Beyond What Meets the Eye

We live through each day of monotony feeling safe, protected by the rules which govern us and entities to save us if something goes wrong. The roof over our head, doctors in the hospital, police in the station and army men at the border; are they enough? Wriggling through clauses and the same rules we had assumed to protect us, they hardly ever come to our rescue. It's horrifying how fortunate and dreadfully unlucky can co-exist, in a box which arbitrarily throws out one of the two in times of need. Is the world full of warm fuzzy feelings, kind hearts and things to feel grateful for? Yes it is; at the same time, is the world NOT full of possibilities to run screaming from, possibilities which engulf you, throwing you down their horrid abyss after the mistake of one tiny misplaced step? Yes it is.
The cover of books, the way something looks, even a formal conversation; all these give nothing of the actual picture. If you want to know the real story, you've got to dive in.
The story of Majnu, a street boy off the roads of Hyderabad will be sure to tell you more. He manages to grow into a successful medical student; yet he learns first handed how volatile everything can be. Read on!

1. Free Like the Wind
Majnu clung to the pole of the running train as it passed by him and hoisted himself aboard. He looked around, at the sparsely populated compartment and realised it was the ladies’ section. At the far end sat a middle-aged woman in a sari, most of her voluptuous midsection uncovered. Her Fila flip flops stayed on the ground as her feet rested on the empty seat ahead of her, exposing her heels that were cracked and amply loaded with dirt. At the seat diagonally opposite to hers, there was a younger, twenty-something, bespectacled girl with her Wildcraft bag sitting next to her. She shot Majnu a rather rudely inquisitive look when she caught him looking, before she turned away and occupied herself with music from her phone.
Typical college student, Majnu thought, looking away. There was a woman sitting in a corner in the far end of the compartment, grading papers and intermittently pushing back her scarf while she did so. The only other woman in the train was in her late fifties, already glaring at Majnu even before he looked her side, with the typical look of a meddlesome old spinster. He turned away as quickly as possible, avoiding eye contact.
Majnu held onto the pole as he hung off the moving train, letting the strong wind hit his face. Ah, this felt right.

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Must we always mess up our lives expecting so much from ourselves? Why does everyone always have to be the prettiest person, the topper of the batch, the best at something? Why aren't we happy with the identity that's actually been assigned to every single one of us; we're all just newborns in this endless universe with endless information and richness to offer. There's no way in our eighty years of life that we can gather all that it has to give. Why spoil this tiny journey with ego, with standards and expectations?
Why ever upset ourselves for something that won't matter ten years from today? There's so much to absorb all around us; beauty, diversity, and joy is everywhere. Why don't we stop, level our self worth as low as possible and just allow the world to permeate us without attempting to get anywhere with our achievements?
Why do we not experience every bit of what we get, and only pick it up, stuff it into our bags and move on in the quest of something new? Why are we always in a rush for things that don't get us anywhere closer to the ultimate goal, that is, to be truly happy?
Do what gives you pleasure, and will continue to give you pleasure. Don't ever live for the memory, for the conquest, for the trophies, and more than anything, never live for another.
Sing because you ache to feel the melody in your throat, dance because your limbs desire to flail about. Write because you wish to convey what your mind is bubbling with. Read because every word you assimilate makes you feel a little more richer.

Show me your soul,
Drop the mask, quit playing the role.
For I'm not one to be afraid;
I want to know, of what you're made.

Don't talk to me about the latest cars,
Or which new criminal is finally behind bars.
I care not for updates about the current trend,
Or which actor is whose friend.

Don't waste my time with the weather,
And other conversations light as a feather.
Talk not of politics or of what you wear;
For I want to know of the thoughts you bear.

Show me your soul,
Drop the mask, quit playing the role.
For I'm not one to be afraid;
I want to know, of what you're made.

What are the strengths about which you boast,
The passion that drives you the most?
What is it you dream to ace?
What makes your heart race?

His form so attractive, or her face so sweet;
Who's the one to make your heart skip a beat?
What makes you who you are?
From whom you aspire to be, is it too far?

What's your innermost fear?
Where did you get the motivation to make it all the way here?
What in your mind keeps you up at night?
What keeps the spark in your eye bright?

Show me your soul,
Drop the mask, quit playing the role.
For I'm not one to be afraid;
I want to know, of what you're made.

