[Poem] The Return

I must walk up those steps once more.
Not, with book laden hands,
Not, lost in talk with friends,
Not, with a theory crammed head,
Not, bogged down with paper work.

 Walk, in slow languid steps
Savouring being in the present- the sounds, smell and view.

I must walk up the flights,
The Flights, that fuel my fancy.
No prereading,
No assignments,
No presentation-stress.

Wander the vaulted corridors aimlessly,
Where the sun glances in, occasionally.

I must linger in the dark recesses,
Run, my hands on the cool stone perches
Worn smooth with the years.

I must peep into the libraries, at the silent spectacle
Of bowed heads sunk over books,
 Immobile researchers at carells, with books piles every where.

I must sit in at lectures,
Fall in love again
with Homer, Shakespeare and Donne.
Read Tennyson and Eliot,
And experience, the many Meanings of Life.
I must sit once more, in the tiered benches,
The desks carved many times over by numerous occupants,
Smelling of dust and mildew.


I must lie on the green lawns,
Where, we talked, laughed and crammed before exams.
Get baked in the sunlight, go tea crawling to all our favourite haunts.

I would like to return
to those stone steps,



 Relive the days we climbed them, all together.

A golden threshold to One doorway,
that led to endless pathways
 Life carved out, to each, in turn.

[Short Story] Autumn Flowers

I waited impatiently for the lift, my hands weighed down by grocery bags. It seemed to make an inordinately long halt in the fifth floor. I looked enquiringly at the watch man sitting a little away at his desk...
"New madam coming fifth floor," he said.
"Oh, the vacant flat!, but they should shift late at night or in the middle of the day!" I murmured in annoyance.

It was already 5 pm and I was having guests over for the evening. When the lift finally descended I looked menacingly at the occupant and the movers who were with her. The slight woman in a blue saree looked apologetically at me and said, "I am extremely sorry, we are almost ..." she stopped in mid sentence and I shouted,
"Malini!  Malini Vishwanath! is that really you?"
 My anger and my anxiety vanished in an instant. Malini rushed to me and gave me a warm hug. We both started talking excitedly and before I knew it, she was in my flat after hurriedly disposing off the movers.

As we hurriedly cooked together for the evening, we talked endlessly, piecing together the major events of the intervening years. I had met Malini in college and we had hit it off immediately. We spent all the breaks together and the weekends as well. She lived amongst sylvan surroundings in the outskirts and a  huge contrast to my dull apartment in the city. The weekends felt like paradise as we explored the countryside armed with a story book, singing songs, losing our way ever so often and being chided by her mother for our wild ways! We were an inseparable pair in college even though she was in a different stream. We even sat through abstruse lectures in each other's classes just to be together.  Malini exerted a great influence on me, kindling my interest in gardening and photography and helping me look at life as a dream and a celebration.

As we sat, sipping the rejuvenating cup of tea after the exertions in the kitchen, I looked at the five foot slim figure in front of me. She had not changed one bit- she wore no makeup as always and she had done nothing  to mask her greying hair. She was dressed in her characteristic simple cotton saree.
Malini gave a gentle smile and asked softly, " So how are your relatives?"
 I recoiled from the memory raked up by the question...

Marriage was something that  often came up in our talks and Malini always said-
"I will not marry, I want to become a social worker! I don't believe in living for myself! We need to give something back to society too!"
 
I did not have her conviction, brought up as I was to believe that marriage was the very purpose of a woman's existence. I was married soon after college, but much to our disappointment, Malini couldn't attend as she was away at Delhi, at a convention.

Malini on her return tried her best to make up for it. She would often come over, in the evenings to my new home with my in laws. Life for me,suddenly felt very different and strange! Marriage, is a journey of discovery where every woman learns, about becoming progressively responsible and selfless and romance is but a girlish fantasy. I would eagerly await Malini's visits as a breath of fresh air, but soon it became clear to me that the friendship was unsustainable. Malini too sensed it and while I felt  her trauma, I was in no position to comfort her.

Once when Malini, came home, there were a lot of guests. People were talking loudly and Malini said " I can't talk in this din, let's go outside for a walk."
 This remark invited a few glares in our direction and I instinctively knew that trouble was brewing. In panic I said, "Malini, How insesitive of you?
I have guests at home...
You are single, what do you know about marriage and responsibity?
You can't walk in here and demand my time.
I wish you wouldn't visit me so often, frankly its quite trying!"

