निजगाद सा यदुनन्दने

I wish to twirl in your darkness, 
wrapping it around my fair self.
Let your darkness permeate my very soul 
and dye me black.
Taint me, for purity is banal.

Let your darkness
prance upon my barren self.
Let it rise like thick smoke,
eclipsing me and my doubts.

Let it drip along my form,
drop by drop, 
washing away my vanity and frailty.

Smear me with your darkness.
Allow me to dissolve in it.
For this form is too tiresome to bear.
Bless me with ignorance 
which only your touch could accord.

Let your darkness grow on me, 
and consume me.
Let it camouflage me
in this dark night, 
in the cosmic darkness
that knows no bounds.

I don’t wish to be seen; 
conceal me in your dark embrace.
I wish to be as close to you as your darkness.
I want to be you.
Let your darkness eat me away 
leaving behind no residue.

                                                   

For Once

For once let's fly and never come back.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let's forget everything else.
For once let it just be you and I.
For once let's not judge and be not judged.
For once let's overlook the imperfections yours and mine.
For once let there be no fear.
For once let the anxities be suspended.
For once let not the uncertainities ruin the moment now.
For once let the prudence hang lose.
For once let the eyes speak.
For once let the word be felt not heard.
For once let's touch moonlight.
For once let's capture the twinkle of stars.
For once let the silence of the night permeate our souls.
For once let's lose ourselves.
For once let's try to find each other.
For once let's forget the wrong and right.
For once let's make it a magical night.
For once let it be just you and I.

The Ancient Youth

“Arts fac, baithiye, Arts fac! Bees rupaye. Baithiye!" (Arts fac, sit, Arts fac! Twenty rupees. Sit!")

Angai wondered, as she emerged out of the metro station, how these rickshaw-pullers always slotted the people without erring, how they somehow knew that person like her would go nowhere else but Arts faculty. She was in hurry and in no mood of haggling. She nodded and boarded the rickshaw silently. On her way to Arts Faculty she saw a motley of students passing by—walking, chatting, munching, making faces at each other, nudging each other. They all looked so charming to her.

“bhaiya khule nahi hain?”

She got off the rickshaw after rummaging through her wallet for change for a minute or so. As soon as she stepped on the campus of the University of Delhi, the words of Alisha, a dear friend, echoed in her head, “soak in some campus air for me when you go there.” She felt like a foreigner encroaching upon her property. It was Alisha’s campus. Her heart ached for Alisha. She wished she could go and salvage her from her house arrest. She wished she could just go argue fiercely with Alisha's parents and ask them to let her be, let her fly, let her breathe.

She reached the first floor where she was to submit the form—her form. Another attempt. She was anxious. She took out the form from the bag. The form had become limp, maybe because of the weight of her hopes, she thought.

“That way. Window number 53. Submit your form there,” a gentleman told her.

This was a familiar territory. She was acquainted with those classrooms. She had attended a few classes there. They seemed inviting. There was something so romantic about those corridors; they had an old-world charm about them; something very organic.

Her eyes met a slew of students waiting much before him to submit the form. Some were making inquiries; some were fanning themselves with their forms; some were cursing the prolonged lunch break. The wait seemed endless. She observed all of them closely. Her gaze was glazed with awe. These were the students who had studied literature formally. They had read Derrida and Foucault as part of their curriculum. They had thrived on Shakespeare, and had breathed Wordsworth and Keats. And here was she, merely on a caprice. How farcical it must seem to them if they got to know about it. They’d laugh, she was positive. They had formally read literature; whereas she...she merely lived it. Yet she, a student of medicine, was there...among them; trying to be one among them. Why, she wondered. Everyone she knew would either find her decision amusing or absurd. The people sharing the latter sentiment certainly outnumbered those who shared the former.

