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Rain

'She burnt me. In vain.'

In little pieces they fall, 

Cool as ice, upon my cheeks,
They pour.
My boiling skin, they touch,
They splutter.
As they roll, they vanish,
Evaporate.
I hold out my hands,
They deviate.
I stand in a puddle,
They leak away.
They run, away, far,
Meandering,
Their escapade.
Loathing, the pouring,
As I count the drops,
It stops to rain.

I look around,
I burnt the rain. 

Allow me

Allow me to stand knee deep in mud
To breathe in the scents of the world
Burying my hands into the vastness of the air
Feeling the wind blow on me.

Allow me to jump into a puddle
And splash little droplets of joy
While I roam aimlessly
On account of a freedom exercised by me.

Allow me to wallow in my own pain
To pick myself up for my own gains
To bash myself for my crimes
And to be allowed to let some slide.

Allow me,
To have the freedom,
Where I don't have to be allowed.

Allow me. 

Ways

I know not your ways
Though I am well versed with the game.
I grasp on to little findings
Clutch on to them tight.

Still I know,
Two steps from here,
What I learnt wont be the same,
It wont be the same game.

Soon, everything around me will change
What I've clutched on to will remain.
It's need however
Will begin to slowly fade.

Before I know it
They will leave stains. 

Fate

The world collapses

Hopes and dreams built,

shatter.

Expectations and outcomes,

mismatch.

The need and deed,

overlap.

The steady feet
Soon falters.
Staggering steps,
Fail.
Trial and sweat,
Conquer,
Still leaving the insides,
Pale.

Momentary decisions,
Regretted.
Shallow actions,
Unveiled.

Years of regret,
Burdened.
Adds to the latest fate.

Grey

For every truth, there is a lie,
For the shining light, there is a shadow.
For every fact, there is a fallacy,
For every new learning, you unlearn.

But things are not as plain as black and white,
For those born into shades of grey.
Grey is personal and different for each,
Grey is the explanation,
That justifies one's deed.

Slay.

You can't persuade a driven mind,

That chooses a path to slay.

Be it one or two or many a fools,

Whose help got them caught in it's way.

(Single quatrain poems are my favourite.)

Shallow

You can't fathom the strength,

That comes with strain,
The hold of the universe,

The beauty of things plain.

Mere words we are allowed,

Things with such restraint,

They barely mean much,

And rarely do they not fail.

Intertwined in complexities,

Miserably lacking in faith,

The only thing that moves us,

Are feelings of immediate pain.

Look sharp into the horizon,

Like old romantics,

Watch the dreams soar like beams.
Look past a reflection,

Watch the undercurrents,

Think of all the things they can mean.

As thickness of thought,

And depth of sense fleets away.
Stands a generation,

Talking about a world to change.

Who needs

For a friend who is too beautiful to be ruined by the whims of a man.

-

Who needs a man,

To be told that the world goes about you.

Words so hollow, so shallow,

That you can almost see through.

Momentary comforts so few,

That it's worth not even it's due.

Who needs a man,

To come knocking at your door

After every aftermath that rocks his floor.

So he can hold ground and take off,

Until the next time, but he wont stop.

Who needs a man,

To wipe away some tears,

When what caused them to flow,

Is the one that really should fear.

Who needs a man,

When you hold your reins,

When you make the calls,

And you can cause your own pain.

Who needs that man,

When you have your own feet to stand.

Let you be

I could whip you with a thought

Then burn you with the eye,

I could punch a hole on that face

Yes, I know that would be nice.

Peel the thick skin that covers you so well,

And prick the raw meat that it leaves.

I could lash you like a washerman,

And drain you till you bleed.

I could do a lot of things to you,

Of all these things,

I would rather just let you be.

The Mother of Battles

(Disclaimer: No conformation to textbook poetic rules what-so-ever. Just emotions mingled with words.)

- -

Battles surround the existence,

Of a small existential lass.

