T is for Tashi

 

 

you chose him

we told you not to marry

different religion, different city...

it`s all your fault

you don`t listen

you don’t understand.

 

but ma do you understand?

do you listen?

I am a failure

But do you have to be one too?

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com

 

S is for Shyamali

 

The maalishwali maushi smiled at her tenderly. “Don`t worry. It is just a matter of few months. I will massage and polish her skin. Besan and malai does wonders.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Ma said sternly, “You better show results. You said so for Meeta`s daughter too. She is still dusky! I am not paying you for just applying malai.”

“Don`t worry. This time I will use chana dal that I will personally grind and bring.”

“And you,” she pointed at her, “you better choose another name for her. Call her Saloni. No Shweta-that means fair. Names have vibrations too.”

She nodded. She was willing to do whatever it would take to lighten the skin of her month-old daughter.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com

 

K is for Kirti

 

She lay motionless beneath him. His heavy body on her-all spent. Her insides were burning and pain seared through her legs and lower back. She still did not move. She knew better. She had learnt it soon-she was a fast learner. 

Within a month of her marriage, she had learnt how to get away with minimal hurt. Just that it was never minimal. Every night. Some days too. Some evenings too. The lockdown had ensured she locked away her feelings, her emotions and her voice. 

While the pandemic raged havoc outside, this one savaged her bit by bit. Everyday.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com

 

Bindu

 

“Priya is dead. They killed her.” Sarita was shaking like a leaf as she ran up to her daughter

Bindu`s eyes widened with fear and her heart thumped against her chest. “What? How? Who killed her?” she squeaked.

“They did. I always told both of you to follow the traditions. You can`t do such things. Falling in love, taking your own decisions etc.   You have to stop meeting Amit.”

“But I haven’t seen him since last week and Ma he is a Hindu…”

“That doesn’t matter. He is a Chamar.”

“Ma please. You can talk some sense into them. Caste doesn’t matter. We love each other.”

“It matters”. Sarita muttered stonily. “I listened to my brothers and lived and you have to do the same…” She snatched Bindu`s phone. “I want at least one of my daughters to live. You cannot deny me that by falling in love with a Chamar.”

“Ma please! He is educated. We can live in Delhi or Mumbai or maybe Hyderabad. No one needs to know” Bindu pleaded.

“Priya thought the same didn’t she. And now she`s dead. But you are alive and I won`t let you die.”

The next day the headlines claimed-Prominent politicians newly-married daughter dies in a road accident.

Hordes of mourners crowded at their bungalow in the morning, expressing sorrow at the tragic death of their beloved Priya.

Bindu screamed and pleaded and howled. For days. And nights. And months. But she lived. They ensured she did.  

 

Chamar- a dalit community in India

 

 

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com

 

A is for A name

“Astha? What`s your take on Astha?”

“Meh…”

“Oh God Di! You are so difficult.”

“Listen, you don’t want to help me then just say so ok? I am not going to settle for any name just cos you can`t think of any   cool one !This is my opportunity. I get to choose my name. Can you imagine- choose your own name…I mean how liberating is that. I don’t have to be Bhavna anymore. I can be whoever I choose to be.”

“But Di who is stopping you from being who you want to be. Just by changing your name you won`t become a different person, will you?”

“Of course, I will. Imagine people calling me Myrah or Raina. I would be so so stylish and cool.”

“Di please yaar. Myrah is just angrezi mein Meera and Raina is a twisted Reena. I don’t understand why are you so hung up on this.”

“Well, you won`t ever understand so stop trying to make sense of it and google a few more names beginning with A.”

“Why only A? We can look at other alphabets too na?”

“No, we can`t. Vikas said that their Panditji has said the bride`s name has to start with A. The stars will be perfectly aligned for a happy marriage then. Panditji suggested that my name should be changed and this is such a common custom in our community. Look at Ma. Everyone calls her Deepa but all her school friends and her maternal side call her Rekha na.  It’s a tradition and so as per this tradition my name will change too. After all I am going to be new person once I marry Vikas. Now you get it? Chalo look for some names now.”

“Di, what rubbish yaar. Just by changing your name you can ensure a happy married life. I mean really which world are you living in? And why will you be a new person after marriage? Why can`t you be just you? And are you saying Vikki jiju will change as a person too? If he`s going to change then are you sure you want to be with him. Aaargh! This is so dumb.”

“I don’t need your gyaan ok. Help if you want to, else go.  I will choose my name and then be whoever I want to be. It`s so nice of Vikki to actually ask me to come up with a name I like. His Mom had apparently said Aarti-eeks I don’t want to sound so holy. Vikki is so liberal and so is his family. I mean they are letting me choose a name for myself.”

“Well, if that’s what you want from life then so be it! What about Archana? Then everyone can call you Archie-that’s like so in”

“Archie- no. Reminds me of Harry and Meghan!”

“Aradhna? Arohi? Aakriti? Amita? Amrita?”

“No too old fashioned.”

“Di yaar. Ok then Ahaana? Or Aisha? Anya? Aalia?”

“No Aalia is too filmy. Everyone will think of Alia Bhatt. Hmm let me think about Ahaana.

You think I look and sound like Ahaana?”

“What do you mean Di?”

“I mean the name should suit me na. But what can Vikki call me endearingly? I mean if Vikki wants to call me out will he say Aha? or Aana .  Naah I don’t like this.”

“Di!! Let me give you a simple solution. You be who you are-Bhavna. Ask Panditji to suggest an alphabet which would be a perfect match for Bhavna and then let Vikki jiju change his name for you! Stars can be perfectly aligned from your end too, can`t they?”

