The Missing Girl Child

I still remember the joy my sister brought to our household, my sister would be my maternal aunt’s daughter, but she is not my cousin but my very sister itself. I have always wanted a sister, ever since I can remember. I always wish I had an elder sister who would scold me and whom I could fight with and I wish I had a younger sister whom I could cajole and spoil. I know these dreams are meant to remain unfulfilled, there is only so much one can do, no replacement would ever be real thing would it? Then what I can do is a have a daughter whom I can spoil, with whom I can fight and whom I can scold. Someone that I can say is truly mine and who will always be daddy’s best girl.

When I saw the woman in this video, who has murdered with her bare hands her several children on the eve of their birth, my heart was shaken. There was not a speck of remorse in her words, not a moment of self-doubt about her actions only the cold dignity of doing what she thought was right. What would have turned her into this ominous creature that stands defiantly in the face of modern society, a scar upon the face of civilization? To imagine those bleak hands wound around the neck of her own child who is still covered in blood and matter. The suppressed cries of the new born girl escaping from the otherwise strangled throat. The new born eyes vaguely making out the devil that her own mother has turned out to be, helpless and bewildered. For what has she done wrong to live the life of a may fly, to come and go and be forgotten in a heap of soil by the solitary fields.

Is being born a girl a crime, a mishap or one of the great misfortunes of the 21^st century? Why does a moment that would otherwise be a celebration of life turn into persistent gloom and prolonged misfortune? These are questions in the face of which the modern society shudders and lowers its head in shame. The so called pantheons of culture that we ourselves proclaim to be, has wittingly or unwittingly brought upon the women great misfortune and has subjected them to what can be called nothing other than slavery.

They can no longer legally find if the child is a girl before being born and hence they can’t kill her before she is even born so they lurk around till the moment of birth to don the black cloak of doom and kill there very daughters in the most cruel of ways imaginable. Many a visions of heal are much less revolting and terrifying than the sight of father bashing his own daughter to death under the silence of her mother. Where happens in utopia this gruesome scene.

Every child has the right to be born and every child irrespective of gender be allowed the world. I have longed for a daughter all my life and when at the moment it happened to be a boy, would I kill him? Would I even think about harming him? Even in the face of my many a dreams being shattered would I for one moment think that this innocent life in my hands deserves not to live? How could I even think that, for in my hand lies the miracle of life? All I could ever do is to love him and all I could ever think is to be his hero. Come what may be to kill a child is revolting and killing on the basis of its gender may very well be like buying a first class non-refundable ticket to the bottom hell.

We have the blunder of many a millennia to correct before us, we have to rectify the mistakes of several hundred generations which has caused, encouraged and supported this injustice. We have to with great patience and utmost dedication purify the society of its evils that has poisoned its very fabric. How this can be done is not for me to say for that we are well aware of. What we must ask ourselves is that whether we want it done? Whether the urgency is felt in our hearts and if so then the way is but a matter of taking.

This entry is a part of Franklin Templeton - The Idea Caravan

Romi and Gang by Tushar Raheja

“The quintessential Indian story of a quintessential small town Indian teen.”

In India where cricket is a many a times much more than just a sport, it becomes a religion. Though this is a cliché so seldom used the truth is not far from it. Romi is a small town Indian boy, in love with cricket and religious in worship of his god ‘Sachin Tendulkar’, living in a room filled with the legends of the game and a ball hanging from the ceiling. His obsession with cricket is among the many things that makes him not so unique in the nation. He and his gang of similar minded friends who ballet over the coveted pitches in the large maidans are what can be claimed a familiar sighting almost everywhere in India.

The many mischiefs and the petty rivalries, the apprehension with girls and the secret infatuations are something every Indian boy would know all too well.  The technicalities of this story and the various aspects of cricket, though it gives the story authenticity is not what makes it a great story but the simple things that every one of us can relate to is what makes it possible for us.

The author, Mr. Raheja has attempted to recreate the life of a quintessential kid and his life, his emotions, the complexities and challenges of life faced by them with substantial success. The narrative is fluid as it travels from one encounter to another. The way the friendships are build and fostered and the many lessons of life that we learn as we walk alongside Romi and his gang of friends as they chase down their dreams on and off the pitch is mesmerizing.

With such a seemingly simple story the author attempts to drive home many great virtues that we now find only in the sleepy town and fosters the idea that winning is not everything. He shows us through Romi and his life that there are something more important that winning and that there is always a factor of luck involved in it. He makes one realize that certain failures in life are not really failures and that they most certainly does not mean that we are not good enough but on the contrary that we are good enough

Romi is what every one of us has been, or is still is. The various images that the author draws up are things we ourselves have lived through in our childhood days. Either we are Romi or one among his gang or we know Romi or one among his gang.  Part of Tushar Raheja’s success lays in the fact that the story is so close to most us on a personal basis and that one can easily relate to the many characters in the story. He has done away with needless descriptions and literary opulence in exchange for simple to read story that one can take with him. This after all is a quintessential Indian story of a quintessential small town Indian teen.

