The Shortest(Lived) Love Story

Because he looked at you when you weren’t noticing.

The evening time resplendence highlighted the delicate contours of the back of your neck, under the setting sun that basked in the tangerine glory of His royal farewell, lending an intrigue to your form while your soft eyes, kohl laden and soul-stirringly sad, dazzled him with their spark of innocence. He stood there, tense, observing you, measuring every gentle rise-and-fall of your soiled, weary breasts. He stood in the queue, with bated breath, as you stood behind the counters laden with freshly picked apples, waiting for his turn in receiving two red apples, his daily ration(like yours, and everyone else’s)from you. And every time you would pass him by, he would take in the arousing rhythm of your gentle walk that reminded him of the ripples in the accumulated rainwater from the winter rainfalls resulting from the Mediterranean moisture winds.

By then, you had come to know a few of your fellow muhajirs. You had to abide by the mandatory apple-pickings with the girls in the mornings, and the retiring to your tent before the flooding of the valley by the blinding opacity of the moonshine. The nights were colder than the bellowing loneliness lurking in your tent. There was the numbing grief from the separation, probably permanent, from your parents, while trying to cross the border, along with hundreds of others. You did notice him, for there was no missing the chisel-sculpted jaw line, the jet black eyes, and the nose that lent the extra dimension to his face. From his eyes you could perceive the warmth of Southern sea. The only warmth that, you felt, could be any balm on the pain of the loss of your parents. You would wish for him to look at you, but you never saw him looking back.

Because you looked at him when he wasn’t noticing.

***************************************************************

Then, the Government of the nation you had all escaped to(under delusions of a better future), refused permanent shelter to your lot, and subsequently booked you all under charges of cross-border terrorism. Defying every clause and term of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, it ordered you all to be shot down.

There he stood in a queue again, a different one this time. This time at the end of the queue, there were no apples, but bullets, that awaited him. Neither were you standing behind a counter at the end of this queue. Instead, you were right behind him in this one, separated by two little girls and an old man.

Moments after the soldiers took their aim, and before the shots were fired, you turned to see him one last time. To bathe yourself one last time in the warmth that his eyes exuded. The soul-stirring sadness in your eyes kept brimming over, and together with the kohl, flowed down your cheeks, as if it had given up on its resilience. And then, for the first time, he looked at you when you were looking back, and realized that your rainwater-ripple walk was what had kept his hopes, his heart alive. For the first time you looked into his eyes to see the warmth of the Southern sea radiating directly towards you. And thus was born a love. A love, that to the world, made up the shortest love-story ever, but which, in reality, lived on after the shots were fired, lived through the global-outcry against the breach of human rights and allegations of genocide, lived on in the memories of the apple trees, and resonates till date under the evening time resplendence of His Majesty, the Sun, bidding farewell to humankind every dusk.

(Ritwik Goswami - March 2007)

O Ri Duniya[O, My World]

Khwabon se sile shamiyaane taley,
Humne sajaaya hai apna ek jahaaN.

Mutthi mein na ho qaid tassavvur ki udaan,
Ang lage makhmal mulayaam wahaaN.

JahaaN na koi jism,koi jaaN,lahu se latpat,
Koi guNcha, koi sitara jahaaN na ho fanaa.

Ek aisi ho humaari duniya,hai ummeed,
JahaaN har muhajir ko mile panaah.

TRANSLATION:

Under the dome of my unchained dreams,
I've painted a world of my own.

Where flights of imagination aren't kept suppressed,
Where every being is as soft as sheets, of silk, sown.

Where no soul, no life reels under blood-shed,
Where no blossoming flower, no twinkling star is crushed.

Such will be My World, or so I hope, I dream,
Where every refugee is given refuge, no one aside brushed.

An Ode To The Rainbow Lives.

There is a little violet in each dazzling bright flash
Of lightning that visits you every stormy night.

There is a little indigo in every lone ripple
On the water, that is born when you walk by, quiet.

There is a little blue clinging on to every white Cotton
Cloud that you always want to sink into, for a sleep.

