Thursday, 22 May 2014


 She  had  always  loved  rain.  Rain  person,  they  even  called  her.  She  would  sit  lost  in  a  world  of  thoughts,  looking  out of  the  barred  window  watching  the  clouds  pour  down  from  above.  She  would  then  question  this  love  of  hers.  Rain?  No.  It  couldn’t  be  the  rain  she  loved.  Her  eyes  searched  for  answers.  Beyond  the  bars.  In  the drops  that  pooled.  In  the  drops  that  reluctantly  hung  on  to  the  rods.  In  the  fragrance  of  heaven  the  drops  gifted  the  earth.   And  slowly  her  heart  would  read  the  void  that  filled  the  raindrops  from  within.  She  would  run  her  fingers  over  the  bars  and  passionately  let  them  absorb  remnants  of  the  shower.  She  would  feel  the  moistness  speaking  to  her.  They  had  found  answers  for  her.  It  was  the  hope  that  a  rainbow  would  bloom  after  the  shower,  she  loved.  Like  a  smile  that  wiped  away  mist  off  eyes.  Rainbow.

 Rainbows  have  always  fascinated  her  as  much  they  puzzled  her.  But  she  loved  them  above  all.  The  colors  smiling  brightly.  The  different  shades  they  hid.  The  serenity.  Bliss  lasting  for  mere  moments.  Though  a  glee  of  mere  moments,  she  could  love  them.  The  moments  gifted  to  her  after  the  downpours  she  felt  would  sink  her  life.  The  moments  that  sought  no  returns  from  her.   But  none  knew  her  as  the  Rainbow  person.

 It  was  Amma  who  had  drawn  for  her  a  rainbow  first  time  ever.  Its  colors.  Later  another  evening  it  was  lying  on  her  lap,  she  had  seen  for  the  first  time,  a  rainbow  spread  wings  in  the  sky. 

 The  memory  of  the  rainy  night  would  always  haunt  her.  Like  words  in  the  missing  pages  torn  off  the  book  you  were  reading.  You  could  never  let  yourself  not  think  of  it.  The  words  you  have  missed.  The  feeling  of  helplessness  that  haunted.  Listening  to  the  rain  fall  mercilessly  on  the  roof  she  had  tried  to  sleep  through  the  night.  Least  she  knew  sleep  too  was  floating  over  puddles  of  water.  Taking  along  many of  what she called  her's.  Away  from  her.   

 Amma’s  shriek.  For  a  moment  she  felt,  Amma  and  rain  were  playing  games.  They  competed  to  be  heard  loudest.  Nature  always  emerged  victor  over  humans.  With  a  gasp  her  Amma  accepted  defeat  and  surrendered  life.   It  rained.  Heavily.  In  and  out.  The  midwife  handed  over  to  her  a  little  rainbow.  Blood  red.  Cuddled  in  a  white  cloth.  As  she  held  him  in  her  hands,  her  rainbow  blinked. 

 He  grew  beneath  her  shade.  Every  time  his  eyes  shed  tears  for  mother,  her  heart  longed  to  wipe  off  vestiges  of  that  rainy  night.  Her  hands  would  reach  for  his  face.  And  she  would  dry  his  face,  letting  her  fingers  go  wet.  And  a  smile  would  dawn.  His  lips  would  curve  and  eyes  would  glow.  She  knew  it  as  the  beautiful  rainbow  in  the  skies  of  her  heart. 

 Rains  and  rainbows  came  and  went  by.  Her  love  yet  too  strong.  Yet  too  deep.  Came  along  another  rainy  evening  she  would  never  forget.  

 There  were  still  things  years  couldn't  change.  He  was  lying,  head  on  her  lap.  And  he  repeated  his  question  for  a  4th  time.  Her  eyes  were  but  wandering  among  the  drops  beyond  the  bars.  She      hoped  they  would  find  an  answer  for  her.  Again.  “What  would  be  the  name  for  my  novel?”  His  question  drowned  in  the  chatter  of  rain.  She  but  didn't  knew  why  he  wanted  her  to  christen  his  first  child.  The  child  he  labored.  Out  of  his  soul.  

 Malhar.  She  breathed.  Malhar - the  music  of  clouds, would be the name.  The  music  that  celebrated   the  yet  to  come  rainbows.  He  planted  a  kiss  on  her  wrinkled  forehead.  Another  rainbow  adorned  her  sky  as  he  smiled. 

And world  yet  again  called  a  rainbow  person,  rain  person.

Monday, 12 May 2014


Trying to retell the story of a mother and son who got subdued under the shadow of greater tales in Mahabharata. Bheema's wife Hidimbi and her son Ghatothkacha. To know the original version go to these links.

And read on for the HER side of it. Though I couldn't find out what exactly happened to this mother after Kurukshetra, this is solely my imagination. 

She ran her fingers over her face. She could still feel the moistness of the kiss her son had planted on her cheeks years ago. For a last time she kissed his son on his forehead. But unlike the million times she kissed him on his forehead while he slept, she now knew that he would never wake up. "Princes are at times bound to make sacrifices", she told to herself as to make herself believe it. "And your sacrifice today saved your family's pride, my son." 

Maa tell me of you and Pitashri, he urged. Like a thousand times before, she, wise not to meet his eyes let her tears drown in herself and spoke. Of her Lord's valor. Muscle and nerve. Of her life. Love and family.

"A savage life we had led. Me and your Mamaji. And then came Them into our lives.

A night too dark with hoots and howls, we waited for prey to feast. A whiff of human brawn lured our appetite. With the claws to kill hid beneath with skill, I was sent to ruse them by will. But then I was stab with the most perilous bayonet ever carved! And even before I knew my destiny had found its way beyond horizons. Wings had sprouted. That was when my child, I had met Him. Your Father.

They were 6. A mother and her fingers 5. And as the rest slept in the shade, he was awake in guard. As always he proved a great one. Stricken by affection and admiration, like a child fascinated by stars, my heart longed him to be mine. As I confessed my primitivity and of my brother waiting out their, I saw a prowess dawn in him. He was gentle enough to fondle you as breeze and mighty as the storm that could devastate.
And I saw it, as he ripped apart my Brother's torso. All done without a clatter heard. As they slept on.

Marriage, more a noble pact. And in the balance, love was over weighed by gains and worth. But I was living my life with joy and the days fell upon me as showers and petals from the heaven. They were the days of my life I had a family. Days I knew of love. Soon in me grew a shade of him. And it was you. 

The pact was that you would come and he would leave. And true to the words, they left me and you, to where I belonged but not them and not you. My life and my family now, my dear son are you."

He kissed Hidimbi's cheeks and she felt how worthless were the dreams she cherished of her Bheema coming back to her. She felt her son was the treasure of joy she had always been in pursuit of. And now as his soft lips brushed over her rough face, she felt complete and profoundly in love.
He but then had got to taste his mother's tears.  Bitter and grieved. He wondered why she still loved his father. 

She cupped his face in her palms and said. "You know why I love your father so much?" He stared into his mother's eyes for what felt like an eternity. The words then rushed out but more slowly than the tears. "He gave me you."

As the 14th day of war at Kurushektra set, a mother had lost her son. The half shades of might and magic put in favor of the five-some clan through his death. In the clamor of trumpets foretelling the victory brought in due to her son's death, a mother's wailing was subdued. As the pyre consumed her son, she gave herself to the fire. Their hearts were woven into one. And death or life, they were to be together. The single mother and her son.