talk to him. But I guess like all other “busy at the moment” people I left it as mere thought and walked into the office thinking I had ample time to catch up with the kids later.


I started working with Deepalaya, an NGO for underprivileged kids, temporarily as a part of volunteer program, but I guess the place, the people and the kids became an invincible part of me to leave them any sooner. Not only that, these kids made me felt special in a way unlike anybody else did.


I was in II semester of my graduation and worked part time in a research firm. As it was a UK based firm, it gave me liberty to attend the college during the day and go for work at 8 in the evening. Since both my parents were working and a sister who always had tuitions to attend till late, to help her crack boards exams, I didn't have much of a family time unless it was weekend. The spare time left after the classes were spent hanging out with friends and roaming on the streets of Delhi.


It was one of those days when I was sitting in the canteen feasting on pav bhaji when I received a call from Shenaz, the Child Rights lady at the NGO asking if I could accompany her as she needed help, citing that everyone else was busy with the coming charity event. I shared a special rapport with Shenaz and even being twice my age, she was pally with me. I guess since she had no kids or maybe because she was the only one who thought that I had a sense of humor. And obviously I loved her company too as she would take me along for conferences and special events across the city in her Honda car. 


She asked me to hurry up as we had to go to the hospital and that there had been a police case. I met her halfway as we rushed to a government hospital that NGO was partners with.


Hospital is the only freaking place on Earth that makes me feel really weak and mortal. I mean it didn't matter how much care you take of your body, you might still end up here because of someone else’s fault, I thought as I saw an accident victim being bought in. I just stood there quietly breathing on that peculiar weird hospital smell as Shenaz spoke to the officials. From all the conversations happening simultaneously all I could figure out was that someone was hurt real bad and police was involved. I mean come on, how easy is it for your tympanic membranes to function when 5 people are talking gibberish and your sensory system is exposed to the sudden blast of antiseptic, medicines, plaster, patients, and all other “hospital smelling stuff”.


After a while, Shenaz asked me to go and see the patient in ICU while she handled legal issues. With the pictures of blood splashed and scary images of people lying in ICU (courtesy ER, Scrubs and Trauma) flashing across my mind I made my way to the Intensive care. I stood outside the room for minutes wondering what’s waiting for me inside. (I do get melodramatic at times)


But, sometimes I guess the fear of unknown in itself the most horrifying feeling. I entered the room in anticipation as I saw a tiny frame lying on the bed with bandages all over reminding me one of those “mummies” movies. I moved closer and I saw the motionless frame looking up at the ceiling. Frightened, that he might be dead I rushed to check his pulse but to my surprise those small eyes seemed familiar. I don't know what serious situations make out of me, but I try really hard to fend the awkwardness and that’s the time I start sounding nonsense. Usually in moments like these I prefer to keep quiet, but I felt (because of all the science I studied back in school) that he might be in a state of shock after the accident and a little bit of light hearted talk might prove beneficial (to both of us). 


“Does that hurt”, I asked touching his plastered hand. He nodded making me realize the degree of my absurdness. I sat on the chair next to the bed, shaking my legs in restlessness and looked at his still body in glances with no courage to look at it directly. His milky white skin had turned pale. His brown eyes caught my attention that were so intense, that I shifted my focus to the spider that had webbed his home near his bed. Even though I am a smooth talker (I really feel I am one) I  consciously thought of ways to strike up a conversation; especially with an unknown kid lying in ICU constantly looking at you waiting for you to say something rather than just stare. I cleared my throat and began, “You know this is the biggest hospital in the capital?” He nodded in a “no” which made me felt like a moron. Shifting to something more general, “Do you watch cartoons?” I asked attempting to cover up for the last one. “Sometimes”, he replied softly. “Umm, what all do you watch?”. “ Bahadur Billey and Captain Planet” he replied. I assumed that “Bahadur Billey” were the Swat Cats not the neighborhood meows. “They are so brave and powerful” he continued. Sensing victory I commented, “ By your powers combined, I am Captain Planet! .” mimicking the hoarse voice of the character and waited for his reaction. A giggle perhaps. Thought to myself, rather reassured that he must have been watching them in Hindi. He stared at me instead, longer this this time, making me feel like a nincompoop and I guess his eyes begged me to leave the room. So, I left trying before he certified me a lunatic and complained about me. I pinched his nose playfully and assured him that everything will be alright. After a while Shenaz walked in to check on the boy and that’s when I got to know his name; Krishna.

