Read Write Poem Virtual Book Tour: ‘Apologies to An Apple,’ by Maya Ganesan V

4th October, '09



Maya Ganesan's ‘Apologies to an Apple’ moves from an aura of innocence and wonder, to spirituality and a search for the self, to a bewildering loneliness. Her book is divided into three parts to accommodate these three distinct moods, each complete by themselves in the portrayal of their mood.

The first part resonates with Maya’s conscious connection with her surrounding world and creatures. This connection is both verbal and non-verbal, with Maya talking to trees, inviting birds through her songs, and these beings in turn responding back to her inner mind.

In her poems- Invitation, Perhaps and September Maya demonstrates a kinship with earth and its creatures, a kinship described in strong imagery, with Maya talking to creatures and feeling they will answer. Lines like the ones below (taken from Invitation) demonstrate this kinship-
'The sparrows have received
my invitation, it seems—
no, not the letter kind.'

From the poem, Moths -
'You are the poem that doesn’t know
and has been unknowing
for a while now.
But you are the poem that
wants to know
and wonders.'

These lines incite a strong sense of spirituality; a wonder for life and the living. This poem is almost like a preamble to the direction Maya will be taking in the second part of her book.

Maya’s- Thoughts at 11:46 a.m- shows a wonderful sense of littleness and yet contentment at being little. It shows her deep understanding of the natural world and its manner of functioning. An uncommon sense of satisfaction and ease envelops this entire section of Maya’s poetry. Another example of this can be found in the lines in Water Lilies-
‘Just as there is no way,
for me,
except forward.

Maya exhibits such lofty self-confidence and a sense of purpose in these lines. Immediately after this line, she takes her self-confidence to a different dimension of faith, by comparing her life to that of water lilies, floating, and yet peaceful in following the course of the stream.

Also, the entire section is sprinkled with child-like imagination and wonder. This is apparent in poems like ‘What She Wants’- where ‘the sun quarrels with the moon’, and Larkspur and Birdsong where-
‘The trees hang their sad
leaf-and-branch faces down over the ground
like sorrowful shadows.’

The second section of Maya’s book has a sense of ‘growing up’ to it; like a child suddenly opening her eyes one morning and finding out the truths of her fragile world. Beginning with the poem- ‘Apologies to an Apple’ from which the name of the book is derived, this section seems to be one of questions, doubts and a search for the self in this ever-changing world. A mighty transition from the wide-eyed amazement of section one, it is defined by lines like the ones below from the poem Infinity-
‘I have long wondered
where
I can find
the horizon.’

‘A message for you’ reveals an almost adult-like sensuality, inviting someone special into a private world. Sold is another poem that has an adult-like quality of pain, regret and being used, all emotions quite uncommon for a child-
'I have sold time
to whoever
would pay the price for it.'

Maya’s lines from Yesterday dissolve the abstract quality of time making it a great piece of imagery-
'I like to be part of
both yesterday and
today, falling out of
one, tipped into
the other.'

In all, Section Two shows a spectator watching life, sometimes entering and participating, sometimes existing and just observing. It conveys a strong sense of spirituality uncommon in a child of Maya’s age. It also poses questions about one’s self that are found in many Indian epics, maybe inborn in Maya, the collective consciousness constantly guiding her writing.

Section Three of Apologies to An Apple gives an aura of loneliness and the loss of a loved one. Lines from A Yellow Towel and Photograph-
'The sun streams in through the
open window,
casting shadows of light' represent a classic irony of light being dull and disturbing. It uncovers the picture of a person in a lot of pain to whom light might seem like shadow.

'A lonely spider
spins her web in a deserted corner'
'a photograph lives its solitary
black-and-white life.'

And the lines from Heartbreak -
'Outside
Is the tangled rain.
Inside, it feels
That way, too.'

All these lines are heart-wrenching in their solitary mood. Maya sets the mood for the entire section in her first poem of this section ‘Diagnosis’-
'In this beautiful world,
I find myself
Knotted in words.'

To balance the sorrow and pain of the third section, Maya ends her book with some of her former hope in the lines from the poem Requiem-
'I trust
every single of a thousand coastlines,
the requiem of the folding
and unfolding waves.'

