I WAS BORN.

Shackled to chains, some imaginary, some real, some imposed and some conditioned...I lived in my own little world.

Dreaming and never really trying. Content and not really very happy yet, believing so. Acknowledging the discontent within, observing the chains tightening to the point of suffocation. 

Seeing the birds flying in the wide and open sky....wanting to be one...holding myself back, unexplained fear of what lay beyond.

Every thing happens when the time is just right.
And the Universe conspired - a gust of wind...strong enough to blow away all that confined me. And, I was born.

THE OLD-WELL-WORN-INVISIBLE-FELT-HAT.

 

I do feel a bit left out when I say I don't have or I don't wear many hats as many of my women friends do. 

And, then when I think of it, I do have one...well, two to be precise.

The first one is an old, worn,(well worn in fact) felt hat that has been passed on to me by the generations of women before me in my family. Amazingly, it fit every one just fine. And, most of the time it is kept hidden or made invisible. Every woman is proud to be wearing it.

Role-playing and multitasking may not be the prerogative of women...but, we are more efficient, more adept than our male counterpart.

The way we women blend into the various roles, I would like to say we are more like 'Chameleons'...blending with the environment and never giving ourselves away.

Okay, let me get back to the well-worn-invisible-felt-hat. Whenever, I feel I have achieved something, big or small...even teeny weeny small, I add a feather to my hat! And, I feel jolly good about it. This is how I saw my mom, my granny and my great granny. They never made any hue or cry about it...just a look at their beaming face and the feather on the hat....the whole world (household, because it was their world) would know! Hey, let me tell you this...the passing on of this old-well-worn-felt-hats is a tradition followed in every family, passed on from mothers to daughters. Such are her pleasures.

Now, for the second hat I possess. A magician's hat...yes, the very black one.

 

I put my hand into it and pull out some alphabets. They hover above and around me. I catch them one by one, string them into words, weave them to phrases and sentences, magically transforming them to a poetry or a prose! Voila!

Then, some times, I take out 'a mood' from the hat. I am a fussy cook. This 'mood' magically turns me into the 'cooking mode' and I feed a very happy family.

And, then there are times when I take out my memories - good, bad, happy, sad, some painful and some totally hilarious...the whole concoction of them. Helps me to be grounded.

It takes some balls ( pun intended) everyday, from the magical hat to juggle my chores.   

I can go on and on with the things I can do with my magical hat....the best one - I take out my dreams and lay them all before me. I stuff back the ones I have achieved, the others I linger on....reminding myself that I have more feathers to add to my old-well-worn-invisible-felt-hat.  

Written for The Writers' Post... .Theme Thursday. 

     

TWIST.

                                                                Stairs
                                        Steep, high,
                        Ascending, winding, descending
                          Steps, escalate, climb, down,
                           Running, treading, leading, 
                                     Circular, spiral,
                                         Stairwell.  

For- Poetry Prompt 5 - Playing with Words
        Poetry form - Diamante.  
 

PAUSE, SEE, SAVOUR.

From my window, I see
Colorful splash
Across the sky
The hues, red and pink
Merging
Reminds the blush
Of a girl...shy
A fine evening
So mesmerizing
When the heart 
Wants to sing.
 *********
I smell them
Before I feel
I listen to their
Rhythmic fall on
The leaves of the trees tall
I dance drenched
In the damp wet winds
That the monsoon brings
They nip and I tuck...
 Nature is never boring.      

For - dVerse Poets Pub - InterActions 
         The words I got were - windows, trees, to sing, dance, to listen, mesmerizing, tall, colorful, fine and monsoon.
 

CLOSED DOOR/S

 

"Curiosity killed the cat." Well, I am not a Cat. Unless I am not curious enough, how will I know what lies beyond?

 

Should I 'push' myself harder? Should I 'pull' myself back? Should I wait a bit more till I am sure?

There is a whole new world out there to be explored and experienced.

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”― Helen Keller

The Universe always opens doors, only if you open your heart.

 

BRAVEHEART

          This post was lying in my draft folder for more than a year now.  May be today is the right time to post this. When the whole world is talking about International Woman's Day, Woman's rights and empowerment I choose to write about a man who respected woman, a man who lived by his principles.             

The year was 1944. World War II was going on and there were foreign troops in India-the allies of the British.

It was a lazy Sunday evening in Madras. Shankari was standing by the compound of her house. There were about 6-7 houses inside that compound. Three young Australian soldiers were passing by when they saw her standing alone. Shankari was a young housewife and quiet beautiful. The soldiers approached her, thinking she was 'available.' As they neared her, she sensed their intention by the smirk on their faces. One of them almost grabbed her hand. She screamed and ran inside and got inside the first house in the 
compound.

