Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 18
March 25, 2020
Colour defines us, and How!
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A repost from: 25th March 2015.
Sometimes, the most unlikely person notices, and will know you better than those close, or whose taste’s you rely on, so as to seek their approval when deciding on something you’ve aspired for long. This thought comes to mind, trailing those on the choice of my book’s cover, in my last two posts.
I was to buy my first car in the year 1998, with my own earnings from working in an airline, based in Calcutta then. I had decided it would be a Daewoo – Matiz. This was after the gorgeous Lisa Ray became its brand ambassador. I was also wooed by the tagline “Love at first drive” in its print campaign, that highlighted the exclusive features of the Matiz in all its communications, just as by the comfort from a test drive I took of our family friend’s car. Now with this friend’s as well as my sister’s initiation, along with seconding by my parents, I booked a grey coloured Matiz.
The day I was to gain possession of the car, my sister and the family friend, my mother as well, and our family driver Shambhu – a man a few years older that I was, accompanied me to the showroom in Alipore. This is at the other extreme end of town from where we live in Salt Lake. We took a Taxi, so we could all return in the new car. While we waited in the showroom, the staff adorned my newly acquired car – after I had made the payments, with a number of free gifts like the wheel covers and the steering wheel grip etc. I decided to get the seat covers also installed, so the car would be ready to drive to work the next day.
It was at this point that Shambu walked up to me abruptly and said “Didi, don’t take this colour.” I looked at him in shock and replied “but why…its quite smart, isn’t it? Chot-di and dada also like it.”
“Its’ smart, but does not suit your personality at all.” He insisted “Please don’t take it.” I looked at him quizzically for a few brief moments: He had barely passed his 8th grade from his hometown in Digha and was quite a simpleton, yet thought it pertinent, that a car must match its owner’s personality right up to its hue.
I asked him, quite impressed actually, as I was then in the service quality department and very observant of such intricacies myself – “So which colour do you think will suit my personality?” He pointed to the car you see in the picture here and said “this one is very good for you.”
I looked at the car for a few seconds and promptly made up my mind on it. Then I approached my sister and friend seated on the sofa, both of whom vehemently opposed my choice, more so when they learnt who my newfound advisor was. Mother looked at Shambhu, nodding at him in approval as she stated “I was going to suggest you don’t take the grey, but you would not listen to me.”
Now it was just a matter of turning on my charm, to convince the salesmen of the sudden change in my choice. They politely conceded and quickly got busy in readying this blue car for us to drive home. As soon as we reached home, Shambhu driving us, I got my Lhasa Apso – Sylvie, and my father who was quite unwell then and at home, down and into the car, took them both for a test drive. The smile on my father’s face, Sylvie’s tongue hanging out with the wind blowing her snowy hair, are images still frozen in my mind. I was to have two pets thereon – one Sylvie, the other my very own blue Beetle – my Matiz.
How I wish, since husband’s opinion was given much precedence and credence over mine – due to his media experience and influence, he had more depth in understanding my ‘personality’ in the choice of my first book’s cover, so as not to choose a grey one (it looks green but is grey)…This book, my first, is as dear to me as my last two pets – Sylvie and the Beetle were. 
March 24, 2020
‘My Spiritual Alcove’: Social Distancing & Isolation
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“My Spiritual Alcove”
I love the cozy haven this alcove now provides –
under a window – cushions over mattress recline:
curtains drawn upon the bedside give me respite,
from my restlessness – also prying curious eyes.
Lounging at this villa’s poolside since predawn –
in a first floor window alcove – on our sojourn:
I watch birds in flight begin their day in a song –
curtains of darkness from the theater withdraw.
I view the sky’s stage crack up into a soft dawn –
cool breeze as if it were goading it’s meltdown,
as like a poached egg it’s sunny side cracks out
spilling into its white – now coagulated in form.
Wind whirring on the backwaters of the Ganges
flowing by sideways – behind the landscape pool:
reminds me to put the electric kettle on to a boil,
for tea might soothe my anxiety – bring me sleep.