The entire book ‘Apologies to An Apple’ revolves around the author’s relationship with her inner and outer world. Maya Ganesan has the wonderful gift of being able to weave images with her words and use them to convey her kinship with the world. She has the ability to transmit both ingenuousness and complexity through her poetry, and deal with abstract subjects such as identity and time with a whole lot of ease. At the end of the book one is left with a wholesome blend of the clarity and innocence of a child’s mind and the obscurity of an adult’s, which one notices right away in its title. A book that transports its readers to Maya’s own incredible, imaginative world, Apologies to an Apple is sure to be every poetry-lover’s delight.

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This is a book review of the book Apologies to An Apple by 11-year old Maya Ganesan organised by Read Write Poem. To know more about this virtual book tour visit-
http://readwritepoem.org/blog/2009/09/23/read-write-poem-virtual-book-tour-%E2%80%98apologies-to-an-apple%E2%80%99-by-maya-ganesan/
It has indeed been a privilege to be part of this virtual book tour, an experience both enriching and trying. I am still pleasantly astonished that Maya is just eleven!!

To read a book is one thing, to try and review it is another. But at the end of the journey, it is ever-so satisfying. Please do let me know what you think of my attempt. Thank you.

Going Back in Haphazard Lines

This exercise called 'The Self as Memory, or vice versa' by Joseph O.Legaspi is a free-write exercise which had me squirming in my seat when I first read it. But I went on to do it. By the end of it I realized the best part about free writing is, you don't have to care a damn about if anybody gets it or not. It's liberating, just like Joseph said.


8th September, '09

Thunder sounds like drums in the skies, pitter-patter, pitter-patter on the asbestos roof, the lovely intoxicating smell of rain on earth. I feel one with the earth, the heavens and myself. A rainwater stream flowing, twisting turning, bubbling with all the excitement I feel. Tearing paper from old notebooks, grandpa making me paper boats, to float, to play with, to drown. A rush. A strange happy rush. Hands smelling of wet paper, the lines all merging into one, leaving odours of life on my palms. Running in the streets barefooted, sometimes with rubber chappals, losing one along the way, breaking away from jail, a room with a lone streak of light, floating into my heart. Boats being pushed, pulled, stopped, repaired, discarded for better; Just like human beings themselves. All the lines fall one over another, jumble, twisting like worms which've suddenly found life. Flowing in the water to make beautiful patterns, a whole new water-world. Freedom on a wet rainy afternoon.

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Awaken myself. Struggle, kick, bite claw into my own skin. It's part of my skin. Or so I keep telling myself. Why hold pain so tenderly in my palms? Sleep some more. Deeper, deeper. Walking through brush, and bramble. A dark, hot forest. Not cool like the ones I've visited when I'm awake. Stifling. Let go of me. Bag of salt on my back. Cool moonlight, wet green grass. A fine night for dying this is. And I died. Sparkling branches of some unknown trees, whispering nothingness. A light visible from far away, brighter by the minute. Fog descends upon us, me and the nothingness. A creature of light bounding towards me, full of light, smiling, toothless smile, through the fog. Am I in a Lord of the Rings sequel? Puts it's horn on my throat, and I laugh a guttural, mirthful laugh. A strange feeling of satisfaction. Floating above the world on the creature's horn. Being tickled by its beautiful, frisky tail. It smiles its smile again and pushes a little harder. A horn in my windpipe. A smile on my lips. A lightness in my heart. It is a fine night for dying, again.

Conservation Dilemas

31st July, '09

I joined a virtual cause called 'Conservation International' today. I joined it, no doubt, except I don't see how I can help except by joining, and probably donating some money. An indirect manner of conservation...?

I have always, as far back as I can remember been really into the whole conservation thing. I have very meticulously all my life remembered to bring back chocolate or other plastic wrappers back home to throw in the dustbin. I have always remembered to close the tap while brushing, and switch off the lights and fans in a room when I am leaving it. I have also, as far as possible tried to buy veggies from the local vegetable vendor rather than from the fancy 'Reliance' and 'Food World', even if it meant lesser variety for higher prices. But what more can I do?

Why has it always been so hard to organise a tree-planting community project, or to try and get the people from my neighbourhood to clean up the lake nearby, that is beginning to look more and more like a sewer each day? Leave alone getting people to stop bursting crackers on Diwali, the day after Diwali, I can't even take the initiative to get the kids from the block to clean up the paper from the streets. Instead we all wait for the MCH workers to come and clean up our useless mess.

