The Staircase

Just like The Fall, The Staircase is a deep and insightful look into what goes through a person's mind. In fact, it's better than The Fall as it's a documentary.

This mini-series (just one season) is kind of a mirror to those who proclaim to know their close ones and friends better than they know themselves! 

Very few people know their own minds with clarity and objective observation, which comes only through deep, long, and periodic contemplation... Most live a life of projections and wear their masks and facades to hide from the world and from themselves what they truly are. So, I find it pretty preposterous when people claim to know their best friend or partner better than the best friend or partner knowing himself/herself! 

Well, this series is a documentary on the death of American novelist Michael Peterson's second wife, Kathleen. 

The documentary follows 15 years of a death's aftermath... How it consumes and changes the lives of all associated with it. 

What happens during the long trial and its closure (?!) is an interesting watch of how a family and extended family reacts to the same incident. 

How an independent incident that happened some years ago can come up to impact the present. How correlation and causation can be confusing.

How secrets, sexual orientations, and dark sides can come back to haunt you later in life. 

How biases and prejudices impact a jurors and even the sitting judge! How a defense lawyer can go all out to protect his client, how the prosecution may have fiddled or fumbled to get their alleged murderer. 

How external factors can make or break a good life. 

It shows how destiny and fate are closely inter-related and how this interplay is what makes life so unpredictable.

Mein aur hum

Hasraton aur zarooraton ke beech 
Ek lolak ki tarah...
Mein aur hum.

Mein se hum tak,
Hum se mein tak.

Kabhi kabhi hairaan hoon ki
Ki isme waqt lagta hain
Kitna kam!

Bas tick-tock tak...
Bahut saari khushiyan
Aur thode se gham.

Imprisoned in the wheels of time by the hands of fate

I know of people, who were given death sentences. 

They knew their dates were up. Their days numbered. They have few days or months or years to live before they'll be put to death either in hospitals or prisons!

What will be going through their minds? What will be their last wishes: a last look, a final glimpse, the last meal, final love?!

Days pass by through mundane activities amidst: Work or rest, jailers or doctors, sentries or nurses, high walls or low beds. As days go by, visitors come and go. They talk for a bit. Share outside news. Talk about family, if any. Talk about weather and sons and such grown-up wishes alike!

Nights never pass by. Dreams clash with REM sleep. Insomnia and hallucinations play hide and seek while they watch. Scared. Relentlessly scared. Itching for time-travel to turn back the hands of time. To stop state-sponsored murder or death by disease or delay thereof. 

This much remains. The cold window of his cell or ward. Slurs spoken over walkie-talkies or life-supporting machines... 

Lives extinguished or taken away by the hands of crime or the wheels of fate.

But, I don't know of anyone, who's been given a similar death sentence in love. His date is up. His days numbered. He has just two more years before he ends up alone both in love and on the bed.

What will be going through his mind? What will be his last wish? Can he even wish for anything, which was remotely his once upon a time? Like two enchanted snails made of clay?

Days chug along like a freight train carrying others' baggage through mundane activities amidst: Work or rest, Netflix or Prime, movies or books, huge halls or small bedrooms. As days go by, visitors come and go. They talk for a bit. Share outside news. Talk about family, if any. Talk about weather and sons and such grown-up wishes alike!

Nights never pass by. Dreams clash with REM sleep. Insomnia and hallucinations play hide and seek. Scared. Relentlessly scared. Itching for time-travel to turn back the hands of time. To stop love-induced death or coma thereof. 

This much remains. He realizes that they too, like him, were two enchanted snails made of clay... 

Molded by the hands of fate over the wheel of time.

A father figure, who'll I miss. A lot.

For years from very early in our childhood and till now, there was an uncle. An amazing family friend, more of a family man himself, lovingly known, called, and fondly remembered as Babu Uncle by Ani and I.

He passed away few days ago. I hope it was a peaceful death. For he deserves it.

When people close to you die, they leave behind a void. A void that will be filled with a surge of emotions inside of you every time you think of the memories they leave behind. He left behind such a huge void. 