Mr.Kulkarni stayed in that house with his two kids.  Seeing her in a state of fear and panic, he rushed out to see what the problem was all about. Towering before him were three Aussie soldiers. In all cockiness they told him to send Shankari with them.  Mr.Kulkarni  told them calmly yet firmly that she was a respectable lady from a respectable family and they should leave her alone. They could have easily overpowered him. But, something in his stance told them to back off. To cut the long story short, he saved Shankari from the soldiers.

There are people in the society who in situations like these, walk away from the scene thinking- unless it is not happening to them,they should not bother!

Then, there are also people in the society who do not hesitate to do the right thing at the right time. THEY ARE OUR EVERYDAY UNSUNG HEROES, like Mr.Kulkarni.

My father told me this story after my grand dad passed away. Yes, Mr. Kulkarni was none other than my grand father.
My grandpa became a widower at the age of 33, He had two kids...dad and my aunt. He vowed never to remarry for the sake of his kids, though there was immense pressure from his family.

I never did get to know my grandpa very well as he spent most of his time in a ashram in Pondicherry. He was detached that way. 
Today, when I see my dad bonding with my children, I do regret for not knowing my grandpa well enough. But, I do hope that we will carry on his braveheart legacy.

CHECK MATE.

 

All she did was believe,

And he.... Betrayed.

This is a Rhopalic Verse is a tool where each word of a line adds a syllable to the word before.  1-2-3-4-5 is the climbing sequence for each of these lines. Combined together, these two lines create a very short poem. Courtesy- 

Poetical Psyche.

For - dVerse Poets - Short Verses 

Mag 158 

LASTING MEMORIES.

   

Participating in the "100 words on Sautday" hosted by Corinne at - Everyday Gyaan.
She has prompted us to write about our "Lasting Memory/ies."
  
Moments make memories and memories make us.

First impressions create lasting impression either good or bad.

The sights, the smells, the tastes, the songs, the music or the colors, remind us of people, places and incidents.

My first day of high school, the day I learnt to balance the bicycle, the day I was elected to the student council, my first love, my first date, my wedding, the day I learnt I was pregnant …the the moment I held my baby in my arms marveling at our creation. Every milestone my kids reached…the journey and the way I have evolved.

THE RITUAL.

This is my entry for the IFW, Exercise for Edition - 5.
The plot was given by Mr. Arvind Passey.
You can ready my entry here.

It is Ashtami again. The day he eagerly waits for, the day of the pooja, the day the Goddess speaks to him, the day he has to offer a ‘bali’ to her. He always appeases his Amma…the omnipresent one. It is time to get Bhairavi ready for the big night.

He personally chooses her saree, a light saffron georgette saree with a dark green border…matching blouse, bangles, anklets, the red bindi that will adorn her forehead and the jumkas for the ears. Perfect. Bhairavi always looks divine in a saree…the soft fabric draping her body accentuating her curves. Her long plait adorned with jasmine flowers, swaying gently on her hips as she walks…. was enough to make any man go weak in his knees.

First, the ritualistic bath. Bhairavi would first apply a paste of sandalwood and turmeric all over her body. Every Ashtami he himself would make the sandalwood paste by rubbing the sandal wood piece against the flat stone grind. He would then mix the paste with freshly ground turmeric powder. Bhairavi, will then bathe with milk and rose water. Then, draping herself in a white wet saree, she will then perform the pooja to Amma. The smell of incense, camphor and fresh flowers would fill the house. Conch shells would be blown and Aarti performed to end the pooja. By 11 pm she will be out on the streets in search the ‘bali.’


                                        ***************

 Byra made his way towards the dilapidated building, which was once a garment factory. It is his treasure trove with all the abandoned machinery, furniture and fixtures, which he regularly steals and sells. This building also serves as a haven for his thrysts with ladies.

He makes his way to the rear of the building. There’s a broken window through which he has the access to get inside. He then feels the urgent need to relieve himself. He walks to the farthest corner of the compound where there are a cluster of trees and wild shrubs. There are debris strewn around and the vacant space is filthy. He sees some hawks circling above the trees. He can hear the dogs’ whining. Byra collects a stone and throws it in the direction of the trees. The dogs bark and scatter. He collects some more stones and chases off the dogs. He walks towards the trees, pulls down his pants and squats on the ground. He casually looks up as he hears a hawk swoop down. He falls back on his bare ass with a muted shriek. And, then yells in pain as small stones pricks his bare bottom. He wets himself, rolls to one side and vomits. The waves of nausea grip him. He is sweating profusely. He gathers his wit, stands up, pulls up his pants and runs for his life. He runs towards his chawl in search of a telephone booth. He locates one and calls up the police.

