HEAVEN IN A WILDFLOWER

 

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The unearthly music echoed around. In the uncertain light of twilight, it seemed as if the gods themselves had paused to listen, so beautiful were the notes.

“She’s playing the piano again!” breathed Namita, rapturously. Her voice betrayed the reverence she felt for the soulful music, and the musician, Ujwala.

 A proficient piano player, Ujwala had performed across the country. Music aficionados flocked to her recitals in hordes. There was magic in her fingers, as they flashed over the keys, hovering over them so softly that the music could hardly be heard. Heartbeats would slow, and people would hold their breaths, till the next moment, her fingers would race across, creating chords that crashed and billowed like the waves of the sea. When Ujwala played the piano, it was as if nothing else existed for her… such was her passion for her beloved instrument.

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However, after her beloved husband passed away, she had locked away the piano along with the love in her heart. He had been the wind beneath her wings, as the song went. Vikrant, the dashing young Air Force pilot, who flew his planes with the same exuberance as his wife played the piano. They were known as the legendary couple, the eternal lovers whose love could make the very gods envious.

That fateful morning, Vikrant had given Ujwala a bear hug.

“When I get back, we will celebrate our anniversary in style,” he laughed.

“Our anniversary is only next week!” she had protested, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“We will celebrate next week as well,” was his rejoinder.

That day, Vikrant’s plane developed some engine trouble and he struggled in the lone blue skies. His last thought, as he crash-landed, was of his beautiful wife and of how they would never celebrate their anniversary again.

For Ujwala, it was the end of the world. The world which had seemed so full of happiness that very morning had turned bereft, as she teetered at the edge of it, wishing that she too could join her beloved Vikrant. Her family and her friends milled around her, trying to offer her solace, but the light had gone out of her soul. The piano lay untouched, gathering dust as its mistress refused to even look at it.

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“Ujwala, we long to hear you play again,” pleaded her friends. She had shaken her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. The music that had kept her going for so long had left her along with Vikrant. It seemed a kind of betrayal to play the piano, to experience any joy in life at all. She shut herself away from the world that had idolized her and her talent.

Two years flew by, but no music had echoed in the cottage. Till today.

Her neighbours flocked to her door, their hearts alive with anticipation. To their surprise, Ujwala was the one who welcomed them in as the music played on.

“Who is the magical artiste?” asked Namita, surprised.

Ujwala led them in. Her face glowed with a happiness that they had not seen on it for ages. They tip-toed in, gazing at the delicate girl whose long fingers tripped across the keys in abandon. The music filled their hearts with joy as it tripped along gaily. It finally reached a crescendo, dying away on a soft note that was as poignant as the peal of a melodious bell. There was silence for a moment, followed by applause.

“This is like finding Heaven in a wildflower!” remarked Annie, the poetic one.

“Naina!” called Ujwala softly.

The music ceased; the young girl turned, smiling.

“How well you play!” Annie said spontaneously. The others moved closer, and suddenly stopped. Naina smiled as she looked towards them. Ujwala placed an arm around the girl’s slender shoulders, as she guided her towards them.

Shocked, they gazed at Naina’s beautiful, but sightless, eyes.

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This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon.

 

 

 

 

 

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

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There he stood, a six-footer, in front of the feisty old lady who was interviewing him for a job. His bald pate shone in the sunlight, as he stood to attention, holding a faded cap in his hand.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“Manoj Kumar, madam,” was the subdued reply.

His supervisor nudged him with a sharp elbow. “Speak up…!” he hissed.

“M…Manoj Kumar, madam!” the voice rose a few decibels.

The short-haired lady, who had an impish smile on her face, looked at the tall man.

“Why do you look so worried?”

The man looked down at the tiny pugs who were sniffing at his ankles, trying to shy away from them.

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“Madam, I am scared of dogs. I was bitten by a Rottweiler years ago, and hence…” his voice petered off.

The 84-four-year old lady looked at the 40-something man whose forehead was speckled with sweat.

“Are you telling me that you are scared of these two?” Her voice rose in amazement. “They are such tiny little creatures. Besides, they don’t bite. Make sure that you don’t bite them instead.”