It's difficult to explain to an average Indian, the importance of being environmentally conscientious. The concept is still alien to the housewife next door or the man sitting at the Kirana Shop opposite my house. To bring it up amongst these people means inviting ridicule, questioning and unwanted attention. Or at least, that is the fear. But it is a very necessary step needed to be taken as early as possible. It is the urban, ignorant, average middle-class Indian who is causing most of this mess. He needs to know about the consequences of his everyday actions. And he constitutes the majority of India's population.

Even if I can transform one such person in my life into an everyday practising conservationalist, I would've done my bit for conservation. The seed would have been planted, or rather dispersed into the wind, to fly in different directions and transform the world.

The Beginning and the End

5th July, '09

A birth and a death; two homes visited, two sides of life seen. One gurgling with the joy of things to be, and the other fraught with the pain and tenderness that comes with witnessing a life reduced to just loving memories. Today I was an onlooker to two parts of life where a person receives just unconditional love; A newborn oblivious to all the joy it has brought into a household along with its teeny fragile frame, and a deceased who is equally oblivious to all the praise and love that he may have never received during his lifetime.The farewell was just as tender as the welcome was.

But what of the senile beggar I saw being dragged to the footpath from the middle of the road, after having been hit my a motorcyclist? There was no one to fawn over his bleeding head, or even lay a gentle hand on his failing heart. All he found at the end of his journey were a few rough hands dragging him to where he would not be an encumbrance to the rest of the world.

The Working Class Life

4th May, '09

I sit on my couch, pulled outside my front door, with the world illuminated by nothing but moonlight, since there has been no electricity at my place for 8 days now.

In a country where generators are the major source of electricity, a failed generator can shove one's normal, routine life into darkness. Since light is the greatest gift of electricity to mankind, routines need to be rearranged to suit the availability of natural light. Meals, preferably are cooked during the daytime, showers are taken earlier in the day, so one can utilize the cool water before the sun is overhead to make it warm, even one's day begins earlier since sleeping in the heat is not much fun. Appliances dependent on electricity for their functioning like the television, refrigerator, laptop, mobile phones and the microwave become non-existent. Instead, neighbours walk over to each other's houses to convey messages, and impromptu gatherings become the pastime of the day. Clothes are hand-washed and sun-dried giving them a strange freshness, and food is always freshly cooked for storage is impossible. The evenings are filled with the sound of chatter and community dinners in candle light. Finally the day ends with rubbing oneself with insect-repellent and sleeping under the stars, gazing at a world bathed in moonlight.

Of course, this kind of a lifestyle has its disadvantages. For one, warm beer can taste awful. Also, it's not much fun writing when all you can see is the battery of your laptop blinking at you threatening to go off at any moment. But neither of these problems are exactly daunting. There are alternatives for both. But there are other problems that a situation like this brings which have no alternatives except finding a place that has electricity, like charging one's laptop and phone from time to time for use and of course the availability of internet.

Yet, these 8 days have been quite an experience, one that I had never imagined coming my way, to my doorstep. It has shown me a side of life whose glimpses I have seen many a time, in road-side dwellings and ghettos, even in the movies, but one that I maybe would've never known for myself otherwise.

The Rain Story

18th April, '09

I danced in the pouring rain tonight.

I remember running in the rain, with friends and green grass and grey skies. Three girls, celebrating their youth; We ran in circles, or large figures of eight, the exuberance of the rain doubled by the joy of being together. It was a freedom never felt before. A kinship I had never had. A moment shared by kindred souls.

I remember walking in the rain, bicycles half-drowned in the water-filled streets. Walking was not a choice anymore. School was just over and we had to get home through the flowing water. We strutted through the mud-filled streets, not half as embarrassed as we should have been, to be pushing our bicycles through water that came till our knees, in the pouring rain. Muck and filth were of no consequence, whatsoever. We were enjoying our little self-chosen adventure. It was only when we got home that we realised that we had collected a lot of our city's garbage in our soaking wet socks.