                                     ***************

 Inspector Chengappa leaned to one side on his seat and farted loudly. Head Constable Anjaneya stifled a laugh and disguised it as a coughing fit. Chengappa pretended not to notice. He was busy playing Angry Birds on his mobile.

Chengappa held the record for solving the most number of murder cases in the South Bangalore Circle. He had served 28 years in the police force and had more enemies within the force than outside it. It was his ‘kickass’ attitude that rubbed people the wrong way. He often ‘ forgot to follow orders’ or did not care to follow the rules. He had lost count the number of times he had been transferred. And, this was also the reason he never made past the rank of an Inspector.  He did not care anyway as he was few years short of retiring from the force. In spite, he still was respected for the natural instinct he had in solving cases.

Chengappa’s deputy Krishna enters his room and places a file in front of him. “Sir, the post mortem report.”

Chengappa rolls his eyes and quits the game. He studies the file. “The cause of death was asphyxiation by strangulation. A thin metal wire cut his right carotid artery cutting of blood supply to his brain…claw marks on the neck, indicating struggle by the victim. Semen sample…. he had sex before his death? That explains his nakedness when we found him. Krishna, has anyone come forward to claim his body?”

“No Sir, Raman was from Hassan and he was living alone in the chawl near the building where he was found. In fact, men of the chawl use that building for the purpose of their clandestine affairs because it is secluded and is not manned by a watchman. As you know, he had a tea and dinner stall, which he closed late in the night. Every one knew him formally. No one knew him personally nor does any one have his Hassan address. Nothing about his personal life is known.”

“The eye witness account? What was his name?” asks Chengappa.

“Byra. He said he had gone to that building around 1.30 – 2 am with the intent of stealing. He saw a jeep parked there. He turned back only to come back the next morning. It was red jeep. He could not make out the number plate in the dark. Sir, the forensic report says that a strand of hair about 10 inches long was found on the victim’s body. It has been sent for DNA analysis. The report will be available in 2 days.” says Krishna.

“How can we explain the way the body was found dangling from the tree, if the victim was with a female? She sure must have had a male accomplice. It takes a lot of strength to strangle a man, especially by a woman and hang it on the tree like the way it was. There should be at least two people involved. No leads other than this? Sure, is frustrating. Round up all the sex workers working in and around that chawl. Let us interview them,” says Chengappa.

                                     ***************

“Sir, the DNA report.” Krishna places the file in front of Chengappa. “By the way; the Hassan police traced Raman’s family Sir. His parents will come today to identify the body,” replies Krishna.

                                      ***************

One more week passes and there is no breakthrough in the case. Chengappa hates to close a case. He chides himself for any probability of overlooking some important facts or evidence he might have missed. He is pouring thorough the files when the phone rings. He answers it.

“Krishna, take out the jeep. There has been a homicide.”

Inside the jeep, he tells Krishna where to go. They exchange glances. The body has been found on a deserted road near the very building where Raman’s body was found 15 days before.

Upon reaching the place the first thing Chengappa notices the way the man is murdered. There is a stark resemblance the way the throat of the victim has been slit. This man is naked too.  While they had not been able to trace Raman’s clothes, they found clothes of this victim a few feet from where the body was dumped. They also found some tyre tracks. The same tyre tracks led to and from the abandoned garment factory.

“Krishna, find out who owns the factory? And, I know what they will find during the postmortem,” says Chengappa.
                                                                                                                                                                    
                            ***************

He sits brooding at home. “Amma is angry with me. She is not talking to me. Bhairavi must have done something wrong. I will atone her mistakes. I will get Bhairavi ready, just can’t sit around and wait for Ashtami.”
    
                         ***************

“The victim was Manjunath. He was 28 years old. He was not from this area. He was working at a Call Centre at Brigade Towers. He shared a room with his colleague in Jayanagar. Sir, he too had sex before being murdered. It is apparent that he was murdered elsewhere and was dumped here. Some jasmine flowers were found in his clothing. Nothing else. Seems like the victims are coupling with a ghost!” exclaimed Krishna.

 Later, at the police station, Krishna is reporting to Chengappa. “Sir, the factory was bought by Mallikarjuna Gowda just two months back. He might have as well got it for free as it was under litigation. He is from Kamakshipura but shifted to Banaswadi last month. He is the right hand man of Vittal Kamat, the MP. He has a legitimate real estate business to cover all his illegitimate land grabbing activities. He has a toddy business; he is an extortionist and has connections with the underworld. He had a couple of cases filed against him for extortion and land grabbing…all the cases were closed for the lack of evidence. He is a powerful guy no doubt there. He is unmarried. Lives in a sprawling bungalow. Has a driver cum bodyguard cum assistant who resembles a Sumo wrestler. There’s a lady, a caretaker, living with him in his bungalow.”