She laughed and so did her companion, a pencil-thin lady who loved to throw her almost imaginary weight around. She said in turn, “These two are harmless. Besides, you tower over them. Even if they do bite you, they will not get very far.”

The man blanched at that. The older lady shushed the younger one.

“Don’t you scare the living daylights out of the man now!” The supervisor scratched his head doubtfully. He had never seen a household like this. Three ladies, and two pugs, and the most spirited of them all was the gamine lady with short, unruly hair, who seemed to exude an irrepressible spirit. She asked the new guard myriad questions. What was his name, where did he live, how many children did he have, and the like. The man answered promptly enough, occasionally sneaking a wary glance down at the pugs who had now graduated to licking his feet. He probably thought that was a prelude to a quick nip.

The supervisor nudged him again. “Stop floundering!” he whispered. The man was from his security agency, and he needed to show him off as the perfect candidate. This was not turning out the way he wanted it to.

There was a moment’s silence. The conversation resumed as the ladies pointed out the desk and chair in the corner of the balcony that would be his little nook.

“You can sit there,” remarked the feisty lady. “And relax there…,” she continued, pointing to a comfortable looking armchair. “Of course, you can find a corner to sleep, anywhere in the premises,” she ended.

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I wish I had been a fly on the wall to remind my mother, for that is who she was, that a night watchman was not meant to sleep. He was attuned to sleeping during the day, and staying awake, wide-eyed, peering into the dark for any sudden noise or commotion.

The interview got over, and the watchman was appointed. That evening he would don his uniform and resume duty at seven in the night to seven next morning. Mom was relieved that there would be someone to keep a watch at night and the other two ladies and the pugs remained stoically silent.

Come evening, and the watchman was there, uniformed and punctual, stick in hand, and after a few pleasantries, he sat himself down in his chair, prepared to while away the uneventful hours ahead. What could possibly go wrong on a slightly rainy night, when the whole town was asleep.

                                                                           

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The next morning, at 6.15 in the morning, my husband suddenly got a frantic call from the watchman. “Sir, emergency here!” His voice was panicked, distraught.

Apparently, a huge tree had been uprooted in a sudden strong wind early morning, and it had fallen over the car shed, crushing my mother’s car under it. And what was worse, it lay sprawled across the road, its tips almost grazing the neighbour’s gate. The car was a mess, the branches had fallen on the power cables and the entire road had been blocked. Too much for a brand-new night watchman to take in, judging by the quaver in his voice.

To cut a long story short, that evening, the new night watchman decided that too much excitement was not good for him. While my 84-year-old mom, her 65plus companion and the 30plus maid took the mishap well, relieved that there had been no casualties besides the poor car and the tree, the watchman nervously asked his supervisor, “Do you think the power would have come on?”

The supervisor’s response was classic. “No! Shall I arrange an air conditioner for you?” The sarcasm did not go down well. By evening, my husband got a call. “Sir, I am too shaken up to report for duty tonight. Shall I come tomorrow?” He got a mouthful instead.

Mom was mighty amused when she heard the whole story. Apparently, she had already predicted that the poor man would not turn up in the evening.

As she was about to put the phone down, she said, “Guess which character he reminds me of in ‘The Wizard of Oz?” leaving us in splits at the end of the conversation.

*Please delve into ‘The Wizard of Oz’ to decipher the last line. 😊

This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

 

A DAUGHTER IS LOVE

 

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“I believe in any religion that believes in putting treating people with respect and dignity above ritual and dogma.” Charles F. Glassman

Very often it is our children who teach us wonderful lessons even without their realizing it. We spend our entire life loving them, teaching them, berating them and trying to stamp our own personalities on them. When younger, they submit; when older, they rebel! And then, in one magical moment, they turn our worlds around with one tiny gesture that turns entire ideas on their heads. The blinkers fall off, and we see them for what they are, individuals in their own right, capable of living life with dignity.

When our little daughter was born, it was as if the whole world had opened up. When she looked up at me with those beautiful dark brown eyes, I was enslaved, never to be released again, a bondage that I accepted whole heartedly. Her father who whispered her name in her ear, and named her ‘Priyanka’, which means ‘the loved one’, soon realized that his world revolved around his little daughter.