Fighting wars since her childhood,

Commotion was the atmosphere she had.

Time went by and battles did happen,

As she settled in the sands of her time.

A fairy tale took her by surprise,

A harbinger of peace and calm,

Started inside the walls of her courts.

Soon meaning changed and new order was in place,

She smiled more often,

Welcoming the new change.

But the queen of battles,

Was the queen of battles after all.

In the heart of hearts,

The mother of battles,

Fought this one war,

Inside of her like none ever before.

Where be her real self, she worried,

In calm or amidst the unstable scene,

Despite all the calm she tried,

She ended with her own broken piece.

The mother of battles,

Fought her biggest war,

She fought herself, her pride,

And she took the fall.

The mother of battles,

No queen, no royalty,

Just a lass,

Who fights wars daily,

Loses and wins the same fights.

The mother of battles,

Will never be known.

As everyone has battles to fight, their own.

Fade

The smell that lingers upon me fades away,

Along it carries a fading fascination.

As the eyes draw towards other objects in the horizon,

The colour lifts off the skin that it had earlier stained.

Exchanges of mutual admiration,

Refurbishes into mutual acceptance,

Of the faults and the follies and the pain,

Amongst acceptance of the lesser life,

Of a future full of probable disdain.

Or is it me that fades?

From rationality and the freedom of space,

Is it my vision that is passing through a hue?

That colours everything to distinct red and blue.

Even if help comes my way, unless it be from you,

Pointlessness will be bred through and through.

I see you,

But is what I see true?

Or is it the hue?

Look me in the eye.

I see it twinkle, no it wasn't your smile,

Emotions of ranges high.

There was a breath, yes, you're sigh,

Summary of blatant lies.

Shrugged shoulders, creased forehead,

Justifications sent to a really numb head.

String of words that hold no life,

Just words to fill the vast void.

Shadow following your usual gait,

Shades of you that you just made.

A hint of red on your face seen bright,

Not your shame,

Not your misery,

I know that shade,

It's pride.

Look me in the eye,

I died.

How Do You Start Over?

How do you start over?

Where be the beginning,

Where be the end?

What be the aim,

What be the goal?

How do you start over,

No one ever told.

A string of words hover

A thousand memories flash,

A blind getaway one hopes for

Looking for a place numb to crash.

How do you start over,

Would anyone know?

Clean a dirty slate

And mess it up again,

How many times is the slate to be cleaned,

Before they are stopped calling stains.

How do you start over,

Does its route have any maps?

How do you start over,

Does it have to involve pain?

All those things I wish I had told.

All those things I wish had told all 'those' men, had I the patience and the frame of mind.

If you think that the girl slinging to your arm or someone else's arm or not slinging onto anyone's arm is your personal commodity, you think very highly of yourself. You should know that one doesn't have to be a doctor to know how to castrate. (Refer: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hard_Candy_(film)) If a woman can cook you chicken, she can slit you into any desirable piece she wishes to make of you (not necessarily halal cut).

914 women are enough to wipe out 1000 men. If given a choice, women would like to see the tiger census go up than have more of you in this world. They have cared more about animals than they ever have about you.

A woman does not need to know the language you speak to know that you are speaking about her. Infact, she can read your thoughts. You should probably be hung upside down by means of two hooks without food/water/porn till you die to begin to think like a normal human being. Oh wait, that will just make you deprived, forget the becoming normal human being part, we will just let you die.

There are good people in this world, most of them are women and the rest are respectable men. Respectable men know their limits and therefore they will survive, happily.

Do not push women to start off a revolution. If that happens, you would be praying to God that you had behaved. We will stomp on you till you plead, the women that you call 'Fat' will sit on you till you suffocate and die.

DO not push for a revolution. This world would then be full of women and they would all make peace with being lesbians.

Therefore I repeat, DO NOT.

DON'T.

Messengers of Apathy

A wingless bird on a sturdy flight,

A handsome roar to an ugly sight,

A painless tear to a stinging plight,

A shield of ruse to unreasonable height.

