Jaipur

Ripples make their way
To each unforgiving stretchmark
On my thighs, my belly,
And I splash my arms about
In protective denial.
A peacock swoons
Over another golden sunset,
That blesses the Thar.
The peahen stands
In the shadows-
Evading admiration or awe-
Quiet spectator to the sun's exit.
The ginger ale grows heavy
On my tongue as I stare-
You are so oblivious
To the charm you exude
When your skin is wet
And eyes unfocused.
I know you aren't thinking
Much,
I know thoughts pass like clouds,
But you do wonder
If we shall stay the same
As the years go by,
As the children grow older,
As the memories gain weight-
Shall we still be
Two drops of rosewater
United as one
To rest on a happy petal?
Shall we still be such
That when you dream,
I sprout wings and soar?
Yes we shall, I think.

My darling, we shall.

Compass

It has been a dry year
For the creative hemisphere
Of this mama's head-
Filled usually (and newly)
With thoughts of my child
When previously
There wasn't much else
Than ideas to unleash on paper
Or a blank shot
To fire through
An undivided head
Focused on nothing else
But travel, feasting, love,
And free-spirited lazing
On balmy afternoons,
And uneventful evenings.

And now I fight the hourglass
For a quiet moment
To hear the thoughts in my head,
See the bottom of my coffee mug,
Eat the last pizza crust;
But I don't miss that life;
I don't miss that directionless wandering
Into a comfortable haze-
My son is my compass.
He's led me home.

The Big Day

It is an hour before daybreak, and I'm sitting alone on my dining table sipping hot water to soothe an achy/ itchy throat. My husband is asleep, but I can tell it isn't a deep sleep because we both have a solid agenda for the day- we're having a baby.

My caesarian section is scheduled for 3pm this afternoon and the fact that this day is nearly upon us after nearly 37 weeks of being pregnant (felt like most of this year that's gone by!) is just surreal.

I'm contemplating going back to bed and trying to get another hour of sleep after I finish this cup of water, and I hear the azaan from a mosque somewhere in the distance. I guess that makes it official- the day has begun, sun or no sun. The little butterflies in my stomach seem to take flight and turn into a blaze of triumphant phoenixes.

All I want from this day is a healthy baby and for my surgery to go well so I can enjoy the new life that I start today- baby in arms, smile on my face and endless love in my heart.

An Ode To The Wind

Blow my mind
Like a breeze in a blizzard,
A dream-catcher's grasp,
A warm night of passion,
Or a mother's loving breath.
But do
Blow my mind
And show me new worlds
Where change arrives,
Dressed like a bride
Walking down the aisle
Knowing
That the happiest days of life
Are ahead of her.

Dreaming, Then Doing

Don't be confused-
The chiasm that stares at you
With blazing eyes,
A squared chest,
And a haunting silence
Is not truly so fearsome.
Fill the gap with your words-
Build a bridge
Between left and right brain-
It's time to cross over.

Atlas, Shrugged Off

We are a generation of bent-necked screen-starers, a generation basking in the glory of an extinct people who valued and worshiped nature with an honest fear and awe in their relatively innocent hearts.
But just as our wisdom teeth have gained vestigeality with the merciless passage of centuries, it appears nearly certain to me that very soon, the human race is approaching a day when a man's neck will- in its true anatomical position- bear a shameful downward bend. Not because this generation that I speak of has shamelessly raped and plundered this planet to that lethal edge of no return, but because we have become so daft and dependent on man-made technology that our mental faculties of discernment and decision making now rely entirely on popular opinion that most often, hides behind 'likes' and 'favorites'. If a person does not exist on Facebook, popular belief will lead you to be convinced that he or she is as real as the Loch Ness monster. My cousin refuses to board this merry little train of smartphone addicts and continues to use a good old push-button mobile phone whose only application is to receive (and very occasionally, make) calls. The stares he receives and the snide remarks he has to hear every now and then about his vintage device have not escaped me; I confess to having asked him to get a smartphone too so that we could catch up more efficiently and frequently via WhatsApp or some such app. Each time I've asked him, he has refused with a shrug and a smile, like he knows some dark secret about the reality and severity of this possible addiction.
I guess he's the smart one in the family, even if his phone doesn't win the same adjective!
I remember a patient (young adolescent of sixteen) who once came to my clinic asking me if he could get maxillofacial corrections done so as to look his very best in selfies. While I understand and respect the skill and need for cosmetic surgery, that day stands out with a distinct incredulity in my memory because I think that's when I truly realized what an epidemic we were now facing collectively, as a species.
This isn't something that is restricted to a socio-economic stratum or a geo-political space alone- it is unbiased, undivided and unwavering in the wholehearted acceptance that it has received from mankind.
Our phones are now, truly just an added appendage that go everywhere we go; we have phantom pangs of discomfort when the battery's running too low or when the phones haven't vibrated in a while. In essence, I suppose it wouldn't be too wrong to say that it is almost as if we amputated our sensibility entirely and are carrying it around in the palms of our hands in a more tangible casing.
There are days when I wonder if the root cause of this addiction and dependence that we've all developed is a deep-seated insecurity that asks us each day if we're good enough, or if it's a narcissistic desire to display our physical and/or mental capacities to a wider audience than just the voices in our own heads. However, my favourite theory is whether it is  actually a stark loneliness that paints human life a dark grey shade in this day and age, and it is these very screens which allow us to feel like we're part of a bigger community that is kinder than the cold faces and unfriendly words we see and hear in our 'real lives' everyday. Have we started to prefer living in this world of memes, Apples and social media, and turned into androids (pardon the wordplay) entirely? Or are we on a dangerous precipice beyond which lies an unknown future that Isaac Asimov would be proud of? Where men and women walk around on streets plastered with screens, their eyes covered circumferentially to only allow them to see what their operating system decides to show, speaking to each other only via apps- no matter if they are merely two inches apart from one another?
I had imagined a future of flying cars and alien invasions as an imaginative child, but never had I envisioned such unconditional enslavement to a slab of metal and glass. So in such a scenario, the only question I ask myself is whether it's alright to follow this trend, and in essence, perhaps follow the collective destiny of my species? Or perhaps be more respectful of the anatomy and physiology I was born with and allow my atlas bone to prosper and support my neck as I look upward, onward and forward to a brighter future, to a more glorious sunset...