I remember chasing in the rain; Paper boats that my grandpa ungrudgingly made for me, being raced down the streets of my childhood, on our own little rivulets. Me and my friends, with only one goal in mind- keeping our boats afloat was more important than anything else to us. So we ran after them, with chappals and mud-splashed clothes, yelling, pushing, as fast as our little legs would carry us, part of the element in every sense. It was the age when one ran as fast as the boys one knew and fought just as hard. The freedom of one's childhood will rarely come again.

I remember musing in the rain. As I sat at my grandpa's old iron barred window, taking in the rhythm of the rain, the words came to me, as fast as the drops; A feeling, a surge in the lone dark room, filled my mind and I had to let it out on paper. And before the rain had stopped, I had written my first poem-

The rain the beautiful rain,
comes inside from the window pane,
it's only water wet and plain,
the rain, the beautiful rain.

A moment of such beauty, irreplaceable by any other, I had attained just then. I didn't know it then. But I know it now. And I will know it each time I am in the rain.

I danced in the pouring rain tonight.

Coming Alive

5th April, '09

I wake up suddenly, to the sound of the whistling wind outside my window. It is skimming through the trees, like spirits dancing on a full-moon night. I can hear the trees sighing, thankful for the respite from the summer's heat. I can see my backyard in my mind's eye, bathed in moonlight, leaves rustling, a piece of paper flying in circles, yesterday's clothes on the washing line, suddenly come alive. I tingle as I lie on my bed. I want to run out and embrace the wind, I want to be part of its madness. Suddenly, life feels lighter. All the dullness has been washed out of it. I feel one with the universe, I feel a warmth inside of me. Suddenly, I feel alive.

Saplings of Life

4th April, '09

I planted a few seeds in my new kitchen garden. Actually it's hardly a garden, just a little plastic box filled with mud, sitting next to the window so it can catch a few rays of sunlight. Yet when I woke up this morning and saw some tiny green saplings peeping out of the mud, I was overjoyed. I know now that they will grow into little plants that will help nourish my body and mind, a repayment much greater than the few drops of water I sprinkle them with each day. They give with no thought about whether I deserve their yield, whether I have worked for it. And I have not. I am just playing my tiny part in this whole cycle of life, I am the planter of seeds, nothing more, akin to the birds, the animals, that do it every day.

I will probably never have what they have, these saplings, but I hope to some day; this ability to give,without the expectation of anything in return, without once measuring whether the receiver deserves as much. Also, I hope to someday have their clarity of purpose, so imbibed into their existence that it demands no
thought, something that pervades their very being, they live to pass on their energy, either to another being, or just back into earth, from where they came.

Flight of the Phoenix

17th March, '09

Words on an empty summer's day,
Words of an empty, waveless bay,
Words they form just voiceless sound,
by the definition of my words, I seem bound.
Fear is sitting like a ticking time bomb,
waiting for the instant to burst into song,
Immortal I lay, for death is not new,
my hopes are not high, but my dreams are not few.
But the bomb ticks on, a soundless word,
a rhythm recurring, by my fear incurred,
Yet I walk on, my head held high,
Yet my neck stretches beyond the sky,
A wordless silence, by words it is drawn,
A courage, of fear, of courage, is born,
Undying love and love undone,
A life of regret and a life of fun,
I carry on, on a bed of words,
the freedom of a wave, the flight of a bird,
I carry on, my footsteps noiseless,
Dissolving into the Sun, each day I am less.

Musings by The Water Closet

3rd March, '09

As I grew up, my summer vacations of many consecutive years were spent at my grandparents’. Every day of each vacation was marked by leisure and routine, one affording as much relaxation as the other. I would wake up each day to my grandmother bustling around in the kitchen, the smell of hot coffee wafting through the air, the sound of a crisp newspaper being methodically read and folded away page by page by my grandfather, and the sound of ‘ Vishnu Sahasranaamam’- a religious chant comprising of the 1000 names of Lord Vishnu, drifting from the transistor. By the time I would be out of bed and have brushed my teeth, a hot cup of ‘Horlicks’ would sit waiting for me at the dining table. My grandma would sit with me while I would drink my milk, either cutting vegetables, or cleaning out the rice, or performing some other such minor task. The idea was always to watch over me, so I would finish all of the milk. We would chat about this and that. She would tell me about my grandpa’s latest faux-pas and we would both giggle as he would try in earnest to justify himself. Then she would persuade me to go finish my bath.