We, the Messengers of Apathy,

We scream, we swear, we bite.

Quantum Dole

As we strive to maximize the pittance that rolls one's way,

A bidding happens with another, doling out quantum pays;

Too tight one clasp, too loose the other hold,

Too meager a mean, too eager a soul.

And farewells are a part of life at every door,

"It comes, it goes", everyday the same show.

To fight the journey of the come and go, a probe,

A minor break, in a major flow.

A tale too heard, a tale much told,

A moment of peace, a moment of hope.

Simplistic Survival

In this world full of sounds and lights,

There are corners that are not so bright.

Where people do live and life doesn't know,

Of complications apart from the sun, the fireflies and the starry glow.

Many men there are, many women too,

And equations simple, 1+1=2.

Equally do they know of moods and highs and lows,

Its just that their remedies are not sold in stores.

*Attempt #1 at capturing the feel of Arangottukara*

That thing that mom taught.

Life has never been fair. A proven fact. So when your mother told you as a child growing up to be grateful to God for being blessed with what ever little you have, to not crib and ask for more, she had her research done. So I will tell you a story not exactly in the conventional story format, about a school whose students are not too different from the standard prototype of children your mom told you about.
A newspaper boy, a maid, a potter, a car washer, a dish washer, a dhobi are amongst the several answers that you will get if you ask what the activities of the students at Carmel School, Gedelahalli (in Bangalore) are apart from studies. Their part time jobs may not be as fancy as the ones you and I may pick, but then again, Mom asked us to be thankful. So whenever and wherever we find the need be thankful we will, right?
This school of 210 students has 210 unique stories to tell. An abusive family, an ailing parent, insufficient income, unemployment, the shame of not being able to pay monthly fee(as low as 100 and 280 depending on classes), the embarrassment of walking barefoot to school because the shoes that was worn for three years finally gave way, are all problems that we try to empathise with when we are not wailing in the sadness of our hundred broken relationships. But the truth in the voice of these small story tellers is of another kind. Remember what mom said? Yes, we are thankful.
If you were to take the best dancers of this school or football players of this school, you would be amazed to see that, there lies just so much potential within them. If you could find a medium to really communicate with these children, they would finally be able to tell you that they are not really bad students. They are trying but just aren't able to study. Despite spending hours on studies, its just hard for them to understand because English is just too complicated and that there is no one at home educated enough to teach them. The teachers would tell you that despite staying in the school till 5 in the evening so that they can teach the weaker kids, the progress is not too much. They would tell you how they are working hard and trying to make a difference in lives of these kids so that they have a life that will stand at least some chance against ours. If you spoke to the people running the school, they would tell you how hard it is for them to meet their daily expenses and pay the teachers, because the school is just unable to generate any money from the fees and that is limiting them from providing a million other opportunities to these children who they adore so much. The kids who are unable to pay the fee would tell you that if they pestered their parents to pay the fees, that would be the end of their education. Dint mom say be thankful, yes yes thankful we are! Definitely!
These children did not choose such lives for themselves. They dint ask for any of this. It isn't their fault. Our mothers and fathers who taught us the valuable lesson of being thankful are the ones who jump at every chance they get to try and give away unused clothes, shoes and books to such children. We weren't taught these values just to show gratitude but to keep the cycle of being able to provide for others going and to empathise with children whose lives we very well could have lead.
I do not intend to call us insensitive. If we can 'like' and join the cause that CRY or PETA addresses, then being able to sensitise with this issue and taking it beyond just the 'like' factor shouldn't be that hard.
Supporting the education of a child for a year, including the fee, school uniform, books and others will cost Rs.8000. When I heard about this amount, I thought of all the things that I unnecessarily spent money on and realised that with just that amount a child could have attend school. If you think the same and feel the same and you along with your family would like to sponsor the education of a child for one year and you urge others to do so as well, several lives would change and you would be thanked for it.
Remember all things mom said and even if you would like to contribute just 50 rupees to the school, please do.
:)

Change In The Hands Of A Woman

Call it the outlook of a 21st century youngster or just my prejudice and partiality towards women, I believe that the term "change for the better" can be facilitated only through the hands of responsible women. However, this does not imply that I find the menfolk of our country and elsewhere incapable of being change makers, I just doubt their loyalty towards the 'change'.
(Debatable though, but that's not the aim here.)



