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  • Book Review of Sublimina by Monica Gupta

    Book Review of Sublimina by Monica Gupta

    Poetry is my go to waters. For relaxation. To dive into solace. Unlike the fast paced prose reading, while reading poems, I hold on to the emotion, ponder over the theme and ruminate over the essence.

    “Sublimina”, a poetry anthology by Digant M Trivedi was a perfect pick to unwind. The term “Sublimina” is coined by the poet, personifying Sublime. The 127 poems contain various themes of love, life, beauty, death, happiness, punishment and many more. Hence, the variety of poems cater and comply with the varied moods of the reader.

    An excerpt from one of my favorite poem, Death of Socrates.

    “…..My quest is mine alone.

    As time and people have shown.

    The only cure for me,

    Is to drink and be free……”

    Besides the unusual choice of subject, the poems are outstanding in usage of profound words. The impact is immediate. The rhyming scheme, and the use of meters makes them an ideal for recitation. The tales are laced into the poetic fabric beautifully. You may just not want to read them but recite them too. They will delight the ears.

    Another interesting poem, “The Horseman” poignantly gives away the message metaphorically, that however far the horseman may ride into the deep woods, his sins shall outrun him. Conveying the sublime message, to resolve issues and not escape them.

    I can mention many more as my favorite. The book is filled with such great poems.

    For all the bibliophiles and for all in the making, this book is a must read.

    Sharing the link below. Paperback in US – https://amzn.to/2ZPJdX1

    (Same link for anyone buying a paperback outside India)

    Paperback in India Amazon India – https://amzn.to/2BgsiCM Flipkart India – https://bit.ly/3ew7GEJ Pothi.com – https://bit.ly/3evfkzk

    Ebook Worldwide (Kindle Edition) Amazon – https://amzn.to/3dcdQd3

  • Before a mirror

    Before a mirror

    Before a mirror

    VANITY – Here you are. Looking like a queen!

    MIND – Stunning! And what about the feel like a queen?

    EGO – Allow the Romantic prospects to serve you

  • The pen is my voice

    The pen is my voice

    The pen is my voice.

    The wish of my heart.

    The noise of my mind.

    The whispers of my soul.

    The talk of my eyes.

  • AAH! THE SIGHT OF ME.

    AAH! THE SIGHT OF ME.

    AAH! THE SIGHT OF ME.
    There’s a version of me,
    That i now see in her.
    Varied shades and facets,
    That lay invisible to me.
    Until, she bore them.
    Wore them.
    And now stands before me.

  • AND THE CAMERAS FLASHED.

    AND THE CAMERAS FLASHED.

    My left hand tapped at the alarm clock. Slipping my feet into my purple slippers, I stepped out of the room. In the adjacent room, lights were on, the TV showed a blue screen, Dad was snoring. Looking at the usual vacant bed beside him, my lips drooped into a frown. I switched off the light and shut the doors.  Into the kitchen, I Poured tea into my favorite white porcelain mug and walked to the drawing-room. I stood yet again, mom was sleeping on the couch. I placed the mug on the table without making any noise and gently lifted the sheet to cover her. Being a light sleeper, she woke up. 

    “I overslept! I will pack your lunch.” 

    I stopped her mid-way. 

    “It’s Sunday, mom. I have to deliver one lecture. I will be back at lunchtime. Please sleep.” 

    Nodding, she pulled back the sheet to sleep. 

    Seated opposite to her on the sofa, I sipped the tea, cupping the mug between my palms. Against the grey backdrop of darkness in the room, twilight peered in through the gaps of the curtains. I kept looking at the thin, fragile frame of my mother’s back. Age reflected in her shrunken physique with wrinkled hands. Seeing Mom and Dad sleeping in different rooms, the haunting vision appeared before my eyes. An image of my parents together in one frame, smiling, reflecting love for each other. 

    Ever since my toddler days, I had seen parents of other kids holding hands, sharing a bedroom, laughing and talking. It was a rare sight in my home, in my parent’s life. They slept in different rooms, dined at different times, didn’t watch television together, didn’t visit temples together, not even my school. Their verbal and non-verbal communication was minimal, they rarely fought or argued. Though a couple, they held on to their individuality strongly. Their indifference against each other affected me. I would watch the parents of other kids in awe and in envy. I really longed to see it between mine. I often fantasized, wished and prayed to see my parents in those acts. To see them as one and not two. To make the reality bearable, I created an image in my mind, of my parents smiling, beside each other in unison. I kept his imaginary picture concealed in my heart and mind, my little secret wish. Whenever I read stories of hope and miracles, book like ‘The Secret’ by Rhonda Bayern, their image would appear before my eyes. I hoped and believed, that the imagination will become a reality someday. Eventually, this wish transformed into an eternal vision. 