A rocking chair/easy chair will never be the same for me anymore. For he loved nothing more than sitting on such chairs, cracking jokes all the while with paan in his mouth... 

"Edi... Abhi must be hungry! Give him lunch on time! He's not like Prashant!" will forever echo in my humble heart.  

I still remember Shikari Shambu, Dennis the Menace, and more such comic characters sketched by him on the wall in their earlier apartment where Ani, Pravin, Prashant, and I used to spend days and nights playing and watching TV.

That sweet taste of Maltova mixed and frozen with semiya payasam still lingers on in my mouth... So does the spicy and tangy aftertaste of veggie Maggi noodles he had made for all of us on a balmy Sunday afternoon during some forsaken summer vacation. 

Going for Pravin's chorunnu at Goregaon's Bangur Nagar Ayyappa temple with him and family is my first first class experience in Bombay's suburban train! 

Maths was easier till 8th standard or so because he taught me equations like a squared plus b squared is equal to c squared. Also, I remember one of my best summer months (the summer of '94) spent at his place along with Prashant when my parents and Ani had gone to Kerala as I had enrolled for Dhananjay classes! 

His glorious jokes (sometimes, PJs) on different aspects of life, living, work, and government apathy lifted all of us from misery even when we were in the doldrums. 

Yes, he drank. Some of my purest memories of him are when he was drunk, but he was, in fact, extremely affectionate to all of us. Drinking was his only vice and it took him away sooner from us than death would've.

I still remember him enjoying warm Kerala sadhya at my home on many occasions. I remember him making fun of Bhadra Aunty's cooking style, method, and time for preparation, especially.

I still remember the awe in my eyes when I saw the first Videocon semi-automatic washing machine washing clothes at his place without any human intervention! That green machine made me more curious of how stuff works!

The number of times he and Bhadra Aunty have helped our family in times of need is legendary. I remember him/her paying Ani's and my school computer classes' fees on multiple occasions. When my grandmother passed away and many folks had come from all over Vasai and Kerala for cremation, I spied him putting a wad of INR 10K into my dad's shirt pocket without anyone else noticing.

He was an honest MSEB engineer, a great father to his sons, a good husband, and a wonderful father figure for Ani and me. You know, he was the kind of man who made sweet stuff sweeter in life.

May he attain moksha. Blessed is his soul.

Dollops of tears

I've cried before while watching TV. 

Movies, series, documentaries, they've all made me cry. Watching Vatsalyam has always made me cry every time and so has that song, Rooth kar humse kahin too.

------------------------------------------------------
Mild spoiler alert!

But, Episodes 16 through 18 of This is Us - Season 1 made me cry. Dollops of tears. William was such a good man; Jack was such a good man. Such great fathers... The values and the art they imbibed. No wonder they have Randall and Kevin and Kate. And, they get Becca and Sophie and Toby.
---------------------------------------------------------

So much of life is a dance of death between fate and destiny. A dance between your DNA and your environment. A dance between childhood and adolescence.

It's good, you know. Tears. 

It cleans your eyes while cleansing your heart.

A lot of bottled up feelings and repressed thoughts get out along with those teardrops. This is Us has been a very cathartic series for me and, I guess, it has led me into soul searching quite a bit. 

It has been a therapist and a shoulder to cry on too, I guess. 

I am not ashamed to say that this series has done a lot more than any friend has in recent times. 

I needed this day. Today.

I needed to cry out loud. Sometimes, in bursts. In deep sighs at other times. Into escapism sometimes.

For the ones, who know me are far away right now. Very. Far. Away. So far that neither their text would help nor a call. For all you need sometimes is just a hand to hold. And, an eye to behold.

And, when you're down and out... Like you feel that some stuff just sucks the stuff out of you, there's nothing that can't be cured by mini-idlis wallowing in hot sambhar! 

So, here I go!

Nameless

You breezed into my life
Like a nameless parcel left at the door.

Full of confused love.

You brought a creative sea of feelings
Like when a poem is born.

Sublime and cathartic.