Over honey-green tea I contemplate on the book:
In search for a meaning of my life I’ve withstood
a bevy of storms crashing on me since my birth –
as like the rock of Gibraltar I’ve faced life’s wrath.
But if I lose faith in my future it’s surely doomed,
along with losing my well fortified spiritual hold:
in letting myself decline at any crisis that arrives,
subjecting myself to a mental and physical decay.
Sunlight by now has brightened my mind’s eye,
as it’s warmth percolates over the eastern sky:
life’s storms I view with objective deep meaning –
as it’s guided by purpose – in my case my writing.
My life’s stage now well lit – mind calm I lie down,
with soft sun’s rays lighting up my face and arms:
In spite of it I now fall asleep for my mind is still –
emotions with a clear perspective cannot wring it.
#spirituality #self-isolation #social distancing #life and death #purpose of life #meaning of life #literary fiction #novels #poetry #books #ebooks #love #authorlife #depthoflife
Please look up/out for my poetry collection titled “Fragments” by Shuvashree Chowdhury, and also my three other books including two novels and a collection of short stories – on the search for purpose and meaning of love and life. They’re available on all international online ebooks and paperback bookstores in your respective countries, like Amazon, Barnes and Nobel etcs…just Google…e-books might be best as of now till we’re out of the crisis.
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March 21, 2020
The “Happy Hour” Margaritas & Mojitos: A Happy World Poetry Day.
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Over dinner at the restaurant, at its ‘Happy Hour’,
we were jubilant to say the least – on Margaritas:
At a price of two we got four – ordered four more,
yet cointreau, lime juice, Tequila – a perfect mix.
Dislodging slices of lemon, from the glasses rim –
tasting salt on it, we gently squeeze lime juice in:
ingredients shaken well with ice, tingles tongues
spiced up with prawns, lamb, also fish n chips.
Our conversation light with drizzles of sadness –
to thaw frozen hearts it takes not many cocktails:
Stirring your soul where the past is a hurricane –
like lava hurt melts overflowing a brim of reason.
Night after we return for the ‘Happy Hour’ bonus –
they run out of cointreau to our disenchantment,
but as wells of sadness haven’t yet exhausted,
to infuse in it joy we opt for eight Mojitos instead.
#worldpoetryday #poetry #love #sadness #happiness #margaritas #mojito #dinner #loveandlife
March 7, 2020
A WOMAN AM I…
Wishing you a very happy International Women’s Day with a repost of this poem…
Purple, Orange, Green,
Vermillion, Gold –
Are the myriad colours I’m made up of:
They stand for dignity, compassion,
Enthusiasm; and a determination
Which drives my passionate triumph!
Yet, ever since I was born –
I was solely reared
To be a perfect match
For someone to whom I’d be wed:
So I was dressed with the utmost care
To ensure I was special and rare.
Thus at boarding school I was trained
That I am always to behave –
Tender, obedient, obliging and humane:
That I must cross my legs when I sit,
Eat with my mouth shut,
As to burp was a cardinal sin;
I was to excuse myself if I cough or sneeze,
Not wear my skirt high above my knee.
Then in college, I was allowed to date –
So long as my chastity in line with my life, was intact:
While…
View original post 362 more words
February 14, 2020
Seasonal Flowers – Salvation of man is in Love.
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Wishing you a very happy Valentine’s day
with my thoughts today…
Seasonal flowers – they spring up on my face
as I walk in through my iron front gate,
enmeshing me – as if in a crocheted quilt
of magnificent colours streaked in sunbeam.
The warmth of their hues beckon me home,
in a haze of red, magenta, pink and yellow –
as appliqués embroidered on glistening grass,
stitched on a mounted frame of nostalgic past.
Bicolored marigolds, roses, sunflowers bloom
amongst petunias of every conceivable hue:
showering their distinctive beauty and elegance,
in knowing they’ll die at the end of this season.
