Sunday, June 30, 2013


Since ‘we are condemned to live,’ it is reasonable to go ahead and analyze our existential position in this crazy world of ours off and on.

Of late, the critique of life has become one of my favorite subjects to dwell upon in my blog writing journey. I enjoy reflecting on the infinite avatars of life as they whet my thinking prowess by unfolding deeper insights of this thrilling conundrum. It is no less than an intellectual challenge to delve into this field of oceanic proportions by picking up some chosen threads. Sometimes out of the blue, sundry thoughts intrude into grey cells, take shape and come alive on the blank pages as follows:

Reminiscising about the lived calendar of one’s life throws out interesting realizations:
Here is the personal narrative:

(a) Contrary to popular belief; it is observed that we tend to change for the better with the passage of time. The change is not like a waterfall, suddenly coming into existence somewhere, after a heavy downpour in the hills. Here the change is deliberate, conscious, slow and steady based on the shifting truths and perceptions of daily life.

Soon to be on the threshold of my seventies, I know how this change has come about in me. The journey of this change has been flavored with bitter sweet happenings, moulding my character in between, cautioning me along the way about the fragility of human bonds and about the power of the spoken word which can make or break relationships.

(b)Yes, certainly confidence declines with age, beleaguered by challenging circumstances in the course of life‘s multifarious roles. Later in life the love and affection of grand children compensates this loss sufficiently.

(c) Life’s canvas gets etched with markings of momentary highs and some long drawn lows out of which the memories are born. However, life never ceases to be interesting and worthy. But this roller coaster of life begins differently for different people.

I started with a protected and loving childhood and adolescence. Got degrees, became a professional. Marriage and motherhood followed. Experienced the pain, when myths of mushy romance, shared with friends during heavenly gossip sessions, while luxuriating in the lawns of GCG Chandigarh, got burst at the altar of hard realities. Later passed through the usual heart aches of married life, smothered in the secret crying on the pillow or sitting on the garage roof under starlit nights. Writing personal poems to blurt out the stifling emotional deluge and finally gaining a state of stoicism via falling and balancing.

The journey’s cobbled path with a few roses thrown here and there remains enshrined firmly within me.  And the prized rosy days are locked safely in the vase of fragrant memories.

Life is no lyrical ballad, it is an epic poem with some sweet pains and numerous heart aches. In fact life’s lyrics get written every day.

(d)Amidst the choking compromises of life, clinging to the memory of those creatively thrilling precious moments gives succor and stability in spite of occasional rough terrains.

(e)For the creatively active there are always some tasks left to be accomplished and lived for and the body basics have to be taken care of, to ensure its support for as long as possible.

(f) To constantly seek some wonder moments is the new logo for being alive. The moments which take your breath away. Like the thrill of unexpectedly seeing a spider’s web exquisitely woven, hanging on balcony’s railing after a rain soaked day.  Is there room for resentments and excesses of any kind to squander this jewel of life upon...?

(g)One has to keep resurrecting the special celebratory vignettes from the bank of memories to transcend the sultriness of life.

(h)To keep the tracks of life oiled and functioning healthily, the crutches of procrastination have to be discarded. Otherwise the ‘Apple Cart’ of life will go down into quicksand impossible to be retrieved.

(i)Even with dwindling energies, the battle has to rage within to stomp over the dead wood of passivity and inch towards some goal with child like curiosity, till the last breath is breathed.

Image courtesy: The Internet
Friends your thoughts are welcome! 

Thursday, June 20, 2013


My love for nature's treasures!

For the last few days her singing has acquired the powerful zest of a war cry. I thought I’d resist her emboldened tenor, but no way. Perhaps she was sending me messages through her power packed melody to bring me out of my physical discomforts to chronicle her monsoon journey. That of course, I’d been doing, the last two years. Believe me she is none other than my birdie friend cuckoo. And I’m perennially inspired to write about her.

Every year I see her in a new avatar hitherto unexplored. This time her singing has high-speed, but a full throated depth too. Perhaps she wishes to convey that good times don’t last. Drink the gains of the breezy weather to the dregs. How else she could deliver the message other than through crooning, the gift she has. Since she has no other voice. Thanks to the early monsoon, her excitement is soaring high. I read a mysterious urgency in her notes, as if she simply can’t contain the happiness of the unexpected showers, gracing the parched earth, with its soaking blessings. Even the citizenry stands infected by her joy and come out  in hordes to cool their bodies after the bristling heat of the past.

She welcomes the dark cloudy days with a feverish singing extravaganza. Perhaps she communicates the fiery intensity of her passion, breaking all reservations. May be it is a call to her estranged lover for making it up with her, as the sensuous rain drops have submerged deep under, all ill will and animosity. The poignancy of her music seems to emphasize the transience of all that is beautiful , so he must join her accepting warts and all, cuddle her and let go of the devastating ego. Her message loud and clear is even heard by the human mortals. She is waiting to be enveloped in his passionate embrace and give her all. Her beauty and his virility are short lived.Thus he should hasten to be with her as love has impregnated every vein in her body and longs for consummation.

Does size matter? This simply petite bird, attired in glossy  black, with orange hued glassy eyes, empowered and endowed with a sweet voice, which floats unhindered above the crescendo of all human and bird noises.