 On our way back Shenaz told me that he supposedly got into fight with the bullies. He was bought in to the NGO by police when he was spotted loitering around by the authorities at a railway station for a week. After questioning, he revealed his father's name, who was imprisoned for attempting burglary and his mother was dead. With no immediate family member to take care of him, he was sent to child shelter. As Shenaz told me about him, I tried to imagine his pain and agony of living without a mom while his father attempted Shawshank redemption back there in some jail.

It was after a couple of months that I saw him again, in the lunch hall eating with hundred other kids. He seemed fine now. He sat on the ground with his legs folded, fiddling with the roti instead of hogging like other hungry kids. Amidst the overwhelming smell of lentils, I walked up to him carrying a bucket of kidney beans. “Would you like some more”? He looked up at me as I smiled pointing the serving spoon at him. His dull face brightened with a sudden glow, “No, it tastes bad!” he replied making a weird face. “What tastes good then?” I asked making an equally weird face. He thought for a while and answered, “Ice cream and mangoes” He paused and continued, “and jalebi”. I waited if he had more to say. “That’s it?” I confirmed. He nodded in a yes. “Jalebi is my favorite too”. I said looking “And ice cream with mangoes and chocolate sauce”. We looked at each other and we laughed till we ran out of breath. 

 My semester was about to end and everybody was already tensed about the summer training and getting the reference letters. It was October and weather is usually quite pleasant at that time of the year. It was our routine that we would go out after the lunch to savour gola or ice cream at the vendor outside the college gate. That day the vendor asked us if we would like try a new mango flavour. As we slurped the ice cream, it somehow reminded me of Krishna and his sparking sad eyes.
I don't know there was something in his eyes that made him unforgettable, something which even a thousand words could never express. Just a look into his sparkling brown eyes would melt me and as I stood there wondering, so did my ice cream.


The very next day I went to see him with that “new mango flavour” ice cream and a big bag of jalebi. I looked for him frantically as I feared that the ice cream would melt. As I fantasized to send a search party to look for him I found him sitting on the playground bench reading a book. I sat beside him and looked into his book and said “Hi”! He looked up as I flashed a million dollar retard smile. He jumped and hugged me. It was indeed an unexpected gesture but a pleasant one for sure. We chatted about cartoons, superman, annoying school teachers, funny incidences and everything that came to our mind as we hogged the sweets. There is something about the kids living in shelter homes; they have the aura of an innocent child as well as the maturity of an adult when it comes to understanding. Unlike other kids (and the guys I have dated) he never asked me if I would see him again.


It was December already and semester exams were approaching, I took a month’s leave from the work. Everybody had already started preparing for the summer training and I had no spare time left even for the volunteer work at the NGO. Not that I am one of those studious kids just that you wouldn't want your parents to know that. The gruelling nights of struggling to decipher someone else's handwriting (read 'a looser with full attendance and no life') from the photostatted notes, kunji's and last year papers; a month of exams went past, really slow!


But just like there is end to every dark night and every fatal boring lecture, exams too got over, leaving everybody with dark circles and extra weight.


To compensate for the torture and the fun time lost, we friends sat outside the college canteen soaking in the winter sun, gulping gallons of coffee chatting to each other. I certainly must mention that, in my opinion bitching and gossiping constitute a major and an 'integral' part of the college life and a certain share of responsibility did rest upon my shoulders. Time just flew by, and most of the students were off to their home towns for winter break. 


I was back to office and volunteer work during the day time. Since it was begining of a new year, workshops were being held, documentary filmmakers came to shoot a story about the abandoned refugee kids. New kids came in, a few got adopted, refuge ones were sent back and certain lucky ones were rehabilitated. There was a huge exhibition depicting the plight of kids in refugee camps. Pictures from all over the world were on display. I took Krishna along with me and I remember him standing still at a portraits of two kids by B.K Bangash. I didn’t ask him, but I knew he could see and feel more than I could. I continued to meet Krishna every time I went to the shelter home. He talked at length about his mom, how she sang lullabies, how she loved Lord Krishna so much that she named him the same, how his dad would arrested so many times, his pet dog Pillu that he worried would be roaming hungry on the streets. He would listen with equal interest when I would tell him about my family, funny friends, boring lectures at college and stupid colleagues at work. As I always speculated with everyone I even asked him that if he would like to bet on whether I would pass in my statistics and quantitative analysis paper (yes, I am bad with numbers) Though just like me, he didn’t understand the complex subject name, he said that I seemed intelligent and I would pass. I thought that was really kind of him so I offered to take him to this new adventure park if I really did. 


