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What Was She Thinking ?

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Photo Credits : Orijit Sen (#OrijitSen) #NotInMyName #JusticeforAsifa #ShametheRapists What was she thinking when those men  snatched her off the field, she was looking for her ponies at dusk, just like every other day! What was she thinking just before they roughed her up,  muffled her muting her cries, taking her away to the dark, dingy room! Did she think it was a prank,  that someone was only playing a rough game of hide and seek? What was she thinking when those men touched her and hurt her in all terrible ways,  in places that Amma always said are to be secret and covered? ‘Why were these men not covering her up?’ ‘What would Amma say?’ ‘Where was she?’  ‘Would she be angry if she found her like this?’  ‘But where was Amma ?’ What was she thinking when those men used violent force and pushed their heavy, angry bodies on top of her, thrashing her, hurting her? What was she thinking when their faces kept changing, When i...
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Because the Mountain Knows

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{With mighty Kili watching over. (Pic courtesy: Rajesh Ramakrishnan)} Because the Mountain knows. HE knew the moment I set foot on him,  there is little chance of straying too far away;  certainly not for very long. Because the Mountain knows. HE knew, while stripping me off a lot,  most of all, rearranging my sense of 'I';  the sense toggled around on its axis;  a reframing of 'what makes  me' and 'what I possibly can be'. Because the Mountain knows. His magnificence is in his benevolence,  the benevolence of the 'knowing' he imparts. The hard and the soft, coexisting. The certain invincibility of purpose and possibilities,  together and simultaneously.  The certain timelessness within a finite moment:  the moment of my physical body  striving against the odds,  to reach the summit;  and the soulful timelessness of reaching the peak. Because the mountain knows. Because that must be what the m...
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About Missing and Owning : While you have been away, Baba.

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When I say I don't miss you, or that I've got used to the void of your absence,  I lie, because I do miss you a lot, too much on some days. I miss you and me and the certain kind of us we were,  together and apart. I miss a lot of those small things more than the big, noisy, visible ones, like the whiff of debate and disagreement arriving ahead of our chats,  many such after the morning newspaper or the evening news ritual; Or that lull throbbing with hope of hearing your firm, small voice  across the phone-line,  as Ma got you on the  line to talk, during my daily catch-ups,  imagining the peculiar shuffle of you feet,  to rise from your dear armchair,  as you got to the phone, gauging, all the while, the degenerative degree of your health since the last call.   I never did tell anyone though what your weak, feeble voice of errant days did for me. Or the sound of silence that lurked around and betwe...
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