My Flesh, My Blood

Have you ever seen a ship drowning in the sea? When the violent sea tries to drown the ship, the ship protests. It pleads with the sea to give it another chance, just one more. The cries of the people aboard the ship drowned by the tempestuos fury of the lightning. Rain lashing out on the deck as the violent sea steers the ship in random directions. For an instant, it seems the angry sea is moved by the cries and has decided to let the ship live. But then the next moment, the surface of the sea swirls violently drawing the ship into it. The ship goes down silently, with everything it holds within, as if melting like ice into the mysterious icy depths and then it is lost forever. As it lies on the bed lifeless, what does the ship think about? What does it feel now that its saviour has destroyed it? The one for whom it existed is the reason it does not exist now. Does it ever forgive the sea? And does the sea ever forgive itself?

These are the thoughts that run past by mind as I am sitting in this isolated clinic looking at the vast blue sky through the small window. I have killed my child. Yes, my own child who had thought that the warm womb she was sleeping in was the safest place on earth. Her quivering lips which would have called me 'Ma' one day are now silent forever. Her tiny hands which would have held my hand and learnt to walk will now no longer move. Her tiny fluttering heart which beat in rythm with my heartbeat are now silent forever.

When the nurse came and asked me how I felt, what could I have told her? I didnt feel angry at myself for having given into that sonovabitch. I didnt feel weak having succumbed to the society. There was like an invisible barrier between me and my emotions. It was like emotions had left my body with my child. All I felt was a pain. A pain, as pure as moonlight, arising somewhere deep inside my abdomen. No painkiller could alleviate this pain. It was as if somebody was poking my wounds with a knife so that it hurt more and more. As if the remnants of the unborn child were cursing me from inside.The pain crawled through the spine into my head and was trying to burst it open. But I was not crying. Tears had dried long before.

As I went into the bathroom, the foetus was lying wrapped in a blood soaked white cloth on the floor. A tiny mass of flesh and blood, my flesh, my blood. Its tiny hands were suspended in air as if it wanted a hug from me. Would she ever forgive me? I would never forgive myself.

The Days I Remember

We had recently moved to our new house. It was not a big one but somehow I loved it at first sight. The area was just being developed and hence you could find plenty of open fields everywhere. If you moved a little distance, you could even see the mountains. We were the first ones to move into the locality but slowly other people came in. There was this lovely aunty who always gave me something to eat when I went to our house. There was also a group of young guys staying nearby preparing for some exam. These bhaiyas would often come asking for one thing or the other. As a young kid perhaps, you are fascinated by change. I loved putting my things in my room, deciding which poster to be pasted where and on which cupboard to put my favourite books.

My brother and I would sometimes move out in the evenings towards the canal. It was a lovely canal with a beautiful wooden bridge over it. There was also this small private park with wooden fences nearby which was our favourite spot. Whenever one of my friends came to my house, I always made them visit this one. To lie down on the cool green grass and look at the beautiful sunset on the mountains was one of my favourite pastime at that time.Sometimes we would ride on our cycles towards the endless fields. When it would be dark, we would hurry back narrating to each other all the ghost stories we knew. Back in the school,we would swear to everyone about the strange noises we heard over there making it sound the most exciting adventure we had ever had.

We used to play cricket in the evenings with the bhaiyas in the fields. When my mother was not there and we had a plastic ball, we used to play on the roof top. In the winters, we played badminton in the street lights until my mother gave a call that it was too late. Even the colony girls joined us in the game. Therefore, I always thought that badminton was a girly game. And yes, Tommy was always by my side when I played badminton. Tommy had a funny habit of digging up the soil at the exact spot where a new plant was planted, upsetting my father. I loved him. He died a few years back. That house had all my special memories. I was a bit sad when we had to move to the capital for a better college for myself. But then, as I said, you are always fascinated by change.