    On an occasion, I planned a family dinner, just so that I could seat them together. Mom slipped away with an excuse to make hot chappati and also that she was fasting. I insisted her to sit, but she ran a hand on my cheek and retired to the kitchen. Dad didn’t help in my attempt too. Instead, he announced the start of the cricket match on T.V. I sulked through the dinner. Frustrated, I confronted them as to why they do not behave like other couples? Dad got away with it, without a word, throwing his hands in the air as if I was being silly. Mom reassured, they love each other, but didn’t make it a show. She asserted that I was being filmy. Several such attempts failed in future. Every failure weakened my hope, blurred my vision of seeing them in one frame. Time passed. I grew up, but nothing changed. Even my wedding album didn’t have a picture of them together. They were perfect at everything, with everybody, except with each other. My vision kept replaying, haunting me, but now at bigger intervals. 

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

    20 years later….. 

    I braked the car with a screech outside the hospital entrance. Leaving the keys in the watchman’s hand, I ran towards the elevator. While trying to regain my physical balance, I pressed the elevator button multiple times. Impatient, I began skipping over the steps and reached the fourth floor. 

    “Wait, Madam! You can’t ente…..” 

    I pushed the doorkeeper away and rushed into the Critical Care Unit of the hospital. The ventilators whooshed. The big white hall smelt of antiseptics.  Half-conscious patients lay in bed. My feet felt heavy. My pace slowed. I reached my Dad’s bed. My brother, nurse and doctor looked at me with a sad expression. Clenching my fist around the bed’s rod, I looked at Dad’s face, tongue stuck out from underneath the tube in his mouth, his head fallen on the left. Seeing no numbers, a blank line on the vitals’ display, I retreated to the wall. 

    “What is it? Why no numbers on the display? Why do we have to switch off the ventilator?” I blabbered looking at the doctor. 

    His sorry expression and sympathetic eyes answered my questions, but I failed to accept what was obvious. 

    As my brother’s hand reached out to me, I ran outside. My mind screaming, 

    “He’s dead. HE IS DEAD!” 

    My mother emerged from the elevator. Seeing me with teary, puffy eyes, the flask of tea dropped from her hand. I reached for her, she fell on the floor, tearing my dress. My hands and heart went weak holding so much pain, not just mine but hers as well. In a numb state, I went through the preparations of the last rites. The tears kept running and drying. Many people moved around Dad in a mourning state. Panditji reciting mantras. His body was tied to the bamboo frame, wrapped in a white sheet, covered with flowers, his face bore a serene look. My brothers bent to lift the pyre, as Panditjiannounced it was time for a departure from home. 

    “NO WAIT! WAIT!” my mother stopped everyone. 

    She dragged herself closer to him, placed her hand over his body, and brought her face next to his. 

    “Please click a picture of me with my beloved!” she requested, as she managed to smile. 

    Her words jolted me out of my trance-like state. Lights flashed from the phone cameras. Tears began rolling down and my lips broke into a childlike glee. This miraculous moment had brought my childhood fantasy, my haunting vision, come to life. The law of attraction of the universe had complied. 

  • THE CALL (PART 2) -(Story of Faith)

    THE CALL (PART 2) -(Story of Faith)

    Back in Haridwar, walking on the bridge over the Ganga. White-capped mountains rose in the distance. The river was a gigantic being flowing beneath. Anushri walked a few steps behind me. 

    Things wriggled in the river. I clutched the thick jute ropes and stuck my head out through the loose-knit loops for a closer look. Snakes and crocodiles slithered entwined below the surface. I wondered how they survived in pure, flowing water. 

    The splash that came then was like a whiplash. 

    My head snapped around. The bridge was empty and for one moment, I froze. 

    Anushri was gone! 

    Frantic, I scanned the bridge and the water on both sides. 

    My little sister was gone. 

    “Oh God! Help!” I screamed.

    Falling down on my knees, I squeezed into a ball and burst into loud, crying hiccups. 

    Of a sudden, a voice called out. “Didi! Look Didi! Look!” 

    I couldn’t trust my ears. I looked up and there she was. Anushri, smiling and holding a stranger’s arm. A man in his 40s, radiating calm and assurance. 

    The phone rang again. I didn’t wait for mom to speak. 

    “Who was he?” I asked. 