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

 

 

 

Reflection-A to Z Challenge



Reflections lead to learning. I agree. It allows you to relive your past and if it has been a pleasant one it adds to your sense of well being. This is exactly what the reflection on this challenge has help me to achieve.

Years back, thanks to my niece Nisha and sister Deepika, I started blogging. Life happened and the blogosphere faded away from my life. And then came the 'Lockdown'. Once the chaos started settling I started thinking about getting back to blogging. Earlier in the week a chance conversation about A to Z Challenge at a read meet got me thinking. I registered. Just for a lark.

April 1 dawned and I had no clue what I was going to write about.  Writing fiction seemed easy and I decided to write short stories. But did I struggle? Of course I did, and how!! With no back-ups ( alright, I had 3-4 stories  which I edited and uploaded) but most were written and posted on the same day. Did I want to give up? Yes -many times. The pressure of planning, writing and editing, along with endless household chores and work commitments, drove me crazy. Thanks to the encouragement by my fellow-bloggers, I plodded. And here I am with 26 posts under my belt!

I know planning helps, but this month I realised how imperative it is  to produce good work, so hopefully next time around I will be in a better place. The satisfaction of achieving a goal as well as building the courage to share my work have been my key takeaways from this challenge. Thank you#BlogChatterA2Z Challenge for this opportunity.

I read many interesting blogs and enjoyed the journey immensely. Here is a list of my favourite bloggers. Show some love to them and hop on to their blogs. You will love every one of them. 
 Nisha Punjabi  Sonia Dogra , Noor ,  Ira Mishra,  Arti Jain Shweta Suresh,  Srivalli,  Pradeep Nair,  CRD

Inspired by some of you I have also jumped on to Instagram. Do follow, comment and share if you like it.

vignettesbyarti


Much love to you my dear readers for reading, supporting and helping me live my dream.

Do keep dropping by.

A is for Aala

Aala. No this isn’t about a clothes whitener. This is about a person- a woman to be precise- who lived in a Mohallla in a city in North India.  Aala was short and plump with a foul mouth. You could hear her screaming at her husband Eddy (pronounced Ed-di)  “Arrey Haraami, pacchi tamey jataveesh?” All the kids in the neighbourhood were scared of this crochety woman.  Every morning you could spot her limping to buy a half loaf of bread from the panwala just at the entrance of the Mohalla. She didn’t talk to any of her neighbours and no one really cared to even make small talk with this grouchy woman. No one had ever been to her house, except Mrs Sinha ,who had once ventured into this dangerous territory. “She is really weird. You know she keeps the bread on her table and no one is allowed to touch it. Not even her daughters”.

How do you know that? “Mrs Tripathi mumbled trying to chew her paan and spit at the same time. “You are antaryaami”?

 “ Na rey baba, I am no anataryaami. I am just a simple woman surrounded by paagal people. I know, because one day her daughter asked me for 2 slices of bread and so I went into my kitchen and got 2 slices on a plate but when I came back to the door she was now where in sight!  So I walked to their stinky apartment. And what do I see from the half open door? The small loaf sitting on the wooden table. Why would the girl, what`s her name ?

“Sillo”, Mrs Singh  provided the name helpfully. 

“Ya Silloo.  Why would she come to borrow 2 slices when she had that half loaf at home ? Socho ? And then she just snatched the plate without even saying thank you and shut the door. They still haven’t returned my plate! A few days back I ran out of milk and needed just half a cup to make tea- You know Mr Sinha cannot drink black tea, this man I tell you’’

“So what happened then behenji?” interrupted Mrs Tripathi.

“Arrey this Parsi woman scowled and said “doodh nahi hai”. I saw there was one small packet on top of the small refrigerator. I pointed it to her and she said that the packet is Eddy`s and he`s not home. And then slammed the door on my face. What kind of husband-wife are they? My loaf, your milk Hey Ram I tell you these Parsees".

“Mrs Sinha it is not about being Parsee. This woman is only paagal,” Mrs Tripathi declared.

There were talks that Aala came from a wealthy Parsi family and had inherited a few properties-even if they were old dilapidated buildings in a small town-and a trunk full of beautiful sarees. No one had of course seen her wear any. She was always dressed in an old chequered nighty which just fell short of her ankles. Grey hair with random and rare streaks of dirty brown bunched in a messy ponytail No not like the ones that girls deliberately wear these days! Some days she would look a little clean with a knee-length floral frock and broad flat brown sandals with straps holding on desperately on to knotty rough ankles.  On these days you could spot ugly veins protruding from her dry scaly calves. She would wear a chequered handkerchief tied like a scarf, knotted under her wobbly chin.  Apparently, on these rare days she went to the local bank to withdraw cash. Sanju and his friends would wait patiently on their balconies with their ammunition- paper planes and little stones. The minute Aala crossed their apartment and whoosh the planes would land all around Aala accompanied by sharp little stones falling like confetti all over her. Aala would look up viciously trying to spot the by now invisible devils , “Tamaara gadhera ma baap kiainya che?”  Sanju and his friends would duck down and giggle.

And then one early morning the Mohalla was rudely awakened by the screaming sirens of an ambulance. Aala had collapsed outside the bathroom. The whole mohalla gathered around the ambulance as they wheeled in Aala strapped on to the stretcher. Eddy climbed in wearily and the ambulance sped away. Days melted into weeks and then months. Aala did not come back. No one missed Aala`s loud screams, nor did they ask about her. Except the children in the Mohalla. They didn’t have their target for paper planes and stones. Little Sanju asked his mother one afternoon, “Mummy, when will Aala come back”.

" I don’t know beta and I don’t care".  Sanju slumped back in his bed dejectedly.