They exude such harmonious love and hope
to cheer the most weary and pessimistic soul,
as they don’t care what you give them in return,
filling self centric hearts with unrequited love.
Kittens with flurry parents flock to our corridor,
awaiting portions of milk, with cat food,
even though they have a home to go back to:
Like food, love is rationed to one’s own too.
An unconditional love I’ve learned to share
with those who come into the realm of my heart:
makes me beneficiary of a world full of my love
that I’m happy on Valentine’s Day to impart.
There’s immense satisfaction in giving your all,
without expectation of what’s given back:
for love can be carried as pollen in your heart
to bloom as flowers – for bees who need nectar.
Love is an ultimate goal to which one can aspire,
as salvation of man is through love and in love:
A man who has nothing more to lose in life
may still know bliss in contemplation of his love.
It’s when you see love’s power and potency,
in one conjuring up images of his truest love –
he might not see again – as soldier, prisoner:
you’ll value its worth to resuscitate a dying man.
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#valentinesday2020 #poweroflove #seasonalflowers #valentinesday #thoughtsonlove #novelist #literaryfictionauthor
#poetslife #poetry #meaningoflife #catlovers #pets
January 6, 2020
“Where My Books Go”- William Butler Yeats: A brief on my books.
A Brief on my set of four books: Novels, Poetry and Short fiction.
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Across Borders: A Novel
All media reviews and coverage of Across Borders and it’s first launch in 2013, are in the link: https://shuvashreechowdhury.com/2018/07/16/across-borders-my-debut-novel-the-republished-version/
Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protagonist Maya…
Chapter 1: That day in 1948, Kalpana and I left to cross over to another life with Ronjit uncle across the Pakistan border. There was no Bangladesh yet and was not going to be for a long time. Mihirpur is a small town near the city of Dacca, in erstwhile East Pakistan, currently Bangladesh. I was about to transcend the border of my childhood. After the age of eight, I was sucked into adulthood like quicksand. It would only be fifteen years hence that I would again cross the border, back into India. After my graduation in 1964, I would return to work, marry, raise a family and live the rest of my life on the Indian side. A few years later, in 1971, the home that I grew up in was to become a part of Bangladesh, no longer of East Pakistan, as when I would leave it. As the country was re-contoured into Pakistan, Bangladesh and India ensuing much turmoil, so did my life across its border in developing three distinct identities – childhood, adolescence and adulthood – get chiselled by the rough hands of time and experiences…
Chapter 2: It was nearly three days, before Ma got a first glimpse of the woman who had displaced her in her husband’s life. That morning Ma was by the well behind the house, putting the clothes to dry on the line. She saw a face just above the sari she had hung. Ma froze in recognition, a dagger passing through her heart, taking her breath away. Thereafter she felt no pain, no anger, not the slightest twinge of jealousy. Numbness had taken over, rooting her to the ground. This is how she would feel about this woman — anaesthetized, till her dying day. This woman had usurped Ma’s position as wife, robbed her of the status of the lady of the house, relegating her to becoming a stranger in her own home. Slowly regaining composure, Ma became acutely self-conscious of still wearing sindur on the parting of her hair, and the shakha, paula and loha around her wrists.
Why was she still adorned in the symbols of marriage of Bengali women, when her marriage was in reality dead, Ma pondered? The shakha (shell bangle) mirrors the qualities of the moon, implying that a woman remains serene and calm; and the paula (coral bangle) is beneficial for health. The loha (iron) signifies that a relationship assumes the qualities of iron — to become tough and enduring, which hers had failed miserably to do. But then, she would continue to wear these visual signs of her extinct marriage till the death of her husband. So what if these symbols had proven ineffective in warding off the biggest threat to her marriage – another woman? Ma now looked closer at Baba’s second wife. She was wearing the identical symbols of marriage, except hers shone brighter from newness and perhaps from requited love, unlike hers.