    “God,” she said. “Appeared out of thin air and vanished into one. As if someone had called out to him from the heart, and he came.” 

    Mere coincidence? Did I call him? Was he God? Does God exist? Was it my prayer? How could I have called a God I didn’t believe in! 

    After hearing the details from mom, I walked out lost in thought and found myself at the chapel. Night had fallen. A candle moved in the darkness, lighting a small path. It was the chapel sister. 

    She ran her soft palm over my head. “A power cut, child,” she said.

    “The chapel has called you though. Take this candle and walk right in.” 

    My newfound faith in the almighty found the certainty it didn’t find in books and logic. 

  • ‘THE CALL’. Part-1 (Based on true incident)

    ‘THE CALL’. Part-1 (Based on true incident)

    “Anu…!” 

    I came awake with a silent scream on my lips. Eyes flashed open. Adrenalin coursed through my veins. 

    My little sister! Anu! 

    Open or shut, my eyes were seeing the same dark night. Someone snored. It took me a moment to realise it was matron in the room next to our dorm. I heaved a sigh of relief. 

    Just a dream! With a trembling hand, I reached for the bottle by my bed. 

    Cold water trickled in, easing the dream out. One of the girls turned over and the sheets rustled. 

    “Anu’s fine,” I told myself. 

    “It was a dream. A bad dream! That’s all it was.” 

    My watch showed 4 a.m. We had a physics test today. The dream was fading already. Switching on my desk lamp, I settled down to revise. Last minute revisions are important. 

    Five hours later, dream forgotten, I was whistling on my walk to the school. 

    “Looks like someone’s well-prepared,” said Sally who struggled as much with physics as with her frizzy hair. Right now, it was an electric halo around her head. She was never put out by my silken straight hair nor my affinity to physics. 

    “It’s a hack to beat nervousness,” I winked. “There’s science behind it.” 

    “We’ve got ten minutes,” she said. “Let’s go to the chapel.” 

    “Chapel?” I asked. “You should be revising now.” 

    “To ask for blessings that we do well in the test,” she said. “Equally important.” 

    “Prep and revision, Sally,” I said. 

    “These get you through the test. Not blessings!” I was sharp, but Sally was a sweet friend who shrugged off life’s troubles easily. 

    “I forget!” She slapped her forehead. “Atheist! Logical, scientific thinking nerd!” 

    During the test, my focus wasn’t fully on the paper. Anushri was on my mind. I had been in the 2nd grade when she was born. When I visited her and mom in the hospital, the first thing I noticed was her tiny nose. 

    Born seven years apart, we had the big sister-little sister thing going. When she’d throw a tantrum for the TV remote, all it took was a warning glance from me and she’d drop it in a sulk. 

    Last night’s dream remained clear in my mind. Hard as I tried to block the disturbing images, they continued to return. 

    Next day, the first bell for breakfast found me knocking on the bathroom door. I shared one with Radhika. No response. She had been in there for a while now. 

    I pressed my ear to the door and heard her muttering. 

    “Are you talking to someone?” I spoke. “You sound like you do.” 

    Radhika slammed the door open. “I dreamt,” her voice trembled. 

    “I dreamt our dormitory had caught fire and everything was burnt.” 

    “It’s just a dream,” I said, holding her wrist. 

    “Not so,” she shook her head. “Dreams come true. But, if you sit on the pot and narrate your dream aloud, the dream won’t come true. I was doing that.” 

    “Really, Radhika! Sitting on the pot and saying your dream aloud? Did you just say that! Dreams don’t come true. Not the ones you have in sleep. They’re just your subconscious manifesting itself. Now, please move! I’m late already!” 

    My dream returned, and I tried to shrug it off. It was just a dream! 

    But, was it? It was a constant presence through the day, during classes and at play. The encyclopaedia, which I could usually rely upon to calm myself didn’t work either. I shut it after a few minutes. Anushri played behind my eyes. 

    What was she doing now? Watching TV, I suppose. I needed to hear mom’s voice, for her to tell me that all was well. 

    In the phone room, I avoided Sister Angie’s eye while I wrote down mom’s number for her. Sister Angie was bone thin and leaned heavily towards moral science and I wasn’t in the mood for it. 

    A senior was on the phone. I sat on the wooden bench, smooth with use, but with the ink and scrapes of a thousand girls who had shown their stress, fear, and happiness on it. 

    The senior leaned against the wall, answering in monosyllables. 

    I began rocking back and forth. I was restless. 

    Finally, the girl put the receiver down. Not a moment later, the phone rang. 