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Priyanka went through all the normal mishaps of childhood, along with a few not-so-usual ones. Like when she bounced off the bed, when she was a few months old, and landed safely, thank God! It was only when Bozo, our dog, came tearing into the dining room where we were having lunch, barking his lungs off that we realized that something was wrong. Luckily, it is said that God Himself stretches out His arms to save little babes from falls.

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When she fell off the bed again, despite the fact that she was safely ensconced in the middle of the bed, with us on either side, it seemed like Fate playing a prank on us. This time, God, maybe, held her with one arm, for she broke her little collar bone. Once the initial panic was over, she walked around with a figure of eight to hold the bones together, proudly showing it off to her friends, who goggled in disbelief.

That is when the beautiful quote of Marianne Williamson came to mind. “Children are happy because they don’t have a file in their minds called "All the Things That Could Go Wrong’, like we adults so often do."

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Of course, there were times when we would be sitting around and there would be no trace of the little missy. “Maybe she has fallen asleep!” the fond father would suggest. “Maybe she hasn’t!” I would retort. We would tiptoe towards her room, only to find her looking, wide- eyed at a crystal vase that lay on the floor, broken into a thousand shimmering pieces.  Those were the days when I truly believed that “Silence is golden... unless you have kids, then silence is suspicious.” She would take one look at us, and then burst into tears, her lower lip quivering, even as our hearts slowly turned to mush.

When she began school, there were moments of pride and joy, especially when she was chosen by her class teacher to speak on Chacha Nehru, on Children’s Day at the little Flower Convent. She was the only Nursery student amongst a whole gathering of seniors, and after days of careful tutoring, she stood up at assembly in front of a crowd and trotted out her little speech perfectly. My heart throbbed in happiness even as I peeped out from behind a tree, where I had been placed strategically, so that I would not distract the tiny orator in a smart red frock, and oodles of confidence.

One day she came home from school and asked me in all seriousness, “Mama, am I a Hindu or a Christian?”

“Why, child? Did someone ask you that?” She nodded earnestly. There followed a sermon in my own style where I pointed to pictures of Ganesha, Krishna and Christ and explained the different religions and how we were all human beings first. She listened to everything, and then smiled at me. “My teacher asked us in class because she wanted to write it on a piece of paper.” So much for my long sermon!

It was when she was about six that the Babri Masjid riots broke out. Discussions were rampant, opinions voiced vociferously, as religion turned into the catch phrase for loud voices and quarrelsome tones.

We were a protected lot, living as we did, within an Army Cantonment, being part and parcel of the Indian Army, an organization which sheltered all religions as one. We celebrated Holi, Diwali, Pongal and Christmas. We savoured the simple yet delicious ‘langars’ served at Gurudwaras. Bakr-id was an occasion of rejoicing, mouth-watering biryani and ‘sevaiyan’. Within our regiment area nestled a temple, a church and a mosque in close proximity, from where the wispy smoke of the ‘agarbathi’, the peal of church bells and the chanting of the Muslim prayers dwelt in perfect harmony.

Religion has never been a bone of contention amongst us. We have had friends from all communities, and what has helped us bond is our wavelength, which, quite simply, transcends religion, politics and controversial topics. As Rumi put it so simply, yet profoundly, “In every religion there is love, yet love has no religion.” The biggest example of this came when our daughter was about five and we were out on a walk. My husband and I were having a conversation, when suddenly, the little one stopped before a temple. As we watched her, she looked within, prayed and made the sign of the Cross, something that she was used to doing in school. That little gesture stopped us in our tracks, as we watched her saunter towards us.

How easily a little girl had fathomed the truth that lies inherent within every religion, the fact that all of them, despite taking different paths, lead on to the same destination. A lesson that, often, so-called adults find tough to accept!

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Today, our daughter is all grown up, with two adorable little ones of her own. When we look at the way she is bringing them up, we see much of her in them. Our hearts swell with pride for we know that, as parents, we have done something right in our youth.

 And as Angela Shwindt put it, “While we try and teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.”