 At this, Malini, left  my house, without saying a word, and disappeared completely from my life. I made no effort to follow her or look for her, for many years. But I often thought how she was and pondered in our friendship, who needed the other more. After my children were born, I gained enormous capacity to handle stress. I began to appreciate her selfless love for the first time and sense her need to be loved in turn.  Sadly, we appreciate most what we have the least!
 Oh, how often had I wished that I would run in to her some day and fate had finally granted that wish!

 I came out of my reverie and smiled broadly at Malini. I vowed, I would give her all the attention she needed this time around and never to lose her again.
In the autumn of our lives, we were once again little girls wandering in the wilderness, wild flowers all around.

[Blog] The Charm of the Charminar

What do you sell O ye merchants?

Richly your wares are displayed.

Turbans of crimson and silver,

Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,

Daggers with handles of jade.

These words written almost a century ago, by the nightingale of India Sarojini Naidu are as true today as it was in her times. In those early years of my stay in Hyderabad, my relatives would often visit me just to experience the novelty of coming into contact with a new culture, a new language and a new cuisine. And I would take them as promised to my favourite haunts in the old city – the Salar Jung museum and the Charminar. Though both these places are very close to each other one needs to devote an entire day to each of these places.

Visiting the Charminar, not only gives one a sense of he history of the place but its the whole package of history, life and experience of a bygone era at first hand.Even before one approaches the monument there are darwajas or doorways on all four sides to signal one's approach to this magnificent edifice.

The minute one crosses the doorway one almost steps into history as it were.All around you can see quaint buildings with a blend of Persian and Mughal architecture. There are tiny shops everywhere. There are pearl shops that have been in the trade for hundreds of years having made pearl ornaments for the king and the nobility. You can see samples of the jewelry from these times on display and you can order replicas if you so wish.

There are shops that sell colourful sarees and dress materials with gold embroidery. There is the chudi and Lad bazaar where, in shop after shop there is a display of multihued glass bangles and the multi coloured broad stone studded lac bangles that are a specialty here. The array of coloured bangles all together is a breathtaking sight.

If you are hungry any time there is nothing as rejuvenating as a cup of Iranian tea served in street cafes. As far as I know the Iranian tea is unique to Hyderabad –its an orange tinted thick tea with a cloying taste served often in chipped or cracked cups –– but who even looks at the chinaware when the contents are so heavenly!

As you walk along heavily crowded road there are street vendors every where selling fruit and flowers vying for space with the ever moving crowd - the dull grey and dun colours of the buildings all around are in stark contrast to the bright orange, of the marigolds, the pure white of the jasmines and the deep purple of the jambul fruit and the bright pink of the ghaneras. It is said that in its heyday the shopping district had about 14,000 shops.

And there is shop that is easily 25 metres long right in the middle of the road that sells china and glassware- the traffic weaves around this spot and the products are on display on either side.I have spent hours here and if one is patient one can easily walk away with the occasional treasure that is so inexpensive and yet would make an impressive gift or an impressive adornment in your living room.

Suddenly, in front of you looms the majestic Charminar with its four towers. It’s a four storied structure- an elegant and romantic edifice. The galleries in the upper storeys overlook the four major thoroughfares, which once were royal roads and provide a panoramic view of the city.

Many theories abound about why it was built but the most commonly held one is that the sultan Mohammad Quli Qutub Shah, the fifth Sultan of the Qutb Shahi Dynasty, prayed for the city to be rid of the plague and built it as a thanksgiving on the very spot that he prayed- and that the Charminar was to be the at the heart of the new city that he planned to build.

As the twilight dims and night falls like a dark blanket on the skyline I stay on despite my aching feet to watch the dull luminescence of the illuminated Charminar.– Night lends a magical touch to the atmosphere and I share with my relatives the other legend about the Chraminar – which is - that it is the very spot, where a prince was bewitched by a beauty - and as I close my eyes I can almost hear the horses hoofs and see the prince coming face to face with his future queen Bagmati later named Hyder Mahal from whom the city is named.

But I unwillingly shake off the nostalgic reverie and remember that my role as hostess means that I must treat my guests to the famed Hyderbadi biryani served with the accompaniments of mirchi ka salan and raitha available at restaurants a few kilometers away. And the shahi thukda –a sweet fit for a king is indeed a good wrap up to a glorious day.