You filled my treasure chest with 
Words, paintings, and crafts in-between.

The fights within.

Now, we live in two different universes 
Though we're in the same world.

Just like Marvel and DC.

When the universes collide,
A calm reigns even though chaos rules.

Musings on '96, the movie...

Some moments in life are ruled by external factors and circumstances. A beautiful moment is given another direction. A nudge... Sometimes for the good. Sometimes for not so good.

Few moments are frozen in memories like photos taken of a bird frozen in flight just off its perch from a temple pond.

Time moves on but life disagrees.

And a beloved's fragrance is as treasured as his school uniform shirt. As her drenched dresses.

And the heart shatters into 1008 pieces. While another heart beats loud and clear.

Can we faint in love? Instead of falling?

This movie focuses on when 'what if' and 'if only' collides with reality.

'96 is that kind of film, which makes you want to travel back to that era before Instagram and FB made you a star in your own life.

Some movies play well on screen. This one, honestly, doesn't.

'96 is that kind of film, which plays the better movie inside your heart where a violin tugs at your memories' rain-soaked bittersweet strings.

Rhyme

I, my mind, my heart, once again, tried to be brave.
For, fear and sorrow I cannot anymore crave.
But, of all the sights I had to save,
Today, I saw a teddy on a grave.

Muskurahat

Mein woh khwaab hoon joh tumhare aankhen nahin dekh paati,
Bas palkon par hii khatam ho jaata hoon.

Mein woh kandha hoon joh waqt aane par hamesha kaam aata hoon.

Mein woh awaaz hoon joh darwaaze ki dastak sun ne par, tumhare dil se aati hain.

Mein toh tumhari zindagi mein...
Sirf wahin purani chaah phir se laana chahta hoon,
Woh bheega hua aanch phir se jalana chahta hoon, 
Woh giri hui patang phir se udana chahta hoon...

Mein woh jhoot hoon joh sirf aaine mein badal jaata hoon.

Haan, mein woh muskurahat hoon joh unki yaad mein tumhe aati hain.

Hazaaron khwahishein aisi...

An ode to Hazaaron khwahishein aisi...

When we move from wisdom to knowledge, then knowledge to information, a thousand wishes arise like this. 

When love needs a crutch, when the crutch needs another hand, a thousand wishes arise like this.

When you sing, when the song sings another tune, a thousand wishes arise like this.

When you're drawn to her, when she draws a curtain, a thousand wishes arise like this.

When sunlight enters your heart, when your heart enters love, a thousand wishes arise like this.

When you understand that you understand nothing but that becomes your first understanding, a thousand wishes arise like this.

A thousand songs of the wise arise an understanding in your heart... Just like that sunlight drawn to our world with love.

Kaash...

Kaash…

Relish… Her unfinished glance like a quickly made sandwich.

Watch… Her feet dance on the surface of my village pond.

Grab… That window seat opposite her in that train journey.

Walk… Into nowhere with her silence as my only company.

Behold… Her paintings coloring my words whole.

Hail… That taxi together into an earthly rainbow.

Close… My eyes and open my ears awaiting her wet skin.

Commit… My only sin under her watchful eyes.

Write… Her name with my fingers on her amorous areas...

Hold… Her dress buttons in my hand while her moan swirls inside my mouth. 

See… A satin thread of her underskirt left behind on my bed along with few strands of her hair.

Catch… Her breath while she melts and faints in my arms while I 
Awaken.

Kaash...

Aaj jaane ki zidd naa karo

This free verse is my ode to my favorite ghazal, Aaj jaane kii zidd naa karo! It came through me while listening to it... Oh my life wouldn't have been the same without you!

An unsolvable jigsaw puzzle.

The last man standing in a queue.

A humble opinion unspoken.

A childhood's last remaining tricycle with a missing bell.

A crease on a shirt that never folds well.

A bell too high in a temple too far.

A glass of tea left behind to become cold.

A forgetful day; an unforgiving night.

An umbrella flown away on a stormy night.

That aluminum box full of daily collections 
In the hands of that dance-bar girl 
In the first local home.