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This post is a part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

SHADOWS - THE EXCITEMENT OF WRITING THRILLERS

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Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Daphne Du Maurier, Victoria Holt, Edgar Allen Poe… the names would flash within my mind as I pored over their mysteries, looking for red herrings that were liberally peppered through the stories. All there in plain sight, and yet almost impossible to notice, till they were unearthed in the end. I would wonder at the ingenuity of the writer who could play around with suspense till the very end of the book, and then lift the curtain. Even Enid Blyton had this knack of leaving her mysteries unsolved till the last pages, the best way to keep her young readers hooked on to every book of hers.

Later in life, the list went on to add the more modern writers like Jeffrey Archer, James Patterson, Gillian Flynn, Dan Brown and Paula Hawkins. The stories became racier as the stories hurtled towards their climax. Every book was like a rollercoaster ride, leaving me breathless in its intensity.

That was when I decided that thrillers were what I would write. I believe that writing should always excite one, and suspense and crime intrigued me intensely. That is how my second solo book – ‘Shadow in the Mirror’ (Readomania) - came into being in 2016. A psychological thriller, it started from an acorn of an idea, and as Topsy said in ‘Uncle Tom’s cabin’, it ‘growed and growed’ till it became an oak tree of a book. I had no idea where the story would end, and as I wrote, my characters came to life in my mind, and on the page. As the blurb went, 

"It all begins with a death. Nita, a pregnant woman falling from her balcony becomes the string that unravels the plot. Her death casts a shadow over many lives; her heartbroken father, her husband and Vinny, a young journalist, drawn in by the whiff of foul play and murder.

What follows are stories within stories, eras and worlds colliding with one another, leaving behind splintered relationships and mesmerizing slices of lives that appear to be drawn together and driven apart by whimsical threads of destiny.

As events cast their shadows ahead to link the stories of Vinny, Kavita, Roma, Krish and Nita in an unrelenting knot, a journey starts to uncover the truth. What is the secret that links Nita's death to the other characters? Will Vinny be able to unravel the mystery of Nita;s death?

From intimate diary entries and letters, to bantering over a meal and sharing memories while spring cleaning, this novel de-familiarizes the ordinary, presenting a kaleidoscope of our own pasts, broken edges and pulsating hearts." 

                                                         

Short stories have always fascinated me. Around 2016, I began writing thriller short stories, or tales with a twist, many of which were published in myriad anthologies. As Stephen King put it so aptly,

"A short story is a different thing altogether – a short story is like a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.” Some of my stories were published in anthologies like Chronicles of Urban Nomads, Defiant Dreams, Crossed and Knotted, Mango Chutney, Upper Cut and the like.

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Finally, in 2020, a year that spelled doom for many, a solo anthology of my thriller stories was published by Readomania. The eBook was titled 'Where Shadows Follow' and the blurb read:

"How would you feel if you meandered into a tale and suddenly found it leading you up a twisted path of intrigue and evil?

Life is made up of light and shade. Just when you feel that things are in your control,the darkness moves in and edges the light out. That is when the shadows follow, creating an atmosphere of disquiet.

The stories in this anthology do just that. They keep you wondering where they are leading you till the shadows catch up with you."

However, my fascination for  thrillers did not stop there. In 2021, my latest solo anthology titled ‘Shadows Never Lie’, again by Readomania, came out and this again had tales with a twist, which I had painstakingly put together over the years. The blurb? 

"Are these stories, or scenes out of real life?

The human mind is often the most dangerous place to be within, especially when it houses emotions like hate, prejudice, rage, and above all, envy. Shadoes Never Lie is a collection of thrilling stories that have a hint of menace patterned on the mysterious outcome of envy and rage.

Get ready to delve into the dark recesses of the human mind, that can be twisted beyond imagination."

 

There have been umpteen times when people have looked at me and asked in astonishment, “One would never think, looking at you, that you could write stories that are so twisted, almost dark! How do you do it?”

My reply is almost always, “Blame it on my over-riotous imagination!”