    “Your mother’s call, Mann!” Sister Angie called out cheerfully. “The wireless connection of the divine. Connected before I could dial.” 

    Strange coincidence! Now that I had mom on the phone, my hello was muted. 

    “Mann! Manu. All well with you?” 

    “Yes, mom,” I said. She sounded fine. Maybe a tiny bit breathless, but fine. Anushri must be fine. Not that the dream meant anything. 

    “You don’t sound like your normal self, beta. Don’t tell me you’ve been through something too! Is all well? How are things with you? I am worried. Say something!” Her words were tumbling over one another, not giving me a chance to answer. 

    “What do you mean me too?” I said, holding my breath. 

    “Anushri!” her voice wavered. “Anu almost drowned at Haridwar. Two days ago…” 

    A chill ran down my spine. Her voice receded. 

    “She slipped in the Ganges,” I cut in. “A stranger appeared out of nowhere and…” 

    “Did…did dad call you? How do you know this?” mom was saying. 

    “A dream, ma,” I said. “I dreamt the whole thing at night.” 

    The line disconnected and I found myself back in the dream. 

    TO BE CONTINUED……

    What was the dream? What happened to Anu? How did Mann find the path of faith? To know, read Part-2 of “THE CALL”

  • DIWALI – HOME COMING.

    DIWALI – HOME COMING.

    As a postlude to my write-up titled, “Wars and Festivals” that spoke of historical, mythological and individual battles, here is “Home Coming”.

    We all know Diwali is the celebration of Lord Ram’s return to Ayodhya. After 14 years long tryst with resolving social issues of the day, facing the harsh forest life, taking back the empire that was deceitfully usurped within the family and waging a war with an Asur King to rescue his wife, he returned to his land triumphant, with newly developed skills, followers, learnings and stories to share. His journey stretched from North to South, and on his way, he touched the hearts of many. Grand décors, sumptuous feasts and open arms with glistened eyes welcomed him. Ayodhya was adorned with diyas to welcome its awaited and deserving king. The stories of his valour and victory spread far and wide as his coronation announced the dawn of Ram Rajya. The foundation of a new kind of leadership was laid – by a leader who ruled by being an example and who first practised and then preached.

    Just like his challenging years in exile when he fought the mighty Lankesh (Ravana), almost losing his wife and beloved younger brother to death, the throne of a king offered challenges of a different kind. During his exile he had won an external battle before returning to his land, marking the celebration of Diwali. Now while he sat on the throne of Ayodhya as the Suryavanshi King of Aaryavrat, he faced an internal civil war. A war, where his praja raised fingers at his wife’s chastity. A war where no weapons could be helpful because the enemy was his own people.

    It wasn’t a battle for power or rule. It was a battle of truths, of ideologies. It was an inner battle between Ram and Ram, between Ram who was a husband and Ram who was a King. The trials of the Agni Prariksha and an assurance from the king went futile to convince the praja of Sita’s pious body. Ram reached the verge where he had to choose one side. To be a just husband or to be an ideal King. Unlike the battle fought on the ground, this was the tug of war he experienced within. His Kshatriya blood didn’t offer any respite. The only way to resolve this war was to choose. To choose one. Either be a husband or be a king. Sita’s uninformed boycott and abandonment into a forest announced his decision to be. He chose Ram Rajya over Sitapati Ram. He succeeded in resurrecting Ahilya but failed to stand beside Sita. For, the Rajya was at stake. The husband died, and the king lived.

    When the war is internal like this one, and the victory is declared, how does one celebrate? Does one feel joyous or mourn? For either way, it’s one’s loss. After bleeding from the arrows of regrets, helplessness and doubts, when one accepts his choice, he reaches home. After the painful suffering of losing, knowing one’s personality flaws and bearing the scars that the decision left, one begins to travel through the feelings of returning home. When complete acceptance sets in, healing begins, and this marks the celebration as Home-Coming; a celebration of profound peace within. The inside finally lits-up, calm sets in, and Diwali is announced as ‘Home Coming’.

  • WARS AND FESTIVALS

    WARS AND FESTIVALS

    Battles have been an integral part of human history. Bulky mythological and historical texts are reflective of it. Massive, brutal wars have been fought to bring down the demons, the invaders, the evil and the devil to restore peace, and for conquests. Whether it was Mahabharata, the Greek wars or the wars of independence, the documented scriptures and texts speak of fights, fight as the path to attain the desired.