The seventh wave that nobody notices.
Just like that blind flutist on Andheri station.

The last sigh after missing that train from 
Pune to Visakhapatnam.

A respected and beloved guest in his own home. 

A yearning to make love at least in her fantasy.

A muted dream paused on her lips.

A carelessfree eavesdropper
In her love story.

The elusive hitchhiker

Love.

What's this often elusive emotion?

Is it that extraordinarily rare champagne? Or, is it that ordinary kadak chai you have everyday at a local tapri?

And in walks this feel... This unrequited love! Boy, doesn't it take the cake always?

The broken heart and the violin fall in love among pailful tears held back behind the welled up eyes.

The sore, croaky throats. The grey, gloomy skies. 

Wake up, sleep.

Boredom seeps in through every crevice on your skin, every crack of your breath.

You hear sirens wailing around. Sodium vapor lamps substitute daylights.

And like a car running on reserve, you trudge along. Till you devour the last drop of fuel.

Or, w/till you find a hitchhiker, who'll complete your journey?.

Boroline on my scars

We're eclectic partners in a heist!
Like knitted shirts among wrinkle-frees.

You're a supernova to my dark energy.
You're the boiling blood to my cold fire.

You're the wildflower to my wastelands.

You're the Ghalib to my Gibran.

You're a fairy-tale to my tragedy.
You're the bonfire to my burnt mud.

On Intensity

"Intensity of love is similar in experience to devotion to that supreme power. Not in surrender but in knowing oneness. 

It also has an aching, a longing to have darshan of that other, to be with the other as much as possible. It's similar to the feeling of wanting to come back home no matter where you travel.

Thus, we experience dwaita and adwaita at the same time. In knowing this, we attain peace. Peaceful love."

She asked: "Why not surrender?"

"In surrender too, we experience two. I and the other. In oneness, both dissolves into the same ocean. Like two cells merging into a new one."

Healing with Hurt

Music moves us all. Even those that are deaf and blind. And they say, music has no language but we're not perfect humans. 

I am not. 

I was always biased towards Hindustani music, ghazals, and old film songs in Hindi, Malayalam, and to a certain extent, Tamil.

All that changed. One night with Varsha... Her choice of English songs and Western music is just like her passion in culinary skills, teaching, sketching, painting, and writing. Her versatility and range of music kind of covers an entire universe of artistes I never knew about. 

It all started with few questions like "Who are your top 5 singers in each genre and language?' and ended up with me loving Hurt by Johnny Cash. 

What a voice, what a feel... This is my new anthem. This is similar to all the Suzannes, River of Dreams, Bob Dylan, ghazals, and Bawra mann put together!

Listening together to world music, soft rock, and hard rock, with her pillow close to yours is something that I should've done long ago. Well, here's to more such musical and enlightening nights with my greatest love...

Just two blinks

No personal milestone of mine has reached the annals of this blog but you and I deserve a place here. For, this is where my life and love explodes and implodes simultaneously.

Two years is certainly a short time in the history of marriages and anniversaries. Nothing BIG most would say. And I agree. 

Nothing is BIG enough to come between us.

But we know that the years we spend together and the sense of time we feel don't matter in the end. 

It's the intensity that matters. And we know that these two years were the most intense period of our lives... We went through the roller coaster ride that took our collective breath away...

We loved everything the world threw upon us, we loved everything we threw ourselves upon! We witnessed new lives being born while few deaths were encountered too. We won some, and we lost some.

We understood and accepted each other along with each other's tiniest and tidiest quirks, idiosyncrasies, eccentricities, OCDs, and what not! With tender love and care. 

Your colors and paints made love with my words and dreams. Together, they became our greatest muses. They intertwined and formed our fantasy-filled world. 

That world where magic is normal. Where magic unfolds and blooms when you open your kohl-lined eyes to doodle and paint the canvas of our lives... Where my love for ghazals and your passion for world music spend evenings intoxicated in each other's rhythm.