“Hmmm…details of his driver?” asks Chengappa.

“His name is Rudra. He has been with Mallikarjuna for years and is a loyal dog… unmarried, no family. Staying with his master. He has gone to jail once for fatally beating up a person. He was out of the jail within days. Case in now buried deep.”

“Dig deeper Krishna. The media is having a field day.  We may have a serial killer here,” says Chengappa.

                                    **************                                          

Bhairavi sees him before he sees her. He is standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus. He is tall and fair. He is well dressed. She stands a few yards away from him and starts humming a song. He does not even look at her. “Errr…. excuse me,” Bhairavi addresses the man.

He turns and sees her. “Has the Cantonment bus left?” she asks him.

“I don’t know. I have not been here for long,” he replies. She sighs heavily…heaving her bosom, making sure he sees that. He is a bit shy but he sure sneaks glances at her. She smiles shyly. His gaze rests a bit too longer on her curves and her soft lips. “It is quiet late. Can I drop you at Cant? I am going that way.” he asks her.

She smiles demurely. ‘All men are the same! Just the right moves and they fall hook line and sinker. I am going to have a good time. He will get a ride of his life,’ Bhairavi thinks. Aloud, “Is it fine? Hope I am not imposing,” she says.

“No, no. Please don’t think that way. You are alone and it is quiet late in the night. It is not safe for you to stand here alone. Actually, I am headed towards Malleshwaram. I will drop you first and then go. I would not mind the detour as long as I have you for my company. Hope it is fine?” he asks her.

She beams at him.
           
                                       *************               

DCP Ramachandra, ACP Suresh, Inspector Chengappa and Krishna are all seated on the podium addressing the Press Conference. It is Chengappa’s show all the way. The DCP and ACP are just the showpieces that are with him to show their solidarity.

Inspector Chengappa takes over -

“We made a couple of arrests late last night. Mallikarjuna Gowda and his driver Rudra have been arrested in connection with the recent murders that rocked and shocked the city over the past month.

Gowda, committed the murders in the guise of a woman. He called himself Bhairavi. And, believe me, he looked every bit of the part. I could have fallen for her myself.” Chengappa jokes with a straight face.

“Rudra was his accomplice. When we started checking the background of Gowda, we realized that there had been similar murders in the past in and around Kamakshipura, Vijayapura, Siddalghatta… the places where Gowda resided before. There was a pattern too to the murders. They were committed on the day of Ashtami.  Why? I will explain later. Gowda changed his residence every few years so as to not leave a trial.

Our forensic team found a woman’s hair on the body of the first victim, Raman. The DNA analysis said that it was a wig, which was synthetically made, customized in fact. That gave us a clue that the killer might be a transvestite or a eunuch. And, the killer seemed territorial. The abandoned factory held the clue.

We had Gowda’s house under surveillance. And thanks to Krishna, my trusted Deputy who posed as a probable victim, we were able to make the arrests.

The modus operandi behind these murders is that Gowda is mentally unstable. He is psychotic. Gowda lost his mother quiet early in his childhood. His father was the watchman in the garment factory that is now owned by Gowda himself. On weekends he would accompany his father to the factory. There his father, a fact that he did not reveal or confide with anyone, was sexually harassing him. It was a lady who was working at the factory who realized what was happening and adopted him much against the wishes of his father. There he saw her performing pooja to Goddess Durga, got influenced by the rituals she performed. He says he started hearing to the divine words of the Goddess.  The first command he received from ‘Amma’…his goddess was to offer his dad as ‘bali’ to her, so she would be pleased with him. We really do not know how many men he has killed as he started quiet young.  Any questions?
                               *****************

Ashtami - Eight day of Hindu Lunar calender
 Bali - Sacrifice.
Bindi - Traditionally a bright red colored dot adorning the forehead by woman in many parts of South East Asia.
  ...a picture of Jumkas.
Amma - Mother.
Durga - meaning the inaccessible or the invincible; a popular fierce form of Hindu Goddess.

6 WORD MEMOIR.

  
I am a part of this wonderful blogging group on Facebook, Blogplicity. 

We have started on a blog hop and I am the second in line, the first post was kick started yesterday by Corinne Rodrigues.
More about 6 word Memoirs here.



                                                 

 My 6 word Memoir - 
                                                    



Imperfect, yet in harmony with life.

I now pass on the baton to a blogger who writes from the depth of her heart....Melissa Tandoc.