Though she vociferously defended it, she herself knew how impractical and unsound the decision was when considered on financial and professional grounds. Maybe she did not want others to tell her that. Why, she wondered again. Was it to prove a point? If yes, then to whom? No. Not to others definitely. She could have continued with her medical practice, had that been the case for that would make his kin so happy. Then? To herself? Maybe yes. It wasn’t just a course for him; not just another thing to be done. It was a decision as queer as her. It could be something that would define her. She knew she deserved to be there regardless of the result of the entrance test. He knew how deeply he revered the subject, how she slept with Othello pressed hard against her chest, how she had read so much into Faustus, how her eyes would light up every time there was a discussion on Austen or the Bronte sisters. She wanted to belong there. She too wanted to be part of that system; to be able to gripe about it legitimately.

“May I borrow that pen for a second?”

The girl standing next to her obliged. She wrote her phone number at the back of the Demand Draft which was to be submitted along with the form. The queue had moved a few inches forward. She spotted something-- a someone rather. How could she have not noticed this boy till now? The boy stood tall and lean; his complexion clear and glowing; his face bespectacled. While the rest of them were constantly fretting, fidgeting and grumbling, checking and re-checking if their documents were in place or not, this fellow was standing with his sang-froid. This nonchalance was magnetic. To Angai’s fanciful gaze he looked like young and solemn Buddha. The ancient youth was biting his lips and was lost in some sort of deep meditation. His entire demeanour suggested as if he was gravid with some profound realisation. He certainly seemed to be on the brink of it, if not fully realised it.

Angai was happy. She had found an engagement worthwhile. This should help him ignore the crawling pace of the queue and the humid summer. No, the attraction was far from sexual. The boy looked too pristine to evoke any such sentiments. This attraction was pure. Something similar to what she had felt for Priyank. In her head Angai had walked up to him and said “hi” already; the boy, too, had flashed a broad smile and took keen interest in this random stranger who had walked up to him to strike a conversation; they had hit off instantly; they were sitting in some cafe conversing seamlessly and the conversation segued from literature to philosophy, from politics to their personal lives; they had contemplated on the purpose of life, or the incoherence of life by now. That was all that Angai expected—his company. But, as always, that was all in Angai’s head. All these things only happened with others. Angai either read about them or heard about them.  The queue had moved. The boy had submitted his form already and left. All Angai could do was to watch the back of his navy blue shirt, drenched in sweat, disappear slowly in the crowd.

“Form dijiye...” the clerk peeped from behind the window.





                                                           

Let's Talk Bombay Talkies

So, a couple of days back I (finally) got an opportunity to watch the much acclaimed and the much talked about Bombay Talkies. I am no connoisseur of cinema. I blatantly confess my inability to appreciate the finer nuances and technical aspects of cinema as a form of art. My appreciation of the movie is hardly based either on the apparently superficial parameters such as: popularity of the star cast, merit of the director(s), locales in which the movie is shot (I couldn't have cared less if ZNMD was shot in Satpura instead of Spain), or the more profound aspects such as the intricacies of plot construction, nuances of characterization, art direction, verisimilitude of the story etc. Or maybe these factors influence me subconsciously without my being fully aware of them. All I mean to say is that I don’t go in with a check-list in my hand. 

By and large, I've realised, that the one thing that appeals to me the most in a movie, or any form of art for that matter, is its potency to stir emotions, thrum the strings of heart, as it were. If the movie does that, then, at least for me, it redeems itself of all other inevitable flaws that it has; for art is the extension of humanity not divinity; and perfection is not a human realm. Yes, there's always a better way of doing, saying and creating things. But that should not preclude one from appreciating the beauty of the art form as it stands now.

Perhaps, that's one reason I've never been copiously pleased by Sci-Fi, action flicks, or even thrillers for that matter. I may enjoy a rom-com here and there, but it won't be something that stays with me. Whereas the movies which may be apparently nondescript but manage to ripple my emotions usually persist in my memory, influence me, and become a part of my life.

I was told that Bombay Talkies is my kind of movie. I read the reviews and the broad story line and had an inkling that I might actually like the movie. However, within few days of its release the movie had raked a storm of discussions in the intellectual circuits. The critique was highly polarised. 

Of the many things that caught people's fancy was Karan Johar's bold, serious and overt depiction of a homosexual character in his short story.

