She Died That Night

Rina died a new days back. I buried her, somewhere deep in my heart. 

She was a dream. And like all beautiful dreams, she was great, as along as she was there. I loved her dearly. But she was so distant, almost inviolable, darting in and out of the dark clouds of my life; as though she came from another planet. A shimmering but very remote planet. A place, whose thought sent the mind into a convulsion of emotions. From my distant perch, it appeared to be a land of milk and honey. But it also conjured images of awe and fear, in the unfledged mind. She fought, cajoled, scolded and loved. But all of it seemed so wonderful. I wished it would never end. But it did, that night. 

I called her Rina, to the rest of the world she was Rashmi. Rashmi lives on; Rina died that night. As I laid her to rest in the depth of my heart and grieved, I knew that she had left behind a wealth of beautiful memories, wonderful moments, which would serve as my companion for the rest of my life.

As I sat, staring out of my bus window, at the verdant fields yonder, her charming, smiling face floated in and out of my reverie. Every word she had said, remains indelibly etched in my memory.

A liitle thought

Very few people get what they want in life, most don't. To the outside world they are a picture of joy, mirth and laughter, but the pain within, they suffer all alone.

The dark night is their invisible cocoon. It hides them, hides their tears and protects them from the prying eyes of the world, as they grieve.

And when the tears dry up, they get up and retrace their steps along that beaten track, that they have so often traveled, in their dreary lives. They walk, with the hope, that one day, just maybe, one day, someone will come along and hold their hand, in love, and walk along with them in their journey of life.

That Rainy Evening

Being a single parent is not easy, even in a big city, and a being a single father is worse. “A man can never nurture”, it is said. No one is willing to give a man a chance. He is bound by the societal streotypes of a bread earner and a protector. He is often the the subject of the society gossip and the child often subject to taunts and questions, answer to which he is too young to contemplate. Conflicting emotions tears up the man everyday and at every step. Should he be the caring and loving mother or the disciplinarian father? It is an emotional mesh that tend to push him to the extremes in either direction.

It was one of these battles that I was fighting that rainy evening. My five year old son was impatiently pacing in the room, anxiously looking out of the window for his playmates. It was pouring outside and he wanted to go out and play. The mother in me did not want to let the boy out in the rain. After lot of cajoling and promises, I agreed to let him go out and play with his friends on the assurance that he will keep his raincoat on and avoid the puddles. He ran down the steps of my fifth floor apartment, too excited to wait for the lift. I had hardly settled down in my sofa to complete a long pending book, that I heard his joyful shrieks. I thought of taking a peek out of the window to check on him. There he was racing down the society walkway, on his bicycle, along with the other kids of the society, drenched to the bone, his shirt sticking to his body, raincoat long shed and forgotten. I shouted at him and commanded him to come back home on the double.

He stood at the door shivering in his wet clothes, scared and nervous about the expected reprimand. I was scolded him as I rubbed him dry with a towel. He was obviously sad on loosing out of the fun time with his friends. His question disarmed me completely, “Baba, did you not play in the rain when you were my age?” He ran inside, too cold to wait for an answer and too young to understand contradiction of the adults. 

When I was his age, I not only got drenched in the rain, but also muddied my school uniform playing in the rain and mud along with my friends. When I seek to protect him, I was actually denying him the joys of childhood which he is so entitled to. We adult spend too much time thinking, “what would happen if,” and thus miss out on the small joys of life. When we correct your children we forget how we craved to do exactly the same things as a child.