She never went to the beach, she hated the waters, from the first time she set afoot on the sand she knew this place wasn’t going to be fun. Today she is standing on the beach, and staring at the wide sea.
Sudha was 22 when she got married, that was all her she was brought up to believe-was her aim in life, to marry and to birth kids. She did both well. Kids settled abroad, and a nice cozy home in one of the plush places where only a few middle class people could fathom to stay in. Needless to say, she would be happy.
Sudha turned 58 today, but there was no reason to celebrate, she didn’t feel any achievement or contentment in getting older everyday. Each growing year only reminded her how she never did anything for her self and her own life. How everything was for the kids and her husband.
She met him only once before they got married, she had no say in it and she never thought she needed too. She didn’t have opinions on marriage or married life, she never fell in love and never attempted too. All she wanted was simplicity and uncomplications.
But as years went by, simplicity turned to silence and the uncomplicatedness turned bitter. Her over ambitious husband, achieved great success and with which great tastes, in lifestyle and in women. Extra martial affairs, lavish holidays. Each growing day the marriage seemed like a compromise, life seemed useless.
Sudha never had dreams but then she wished she did, because then she’d know what she was giving up on and have the courage to fight for it
Yesterday Amee,her youngest daughter, gave birth to her baby boy, she couldn’t be happier and was due to visit her daughter next month.
Back home her husband, was reading a book and looking at the clock, he was waiting for his evening tea.
Next day the news paper headlines read: 58 yr old. women drowns to death.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Bombay dreams
I am dreaming for a Hot sultry afternoon, I can see myself staring at the ceiling fan rotating aimlessly, not serving any purpose, while I am lying on the pristine white sheets in pita’s spare bedroom. My breath seems to be sighing out a song of absolute contentment and I fall asleep in the happy anticipation of waking up to hot tea and of vadas fished out of bubbling oil and cooling off on newspaper spread on the stone counter. I can hear the temple bells, the rickshaws put-putting in the distance, children screaming and running around at the game of a gully cricket
Our house wasn’t as big as pita’s, but every afternoon, when school’s were off, it was customary for me to be found in pita’s house. And we were happy, the summer brought with it, the fruits, the spicy flavors, lazy afternoons and ofcourse load shedding.
Baba, customarily cribs about them, every load shed is a chance for him to mouth off at the officials. Having served in the municipal board for all his life, he was well aware of the beaurucratic system and sturdily against it. Ofcourse, not that he choose to do something about it, but his evening walks resulted into a weak attempt at inspiring the young ones to be a part of the system and change it. And the young ones would usually be me and pita.
But this is just a mental picture which isn’t as enticing when I am sitting in my cubical staring at the snow in Minneapolis and dreaming about a land and its stories I left far behind. Buts, its visions like these that get me through the loneliness, the cold, the mind-numbing lack of enthusiasm to live through another shivering, snivelling day of sub-zero depression.
Sometimes I wonder why I left it behind, who was I running away from and what I was running towards. Each day makes it difficult for me to survive through this winter and a life that I choose;now seems to be staring back at me with comtenplation.
Some nights when I call back home ,I can smell the chai and chakli, the warm poha burning on the stove while aai, very fondly asks what I cooked for dinner , and I have no heart to say this will be another day I life off fast food, simply coz its no fun cooking alone. I can imagine then walking on the street’s and craving for some ‘bhel puri’, ‘ragda pattice’, dosa and more..
I would give anything indulge into what it feels like to be living in bombay, to be catching the movies in black at the talikes, to be walking around the insanely crowded beaches and then cribbing about them, to be falling in love and dating on the streets of bombay and so many more little things I want to get the typical Bombay flavor of ... I could go on forever. But I wont - instead I am going to go on dreaming my bombay dreams.
Our house wasn’t as big as pita’s, but every afternoon, when school’s were off, it was customary for me to be found in pita’s house. And we were happy, the summer brought with it, the fruits, the spicy flavors, lazy afternoons and ofcourse load shedding.
Baba, customarily cribs about them, every load shed is a chance for him to mouth off at the officials. Having served in the municipal board for all his life, he was well aware of the beaurucratic system and sturdily against it. Ofcourse, not that he choose to do something about it, but his evening walks resulted into a weak attempt at inspiring the young ones to be a part of the system and change it. And the young ones would usually be me and pita.
But this is just a mental picture which isn’t as enticing when I am sitting in my cubical staring at the snow in Minneapolis and dreaming about a land and its stories I left far behind. Buts, its visions like these that get me through the loneliness, the cold, the mind-numbing lack of enthusiasm to live through another shivering, snivelling day of sub-zero depression.
Sometimes I wonder why I left it behind, who was I running away from and what I was running towards. Each day makes it difficult for me to survive through this winter and a life that I choose;now seems to be staring back at me with comtenplation.
Some nights when I call back home ,I can smell the chai and chakli, the warm poha burning on the stove while aai, very fondly asks what I cooked for dinner , and I have no heart to say this will be another day I life off fast food, simply coz its no fun cooking alone. I can imagine then walking on the street’s and craving for some ‘bhel puri’, ‘ragda pattice’, dosa and more..
I would give anything indulge into what it feels like to be living in bombay, to be catching the movies in black at the talikes, to be walking around the insanely crowded beaches and then cribbing about them, to be falling in love and dating on the streets of bombay and so many more little things I want to get the typical Bombay flavor of ... I could go on forever. But I wont - instead I am going to go on dreaming my bombay dreams.
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