 While there was one section of the top crust of humanity that hailed it as the coming of age cinema and commended K Jo's daring, the other section panned the movie for depicting the gay character in a negative light-- allegedly as a "husband-snatcher". 

I for one think that perspectives of the critics on both sides of the fence are a little too loaded. It was a story. And a story should be seen as just that. A story is a small fragment of someone's reality. By passing a judgment on a story we implicitly pass a judgment on someone's reality. While I could not see in what manner was the gay guy trying to "snatch" the husband, I would not be surprised at all even if he were depicted so. Are we saying that queer people are sacrosanct and are not as susceptible to human follies as straight folks? 

In fact, not even once does the wife in question begrudge the gay man or show any sign of resentment toward him. She begrudged the husband. And mind you the grudge was not ascribed to his being gay, but to his deception-- for keeping her in dark, for donning a facade all through their married life. 

I think people missed out on the larger message that Karan wanted to convey through his story (and also by deciding not to marry himself) that while it is not wrong to be gay, it is wrong to be deceitful. 

The story commences on the note: "Homosexual hu main...homosexual. Chakka nahi hu. Na chakka hona galat hai aur na homsexual hona. Samjha!! (I am homosexual not a eunuch. And there's nothing wrong in being either. Understand)"

And the story ends on the note: "...jhooth bolna buri baat hai (it's wrong to lie)". 

I think these two lines sum up the entire essence of the story and define its premise. People failed to read this underlying and subtle message. 

It was not a case of a gay man alluring a straight man to sleep with him driven by lust. The husband was a closeted gay man himself. If anything the gay man should be commended for having such an effective 'gay-dar' (just kidding. lol). 

Surprisingly, I always empathise with women in such cases. No matter what, I somehow I cannot see how under any circumstances--however extenuating-- can a gay man choose to put a woman's marital life at stake. Maybe few years down the line when I am more experienced and more mature I may come to terms with this aspect of queer existence especially in a socio-cultural milieu like ours, but for now, I can't but be a little judgmental. 

For me the high point of the story was when the wife after all the sobbing and weeping breaks into a smile and concludes that now she's free and it's over. I loved the sense of liberation she experienced in that moment. I loved how she felt absolved of the guilt of not being appealing enough for her husband or not being worthy of his love. 

I can't imagine the agony-- that constant self-doubt, that constant guilt of being incompetent, that constant sense inadequacy on the count of not being desirable enough for her man-- of that woman caught up in such a marriage. 

All this while the wife dressed up seductively only to elicit gaze that makes her feel desirable-- something which her stoic husband could not accord her. 

I loved that moment when the wife is shown wearing a blood red lipstick post the confrontation she has with her husband. She was now dressing up for herself and not to please the husband for a change. It is that sense of emancipation that thrilled me.

The husband belittles the gay man, because he is not able to digest the gay man’s courage and unapologetic disposition.  He turns hostile towards the young man not because he was miffed by the unseemliness of the young man’s move, but his own inability to resist temptation. The violence was not the fallout of prudery; it was the fallout of fear—the fear of confronting one’s own desires. The husband saw in the young man what he himself could never be.

While the story subtly censures the lie pulled off by the husband all his life, the story also briefly reveals the rather mordacious ramifications of accepting and being vocal about the truth of one’s own sexuality in the land of “Satyamev Jayate”. The young gay man is subjected to vehement violence and barbed remarks (physical and mental torture) at the hands of his own father finally culminating in the ouster of the young man from his house. The price that hundreds of queer children have to pay for speaking truth, nothing but the truth, about something as innate as their sexual orientation. Sad and shameful, isn’t it?

I wonder why people overlooked these aspects of the story and either went about extolling the story or excoriating it left right and centre. 

Like any other anthropological existence, Queer existence too is so diverse and complex that no one film, or story, can do full justice to it or present a panoptic view of it. One story can only portray one dimension of queer reality. Censuring the story is saying as if that particular dimension is non-existent. 