Chapter 4: At the very outbreak of the riots, Sudeep arranged for Kalpana and Swapnil to leave for Calcutta immediately. He would not take any chances with their security. I was able to convince him telephonically of my need to stay back, promising to leave right after my exams. He himself stayed back in a refugee camp, in wrapping up his business for a few more months. The evacuees from Vishnuganj who took shelter in two mills as reported by The Pakistan Observer were 24000, though the unofficial estimate of the evacuees was 150,000. As I learnt of this in the safety of my Muslim friend’s house, knowing that Sudeep was in that count, I fervently prayed for his safety and reunion with his family. I constantly fought my fear of being brutally murdered if detected to be a Hindu. It truly was the acid test of my ability to fight any threat life would pose thereafter…
Chapter 5: My mother’s helplessness in the face of father’s treachery always came to mind in times of indecisiveness like this. It propelled me to stay on in Dacca, in spite of the arsonist mood I was enveloped in. Though I was to never literally take up arms, I was intrinsically combating with life itself. How then could external forces deter my battle to win a good life, to hoist the flag of my success in front of my father? Therefore education and resultant economic autonomy I chose over the security of life at the time, deciding to leave East Pakistan only on completion of my final examinations. My personal experiences of the riots still give me the shudders. Even now, I wake up from sleep after vivid dreams of the violence, breaking out in a cold sweat as if I were in the midst of it…
Chapter 6: After the outbreak of the riots and attacks on a number of girl’s schools and hostels, it is difficult to pre-empt what may happen next, so all of us girls have vacated the hostel. However, of the twenty-two of us, only four of us who are Hindus, are in actual danger of our lives, if detected. As our truck rolls out into the neighbourhood, we can hear agonizing screams, as people are running crazily pushing one another, overturning wheelbarrows of fruits and vegetables, trampling over the crushed as well as fresh ones they might have just bargained hard for. There are small to large fires everywhere, with a putrid burning smell mixed with that of blood, sweat and fear. People are running arbitrarily — not sure in which direction. They are unsure of who is killing whom, not even aware if the man running alongside is a potential slayer, to escape the vandalism that has erupted on the streets.
There are lungi clad men on the trot, with lathis, daggers, spears and burning torches, against the fading light of the setting sun. All shutters of shops are either closed or are being frantically pulled down, as those late to react will be looted and ransacked, lucky if they can manage to save their lives. People are making a dash for shops or godowns still open, in a bid to hide, not sure if they should stop to pick up a wailing child separated from the mother in the frenzy. There are partially burnt hulks of cars, serrated holes in place of their windows and windshields, dotting the city like campfires in a National Scout Jamboree amidst pitched tents, silent witnesses to the mass destruction and massacre. Thick smoke is wafting about, heavy with the stench of burning flesh, tyres and charred cars, buses and rickshaws.
There are pools of blood on the pavement, where a man might have been beheaded with one flash of a machete. The body, its skin ashen in death, has perhaps been removed by relatives or shop assistants after the rioters have moved ahead. Ambulances and police jeeps are rushing past, their blaring alarms merging jarringly, the red lights blinking furiously. Hospitals are thronged with the dead and the wounded; their mortuaries being combed in search of loved ones, in earnest prayer that they are not found, giving hope a chance to linger. Photos of missing people have been taped on walls of markets and stores. By now, trips to newspaper offices clutching photos taken at weddings — whether the missing person’s own or attending that of loved ones, is forming queues…
Chapter 10: On completion of their schooling, I plan on my daughters attending college from home in Calcutta. So we can now live truly as a family, after the years of mere vacations together. But to my surprise, Dipanjana, now in her eleventh standard, shows a keen interest in going to college at Delhi University. She manages to impress upon an unwilling Sanjana, who has just completed her twelfth standard, to proceed to Delhi. Initially I try to dissuade them, disappointed they do not want to stay home with me and Nayan. But having wished for them to be independent, strong and decisive women, sending them to boarding school at such tender ages to achieve the same, I cannot complain now. Thus I relent, escorting them to Delhi myself; decidedly to admit Sanjana to the college I had worked in for long…
After dinner, all the first year students, referred to as Freshers, are made to assemble in the lawn in front of the dining-hall. The second and third year girls standing facing them, size up each of the new students. Then the Freshers are made to introduce themselves, thanking the seniors who interrupt each one making personal digs, addressing them as Ma’am…