Eulogy

On that afternoon, exactly a month ago, there was a strong, sudden gust of wind that brought with it little florets that danced their way down the skies and fell upon all of us who walked with my grandfather's body to the hearse that was to take him away. It was almost poetic, if not merely beautiful in a photogenic fashion. I walked with the rest of my family and all those hundred others, slow steps- tired steps- and I remember standing on one side of the hearse where no one else stood, and even in that chaotic moment, reminding myself to stand on my toes and ensure that I catch a glimpse of my darling granddad.
I remember my own mental instructions from that moment- I doubt I shall ever forget them- and I stared hard at that glorious face to memorize each detail before it left me for good. He was blanketed with wreaths and flowers from all those people whose lives he touched with his generous and powerful hand. He was a force unlike any you could possibly encounter; unforgettable and thoroughly dependable. I stood there, with silent tears bidding him farewell and praying that he was fine wherever it was that he left us to go to. His long, hooked nose that we all inherited shall remain to be my last visual memory of Dadaji, and I recall smiling when I saw it. That has been the saddest that I have ever felt in my entire life, and yet I had a smile on my face in that moment, and that has precisely been the role that my grandfather played in my life. He made me smile even when I didn't want to, he pampered me and listened to my childish opinions about his vast business empire as if I were a learned professional even when I still had milk teeth. I'd like to think that I was his favourite grandchild- he had five of us to choose from; but that's the thing about the way he loved us all. I could bet that each of his grandkids felt exactly as special around him.
I used to sit with him every single evening once he would return from work and he would tell me stories of his childhood, of life during the Second World War, of the struggles of having to cycle from Amritsar to Lahore on a daily basis to study and become a chartered accountant, of the suffering brought about by the Partition of India, of the time when he and my grandmom lived in Delhi and she owned just two sarees, of the time when he fled from a tea garden where his father sent him to work within a week of getting there, and my favourite story of this one particular food-stall in Lahore where he and his friends used to go to eat chhole bhatoore and then proceed to drink water from the neighbouring well (which he claimed had the sweetest water on earth).
He wasn't an ordinary man. His persona was gargantuan and he truly carved his name into the sands of time with a firm, solid hand. I don't quite know what my life without him will be like because there's suddenly a giant gaping hole in my heart which was his space to occupy up until now, but I suppose that's a loss I shall take a lifetime to get over.
I find that I keep recounting and retelling his stories to myself every day when I'm alone, and perhaps that's a subconscious way to keep his legacy alive in my mind until the time I can share it with my own children some day.
He has been the nucleus that has kept my family together all these decades, and yet the nucleus to his life was his dearest wife. My grandmother was the apple of his eye. I don't think there was ever a day when he sat down or remained seated while his wife would be standing, or ate a single morsel knowing that she hadn't eaten yet. What she chose and decreed was the law of the land as far as he was concerned, and he never once questioned her. It was the kind of selfless love that only the luckiest souls on the planet are privy to.
It has been a month since he left us, and yet, every time I've met my grandmother in this month, it has felt as if she possibly manages to have mental conversations with her deceased husband via some sort of supernatural bond that sixty-seven years of matrimony can perhaps lend you. She wears a look of a subtly hidden sadness on her face that tears through me like a whip, and yet she appears calm, almost relaxed knowing that his suffering has ended and he is now free. If there is anything that I had to pick and choose to adopt from my grandmother's character, it would be her grace and her tremendous strength. I don't think I have ever respected her as much as I do now.

Thirty days ago, when I bid him farewell, I looked at my grandfather's face for the last time and whispered a little goodbye to him. I kissed my hand, stretched on my feet, and transferred the kiss onto his forehead. It felt smooth and warm and I could have easily believed it if someone told me he was just napping. He was my idol, my inspiration, my friend.
I miss him every second of every day, and yet I'm not convinced that he's left me. I talk to him often and it almost feels like he's silently accompanying me in every little adventure/debacle I participate in. I think those who we love so fiercely can never truly leave us, and their memories light up our days and nights like an incorrigible flame that even the harshest of storms cannot dim.
His blood runs in my veins, and that is a legacy I'm honoured to have inherited.