Veronica Decides To Die

There are some stories that are sweet and simple, that touch your heart and leave you just a little happier and enriched.
And then, there are compositions that mirror your soul in ways that you could never imagine, stabbing you with lines that are just so on point, like they're built from your own feelings, and tearing your heart apart by making it so beautiful that you could never match it. Really, I wish I wrote Veronica Decides To Die, and at the same time, I'm glad I didn't because it wouldn't have been so very appropriate. I wonder how many people know that prose can be just as pleasurably painful as poetry.
Isn't it true, that we're all madmen of our own account? Maybe the only thing that sets us apart is whether or not we're able to embrace it. And maybe henceforth, I know very clearly what to do with my own quirks. :D

Cinderella

What a mindless tale. And to think we've been carrying it forward, generation after generation, telling it to our children, making movies out of it and keeping it alive forever. How terrible.
Cinderella teaches every girl to expect everything that will let her down and leave her unhappy. It starts with a pretty girl, as if pretty is the only way to be. It tells us to be as nice as possible to every last person until our heart tires simply from giving. It shows that it pays off to submissively do everything we're told, to make do with what we're given and find a way to smile despite all hardships. It plants hope in every young girl that her prince, her knight in shining armour will come and rescue her one day from her dull, drab life.
The truth is, life goes on no matter what you look like or how hard times are for you. Staying passive brings you nothing; you need to get yourself whatever you need. Kind people are taken advantage of and sacrifices are exploited. And more importantly than anything else, no one can ever save you but yourself.
Girls, take a stance. Fight for what you believe in. Be strong; never be disgusting enough to take pride in the feminity of your fear. Achieve things of your own accord. Don't be satisfied what what's already laid out for you. Take the responsibility, make your own fate.
If you're going to live, live big.

I'm going to end with a poem I wrote recently for a program on women empowerment:

What's it like to be the girl child?
Years of being told, be subdued, quiet and mild
Our ideas and dreams always met with a frown
Generations of being put down
Eons of suppression, turned to rage
And power that you cannot gauge.
Now is our time; we'll all aim for the sky
We'll make sure we walk with our head held high
Even if we're small,
We'll make sure we stand tall.

U.S.A.

America. It's a free country, where there's drugs, alcohol and sex out in the open, where you can see it. Where youngsters don't have respect for their elders and parents don't love their children enough to take care of them.
All these years, I've been trying to suppress and hide the part of me that's a remnant of my stay abroad. I've always tried to push it away, trying to keep it out of the eyes of others so I could fit in, but it differentiated me from them anyway. It's a difference that I feel more often than you'd expect, but today I'm going to be honest about that part of my life; I'm grateful for it.
Thanks America, for the beautiful beaches and the foggy mornings, for beauty that took my breath away. Thanks for introducing me to blond hair and blue eyes, telling me diversity is wondrous but we're all the same inside. It's the same ego and anger, the same happiness and love. You can spread your smile to anyone, and have the warmth rebounded right back at you. Thanks for teaching me that no matter how rich, talented, smart or talented you are, there's always one quality in others that makes them equal to you, so there's no such thing as a justified superiority complex. Thanks for teaching me to look into someone else's plate only to see if they have enough. Thanks for giving me Artur, Clifford and Aesop's fables at a young age, feeding me morals with entertainment like broccoli with cheese, so I could be shaped into everything I am now. Thanks for giving me the Children's Library that cultivated my interest in reading. Thanks for providing such an open atmosphere and freedom even at a young age to develop into anything I want and still be appreciated, and letting me choose exactly what I want. Thanks for teaching me about space bubbles and how not to get into someone else's aura, and keep others out of mine. We are born alone, we die alone, and the truth is, we also live alone. Anyone else can only support us, not take our pain. Thanks for showing me that it's okay to be open about sex, that it's nothing to be ashamed of. Thanks for showing me that stigma is detrimental. Thanks for teaching me to be logical and to think for myself, not follow what's already written down for me. I now don't believe in fate; I believe in writing my own. Thanks for giving me the freedom to choose my own faith, even if it isn't identical to my family. Thanks all of it, and a lot more. Thanks for being a part of who I am.

On a leaf amidst green meadows
Lay a caterpillar, dreaming beyond it's shadows
Of the day wings would appear
For the earthly process of change, it waited, sincere.
It was taken away by the foretold encounters of high trees
And the magicifient seas
Eyes filled with hope and the spark of anticipation
For metamorphosis, and it's emancipation.
It waited as the seasons changed,
Without getting deranged.
The leaves turned green to orange, some to grey.
And then they withered and flew away.
The caterpillar was still fixed to the ground
It's passion was still sound.
Yet it's patience didn't fail; it held on
It waited, it went on
And recollected each day
The wondrous possibilities that lay in it's way.
But as the leaves began to grow back
Though no wings sprouted, to support it's back
The dreams began to wither away
Now, the spark in it's eyes turned grey.
The caterpillar one day,
While crossing the grass came in a little boy's way
The boy's shoe crushed it to death
Also the dreams and aspirations it never met with
It was just a mess to avoid, for those who walked by
Never again to even walk, let alone to fly.
Though no opportunity left to seize
But finally, it rested in peace
For it was hanging to a thread
To the possibility of something great, now dead
From the thread, turned noose,
By the neck, it was finally cut loose.