The girl clad in jeans and kurta is Chavvi Rajawat, the youngest lady Sarpanch of Soda Village, 60km from Jaipur. She left her corporate job and city life to join politics, becoming the Sarpanch of Soda village. Her grandfather Brig. Raghubir Singh was the Sarpanch of the village, from which she too was elected.
She is currently focusing on achieving the Millennium Development Goals for the village and to make the village self-sufficient without the intervention of the Government or NGOs. She had also addressed global dignitaries at the 11th Info-Poverty World Conference held at the United Nations in New York.
She has changed the concept of a village Sarpanch in India today, from the stereotypical image being of a worldly-wise elderly man wearing a kurta-dhothi to an equally knowledgeable fresh youngster, tech savvy and jeans clad. The world around us is changing and women are contributing endlessly to bring in radical change.

Women like these inspire me. After having read about her, my inclination to get into politics has escalated to a whole new level. I wish to be amongst these women who will wash away the backwardness in time and put rural India on the world map of its conserved ethnicity and self-sufficiency.


To the change-makers of the future(in which I include), both men and women,
Self-sufficiency is not mediocre and survival does not mean compromise.
The rural India is only accepting the current scenario, for them acceptance is a mean of adaptation, its not a choice.

Square One

To hear your own self crunch,

In the silence of someone's deed.

To lose your calm and peace,

So much that you cant breathe.

To leave and walk from all,

Thinking you will be free.

And to then walk back,

Because you have no where else to be.

The Insensitive Census

After a morning of disturbing arguments with my mother the last thing I wanted to respond to were the 'Census' people. Well, to my requirement, that came true and I dint get to talk to them.

My house is comfortably located in a cozy corner of the world, far from civilization which requires me to walk a kilometer at least in order to appreciate and view human faces. With a morning that started with a fight and already late to attend the first hour of college, grumpily I took long strides. And before the final turn (which is quite an invisible turn really) to my house, I saw them. Since mom leaves for work and after socializing and empathizing with her school children comes back home really late, I knew if any one had to answer question that would be me and since I wasn't in the mood for it, we were amongst those chosen few who were too cool to be counted in the large numbers. To my comfort, I liked that version better. I wanted our numbers and facts to play hard to get, thus assuming that they will come back the next day or the day after to take records. (I try and mend every situation to suit my needs of either elevating my ego or tramping over it. This was mended for the prior. Ah! what a feeling to be wanted and needed so much.)

The very same day i read the article of C.K Meena on The Hindu. My ego shrunk to the size of a pea. The very though of not being included in the census of the country that I so proudly belong to and the country that allows me to post any bull crap I want on my blog without restrictions, the same very country whose roads hate but whose portals I can never convince myself to ever leave, disturbed me immensely. I wanted the 'Census' people to come back. I want them to come back. It doesn't matter to me if I'm just a mere number with a few details in their records but as long as I'm counted, I know that they know I belong and I exist.

I eagerly wait for them to come. Like a lover I mourn my own loss.

Monday morning rules

She lay there on the bed. The tiny metal clock by her bed read 3.50a.m. This was probably amongst the very few times when she woke up that early by herself, without the help of an alarm and a million clicks on the 'snooze' button. Nightmares do that to you. They can make you sweat when you are trying to find warmth under a quit on a cold morning. She lay there on the bed till 6.30a.m. Tears rolling down, by the side of her eyes.