There is a little green in every grass and leaf,
That, from filth, rocks and hurt, your bare feet, keep.

There is a little yellow in every fire you light
To keep the bellowing darkness a distance away.

There is a little orange in every sunset you retire to,
Bidding farewell to every numbing fatigue of the day.

There is a little red in every drop of the blood, housed
In your veins, that livens your hopes, your dreams, your life.

There is a little rainbow I have wished for you, to nurse you,
Every time your heart cries a downpour, struggling alone in a strife.

Volkswagen Tones Erased

Goodbye, long surviving summertones on blog, and Volkswagen awesomeness. I shall miss you.

Lessons of Tolerance

Very recently, I was discussing with three of my (girl)friends, all of them from conservative Hindu families, the possible repercussions of them falling for a boy from a Muslim background. They unanimously agreed that their parents would not accept any such relationship, and hence they themselves would never allow themselves to fall for a Muslim boy. It was disheartening to know that even in today’s day and age, people are not willing to give love a chance just because religion comes in the way. The topic was broached again, a few days later, around a couple of other (Hindu) friends of mine, and their response was along the same lines. The gravity of the realization that then dawned upon left me rather disappointed and disillusioned(I could’ve used the word ‘shocked’ for a more dramatic effect). Despite all the ‘All Indians are my brothers and sisters’ lessons taught to us in school, we haven’t really learnt the true meaning of acceptance or tolerance. Each one of us is a flaming bigot in some way or the other, though we may proclaim otherwise.

It was never, however, only about accepting and loving all Indians. We, as children were taught to love all human beings despite their cast, creed, race, religion, gender or nationality. However, the amount of Pakistanophobia and ingrained hatred that still exists among most of us Indians is shocking. There is one friend of mine, another girl, who happens to have her roots in those areas of pre-1947 India, that now lie in Pakistan. This girl happens to be regularly rendered a target of almost heinous terrorism and Anti-Pakistan jokes by all of us, by our group. Sure, if you ask us, we are just having fun, teasing her about being a ‘Paki’, and of course we hold nothing against Pakistan. But lurking sinisterly behind every one of those ‘bomb-manufacturing-units’ and ‘Please-don’t-shoot-us’ jokes, there is a delusional notion that every household in Pakistan houses terrorists. I mean, when we Indians hold such ideas about our neighboring countries, what rights do we really have to cry our voices hoarse, when any South Asian member gets picked up ‘randomly’ for extra-rounds of frisking at airports in the West ??

We, the youth of the 21st Century, still hold on to age-old notions and stereotypes unconsciously bequeathed unto us by our parents and elders, while at the same time claiming to be ‘tolerant’ and ‘accommodating’ only because it is ‘cool’ to be tolerant.I know of people who vehemently claim to be non-homophobic but yet they get rid of a homosexual room-mate, just because he does not fit their comfort zone. I know of people who (still) claim Africans and Blacks are ‘ugly’ because God did not deem them fit to be humans and hence they, as a race, should still be treated as inferiors and be kept limited to blue-collar jobs, despite having ‘Black’ best-friends. I know of people who have been reared by a single mother, who do not hesitate for a moment before narrating jokes of the ‘Women should stay in the kitchen’ or ‘Bitch-make-me-a-sandwich’ genre. However, I have absolutely no right to pass judgments on anyone because I am equally guilty of having participated in a lot of anti-Semitic, anti-homosexual, anti-Islam, anti-Marwari, sexist, chauvinistic jokes myself.

Hatred and bigotry is born out of ignorance, out of refusal to look beyond the parameters of what one believes to be right, out of being non-accommodating to the views and ideas of others. There is hope as long as we learn to think about others and their feelings. There is hope as long as we admit to our faults and take steps towards correcting them. Several of whose stories I have mentioned here might take offence and feel blamed by what I have written. All I can say is that, that has been the least of all my intentions. All I want for you all is to become bigger and better individuals, to learn to love and care more and hate less. Tolerance for name’s sake is abusing the concept of tolerance. Looking within, and cleansing oneself of all the ignorance is a step forward in becoming a true global citizen.