That beautiful world where all your loves and all my loves became our common loves. And we nonchalantly look at so many staring wonder struck at our Utopian marriage where there are no masks, no pretenses, and no secrets. A marriage that would've made him proud! 

Us... A companionship like none other. Almost otherworldly for mere mortals... A companionship where your painting fuels my words and my words give you courage. A companionship built upon conversations and healthy debates that rival Quora and Facebook combined! A simple relationship where our gods and demons sleep peacefully side by side... 

A companionship where we witness other marriages crumble due to lies, or crack due to untold truths, or hold on to masks of happiness that veil years of sorrow, regret, what ifs, secret affairs, and what not. 

My love, you complete me and I include you. Our yin and yang complete and complement our cycles of love, life, and longings. 

But I am afraid on this day... Very afraid. Afraid not whether my words have failed me but have I failed my words!?

An epitaph on Devraj... Mortal words from a candle to the sun

Devraj is no more. In his physical body. Rather, I would confidently proclaim, he attained his samadhi in Thiruvannamalai.

Thiruvannamalai… That place where words are never enough. They make no sense in front of the silent sage’s ashram; they’re not needed in front of the majestic mountain.

Ever since I stepped on this sacred soil way back in 2005, I have had the privilege to meet with few souls, who’re truly blessed.

Prasadji, Devraj, and Swamiji are three interesting characters, quirky and enlightened in their own ways, I guess. While Swamiji appeals to your seeking intellect and Prasadji appeals to your whimsical, musical, loving heart, it was Devraj, who touched your soul directly with his measured words, with his loud silences.

A nondescript man always shabbily dressed in a four-pocket shirt and dirty ochre-colored mundu with a jhola slung over his shoulder, he was the seeker I thought I’ll become. I may someday, if I am also as blessed as him.

Here was a taxi driver from Toronto who spent six months in Toronto and six months in Thiruvannamalai ever since he stood astounded at Ramana Ashram in 1974.

“I had a lot of questions when I came here first. Then, one by one, each question melted away… You have made plans? Well, let’s see you know! For you have your plans and then there is always a master plan…”

His words will echo throughout my path of seeking.  

Devraj was the first person Prasadji introduced me to in Thiruvannamalai way back in 2009 when I met the former at the Ashram bookstore. Devraj was instrumental in reintroducing Prasadji’s son to him after they had lost touch with each other for a long time.

Theirs was a friendship to treasure… Devraj will always get a packet of milk and tell Prasadji to make tea. They’ll rant about each other but equally care for the other a lot.

Devraj was an ideal sadhak. During the earlier years of knowing him, he would easily circumambulate the hill twice on the same day! That’s a 28 km tiring walk for a diabetic with overgrown toenails! During the later years, he switched to a simple moped as his legs started giving up on him. But, till the last day he lived, he would’ve fed all the stray cows, monkeys, and dogs along girivalam before having a morsel of food himself!

People like him are not born anymore.

He would never stay overnight anywhere if he must leave Thiruvannamalai! He’ll take the night bus both ways either to Chennai or Bangalore from Thiruvannamalai and return to his ‘home’ the very next day. In his earlier years, every time he had to leave for Toronto to stay there for six months before he could return, he used to fill a 10-liter can of water from Skanda Ashram and carry that as check-in luggage! He used to mix that water with the drinking water in Toronto before quenching his thirst! He made sure those 10 liters lasted those six months!

Towards the last couple of years before his passing away, he used to travel to goshalas in Bangalore and Chennai to spend a night and take care of the cows there. Such was his devotion, his compassion for all.

It’s a day of mixed emotions and feelings all blended and beat inside my mind’s grinder.

In the usual way, I am saddened as he’s left a void that none can fill. I no longer can hear that voice over the phone asking me, “Are you in the Ashram? Okay! I’ll see you there in sometime!”

But, in a weird way, I am happy to know that he attained samadhi near his home, his beloved mountain.

You’ll always be a lighthouse in my life, Devraj.

My journey of seeking got its biggest boost from having met you, known you, and spending a lot of my confused moments with you in silence and in conversation.

May your light continue to light my path and those of others, who were blessed with your love and compassion.