The rest of the day carried on in the same fashion. My grandma finishing up her cooking and chores at the times she had scheduled for them during the day, amidst bits of conversation, laughter and story-telling. My grandparents and I would play Scrabble, or ‘Daaya-Katte’, an Indian game similar to Ludo every evening, before my grandma would begin cooking dinner. My grandpa and I would water the plants and pick the flowers for the next morning’s puja before we all ate our dinner and went to bed.

For many years when I would think back about the number of jobs my grandma used to accomplish in a single day, always with a cool mind, without ever a sign of a huff or a puff, I would be astonished. I wondered what kept her so composed, so calm, so satisfied. But lately, I have begun to feel the same calmness, the same composure when I am bustling about my house. The washing the cleaning, the cooking the dusting, they all give me peace. They give my hands something to do while my mind is musing over life’s happenings.

I like to clean my bathroom myself. A wretched job, though it seems, there are many advantages to doing it oneself. Amidst the water and suds, there is a feeling of infinite satisfaction, a feeling of bringing forth purity and cleanliness. Its mechanical nature is almost meditative so that once one has developed a method of doing it, the hands can work, while the mind contemplates. I have wrestled with many of my life’s truths standing next to the water closet. Many of my decisions have gotten cemented and many ideas have been born at that exact location. It is a place of great potential.

In the kitchen, I am constantly experimenting, or trying to better an experiment. A dash of this, a slice of that, a pinch of something else, and voila! I feel like an artist. My day is made. My self-esteem is soaring once more.

The more corners I get cleaned, the more dirt I accumulate, the more recipes I invent, the more satisfied my day is. But I wonder, if like my grandmother, I can ever do this every single day. I have my days of laziness you know, days on which no amount of filth can get me to budge from a book or my computer, days on which, two slices of bread and a fried egg are as artistic as I can get. Also, I have days when these chores seem like the useless drudgeries of life, diverting one away from one’s main purpose and occupation.

So, how did she do it, I still wonder? How did my grandma do it for so many years, never once, faltering, never once complaining? I doubt I’ll ever know, or feel the same way. However for the days that I do, I treasure my musings by the water closet.

The Monster with Many Heads

21st February, '09

The ‘Shri Ram Sena’, they call themselves. They believe they are preserving the core of Indian culture and values, which according to them are chiefly Hindu. They want to achieve this by physically assaulting anybody who tries to venture into the vast arena of any other culture. This could include one’s clothing, behaviour, choice of friends, choice of hang-outs, or even one’s participation in an occasion like Valentine’s Day. Their target has mostly been women so far. And these remain the facts of the matter.

This makes me think about a few things.

Firstly, the matter of culture. Often people refer to it as something stagnant sitting in the corner of the room that one can decide to grab and instil into one’s lifestyle any time they choose. Can culture be as forced as that? My grandmother often told me stories about our mythology, our festivals and our traditions. She sang me songs and cooked me food that had come down to her through generations before her. She shook her head when she saw me in a pair of pants. She hated it when I would cut my hair. Yet at the end of the day, she let change into her house, albeit through the back door. And all of that today is my culture- the stories, the songs, the recipes, the traditions, but also the jeans and the short hair. That’s what culture seems like to me- something that’s an accumulation, a transformation, an amalgamation; something that just lets life run its course.

So, what’s all this uproar about Western culture invading Indian culture, I ask? Every Indian today is mixed-up, desperately trying to strike a balance between what is essentially Indian and what is Western; the former being what was passed down to him as culture, and the latter, what he sees around him as culture. We want globalisation, but we also want tradition. We want technology but we also want the old ways. It is a constant war, of choices, of ideals, of outlooks and as a result, of lifestyles. All one can do is to be Indian in one instant and transform into a non-Indian in the next. It’s an impossible choice to make. The only way is to just be.

Secondly, the matter of Indian culture being essentially Hindu. India has long been the country of diverse faiths and religious ideals. You have all heard the rest of the argument, about equality, about secularity, about democracy- big words thrown around to give weight to a discussion. But these words actually form the core of each of our lifestyles. For example, Hyderabad would not be Hyderabad without its Biryani and its Charminar, the Shalwar Kameez is an integral part of Indian clothing and English is as important an Indian language today, as any other. Indian food, Indian clothing, Indian architecture, Indian languages, Indian traditions, these are all a concoction of all the different religions of India. Culture is very often an offshoot of religious beliefs and so Indian culture belongs to all the religions which have resided in India. It is organisations like Shri Ram Sena which try and divide us Indians in the name of religion to feed their vested interests. They use religion and the name of God to push themselves ahead politically. Their methods are devoid of any principles or values. All that dwells there is a hunger for power.