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Oh! My Lovely Lass

Oh! My lovely lass, why don’t come sit by my side and lay your head upon my lap. Let me rock you to sleep and ever so slowly to the world of a million dreams. Why don’t you tell me your weary day and I promise thee that I shall listen with all my heart. Of all the people in this world so wide, I for one know that there are times when you look not for advice and opinion but an understanding shoulder to rest your heavy head.

It may not be always that I am the ideal husband, but for the wonderful wife that you are, I sure will work my way up there. For a lass so lovely like you deserve but the very best and the best alone shall suffice.

Oh my Lovely lass, tell me of all the vistas that you have seen, the people you met and the life you experienced. Let us be that teens again, who sat on a mossy rock by the ravishing sea and talked of all the wonders under the sun, the moon and the million stars. Let me bet that guys who used to listen to your ever heart beat and who reveled in the rhyme of your breath. I confess to the time that was once, when my very existence clang onto thine like a drowning man to straw.

Oh my love, tell me your tale and do fill those many a blank pages that I in my mindless slumber missed, I promise thee to miss not another page of our wonderful saga of love, I will with religious adherence etch every word of our life to be in the beautiful script that ought to be. Oh my love this I promise.

Oh my dear, do come and sit by my side, lay you dainty head on my lap, let me cajole you, let me relish you, Oh my love be here with me as if you knew that I belonged to thee.

Oh my love, look at me like you used to look, your eyes so moist and dreamy. Let me behold the love, the love know has not died, not yet.

The Plucking of the Daffodil

There was once a little daffodil,

Leaving beneath the great oak tree,

Who was also her dear uncle Bill,

Under his shade she dreamt a life free

Of chasing her dreams, ever so many.

Under the million stars, her dreams she kindled,

Of the faraway lands and knights in shining armor,

There she lay awake, night after night so splendid.

She had a smile to stop a king and humour,

A pretty face too to match.

Every night she dreamt of many a great things,

Of singing to the birds in early mountain dawn,

Of kissing the queen and of donning her mighty crown,

Of touching a prince and forever be in him gone,

But alas that was not so to be.

One fateful day came the great merchant doom,

He asked Uncle Bill so artfully for his dear little niece,

Many a great things awaits he said, not a drop of gloom,

For this beautiful daffodil would make a garland for ladies fair and nice,

Promised him of a place so fair, and all that’s good for his little niece.

The lovely little daffodil wept and wept and wept all right,

“I am so young, yet so tender for my dreams be forever crushed,

It is too early for me, to lose all of life from sight”

She pleaded and begged, but yet her opinion away was brushed,

Oh dear, Oh our poor little daffodil.

Her dear Uncle Bill did seldom put up a face so stern,

Pointed at his niece and said in a voice ever so hoarse.

“I wish only well, my dear little child, all I wish is you not burn

For you are to me precious as the short king’s mighty horse”

I wish only good and all the glittering glory to you.

I know of your dreams, so high and mighty,

Of wandering the worlds and of the royal garden,

But you are only a daffodil and take that not so lightly,

I am old and weak and with you future laden,

This is for you good my dear little one.”

On the day of the great plucking, came the merchant doom,

She was plucked ceremoniously, our little miss daffodil,

No more a miss but ever so young and yet to bloom,

She cried so hard that night and lost was her dreams and will,

Only to wither away in the dark shadows of an alley way back.

What I Have

What I have is just a cup of steaming tea, a pen in my hands, a book lying by my side and the evening wind on my face. From where I sit, I can see the horizon, the slow moving clouds and the promise of rain. U feel the delicate caress of the southern wind and the slow murmur of the trusting leaves. I can hear the distant chatter of ...

Look, there is a fly ...

Shoo... Get out of my tea ...

Where we we? Yes.

The distant chatter of the nesting birds and the cracking of the dry leaf as he is dragged across the roof. I can feel at the moment my pen slowly scratching the paper.

What do I have?

At the moment I have the little things, At this moment I know everything is perfect, Everyone I know is happy and I can imagine it.

I can see my family celebrating my brother getting into college, I can see my girlfriend reading my message and I can feel in my heart the smile that spreads across her face as she reads it. I can see two my best friends enjoying each other company, joking and laughing along as they walk the boulevard, probably gossiping about me, about something I did or said. I hope they are gossiping about me. I can see the home brimming in the eyes of a friend who has just stepped down into a whole new place and an whole new life.I can see the wonder in a friend's eyes as she watches the rain pour down, perched high up in her cosy nest. 

What do I have now?

 I have the little things, the little things that truly matters.