By the time Dipanjana joins the following year, having obtained above the high grades required for admission, ragging is more absurd. She is at times sent with her classmates to the nearby Kamala Nagar market, to fetch a broom and bucket, dressed in the mismatched salwar-suits, with the three braids of oiled hair. They are not allowed on their feet anything other than bathroom slippers, that too only the Bata Hawaii chappals. Even when they step outside their college, they are to address every senior of Delhi University as Sir or Madam, wishing them the time of day. Once few girls including Dipanjana are sent out on the University streets with a bowl in hand, to beg at bus stops the way common beggars do. The ragging at the college for day-scholars lasts about a week, but at the hostel it continues for months. The Freshers abhor being ragged to begin with, but in time drop their resistance, and enjoy themselves. In fact they get smarter day by day…
The more rules were imposed, the smarter the girls got in breaking them, till detected.
I quote V.S Naipaul here, from his book “India: A Million Mutinies Now” which aptly describes my attempts to define Maya –
“She was still part of the story she had told me, over two or three meetings. She was full of the emotions of it, and unable to see in it the historical progression that I thought I saw.”
A sample short story/chapter titled’A Doctor’ from “Existences” – that was published in the reputed literary magazine ‘Himal Southasian’ is in this link:
https://www.himalmag.com/a-doctor-story-shuvashree-chowdhury/
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Existences: A collection of 26 Short Stories
‘Kindness is not an act. It is a Lifestyle’: “You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” -Kahlil Gibran.
These thoughts here, sum up my new collection of 26 stories titled ‘Existences’ – each of which has been thought out and vividly depicted — from my varied socially relevant, corporate experiences of two decades, however casual and easy they might read.
“People are unreasonable, illogical and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies. Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest person with the biggest ideas
can be shot down by the smallest person with the smallest mind.
Think big anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight. Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack if you help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you might get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.” – Dr. Kent M. Keith.
“The Wise Woman’s Stone”: A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone and asked the woman to give it to him. She did so without hesitation. The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime. But a few days later he came back to return the stone to the wise woman.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “I know how valuable the stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious. Give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone.” — Anonymous.
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Fragments: A collection of 90 poems…
As for the poetry collection “Fragments”…I’ve shared so many poems here over the last few years, starting out since I started to blog in a few other platforms since 2006…so you know what to expect…or just read a few here.
“Where My Books Go”- William Butler Yeats
A Brief on my set of four books: Novels, Poetry and Short fiction.
[image error]
Across Borders: A Novel
All media reviews and coverage of Across Borders and it’s first launch in 2013, are in the link: https://shuvashreechowdhury.com/2018/07/16/across-borders-my-debut-novel-the-republished-version/
Excerpts from Across Borders, in the words of the protagonist Maya…
Chapter 1: That day in 1948, Kalpana and I left to cross over to another life with Ronjit uncle across the Pakistan border. There was no Bangladesh yet and was not going to be for a long time. Mihirpur is a small town near the city of Dacca, in erstwhile East Pakistan, currently Bangladesh. I was about to transcend the border of my childhood. After the age of eight, I was sucked into adulthood like quicksand. It would only be fifteen years hence that I would again cross the border, back into India. After my graduation in 1964, I would return to work, marry, raise a family and live the rest of my life on the Indian side. A few years later, in 1971, the home that I grew up in was to become a part of Bangladesh, no longer of East Pakistan, as when I would leave it. As the country was re-contoured into Pakistan, Bangladesh and India ensuing much turmoil, so did my life across its border in developing three distinct identities – childhood, adolescence and adulthood – get chiselled by the rough hands of time and experiences…
Chapter 2: It was nearly three days, before Ma got a first glimpse of the woman who had displaced her in her husband’s life. That morning Ma was by the well behind the house, putting the clothes to dry on the line. She saw a face just above the sari she had hung. Ma froze in recognition, a dagger passing through her heart, taking her breath away. Thereafter she felt no pain, no anger, not the slightest twinge of jealousy. Numbness had taken over, rooting her to the ground. This is how she would feel about this woman — anaesthetized, till her dying day. This woman had usurped Ma’s position as wife, robbed her of the status of the lady of the house, relegating her to becoming a stranger in her own home. Slowly regaining composure, Ma became acutely self-conscious of still wearing sindur on the parting of her hair, and the shakha, paula and loha around her wrists.