Mom walked into her room like she did every morning. Switched off the fan, opened the windows and drew the curtains. On an average day, she would wake up annoyed at mom, but today was different. She had never been as happy to see mom do what annoys her the most. Mom, continuing the usual ritual asked her to wake up for college, in the usual tone. She asked mom to let her be for a while and said she'd be up in sometime. Mom knew her tricks, the Monday morning nightmares of not wanting to go to college. That was probably because she pretended to be ill every Monday morning and if she planned things well enough, even Sunday night. She continued to lay on the bed resting her head on the soggy pillow.

The clock struck 7.15 and the angry mother strutted into the room and ranting endlessly about her lack of commitment towards anything. She got up, annoyed that the requirement of space was hardly addressed and asked her mom to let her be . Not being able to take her tantrums anymore the distressed mother, convinced that the daughter was making up the story questioned as to what could she have possibly dreamt for her to behave this way. She couldn't take it anymore and screamed back at her mom exclaiming, "try waking up one morning after dreaming that you killed your mother, you'll know." She wished she hadn't told her mom because she knew either her mom wouldn't believe her or would end up saying "Oh now you want to kill me. Dreams are unfulfilled desires, you know." Well she did know her mom well, the latter happened.

Apparently one can't wake up having nightmares on Monday mornings. Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays accommodate comforting, but not Mondays. Never Mondays.

Coconut Full Of Sunshine

It wasn't too long ago when I was a little girl who strutted up and down the stairs of a temple that our family visited often, during our stay in Trivandrum. That place fascinated me, it was not the the crowd that outnumbered its own records or people who took turns on their backs around the temple or the peacocks and peahens that perched on the low branches of trees that surrounded the temple. What fascinated me were the coconuts. Yes the coconuts!

They were filled in huge jute sacks probably in counts of thousands and were broken as an offering to ones favorite deity, the fat belly Ganesha. The questions that lingered in my mind was never attended to, let alone be solved. It resparked my senses again, quite recently. Now coming back to the question- What can a God do with coconuts?! In a solution that one usually expects from god.. If you offer him money, he wouldprobably give it to the poor.. If you offer food then he would feed the hungry.. But why the coconuts and why in such a large number..?

(shift scene)

Mom has been cooking ever since I can remember seeing her, so thats a real long time. Whenever we'd complain of an averagely cooked meal, she'd conveniently blame the coconuts.

"You grate the coconuts, and i'll make the tastiest curries. Grating is hard for me, its a lot of effort" (yeah that would probably be because she has a belly as big as that of Ganesha's -i love you mom).

In the kind of food that our cuisine offers, a huge amount of taste and flavour is contributed by the products and by-products of coconuts, so that accounts to a lot of coconut usuage. Till date, my mom's story continues to hold position .

Why the coconuts?! Why them always? Haven't we Mallus faced enough ridicule with relation to coconuts already? Not that being Mallu means any lesser than being a Gujju or even a Tamilian amongst others. Infact I'm quite shamelessly proud of being Mallu. That is not even the point. The point is -

Mom wants coconuts-grated.

Gods want coconuts-broken.

Christine wants coconuts-(she knows why).

Alfy wants coconuts-so that he can remind me time and again that I'm a mallu.

My sister wants coconut shells-so that they can be painted in gold and can be hung, all around Ranga Shankara.

Shruti wants coconuts-well Shruti wants everything :P

P.T Usha wants coconuts-so that she can endorse tender coconut water.

My dad wants a coconut tree-so that we can be self sustained.

Its all about the coconut. You can please anyone with it, even P.T Usha.

Go fetch.

Rs.8- Rs.12 (depending on size).

Coming to all stores near you.