Coming to my family, I am glad that I have the best father in the world. I have seen all the different shades of him and I love each of them. He can be the strictest disciplinarian at one moment and the coolest dad at the other. He loved gardening. In the weekends, he would sometimes call me and teach how to prune a rose plant and show which manure is best for which plant. I have never been hit by him though my brother has been. Being the younger has its advantages, I guess. If we did something wrong, he would shout at us. But then if we cried, he would come and tickle us till he saw our smile. That was him! When we didnt have a car, he would take us on his scooter to all the pandals during the puja. Though my mother was a good cook, my father was the best. My mother gave the reins of the kitchen to my father during the special occasions and you cant just help licking your fingers when he made his special recipes. Its strange that I remember all the small but happy incidents about him. Guess thats the lovely thing about memories.

My mother is someone whom I could not even dream living without till I came to the hostel here. She was that special to me. With a lovely smile always on her face, she was ready to do anything for us. I always wondered if she had any personal dreams about herself as a child. If she had any, she never showed the dissapointment of sacrificing them for us. She was mad at keeping the house spic-and-span and I always got chided at for messing up the sofa or throwing bits of paper. I remember once when I had fever and could not sleep the whole night, she sat by me putting my head on her lap. Even till now, when I go home, it is my mother who feeds me with her hands. She was weak in no way but sometimes if we didnt listen to her, she silently cried. I am sorry, mom for every reason I have made you cry. I really really miss you.

My brother was always more level-headed than me. Some realtives would ask me to be like my brother. We were more like friends but when we fighted, even God feared to interfere. He was always more shy of the girls than me. Funny that now he has a girlfriend and not me. He was more studious but somehow, I always scored better than him. When we were small, my father always made it a point that when he brought something for him, he brought something for me too. Otherwise I would not talk to anyone till I got that. Now also when Papa got him a bike, he had to buy me a laptop in the same month. He had a childhood dream of becoming a doctor and some years from now, he would be one. I wish that everything he wishes comes true.

This puja, all of us were at home and it was wonderful. It was more special because we all live at different places now. My brother is at his Medical hostel, I am here, my father works at a different place while my mother stays at the new house in the capital. Sometime soon, my brother would go out for further studies while I will be working somewhere else. Guess how that small, sweet family has now been separated into four small parts, each carrying a small, sweet souvenir in their heart. Change is no more fascinating.

A Bird's Tale

I love beaches. Back in my school and college days, whenever I was at my Uncle's, I would often go to the beach with my brother. He would go into the water with his friends while I just stayed behind. I sat on the sand with my naked feet being washed by the sea water while I looked at the boats struggling far inside. I loved spending my evenings alone there. With my arms hugging my knees and the earth slipping beneath my legs, I looked at the birds flying to their homes, against the orange sunset. The view was so beautiful that I had always wanted to be a part of it. I always dreamed about being a bird and flying away to some distant land, a land without care and worries, a land far away from this maddening crowd. I had always wanted to live their fairy tale life. But then one day, a wounded bird taught me what their life was, what real life was. This was a poem I had written during those days. Its a simple poem, nothing fancy, just like the birds and the sunset.

As I look at the vast blue sky
Sitting by the sea
Pondering over why everything
Is wrong with me

I look at the splendid white birds
Gliding over the sky
I wish I was one of them
And have the world to fly

Out of nowhere, a bird came
And sat by me
Bathed in the white moonlight
Oh! What a beauty

But why the pain in its eyes
I look at its legs, blood oozing out
But neither did it scream
Nor did it shout

Strangely I could hear it say
“Boy, with us, you want to fly
But you must know the darkness behind the sun
Before you should try


The dawn doesnt come twice to awaken us
Still, we fly miles from distant lands
To feed our hungry mouths
On these alien waters and these scorching sands

We risk our lives everyday
And then, everyday we begin
You just see the beauty
But everything beautiful is marred from within

But we never show the world our pains
For them, we just fly, sing and hum
Just try to be happy
And see how happy the world becomes

With these wise words
The bird flew away with glee
As I sat on the beach
Pondering over why everything is wrong with me

Talk Sex : The Indian Way

Imagine a scene...You are watching a nice movie with your father and suddenly the couple onscreen start becoming cozy, what would you do...
a) You could pretend nature was calling at the exact moment and lift your bum from the chair and go.
b) You could pretend the movie was boring and change the channel.
c) You could bravely watch the whole thing as if it were something you have watched since the time you peed in your pants.