Why was she still adorned in the symbols of marriage of Bengali women, when her marriage was in reality dead, Ma pondered? The shakha (shell bangle) mirrors the qualities of the moon, implying that a woman remains serene and calm; and the paula (coral bangle) is beneficial for health. The loha (iron) signifies that a relationship assumes the qualities of iron — to become tough and enduring, which hers had failed miserably to do. But then, she would continue to wear these visual signs of her extinct marriage till the death of her husband. So what if these symbols had proven ineffective in warding off the biggest threat to her marriage – another woman? Ma now looked closer at Baba’s second wife. She was wearing the identical symbols of marriage, except hers shone brighter from newness and perhaps from requited love, unlike hers.
Chapter 4: At the very outbreak of the riots, Sudeep arranged for Kalpana and Swapnil to leave for Calcutta immediately. He would not take any chances with their security. I was able to convince him telephonically of my need to stay back, promising to leave right after my exams. He himself stayed back in a refugee camp, in wrapping up his business for a few more months. The evacuees from Vishnuganj who took shelter in two mills as reported by The Pakistan Observer were 24000, though the unofficial estimate of the evacuees was 150,000. As I learnt of this in the safety of my Muslim friend’s house, knowing that Sudeep was in that count, I fervently prayed for his safety and reunion with his family. I constantly fought my fear of being brutally murdered if detected to be a Hindu. It truly was the acid test of my ability to fight any threat life would pose thereafter…
Chapter 5: My mother’s helplessness in the face of father’s treachery always came to mind in times of indecisiveness like this. It propelled me to stay on in Dacca, in spite of the arsonist mood I was enveloped in. Though I was to never literally take up arms, I was intrinsically combating with life itself. How then could external forces deter my battle to win a good life, to hoist the flag of my success in front of my father? Therefore education and resultant economic autonomy I chose over the security of life at the time, deciding to leave East Pakistan only on completion of my final examinations. My personal experiences of the riots still give me the shudders. Even now, I wake up from sleep after vivid dreams of the violence, breaking out in a cold sweat as if I were in the midst of it…
Chapter 6: After the outbreak of the riots and attacks on a number of girl’s schools and hostels, it is difficult to pre-empt what may happen next, so all of us girls have vacated the hostel. However, of the twenty-two of us, only four of us who are Hindus, are in actual danger of our lives, if detected. As our truck rolls out into the neighbourhood, we can hear agonizing screams, as people are running crazily pushing one another, overturning wheelbarrows of fruits and vegetables, trampling over the crushed as well as fresh ones they might have just bargained hard for. There are small to large fires everywhere, with a putrid burning smell mixed with that of blood, sweat and fear. People are running arbitrarily — not sure in which direction. They are unsure of who is killing whom, not even aware if the man running alongside is a potential slayer, to escape the vandalism that has erupted on the streets.