Finally, the issue of the female gender always having to carry the gargantuan weight of terms like culture, heritage, tradition (I am not even going to begin with terms like chastity and purity); another issue that has been beaten to the ground by feminists before, but I must have my say. It has always been very convenient for men to throw this load upon our shoulders and carry on with their lives as they please. They wear, speak and eat change as suits their convenience but cannot tolerate it when change invades our female lives. Very often it is a matter of convenience, but it could also be a matter of choice and of one’s identity. I feel like wearing a bindi and flowers in my hair, but only once in a while, when I’m in a mood for it; just like he chooses to wear his Kurta-pujama on occasion. And these are just the trivial choices, I'm talking about. So, why should my choices and moods be restricted more under the name of culture? Many Indian men today understand and respect this choice, but there are still a few who under the pretext of being the saviours of Indian culture (like the ones belonging to Shri Ram Sena who went around brutally beating up girls standing near or sitting inside pubs)try to dictate women's lives.

Shri Ram Sena, what are they trying to do? Make time go backwards, reverse 'change' as a phenomenon, restrict individuals' choices, feed religious hatred into our minds; I don’t see anything positive in what they are trying to do. They are walking the exact same path as the 'Taliban'. There is an irony in that comparison; two severely religious groups, fighting against each other, but their tenets and the resultant actions are the same; two religious groups unleashing intolerance and control over their people in the name of religion. Like I said earlier, all it is, is a fight for power and nothing else. Hinduism seems to have finally made its way under the label of 'fundamentalism' thanks to cults like the Shri Ram Sena. It hounds us all, this monster with many heads.

Barely Any Daylight

(August '05)

There’s barely any daylight but the rumble in my stomach urges me to get up from this hard floor which I have called my bed for several years now. I splash some cold water on my face and it’s a nice feeling except for the few cuts from last night, which sting a bit. I hear my anklets jingle on the street as I make my way to the various houses where I wash, clean, sweep, and swab everyday. I swing open the gates of the first house, and try to make my way past the lawn quietly, so I don’t catch the attention of the bearded man there, the master of the house, watering one corner of the lawn. Just as I thought I’d make it into the house surreptitiously, he turns, and taking all the time in the world, he looks me up and down, and smiles one of his oily, filthy smiles. I sigh as I realize that the mistress did not come back home last night, again.
I enter the house in haste, and my eyes begin to take on a life of their own. They dart quickly from one table to another, past the tea table, the refrigerator, the little space in front of the book shelf and finally they rest upon the air cooler. I quickly walk towards it and pocket the shiny coins that my eyes just spotted, into my bodice. I smile my first smile of the day and even as I’m savoring the moment I feel a hot, prickly, oily breath on the back of my neck.


There’s barely any daylight but this urge to puke makes me rush up from the floor and run a few steps… just so I won’t have to lay down, back into the puke again. I see my daughter leave the house, the sound of her anklets fading into the distance as she walks down the street. I try not to picture her face but it keeps coming back to my mind. Last night was like any other night; I came back exhausted after a long day of labour, and asked her for the change she pinches everyday from the houses she works at. Push came to shove and before I knew it I was reaching into her bodice to grab those shiny coins, and she was trying to stop her tears from mixing with the blood on her face. But soon I had left all this behind and was in a world of my own, a world where no pain existed, where no tears existed, and most of all no hunger existed.
But there are many hours now before I can break my manacles and reach out for that place. For now I have to carry on to work. I trudge along the dusty road until I see the tall building which my sweat has helped erect. Even as I enter, the familiar smells of cement, and concrete hit me in the face… and without being able to help it I burst out into a fit of cough. I have been at work many hours now and I see the contractor walk lazily into the site. I watch with envy as he settles down in his chair and calls one of the labourer women to go bring him a cool drink from the shop opposite. I walk on past him but a surge of cough takes over my breath. He spots me putting down my cement bag for a few seconds, and I know that I have lost a considerable amount from my day’s wage, to that look on his face. I carry on working, like nothing happened.


