Passive Smoker.

The metallic tang of smoke washes over me; and I start coughing uncontrollably

you take a deep drag and exhale

I voice my protests, yet you sit there with a cigarette aloft in your hand

ignoring me; as always...

letting the fumes billow around me; as always...

You've turned me into a passive smoker

A being, polluted by your toxic fumes

in desperate need of some cleansing.

It's always been this way

You rage and burn on and on

while I just stand there

stoically absorbing the after effects

that coat my insides with black soot.

I've even given up protesting

'coz you still won't put down that cigarette

and spray some air freshener.

A thick greasy layer of soot builds up in my lungs

which threatens to kill me someday.

It's not me;

but you, who the smoke should ideally be ravaging.

You accidentally drop that cigarette which starts a fire

that rages more and more

and starts consuming everything

till you point an accusing finger at me

because I allegedly distracted you and made you drop your cigarette.

You've dropped many things like this

and pointed many fingers at me

and I'm still standing there

stoically absorbing the fumes

which coat my insides with black soot.

You've turned me into a passive smoker

who's gradually metamorphosing...

Turning into a likeness of that very cigarette you hold aloft so proudly;

burning, burning bright red for a while

emitting snaking tendrils of acrid smoke;

that coat some one else's insides with black soot...

 and then crumbling to the ground like dust.

I want some fresh jasmine to clear the murky air

and steady my smoke-filled mind

but then as always,

you will reach for your lighter

and the fumes will obliterate the aroma of jasmine

polluting everything once again.

Apparition.

Into an ancient, dilapidated stone temple, glowing in the moonlight, illuminated only by the flame of a single oil lamp burning in the sanctum sanctorum, she set foot. She could easily pass off for an eerie creature of the night, swathed in a white sari, long black hair tangled like a thunderstorm and the vermillion on her forehead smudged.

She was already in a daze, not caring that the sharp stones were grazing her feet or that she could barely make out anything in the dim light. Repeatedly sounding the bell at the entrance, she hurtled into the main hall and landed heavily on her knees in front of the sanctum sanctorum.

The dim light momentarily illuminated her lovely features, suggesting that she belonged to nobility. Happiness etched on her face, she reverently took in the beautiful idols, clad in blue silk and bedecked with gold ornaments from head to toe. Within minutes, the strumming of an iktara and the persistent tinkle of anklets filled the lonely temple. She began to sing sonorously:

"I have found the love of my Lord!"

"Meera's Lord is Krishna!"

"My Lord will come to me someday!"

The intensity of her song and the strumming gradually increased as her anklets tinkled more and more. She danced with carefree abandon, with the passion of a woman who was clearly deeply in love.  The edge of her sari fell from her head as she whirled round and round in circles till everything else seemed like a blur to her. She danced and sung on and on. Blood spots from her grazed feet dotted the stone floor and sweat streamed down her temples. She had not a care in the world.

She flopped down on the floor, breathing heavily, hair and clothes thoroughly dishevelled and throat parched. She looked forward to this every night, to be one with her Lord. It gave her inner peace; and a chance to attain something that Life never gave her, which she did not get even in Death.

Laboriously getting up after a while, she lunged for the nearest pillar to steady herself and keep her balance. The flame still burned bright in the sanctum sanctorum as she prostrated in front of the idols and reapplied her vermillion.

She was a widow to the world, but in her mind, she was the Lord's. His wife, who worshipped him day in and day out in the temples of Rajputana. An ascetic to the common people, who considered her an incarnation of Radha, her beloved Lord's consort.

She slowly made her way to the entrance of the temple, but not before looking back and bidding a tearful goodbye to the idols.

Only the rustling of cloth could now be heard, as the sound gradually faded away into the dark night, not indicating in the slightest that someone had been in the temple a little while ago.........

_________________

The locals called the temple "Baawli-Jogan-Ka-Mandir", Temple Of The Mad Ascetic. It was rumored that the strumming of an iktara and the sound of ghunghroos could be heard every night from the inner chamber. And it wasnt just any rumour. A priest from a nearby village had confirmed it by actually keeping vigil outside one night to make sure that the sounds could be heard. According to him, a female voice was heard singing the bhajans of Meerabai, the poet-saint and dancing to them too.

The locals were very wary of these incidents. Children had been instructed not to play in the vicinity of the temple. The village women frequented another Krishna temple, ten miles away.

Baawli-Jogan-Ka-Mandir, which had been possessed by some evil spirit, they said. Tantriks had been summoned to exorcise the temple, but to no avail. The eerie sounds still kept on coming.

Meera watches over the village. She is grateful to her Lord for giving her a safe haven even after Death, where she can worship him to her heart's content.

And sometimes, an occasional cry rings out at night:

"Thank you Lord, for safely taking me through the turbulent waters of Life!"

House By The Sea

Today, I'll drift asleep to the reassuring ebb and flow of the waves, for the last time ever in my life; in the house I call my second home.

It stands like a silent sentinel over the sea as it always has since a long, long time. It wasn't a house earlier, but a sprawling bungalow with coconut trees in the courtyard; and sand coming right upto the doorstep.

Except that now, the salty ocean air will need to get used to blowing through a house with unknown people.

I feel like a part of my childhood's being plucked out from me. I was nursed back to health by my doting grandmother during the first few months of my life, which I spent in the house by the sea. My first trip to the beach and zoo, my first omelette, my first crochet stitch, my first ghost story, my first rakhi ceremony, my first taste of spaghetti....where have all these memories disappeared?

The first time I, as a precocious seven year-old, lay in the rain-soaked grass in the lawns and stared up at the night sky, I still remember how happy I felt. Giggling and laughing away, me and my "building friends" had not a care in the world that day. Whenever I looked out at the sea and the flashing lights on the horizon,  an all-pervading sense of peace would take over me, something that I never ever felt before.

My favourite pastime was rummaging in the old cupboards that housed articles from my mother's childhood; and spending hours looking at faded black and white photos. (It's actually quite fun, seeing all your relatives in pint-sized versions and then trying to identify them). I really want to go back into the past, to the old bungalow and see for myself how beautiful it must have been.

The house itself was so peaceful, that all my worries would disappear whenever I closed my eyes and stood at the balcony, letting the wind blow over my face and through my hair. It's hard to imagine not being able to go there anymore.

I miss all the happy times I had there. Like old wallpaper loosening at the corners, the memories are slowly coming apart.

Nearly everyone on my mother's side of the family is connected to it. They still remember the old swing sets and the prawn pulao and excitedly reminisce about their childhood. Numerous animals have roamed the corridors of this place since as long as I can remember. Will a homeless dog be welcomed home with the same love and affection now? I hope for the best.

I'm very, very sad that it's not going to be ours anymore. Especially when nearly half my childhood has been spent there.

Imagine not being able to stand at the balcony and feel the wind in your hair anymore. It's painful to think about looking up at it from the main road and decide you want to drop in, when a stab of painful realisation reminds you that you no longer have anyone there waiting to welcome you in.

House No. C-15; the House by the Sea. I'm going to miss it a lot.