There are lungi clad men on the trot, with lathis, daggers, spears and burning torches, against the fading light of the setting sun. All shutters of shops are either closed or are being frantically pulled down, as those late to react will be looted and ransacked, lucky if they can manage to save their lives. People are making a dash for shops or godowns still open, in a bid to hide, not sure if they should stop to pick up a wailing child separated from the mother in the frenzy. There are partially burnt hulks of cars, serrated holes in place of their windows and windshields, dotting the city like campfires in a National Scout Jamboree amidst pitched tents, silent witnesses to the mass destruction and massacre. Thick smoke is wafting about, heavy with the stench of burning flesh, tyres and charred cars, buses and rickshaws.
There are pools of blood on the pavement, where a man might have been beheaded with one flash of a machete. The body, its skin ashen in death, has perhaps been removed by relatives or shop assistants after the rioters have moved ahead. Ambulances and police jeeps are rushing past, their blaring alarms merging jarringly, the red lights blinking furiously. Hospitals are thronged with the dead and the wounded; their mortuaries being combed in search of loved ones, in earnest prayer that they are not found, giving hope a chance to linger. Photos of missing people have been taped on walls of markets and stores. By now, trips to newspaper offices clutching photos taken at weddings — whether the missing person’s own or attending that of loved ones, is forming queues…
Chapter 10: On completion of their schooling, I plan on my daughters attending college from home in Calcutta. So we can now live truly as a family, after the years of mere vacations together. But to my surprise, Dipanjana, now in her eleventh standard, shows a keen interest in going to college at Delhi University. She manages to impress upon an unwilling Sanjana, who has just completed her twelfth standard, to proceed to Delhi. Initially I try to dissuade them, disappointed they do not want to stay home with me and Nayan. But having wished for them to be independent, strong and decisive women, sending them to boarding school at such tender ages to achieve the same, I cannot complain now. Thus I relent, escorting them to Delhi myself; decidedly to admit Sanjana to the college I had worked in for long…
After dinner, all the first year students, referred to as Freshers, are made to assemble in the lawn in front of the dining-hall. The second and third year girls standing facing them, size up each of the new students. Then the Freshers are made to introduce themselves, thanking the seniors who interrupt each one making personal digs, addressing them as Ma’am…
By the time Dipanjana joins the following year, having obtained above the high grades required for admission, ragging is more absurd. She is at times sent with her classmates to the nearby Kamala Nagar market, to fetch a broom and bucket, dressed in the mismatched salwar-suits, with the three braids of oiled hair. They are not allowed on their feet anything other than bathroom slippers, that too only the Bata Hawaii chappals. Even when they step outside their college, they are to address every senior of Delhi University as Sir or Madam, wishing them the time of day. Once few girls including Dipanjana are sent out on the University streets with a bowl in hand, to beg at bus stops the way common beggars do. The ragging at the college for day-scholars lasts about a week, but at the hostel it continues for months. The Freshers abhor being ragged to begin with, but in time drop their resistance, and enjoy themselves. In fact they get smarter day by day…
The more rules were imposed, the smarter the girls got in breaking them, till detected.
I quote V.S Naipaul here, from his book “India: A Million Mutinies Now” which aptly describes my attempts to define Maya –
“She was still part of the story she had told me, over two or three meetings. She was full of the emotions of it, and unable to see in it the historical progression that I thought I saw.”
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Existences: A collection of 26 Short Stories
‘Kindness is not an act. It is a Lifestyle’: “You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” -Kahlil Gibran.
These thoughts here, sum up my new collection of 26 stories titled ‘Existences’ – each of which has been thought out and vividly depicted — from my varied socially relevant, corporate experiences of two decades, however casual and easy they might read.
“People are unreasonable, illogical and self-centered.
Love them anyway.
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Do good anyway.
If you are successful, you will win false friends and true enemies. Succeed anyway.
The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Do good anyway.
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.
The biggest person with the biggest ideas
can be shot down by the smallest person with the smallest mind.
Think big anyway.
What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight. Build anyway.
People really need help but may attack if you help them.
Help people anyway.
Give the world the best you have and you might get kicked in the teeth.
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.” – Dr. Kent M. Keith.