The mellifluous charm of her song overflows the milieu around me acting like a magic wand, sweeping away the nervous stress and aches and pain of tired limbs. Is there any need to feel charged with anxiety when the cuckoo is regaling one and all with her happy notes while beckoning us to seep into the joviality, forgetting worries and woes? The purity and genuineness of her voice pays homage to the season of rains, while awakening the dormant spirit of monsoon masti in our hearts. Her luscious coo coo nudges me out of despair and hopelessness towards positivity, better than mere words of inspirational self help books.

Image courtesy: the Internet.

Your comments are welcome!

Friday, June 7, 2013


The other day, luckily, weather took a breezy turn. Early morning walk in the pleasantly windy and cool atmosphere was like a treat, after the prickly heat of many sweaty days. The branches of the trees were swinging to and fro in carefree abandon and there was a singing spree by birds and half a dozen squirrels were scampering around gaily, enamored by the soft cool wind.

Back home, I felt light hearted and at ease which propelled me to divulge something which I had gone through and am still mired neck deep into. But somehow I felt squeamish about sharing it with my blog friends.

Actually, you may not even be amused. However, I decided I won’t let this experience go waste. ‘What are friends for’? I thought. ‘They’ve to be informed’, discretion demanded. ‘And be prepared even to be ignored’, heart warned.

As an indiblogger, I’m acquainted with so many of you in the virtual world and feel the proximity between us a click or a comment away. Friendship in the real world pales into insignificance before the colorful and no holds barred camaraderie existing in the community of indibloggers and others in the blogosphere. Such a wonderful prerogative we enjoy to be able to open our hearts creatively before equally creative minds.
Here comes the narrative of my ordeal:

I grew up in the serious fifties and sixties, so humor and I are poles apart. I may succeed in drawing some laugh lines though, provided you read it. Bored- are you already?

It all started in December last. It appears as if, it was recorded in my janam patri slyly by Satan himself when God had gone for some rest. It was destined. Had been waiting in the wings for quite sometime, dropping painful hints now and then. For how long can one remain immune to the tell tale signs, though? The efforts to blot out their passage failed. They had to show up. And show up they did.

Tooth pain, friends, is said to be the mother of all pains. In fact my teeth had stopped fully cooperating long back and I had been through periodic sessions of drilling, filling, cleaning and an odd extraction here and there. Over time I had developed a sort of paranoia about dental work. It was not that I did not do the usual routine of brushing, flossing etc. All my care couldn’t compensate for nature’s injustice. I inherited a faulty jaw line and molars with a deeper indent in the middle, attracting caries like bees to flowers; my oral hygiene notwithstanding. (Lucky you with your pearly whites!)-:)

More than fair share of visits to the dentist had been my forte since my thirties and brooding ‘why me’ never helped. I took refuge in the saying ‘To err is human’ and missed dental appointments on one pretext or the other and this led to the saga of pain.

Presently pain came with heavy foot falls to challenge the presence of my wisdom teeth. The excruciating tooth ache opened the ‘Pandora’s box’ of troubles, resulting in a long drawn suffering stint. Home remedies were woefully ineffective. Pain killers provided temporary relief. I was even prepared to go to the gallows to escape paying obeisance to the dentist’s chair .But things were pitted against me. No way could I delay further. Ultimately the conspiracy of continuous moaning dragged me to the altar of the dreaded chair. The wise molar got extracted with hard pulling and shaking, so strong were its roots. Left me limp and traumatized.

In the aftermath, antibiotics and pain killers became my bosom friends. Another blow came when the unceasing throbs took me to the dentist again. He examined the gaping hole and declared that I had a dry socket (lack of blood supply to the injured gum tissue.) I visited him for three consecutive days for dressing the exposed bone, as the gum tissue around it had got bruised in the difficult extraction procedure. It took two months to heal and left me so scared that I kept the next on hold as long as I could. My expectations for early recovery had by now plummeted and the second one I took in my stride.
In the midst of this misadventure, I was easily taken in by the dentist’s advice that I better have the rest pulled out and have a complete denture which will be the permanent end of my woes. I was cautioned by well wishers, that there’s no substitute for the natural ones but I remained adamant partly because of the disgust and partly because I was wearing a partial denture already.

Finally, I went through the inevitable. Pl. don’t enquire about my troubles for the last five months as you’ve viewed the trailer above and you can visualize the rest. Now at least the World Wide Web can either sympathize with me or dump me, for sure.

To save my sanity in this deprived state, I take recourse to writing and posting on my blog now and then.

The result: In the place where once my jaws were holding some good and some crooked teeth, there is a dark cave inside, the cheeks are sunken and the mirror image throws a prominent nosed ghost.

The tongue feels lonely as if it has lost its way and wonders where her friends have disappered while it was sedated. Poor thing has to do a lot of chewing with the help of the palate to feed me.

Hunger is a great teacher. So many innovations have been adopted to enable me to survive. My food gets blended in the mixer, though I hate the concoction. I manage to eat fruit and cooked veggies and have lost a few kilos from my already lean frame.

However, this tale of mine isn’t ending any time soon. My gums still look meaty in spite of gum astringent massage and need more shrinking. I’m waiting for the final trial to begin, so that it may end.

The moral:

# 1: Short cuts don’t work in life. One repents later.

# 2: Take decisions wisely, as these will impact your whole life.

# 3: Take care of your set of teeth as you’d, your gold, diamonds and pearls and these will stand by you for a lifetime.

Friends what do you think of the whole episode.
Image courtesy : The internet