The point here is how open are you with your father about sex. I am not that open. Hell, I dont even remember uttering the word anytime before him. Just remember when was the last time you had a sane discussion about sex with anybody. Anybody other than those college friends discussing fetishes which have nothing to do with normal sex as such. Are we so scared of sex that we never talk about it?

Why dont Indian parents believe in sex education, which has been such a success overseas? I will tell you what sex education in India is. Imagine a friend who has come to your place and asks if he can pee. But as you live in an one-roomed flat, you dont even have a toilet. (Dont ask me where you go to pee. At least you must be knowing that yourself). Now that is analogous to sex education. Both the sides are embarassed without the purpose being actually served. Leave sex education and remember that 'Reproductive System' class in school. The girls giggled while the guys listened intently as if this was their most important lesson in life. We had a beautiful madam teaching us but she was often asked awkward questions by an annoying boy like " Ma'm, can we have that 'intercourse' portion again?" or " Ma'm, would you mind touching on that 'erection' part? ". I guess no teacher has an answer for that.

Our parents believe sex will 'come' to us with age as was the case with them. Now thats some 'coming-of-age' story. So, does sex come? Yeah, it 'comes' through nasty porn movies, friends who know as much about sex as yourself and that newspaper guy who takes double the price for that sleazy magazine. No doubt all that sexual energy is bottled up inside us. Many remember the first porn they have seen. I dont remember the name but I have named it, "Veni Vidi Vomit" which roughly translates as "I came, I saw, I vommited"

Recently, Operation Park( Yeah the dumbos could not even find a better name) was launched in Bhubaneswar to catch young couples enjoying themselves at the park. Their fault- holding hands in public, sitting close to each other and saying romantic things, all non bailable offences under Indian Culture Act Section I-dont-know-what. The poor guys and gals had to jump over barricades and escape while those who were caught were flashed in newspapers with their faces blurred. So much for being liberal.

So, does our culture prevent us from talking about sex? What about Khajuraho and Kamasutra then? Well, actually the sculptors at Khajuraho were a group of horny guys who hadnt seen a woman in decades. With fingers wrapped around themselves ( pun intended), they sculpted an orgy scene on the temple wall. Now, the king( who was a bit of a loser himself in his sexual life) saw and tried that. He was immensely satisfied and asked the scluptors to fill the temple with erotica like that. And then was born Khajuraho. As for the story behind Kamasutra, I will tell it sometime later. So you see, Khajuraho and Kamasutra have nothing to do with Indian culture. Hence proved.

We, Indians are so hypocritical about sex. We will protest against a kiss on screen( remember Dhoom 2) but in the closed confines of our home, we will watch MMS clips of innocent couples robbed of their dignity and pride. We will watch phoren films with a nude Angelina Jolie and daydream about her but we will cry out aginst a Mallika Sherawat for wearing a bikini. We will never talk about sex as if we have never heard about it, but still some day soon, we will be the most populous country in the whole goddamn world. Who said we reproduce, we just multiply.

So, the next time you are watching a film with your father and a sex scene comes up, calmly ask him, "Father, have you done this?" Thats called talking about sex.

Chicken Tikka and Whiskey

My Tale

College is a perfect place to try out new things. Its the time when nerds try to become jocks and vice versa. People whose milk teeth havent gone down make cigarettes their staple diet. People who earlier had known only two samples of female species-mothers and sisters talk of girlfriends and sex with such conviction that it puts the 'experienced' ones to shame. I was my Mama's boy, you know, the ones who jump directly from their mother's aanchal to their wife's pallu without any transition state. So, when my best friend Sameer suggested that we should go drinking that night, I indeed wanted to kiss him.

I was really excited that day. You know, the excitement of taking a risk. The excitement while riding a roller-coaster, the excitement while copying during exams and the excitement while you pee in public. I had always been laughed at by my friends for not having touched a girl at the...ahem ..proper places. Perhaps, I wanted to prove that I was no less than that monstrous Rajeev who took a bottle of beer and a porn book even to the classroom. He was a God for mortals like us. And perhaps I thought that like the holy Ganga's water, a drink or two could alleviate the sins (my friends still preferred to call them sins) I had commited like not having a girlfriend.