“The Wise Woman’s Stone”: A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone and asked the woman to give it to him. She did so without hesitation. The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the stone was worth enough to give him security for a lifetime. But a few days later he came back to return the stone to the wise woman.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “I know how valuable the stone is, but I give it back in the hope that you can give me something even more precious. Give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone.” — Anonymous.
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Fragments: A collection of 90 poems…
As for the poetry collection “Fragments”…I’ve shared so many poems here over the last few years, starting out since I started to blog in a few other platforms since 2006…so you know what to expect…or just read a few here.
December 31, 2019
New Year Contemplation
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‘New Year Contemplation’
Shower your abundance on us, oh lord,
bestow your graces benevolently:
May the year ahead bring peace and harmony,
also love, prosperity, equanimity, and glory.
Whether we’re brown or white doesn’t matter,
black and yellow only enhances our beauty:
So long as we see, the greenery that wraps us all –
doesn’t differentiate on sex, religion, nationality.
Let us see differences with love in the new year,
being judgmental only causes rift and anxiety –
clouding our minds and politicising our views,
turning our picturesque global greenhouse gory.
Wishing you all a very happy New Year (2020) – filled with Faith, Peace, Health, Love, moral and emotional Strength, Humanity and Unity.
#love #life #peace #mindfulness #healing #happiness #mentalhealth #equanimity #hope # #faith #contemplation
PS: Please visit my facebook author page ‘Across Borders’ for photos of the past year, and also to know more about my books.
#authorlife #poet #novelist #shortfictionwriter #literaryfiction #inspirational #motivational #literaryfictionauthor
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November 23, 2019
The Strength of a Woman: Shaukat Kaifi Azmi
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The news of Shaukat Kaifi’s death, in the link below, feels almost like a personal loss to me at this point. As incidentally, I recently completed reading her memoir…the cover is in the photos here.
She was not just the wife of Kaifi Azmi
and the mother of Shabana and Baba Azmi, all very distinguished individuals who have given much to the social, cultural heritage of India, but someone who strongly epitomises the strength – every Indian woman ought to learn to be identified with.
Shaukat was not only successful, well known and respected in her personal capacity, she was the pillar of strength, motivation and inspiration for each member of her family, and a solid emotional prop for each of them to reach the heights they reached in their lives.
Kaifi Azmi was an exceptionally talented individual, but in my view could not have reached the heights he did without Shaukat’s moral and emotional strength to walk as a crutch beside him lifelong since a young age.
And if you read her memoir, you will know that in addition to Kaifi, the kind of tutelage she provided through examples on life to Shabana and Baba to become the persons they did.
So yes, in Indian society it’s so usual to just ignore or worse still – undermine the contribution and sacrifices of a woman, especially when and if she chooses to create, build and sustain her own identity and personal success. This is where I relate to Shaukat’s memoir so deeply!
Rest in Peace, Shaukat Azmi. You were and will always be an inspiration and beacon of light, for women who do not fear sacrifices or the lack of acknowledgment for their contributions to the pillars they create or the critical judgement of society in how they conduct their own lives. And yet manage to shine in their own true right and light!
Sharing a page from the Forward of Shaukat’s memoir in the photos…it will give you a peek into her life.
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November 4, 2019
A Brief, on my set of 4 Books: Across Borders; Entwined Lives; Fragments & Existences.
On Amazon and Flipkart from today: My set of 4 Books – ‘Across Borders’ & ‘Entwined Lives’ (Novels); ‘Existences’(26 short-stories); ‘Fragments’ (poetry – 90 poems). For more on the views that went into the books, and further updates, please click and visit/follow the page Across Borders.
I’m so pleased to be able to bring to you, on a special day today – the birthday of the great leader – Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose, the amazon.in and flipkart.com web links for sale of my books, as below. You can buy the 4 books as a set as they are all inter related, and therefore released together, or any or more you like.
A list of the varied international distribution platforms and e-books will all go live in a few days…I’ll share the links here. The books will be in stores only around March…
But till such time, anywhere in the world…
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