There’s barely any daylight, and I’m lying alone on my bed still dealing with the fact that my wife didn’t come home last night. This is not the first morning that has begun this way. And yet the pain doesn’t seem to go away or even reduce. I glimpse into the mirror and all I can see is the scar on my face, the extra pounds around my stomach; an ugly, unwanted man looking at himself. It’s horrible to have to make the first tea of the day yourself, all the time aware that you’ll have to drink it standing alone in the kitchen. The lawn needs some watering, so I pull out the pipe and begin with one corner. The gush of the water is soothing, and I am beginning to feel better. Suddenly, the sound I have been waiting to hear for the past half hour catches my ears… a pair of anklets trying desperately not to make themselves heard. I turn and smile my best smile hoping it will quell her fears. The swiftness with which she enters the house makes me want to throw the pipe away right there and go after her… but I have always known myself to be a responsible man.
When I am finished with her and she gets back to doing her house work, this feeling of filth slowly comes creeping into me. And before I know it I have this uncontrollable urge to have a shower. I can smell her sweaty, unwashed smell all over my body and it’s making me sick. The room also seems to float in her stench, and everywhere I walk it follows me making me feel soiled and impure. By the time I walk out of the bathroom, my impurity has all been scrubbed away and she’s gone. I’m glad I don’t have to see her filthy face until tomorrow morning.
A few hours later, I walk into the construction site, and notice how lax the atmosphere is. These labourers rely completely on our kind-heartedness for their daily bread. Someone has to be made an example of, I think to myself; but first I need something cool to drink. Soon, I’ve sent someone to bring one. What cools me more than the thought of a cool drink is watching this labourer woman walking away with the money for a cool drink in her hand, a sway in her hips, a bounce in her step, and many secrets tucked away carefully inside her clothes. Of course, there will be many opportunities to delve into those later during the day. Even as I watch her dance into the distance, a hard, sandpaper cough sounds nearby, and I dart my eyes to look there. He’s set his cement bag down, and is making it seem like he’s being paid only to cough. I gaze at him and know that I have found my example.

I am a slave

(August '08)

Slavery in its worst form is the harvesting of human minds that is done across nations, with no credit given to the human himself. The phenomenon of the First World Developed Countries stripping the Third World countries, the Developing Countries, for their resources is not new to anyone. While, earlier it was mainly resources of the earth, now it is also resources of the human body and intellect. As if kidneys, hearts and later even wombs were not enough, now it has come to the human mind.

The intellect is now a resource and its harvest is now a new form of slavery. An idea, the faculties of the mind, even a way of thinking can be carried across continents, thanks to technology. A barter is made- my idea for your money, my labour for your development, and in this way, the developed become more developed and the developing stay developing.

This is still acceptable, digestible as long as the idea has a face, an identity that can be appreciated, and recognized for its worth. But millions of workers in the BPOs of India are paid for their ready problem-solving skills, for their expertise, to assist a 'white' living across the globe. Their accents are altered, their manners polished, their names changed, their Indian-ness removed, until they can be a virtual foreigner, ready to suit the foreigner's expectations. The incentive of leading comfortable lives with the easy money they make is given to them to willingly forget that they are themselves, for a few hours each day.

While slaves of the past slaved to survive, the slaves of today are addicted to this new drug called 'luxury'.

Purpose

(March '08)

''Like a bomb it sits, waiting inside me; waiting, festering, twisting and turning, revising, absorbing and discarding, it waits tick-tock, tick-tock, waiting to explode.
I squirm in uneasiness, trying hard to crystallize my thoughts, make them productive, trying hard to convert some flakes of rationality and creativity into something solid, tangible.
I feel like a suicide-bomber, just waiting for the right instant; Reckless in all my unsurity of life and so, so calm in my surety of death and with it immortality.''

This feeling was not new to her. It came off and on, like the ripples in a pond when someone carelessly tossed a stone within. It hit her because of the averageness of life around her and very often her own too. It caused a discomfort that was not erasable by action or time; as it had entered her, so it would have to leave, of its own accord.
She had done all she could to make life move ahead. Now she waited, for what, even she didn't know. She just trusted it would come and waited. Life was on hold.