So, in the evening, we went to the Tripti (yeah the owner named it so)restaurant, which stands out among the horde of other PETA sponsored restaurants where stray dogs and customers dine from the same plate. Sameer suggested that Chicken Tikka and Whiskey go well together. To be frank, this "going well together" business always goes out of my head. When people were busy discussing whether Abhisek and Aishwarya go well together, (like their child would decide the future of India) I avoided these as I assumed it was some sort of rocket science.

Finally,the coveted drink arrived. I gulped a peg. Yiieee...it tasted like cold urine...Still I didnt show the dissapointment on my face...After two or three pegs, the world seemed to be floating around me...or was I floating around the world...Whatever...I didnt know...And I dont remember much what happened after that. So I pass the baton to my best friend..

His Tale

I knew this pig would do it. Just look at his eyes, dancing to some unknown tune. I had always heard that getting drunk was an art. Now I see that this pig excelled in it.In the first stage, he became the wisest man ever, knowing of everything on this planet and elsewhere.Next, he started fantasizing that every woman swooned over him.

"Look, how that girl at the next table is smiling at me",he whispered.
I glanced in the direction he pointed and saw a frail old lady grinning sheepishly.
"Lets go. His boyfriend is looking angrily at you.", I whispered back.
He took a gulp and shouted angrily," What do you think I am? Cant I fight that old man for that beautiful lady?"
He had certainly reached the third stage. It was when one thinks he neednt fear anyone bacause he could beat anyone black-and-blue. It also made me think if only girls looked younger to him now.

Now before he reached the final stage(when one thinks himself to be invisible and does umm...embarassing things), I paid the waiter and with his help, took a taxi to our hostel.

We were nearing the college gate when he asked,"Driver, where are you going?"
"To the hostel saab"
"Do you also stay at the hostel?",he asked innocently.

Just then the guard stopped us. No taxis were allowed inside that night. We had to walk our way to the hostel, through the professors' quarters.

I put his one hand over my shoulder and was literally carrying him, when at a distance, I saw someone. No, it cant be... Oh no, it was my worst dream come true.

It was the 'Terrorist'. Now, the 'Terrorist' was one of our professor who threw at us jets of spit and monotonous drones all through the class while we stared at him open mouthed(and close eyed). He never seemed to understand that the guys could never stay awake at 7 in the morning when they had slept just an hour earlier. Legend was there that students jumped from the classroom window and died unable to hear his lectures. His name struck terror in the minds of the students and hence it was no misnomer.

He came from the opposite end.
"Hey, what happened to him?". He seemed to have recognised me as one of his victims.
"Umm..Nothing sir, just an epilepsy attack.", I managed to mumble.
"Well...then how will he attend the class tomorrow?".
I cursed him under my breath.He didnt make anything of my silence.
"Well...my brother is at home now. He is a doctor. Probably he can see him. Come to my house"
Now, his brother was a doctor? Now had being a doctor become this easy? The Terrorist's brother! They must have had different fathers, I reasoned.
I had heard that the Terrorist had a lovely daughter. As if reading my thoughts, he grunted, "Nobody's at home tonight. You can stay there for the night."

The Terrorist's brother was a tall and huge man, with a hearty laugh. His face seemed very lively compared to the apatheic face of the Terrorist. He bent over Sunil(who had woken up after all this commotion and was probably asking himself,"Main kahan hoon?"), smelled his mouth and said, "Serious epilepsy, indeed!"

Now, I was convinced that he belonged to the same family as the Terrorist indeed. He was by far a quack who called a drowsy alcoholic stupor an epilepsy. I didnt know whether to laugh or cry.

The Terrorist said disinterestedly, "Let him sleep here tonight."
To my relief, his brother poked in, " No, it wont do him any good. My driver will go and leave them at the hostel. What do you say, son?"
I just nodded my head, still unsure if all this happening was real.


The doctor came and helped me to get Sunil into his car. While his driver started the car, he winked at me giving his same hearty laugh with his paunch nodding at his every movement.

I was thinking to myself that this pig would surely remember his first drink for his entire lifetime. Just then Sunil said, "Driver, Where are you going?"
"To the hostel, sir"
"Do you also stay at the hostel?", he asked with the same innocence.

I asked the driver if he had some cotton with him.