Aksar, ek chai par...

Aksar akele chai bana leta hun mein,

Kabhi akele baith jaata hun mein,

Auro ki yaad aksar kar bhi leta hun mein,

Par sirf tumse milne ki asha rakhta hun mein.

Yunhi aksar chai bana leta hun mein.

Humare haath mein kuch lakheeren nahin,

Humare neend mein koi sukoon nahin,

Humare raat mein thodisi chandniwaali baat nahin.

Humare hazaaron khwahishon mein ek bhi fariyaad nahin.

A broken record

Uske dhadakte dil mein 

Kisike dastak ka intezaar liye,

Phir gaya woh kisi aur ke ghar,

Phir ek baar dastak dene.

A black Innova sped across the Chennai citylights amidst flashing red and blue lights on police Innovas! KK croons Pyar ke Pal on 91.9. In that sacred space, Urdu blended with Hindi and touched his skin mixed with the aircon air.

Kisi aur ka dard apna ke,

Apno se mooh chupake,

Cinema ke sang roya woh.

Off late, life has been strange. I mean it was never a stranger. But yeah, it was certainly stranger than before. It beat him down and when he was a bit broken, it took him in its arms and loved him.

Ek marmik si katha hain uski,

Thodi poignant thi, 

Kahin thodisi poetry tooti hui si!

Kahin bachpan se uske khaas dost ki khaas khilone se judi si!

A feeble attempt at translating the above Hindi portions below; hamari yeh ek aur gustakhi maaf kar dena…

In his beating heart, 

Awaiting someone's knock, 

Again, he went to somebody else's house,

To knock at the door once again.

Facing someone else's pain,

Turning his face away from his own (kith and kin),

He cried along with cinema.

A poignant story is his,

A bit poignant, of course, 

Somewhere a bit of poetry broken apart,

Somewhere joined with his childhood's favorite friend's favorite toy, maybe!

Let's talk

I can talk to you

About...

The shape of a song,

The tail of a cloud,

The faces we lust for,

The hearts we love much,

The bodies that move us,

The dances we burst into.

You can talk to me
About...

Unseen glances,

Mute noises,

Loud silences,

Open doors,

Shut windows,

Silhouette loves.

I can talk to you

About...

Moving vignettes,

Shared showers,
Wordless goodbyes,
Yesterday's movies,

Tomorrow's releases,

Weathered whispers.

You can talk to me
About...

Lifeless shares,

Facebook likes, 

Lazier comments,

Notification tones,

Blue tricks,

Costly comments.

Let's talk

About...

A period in: 

A sentence, 

A woman 

in a sentence.

But, who'll talk 

About...

Her sentence even before a period?

POV: A bullet shot from a gun

I rush out
To live
My milliseconds of fame.

From the Mahatma to the Hitler,
I do my job well.
Well, almost well.

Without consent, without hesitation,
Without a sweat, without trepidation.

I travel my ballistic trajectory. 

Alone.

I don't judge. I don't worship.
I kill.

Character Sketch Series – Mahabharata: Yudhishthira (My Favorite)

Most people, who I know have read Jaya/Mahabharata or watched the mega serial on TV. It’s truly an epic of humongous proportions comprising plots and subplots with myriad array of characters and character arcs, which is still unparalleled in scope and depth.

Most folks have their favorites. I have heard the following roll call when it comes to the most common favorite characters: Krishna, Karna, Arjuna, Bhima, Bhishma, Draupadi, Abhimanyu, and even Duryodhana!

But, never have I heard someone say that Yudhishthira is his or her favorite character. I always used to wonder why. 

I know the reasons for most people to hate him… The gambling episode and especially, losing his wife, Draupadi, after betting away his four brothers!

IMHO (In my humble opinion)

He’s my favorite though. Actually, he’s the first among equals for me because I also love Krishna, Karna (the most tragic character ever created in an epic), Bhishma, and Draupadi.