    The word ‘War’ immediately evokes an image of bloodshed and dead bodies in the conscious mind, but that’s not exactly the truth about all wars. With the evolution of mankind, new types of war methods have emerged. For example, Mahatma Gandhi’s path of Ahimsa, introduced the world to the non-violent means to win back the conquered territory. He used self-imposed austerity, boycott and guilt as his weapons, and he was acclaimed worldwide for it. Nuclear wars, Cold Wars etc. are yet again different forms with different methods and strategies. Although the warfare techniques are ever-evolving, one thing remains unchanged. There is always a relative good and bad involved in wars. And at the end of the battle, there emerges a hero and a villain, followed by journals being filled with analysis and epics written on the newly born superhero or even God. Numerous festivals are announced to celebrate the victory of the good over the evil, and they eventually become traditions to keep us reminded of the heroism, the heroic acts. Dusshera and Navratri are examples, where the victory of good over evil marks the festivity.

    Having spoken of the battles that were fought on fields with huge armies, superpowers and lethal weapons, what about the wars that an individual fights within? We all undergo some form of war inside us, at least once in our lifetime. A war between Me versus Me. The conflict of thoughts, the struggle to decide, the dilemma of choices. Aren’t they also a form of war? There isn’t so much noise created, and not any soldiers to join. But yes, they are also fights, short, and sometimes maybe prolonged over a period of time. So what are the weapons used when one is fighting an internal war? Will power? Yes! One resorts to this while fighting against the behavioral demons. To overcome laziness, to give up substance abuse, food habit, break a thought pattern etc. One’s latent will power is evoked for the victory. Knowledge also serves a potent weapon while facing the dilemma over choices or confusion. Research and study followed by expert advice or a mentor to guide wades away the ignorance to allow the light of enlightenment to seep in and to see the victory of clarity against chaos. After facing the tribulations of internal war, where habits, thoughts and options are killed, emerges a newer self, a godly super-self, flurrying the flag of victory. Each dawn then becomes a festival to rejoice.

    This Dusshera and Navratri, let’s share sweets and radiant smile to celebrate the victory over vice.

  • LANGUAGE KI LATHI

    LANGUAGE KI LATHI

    “Aisee Vani Boliye, Mun Ka Aapa Khoye Apna Tan Sheetal Kare, Auran Ko Sukh Hoye” (Speak with a language that brings healing and peace not just to others but to oneself.)

    The legendary 15th century poet, Kabir Das, wrote the above mentioned words to highlight the purpose and art of using spoken words. The Indian culture has always been an epitome of compassion, hospitality and holism. For aeons, language has been used for constructive measures. Statesmen and leaders like Swami Vivekananda, Mahatma Gandhi, Priya Kumar, Shiv Khera and many others have influenced and driven people to progress with the right and articulate use of spoken language. Their list of testimony, which is filled with fans sharing how their words have transformed their and many other lives, is exemplary in showcasing the power and might of right words.

    Like the two faces of a coin, language also has two effects based on its use and form. Akin a sword, it can be used for a massacre and it can be raised for safety. Language’s form changes its course with the agenda attached to it. Words can be used for healing, encouraging and motivating, and they can also be used for abusing, brainwashing, shattering dreams, tainting identities etc. History has shown how razor-sharp weapons have coloured the soil red, with the bloodshed of millions in the battles that were fought either to avenge, usurp or sometimes defend in the display of ego wars. Such wars are not over, they do not occur once in a millennium; propelled by odious words, they are a part of our present-day reality. Although we have peace treaties, ammunition acts and various international organizations upholding world peace, the ego wars continue to be an innate part of our daily life. These are wars of egos fought with the weapons of words.

    In the present times of pandemic, the celluloid screen has increased its TRPs with a 24*7 live telecast of such wars. The Talk Shows have given the talk a whole new meaning and form, which often appear abysmal. The shrill, blaring tone, harsh and brutal words make your ears bleed, opinions are spoken with affirmation that matches a prophecy. Such mannerism not only kills the person targeted at, but its bloodshed of an identity. At a larger level it is an injury to the art of speaking, of our language culture that has been traditionally marked with compassion and empathy. The repeated sessions of debates have lesser content and meaning, appearing more like a teaching session of how to use words as lethal weapons. And how they must be used for the baseless killing to unfurl the flag of victory even if that means a walkover on virtues associated with humanity and culture. And not to forget the national platform is a place which the future generation is looking up to. Hence, before we view or deliver, let us stop and think – is the language ki laathi used for killing or saving, or should the language be used as a laathi altogether? When we think about the undesirable or harmful effects and outcome of words used as

    weapons, doesn’t it call upon us for their use in more conscious, and thoughtful ways ?