(The point is that i still don't know the answer)

A Sari To Petticoat Experience :)

It came as a surprise to me when the usually mundane looking Google chrome that displays the recently visited pages had an absolutely new looking page at the right corner. Unaware of what lay in store for me, i went ahead and decided to find out. You know that feeling that one thinks one would feel when you'd see your kid taking his/her first few strides? I felt exactly the same except, I don't have a child. Child is the father of man came true for me in an unconventional feminine way. My mother created her very own blog. There thats my little girl, who struts about the house in cute fancy looking clothes with a constantly creased forehead, showing me how its done. Its not too often that you consider a mom with a nice big warm belly with a brilliant temper in this manner and in my case it is as rare as refusing to eat a pie.

I remember the number of times she asked me to show her how to create a blog. But for me Facebooking and texting was of utmost importance, although, i did try to teach -once. Well, what can i say, I'm not really a woman with patience. Not only has she managed to tell me that she can do stuff without me (repeatedly, time and again) but also left with a confident claim, "Mine will be amongst the most famous blogs, you'll see."

All i have to say is, Mom, I'm really proud of you.

http://ammafundas.blogspot.com/

Please do check out my moms blog. She's a rockstar. Read and you'll know.

Broken By A Ring

He stood there by the window, the pane held the rain from hitting him while tears rolled down his eyes even though he tried to hold them back. He turned around and asked her, "Why cant you tell me? Speak to me this once.. Please.. You will have to speak, I've tried to understand silence long enough, it stopped making sense anymore". She just sat on the cushion holding the shiny silk pillow, not a sign of emotion on her face, so much that she seemed cruel like a sinister spirit consumed the better off her. He got on his knees, his hands on her shoulder held her affectionately, trying to break the shield she had built around herself, tears continued to trickle down his face, "talk to me.. just talk to me, i barely even know you anymore just talk to me.. i promise to understand.. but just talk..". She just dint move, her face had grown pale and tears filled her eyes and the only thing it reflected was the color of the pillow that she held, but not a word spoken. His frustration in not having a clue about whats running through her head was visible on his face. The gentleness of his hands got over powered by his frustration and he quivered her by her shoulder for the next few minutes, like she just gasped her last breath and he was struggling to bring her back to life. He pleaded, "talk to me please.. I'm going mad.. just talk.. say something." Even the level headed lost calm, he thew his arms apart almost as though repulsed by her energy and dug his hands into his face and just collapsed in one corner. All that was heard was the sound of the ring that disengaged from his finger, hitting the wall, swiveling about its axis. Both of them looked at the ring while it slowed in pace, finally lost momentum and settled. His world fell apart. He dint intend to but the broke the bond unknowingly. And all she did was stare.

Fundamentals of Chemistry.

I vividly remember that class. We learnt of ways by which one can prevent iron from corrosion. Examples of corrosion were in plenty but its explication intrigued me. I hope you could see what i saw that day and not forget it.

Science has it that iron can be prevented from corrosion by means of painting the surface and greasing amongst other processes. Basically what it does is form a barrier between the core and the exposed air.

'Far beyond the sight can see

There are folds to one the hand can't feel.

A protective layer thats laid on top

Opposite to whats beneath the clad atop '

Usually the coating is of a stronger and stable composition in comparison to the vulnerable inside, therefore the external view of the contraption is unlike the internal component. However the exterior is secondary and infact inconsequential to the inner function. The peripheral in opposition is to face the factors that are otherwise, unsuitable and susceptible to the functioning of the core.

As much as all this sounds immaterial, I could relate, because it felt like science for the very first time had a meaning. Like science got a part of me that no human could, it felt good.

Feeling all 'figured-out', I walked out of the class for lunch, indulging in deep conversations with my friends about meaningless trivial things. The life of a fresh teen was full of stuff to talk about, nothing was unimportant, especially boys. Anyway all preoccupied with 'conversations' I saw an old tap from where the kids washed hands after lunch and said "What a disgusting color to paint. How can even someone look at it. Yuck" and walked away to which the party giggled and sanctioned approval.

Its hard to be understood when its hard to understand.

Bullet for a rover..

On a bright cloudy day,

The dark sunshine takes over.

Dark light falls upon a shiny stain,

Bringing to light the existence of a rover.