It was February already and we had started with III semester, the busy schedule and bunking classes were back again. One fine day, results were out too and I struggled to find my name in the long list on the notice board. It happened what I feared the most, I had scored well in all the subjects but passed in the quant paper with grace marks (makes it evident that you almost failed) I thought of Krishna's mark "you seem intelligent" and it suddenly felt it was derogatory. I don't cling to tragic things for long and I thought of breaking the news to Krishna that I had passed and will take him to Adventure Island. I rang at the shelter home to surprise him; I held the line as warden went on to call him. The lady came back to tell me that he was sent back home. Next day I made abstruse inquiries and got to know that some relative of his came to claim his custody with all the required papers so they had to let him go. 


Winter, 2011

Last year I left the NGO and would only go either on special occasions or to just meet the people. Few months back, I went to attend Shenaz's farewell party as she was moving to France with her husband. I stood with my bunch of friends drinking “juice” (I know at least someone from my family will read this) when we got into argument about the “Curious case of Arushi’s murder” being stuck up for too long and how parenting has become a burden for modern couples. Me and a couple of friends felt that good parenting was irrespective of the class and economic background. But the majority had stats, as every kid in the NGO was from a lower middle class or below the poverty line family. Ankita the most talkative and hyper among all of us argued, “Poor people made poor parents too since they had no education and means.” I replied back, “No, I guess more than money you need values and culture to bring children up.” Vimal explained, “The fact that Lal Bahadur Shahstri, Abraham Lincoln, Dr. Kalam and most of our IAS officers come poor families; proves that poor parents can bring up their kids well too.” The counsellor girl “Ankita” thought that we were being unreasonable and that people we were talking about were exceptions and one in a million.


She continued, “You know the success rate of the rehabilitation in our own NGO?” She paused to think for a while, “Its 13%! You know why? Because there are people who still lack the basic skills of becoming a parent at all, forget about a good one! Their kids are the ones who end up back with us, go missing or mentally tortured or even getting killed like in the case of your Sarita, Majri, Krishna, and... and... What was the name of the girl who was poisoned by her father just because she started menstruating? She tried to recall. “ Aah! Shikha!” still hyper continued, “What will you call them?” Aren't they victims of ignorance and illiteracy. Vimal snapped back, “You know just like Arushi they might have been victim of circumstances, aren't kids from affluent families killed for honour?” He turned at me for agreement, I was inert and I didn't have the courage to ask if she was talking about the same Krishna... 


It was time to say Goodbye to Shenaz. I promised that I will write to her. She walked with me till the parking I couldn't stop myself from asking, “You remember the kid, whom I accompanied you to see in hospital some 4 years back?” She tried to recall when I prompted, “Krishna?” She paused and replied, “Oh! There are so many of them! Are you talking about the one who died?” 


“No, Shenaz, that fair kid with brown eyes, who got beaten up by bullies, don't you remember? I replied hopelessly, as I sat in the backseat of my car. She replied, “Yeah, I am talking about him only, “Krishna”. He was brutally beaten by his father's accomplice after he had a fall out with him. He was a hardened criminal. I wish we hadn't sent him back.  The silence was broken as my cell phone rang. “We have to go to see the new born. Everybody's waiting for you to get back! You are so late girl, dad will kill you!” my sister blabbered on the phone. “I know” I mumbled as I sat in the car and waved Shenaz goodbye...

Photo by B.K Bangash Bangash

Leyla

Hard to say what caught my attention...
Her troubled eyes or her bloody hands...
Sunk in the bag of soft flesh...

She moved to the rythm of sadness...

aroused, diturbed, static..
devoured in self pity...

Born in filth and shame...
She keeps her promises pressed tight between her lips
and the lies deep in her eyes...

The astounding pain...

leaking through her veins...

stretched across the absolute delerium..
concrete yet, on the verge of burstin..

Unattainable, delusion, Chimera

She exists in forms inexplicable...

She exists in me...
I know she does...
More than her existence....