Yudhishthira’s fighting qualities were nothing to brag about unlike his younger and mightier brothers and his elder brother! He was good at using spears and I guess, that’s about it. Not too masculine, neither wily nor cunning or shrewd. He wasn’t a worldly man either. 

He was, according to me, the man on the middle path. His greatest strength was his honesty. He never lied. Ever. Not even once and that takes courage. More courage than you can even begin to imagine. He had no worries or secrets to himself.

The dice game
Even before the ill-fated and often debated game of dice, Yudhishthira had tried every trick of diplomacy with Duryodhana but in vain. He had even pleaded Duryodhana to handover a village for each Pandava but even that was rejected.

He finally gives in to the decision of playing dice to avert the war. Also, he never thinks that the Kauravas will defeat Pandavas in the game through deceit.

Yaksha Prashna
During their exile, Yudhishthira was the only one, who could answer the Yaksha Prashna among all the Pandavas. After satisfactorily answering the Yaksha’s questions, he brings all of them back to life.

Role in the war

He was always on the side of Dharma. So much so that even when Krishna, Pandavas’ best friend and advisor, told him to lie about Ashwathamma’s death, he declined. Only when an elephant by the name Ashwathamma died, he proclaimed that Ashwathamma died. In fact, he actually mentioned, “Ashwathamma, the elephant died!” but the qualifiers were droned out in the battle noise.

Arjuna had confusions regarding his role as a warrior while fighting his relatives. Bhima was fighting to take revenge and fulfill his vows given to Draupadi. Nakul and Sahadev were following orders from the elder brother. Though Sahadev was the wisest of all the brothers, he was silent. Karna was in the war as he could never leave Duryodhana’s side and valued their friendship more than anything else.

Yudhishthira was the only one fighting on the battlefield for Dharma’s sake. Of course, so was Krishna but he taken a vow of not fighting directly in the war (Though later he bent and broke those rules is a matter for another blog post altogether!).

If ever there was a man, who always stood for ethics no matter what dilemmas he had to face, he was such a man...

The one who stood true to his name, no matter whether the war was physical or metaphysical in nature...

Disclaimer: This is the first of a series of brief character sketches I’ll be writing on my favorite characters of the Mahabharata. Yudhishthira’s character sketch written here is by no means a conclusion.

I do expect comments from serious readers, especially on the gambling episode. You’re more than welcome. Let’s engage in a healthy debate.

Change

I have seen:

People change.

Times change. 

Wounds change. 

The kind of time and the kindness of wound(s)...
Change the change.

What dreams may come…

This is the stuff dreams should be made of.

He sees her from an old rickety bus window. This is in front of some monument’s garden most likely in Delhi! She looks every bit of an activist, she always wanted to be.

He is shell shocked. This thought passes through his mind, “She had left me without a trace. Like a rogue CIA agent, who defected or vanished into thin air in those Hollywood spy movies!”

He gets down from the slow-moving bus in slow motion.

She sees him too and her face radiates a joy he’s never seen on a woman’s face. Never read in a book. Never seen in any movie. That made his day.

His eyes well up and he cries. She runs to him, holds his hand, and they hail a taxi.

She still speaks in that Rekha Bharadwajesque voice of hers. Her Bengali devi face still adorns a big bindi.

Everywhere they go, for some reason, a Kishore Kumar song is being played. Like akashvani, like background music in the movies… They try to figure out the source of that music but in vain!

With her mouthful of a golgappa, she asks him, “What do you want?”

He replies, “Still the same. Spend my life with you. And this time, don’t you dare leave me and go.” He adds hurriedly, “Hey, how’s Jahnavi? I bet she won’t recognize me… I still remember her saying over the phone, ‘Abhi, come fast to the temple! Okay?’”

She answers excitedly, “She’s almost seventeen!”

He’s stunned, “Wow, so much time has passed!?”

She laughs. He laughs too. But, now, there’s an echo…

My room is dark. There’s a bit of twilight seeping in. The Fitbit shows time to be 6:15 am. I think I know the source of this dream; I watched The Words on &Prive HD yesternight. And, am glad I did.

I wake up and write this.

It’s been a long time, right?