A hunch on the back, a huge pile of notes,

The only thing left, worth taking home.

A bullet on the chest, the 'shiny' spot,

Tears of sweat heals dry open scars.

Blisters get formed by frictional distraught,

And his chest bleeds something luminous dark.

Dark light continues to fall upon the shiny stain,

Bringing to light, an existing rover in pain.

'I don't want this bullet, I don't want a shiny stain,

Am leaving behind my notes, for now i want to walk straight.

Care I not- if you care or not, Young man,

I'm a rover, I fell, I cried, it hurt, yet I still stand.

I leave..

When the world seems to fall apart,

And you seem to be living on the side of dark.

When the faith mustered melts as ice,

And all things wrong start seeming nice.

Is when I think of my final day

When I'd be freed from my pain and dismay.

I see myself in a wooden box,

Some place I'd like to be, I thought.

People are around, no sign of tears,

No tissues, no memories, no fears.

Wearing big smiles and in the latest couture,

Men and women come to see me go.

Safely tucked inside the walls of a coffin,

Overwhelmed by the comforts of the expensive satin.

A tiny black box, well carved, looking good,

Silver plating on the edges perhaps,

If I could afford a fortune as much, I would.

In style I'd be sent to a place unknown,

Who'd care where I'd go as long as I'm gone.

Buried or burnt which would be the task?

Cover me up with logs of wood,

To make sure even the last glimpse of me wouldn't be seen,

Even if it would.

Dug so deep I'd be, even my cries would stifle,

Lit on fire to see the last bright side of me.

A tear shed perhaps, due to the toxic smoke,

No one would have anything to say, not a single bloke.

'Who cares? She's gone, get on with life, move on,

Every year, same day, if I remember perhaps,

I'll think of her, else who cares, she's past.'

I'll be gone and in 10 years from that day,

I'll remain to be just a photo that one might put on their profile today.

Lessons

She was not the kind whose face would be lost in crowd. Striking, very striking. The colours she wore, the small twinkle in her eye, the dark blush on her cheeks, the scarlet red lipstick. Maybe thats why there was a kind of remorse on her face because she was so hard to miss. When I looked at her I could see that the make-up was to cover the blemishes she felt inside because on the surface she had nothing to mask. She would have probably been the only beautiful girl at her age who hoped she wasn't. In her line of work, it was more of a bane. She'd rather have died of starvation had it not been for that little girl who held on to the end of her sari with her dear life. Her sister's daughter who seemed to have got her features from her aunt, was her only motive.

Why here? Why this? I asked her. I had just been a mere acquaintance to her but the story that followed the question only highlighted her desperation for a steady shoulder to cry upon. Her story was sad and just as pathetic as anyone else from her clan but what affected most was her concluding statement, 'I'm cursed'. I stood still, not knowing how to react, hoping for the heavens to open up and give me some clue as to what I should do or say to comfort her. After no divine intervention, I decided to do the best I could, leave. So I pat her on her shoulder and got up to leave. Despite my unsatisfactory promptness in being able to comfort her, she hurriedly came and hugged me before could fade from her sight. I felt the tears of pain drench my shoulder, but thats all that I could do, get drenched in her pain. As I held her I realised that the soft skin that had been abused time and again only hoped for a concerned touch in the place of the licentious ones. Right then, a tiny hand held her by her waist, she wiped the tears off her face, replaced it with a lustrous smile and turned toward her niece. Took her in her arms, kissed her on the cheek, smiled at me as she walked away.

I took a taxi back home that night My enraged mom welcomed me by opening the door yelling at me while pointing toward the clock. Thats when it all fell into place, its all a sacrifice. A willingly offered sacrifice. A sacrifice that passes down through generations, one of love. A relinquishment of one's own life in the quest of a better one for the ones who belong to you. Letting go of all that things that one 'could have been' so that the other 'can be' anything they want to be. Thats when I really understood my mom.