Buying Links:

Shadow in the Mirror:

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B01M4JL112/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

Where Shadows Follow:

https://www.amazon.in/Where-Shadows-Follow-Readomania-Shots-ebook/dp/B087V628T7

Shadows Never Lie:

https://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Never-Lie-Deepti-Menon-ebook/dp/B094QTD5QL

 This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

 

THE MAGIC OF POETRY - #BLOGCHATTEREBOOK

The month of April loomed before me, a whole month of writing for the Blogchatter A2Z Challenge where a whole group of writers would be racking their brains to come out with apt themes – 26 posts in 31 days. It seemed a tall order. The Blogchatter Team was on their toes trying to motivate all their writers, suggesting topics, explaining rules and juggling ideas, and in general, trying to keep up the enthusiasm through videos and blog posts.

How could I make my posts different? Three days before the challenge began, a light bulb went off in my mind. Why not do something I dearly loved? Go back to my days of Literature? At once, a line of images sparked off in my mind – all those beautiful words that had been around for centuries, words that could not be said better. That is how my title took shape – Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s quote was the inspiration.

“Poetry: The Best Words In the Best Order”

The poems spilled over as I tried to choose the ones which I loved, and the ones which had inspired me all through. For a whole month, I ate, drank and slept poetry. My first poem was, without doubt, the beautiful ‘Abou Ben Adhem’, which talks of the importance of loving one’s fellow beings, so apt today in a world where “things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.” (W B Yeats)

It was an exhilarating experience as I lost myself in the minds of the Romantics like Keats and Shelley. The American poets like Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost and the inimitable Henry Wadsworth Longfellow swooped in and out of my imagination. The Indian poets were not far behind, beguiling me with their poetic narratives and exquisite imagery. The poems of Rabindranath Tagore, Sarojini Naidu, Nissim Ezekiel and Sugatha Kumari entranced me as I wandered through their realms of imagination. Sara Teasdale and Christina Rosetti meandered back into my memory as though they had never left.

 One poem that got several eyeballs was the immortal ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling which is almost a treatise on how to live life. Of course, the other poem that got readers chuckling was “You Are Old, Father William” by Lewis Carroll. Another was the irreverent ‘Ultimatum’ by Dorothy Parker. 

However, the experience was even better when it came to discovering new poems by poets I had not heard about so far. Be it ‘Earthly Pride’ by Ella Wheeler Wilcox consisting of just four significant lines, ‘Human Nature’ by Eugene Field or ‘Quaint Spring’ by Georg Trakl, they were all equally compelling. 

 However, the one poem that got me thinking was ‘We Wear the Mask’ by Paul Laurence Dunbar, which spoke of people wearing masks to hide their true feelings but seemed so relevant to the present scenario as well.

The two alphabets that took me time were ‘Q’ (Quaint Spring – mentioned earlier) and ‘Z’ for which I got the most unexpected and wonderful poem I could have thought of. It was called ‘Zinnias and Tea’ and was a tribute to one of the bravest women ever to grace this world – Helen Keller. The poet, Randall Davis Barfield, spoke of how after death, Helen would be able to see, hear and speak, having gained everything she had been deprived of on earth.

Turning this volume into an eBook was an act of almost reverence, for within were the minds I had always admired, words that had resonated within me and the whole experience left me with a feeling of deep joy. 

I thank Team Blogchatter and every member for having dredged this book out of me with their support and encouragement. I also thank all my fellow writers and friends who offered valuable comments and wrote reviews. May there be many such challenges that bring us all fulfillment!

May the Magic of Poetry continue to enthrall us all!

#BlogchatterEBook

BOOK REVIEW - 21 SOLUTIONS TO “I AM GETTING BORED!” BY SABA IRFAN LADHA

The lockdown has brought with it innumerable challenges, not the least being the need for parents to keep their young ones occupied and happy. At such a time, a book like this is like a ray of sunshine with its delightful suggestions on how to keep children from getting bored. It offers suggestions for children between the age group of five and twelve, over a period of 21 days.

The language is simple and engaging and the author, Saba Irfan Ladha, had spiced up the days of the week by giving them various apt soubriquets, like Maniacal Monday, Wittiness Day, Super Sassy Day and the like.

The very first activity is one which is easy, sustainable and exciting – raising a plant. The author gives a short introduction on why this activity is a useful one, and goes on to the method, the materials required and the steps to be followed, in crisp, understandable language. The picture that goes along with the activity is also a carefully thought-out one. What makes this even more enjoyable is how the author throws in little suggestions like what to name the plant etc.

Be it DIY play dough, or some tasty snacks, (cooking without fire), this book has them all along with instructions on cleaning up the area after the activity is completed. There are some fabulous sketching ideas with illustrations as well. However, one of the most interesting activities is the way the author encourages the child to create a puzzle book from scratch, cover and all. These are not only fun to make but work as wonderful gifts as well. Along with the added advantage of learning new words as well!

After a week of activity, the author suggests a break on the weekend, an outing, a visit, having fun with friends. However, she has an extra suggestion where children can clean up their own living spaces. I have no doubt that mothers, in particular, would heave a sigh of relief at reading this.

Week two has a new set of activities all lined up in perfect order.

Making chocolates on their own, animated masks, creeper curtains… the activities are all easy and well explained. There is a wonderful activity on making pet rocks which look colourful and effective.

Charity begins at home. How about doing something to help people who are in need? That is a laudable thought, and it encourages children to develop kind and giving hearts. There are many more wonderful ideas in the book, but I think I have given away enough information already.

What I enjoyed most about the book was, apart from the activities, how the author has blended in nuggets of wisdom that always go a long way to develop the sensibilities and the emotional quotient of the child. This is a book that should be read by all parents and children, both during the pandemic, and after.

Book Link: https://www.theblogchatter.com/download/21-solutions-to-i-am-getting-bored

 #BlogchatterEBook

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BOOK REVIEW - HEARTFELT SYMPHONIES BY CHINMAYEE GAYATREE SAHU

 

The cover image is remarkable, and the poems evocative, as they traverse across realms as varied as Nature, Fire and finally Life. The first poem strikes a chord as it evokes Devi, the goddess and exhorts the world to give the living Devi in flesh and blood “the status she so rightly deserves”. Likewise, the next poem is an ode to Shiva, the Maha among all the Devas.

From there on, the words in the following poems work like a rhapsody and Chinmayee Gayatree Sahu plays with them with abandon. Right from the appeal of dusk “creating melodies that rhyme/with the windchimes in my heart”, the summer heat that teaches the lesson that this too shall pass, to the effervescence of the twinkling stars that guide one on to meaningful paths, and winter the season of hope, “festivities and merry making” “bidding sorrow a bye” the images entice the reader. Nature is at her most beautiful as the poet waxes eloquent about the striking maple leaf, the fields of gold, the dancing waves like the caress of a loved one, the floating swans in unison, and the almost religious tone of the river merging into the ocean.

Some of the descriptions are exquisite. In the poem, ‘The Winds of Change’,  there is a beautiful expression of love. “I peeped out of the window, /when the wind displaced my tresses,/reminding me of you, doing the same”, with a undertone of sorrow in the lines that follow – “hearts building a castle of cards”. 

The Rainbow is a “lyrical poetic curve”, magnificent and serene, and the dandelion “fragile yet soulful” as it spreads “happiness and cheer”. The poet leads the reader to the “magical, mystical and incredible Woods” in “the echo of the wild”.

The Muse in section 2 is ‘Fire’ in all its myriad forms; Agni that plays a significant role in a woman’s life from birth to wedlock to death, the light of kindness that  drives out the darkness, and fire and ice that are eternal lovers holding each other. The passion of love brings fulfillment and trust, while it is the fire within which teaches lessons of survival. And what about the whimsical firefly that “seems to dismiss the darkness’s wrath’? 

The Muse in the final section is Life itself. It starts with the sad story of instant gratification on social media, and the need to live for oneself, independent of false knights in shining armour. As the poet goes on to compare life to travel, “life is an uncertain path, and veiled”, one hears echoes of Shakespeare’s “life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his way upon the stage, and then is heard no more.” On this journey, the choices may be tough, and the destination may be unreachable. Keep going without losing heart for hope lies eternal. 

As Wordsworth said in ‘The Solitary Reaper’ – “The music in my heart I bore, / Long after it was heard no more.” That is exactly what one feels after traversing the poetical landscape envisaged by this outstanding poet.

Book Link: https://www.theblogchatter.com/download/heartfelt-symphonies-by-chinmayee-gayatree-sahu

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