I feel that the best thing about a story —a realistic one-- is that it’s a slice of life. It can be good, it can be bad. It can’t be right or wrong. 

Phew! Well, talking about the other stories: Zoya’s story was extremely endearing. The way it subtly questioned and subverted our notions of (hyper) masculinity was indeed praise worthy. The way the child innocently gives up on hewing to his father's ideas of how boys should be was touching. " But I hate it. Mujhe nahi maarna goal-voal. Goal maaro...goal maaro...goal maaro."

 Honestly, I don’t care even if it was a rip off from some western movie. I loved it! Period.  

I am ashamed to admit that this was the first time I witnessed the genius of Nawazudien Sidique. And I must say all the praises that I’ve heard about him were not even one bit exaggerated. He is certainly a ‘Nat-Samraat’ in making. 

The three child artists were also brilliant. The first one’s unassuming rendition of the melodies from the golden era of Indian cinema (Hindi film music to be more precise); the second one’s mere smile when she sees her father return home with a story was more eloquent than any poesy; the third one’s expressive eyes which dilate and light up when he sees his mother’s stilettos and slips into them tugged my heart. The fine depiction of pathos, helplessness and a consuming sense of urgency on Vijay’s face when he is unable to get through the gates of Pratiksha (Mr Bachhan’s residence in Mumbai) is truly remarkable. 

All in all, I connected with the movie at various levels. It is one movie I’ve seen in a long time that will linger on for some time to come. It was simple (nothing grand or ostentatious), subtle and yet effective. 

                                                             

  

Of Love Awe and Resentment...

Dear C,

I am sorry to have been writing to you so late. It’s been long overdue now. But I am sure you’d forgive me.  Why won’t you. You’re magnanimity personified. I don’t think I even need to tell you how electrified I was upon seeing you after almost five years. You could see it in my eyes, couldn’t you? You could see my eye-pupils dilate as I walked closer and closer to you. In fact, I could hear your presence much before I could see you. I was thrilled. My gait was competing with my heart-beat.  I don’t know what exactly draws me to you. I think, it’s more of intrigue than love.

There’s so much we owe to you, and most of the times we don’t ever realise your importance. I admire how you go on about your business silently, while everyone thinks that you’re just loafing about. They don’t see what it takes to be who you are and how difficult it is to be who you are just because you don’t show it; but when you do, even the mightiest tremble. Now, you see, this is another reason I am so deeply fascinated by you. You wield so much power; and yet you are not bumptious. Well, most of the times. You know your limits well. Your grace, notwithstanding your rather formidable immensity, is something that renders me in sheer awe.   

I could spend hours at length staring at you -- just looking at you meditatively without uttering a word. And I love the way you stare right back at me with the same meditative gaze, as if trying to whisper something in my ears — maybe the secret of life, its origin, or its culmination. I am sure you know it. You’ve seen it all. From you it all began and into you it would be all laid to rest. When I see you I somehow I feel that all my thoughts are being subliminally subsumed by you. And I think you are one of the few who has the fortitude and resilience to withhold them without showing an iota of disdain or alarm.  With you can I be assured that the brine immanent in my eyes is-- and will always be-- less than that in yours. It’s a consolation of a different kind. Maybe you won’t understand.

Feeling your cold body touch mine makes me feel connected to the past, the present and the future simultaneously. I feel as if I am here, I am there, and I am everywhere your vast expanse spreads. I can’t even begin to imagine how you engulf so much in you when even the little that remains bare seems endless. Yes, I feel, that’s one of the most remarkable quality that draws me toward you: you are deep. Unfathomably deep. In others I always seek depth; and in myself I always seek height. Shall I tell you a secret? I fancy my heart as mysterious as yours.

I can’t still forget that night when your entire body was glazed in shimmering moonlight. For the first time, I saw the moonlight dance. It was dancing to the symphony created by the sound of waves swashing against the shore and the bombination of the blowing breeze. A symphony I had been longing to hear for many years now. I only felt bad for there was no one with me on that full-moon-lit and vernal night who could truly appreciate this surreal moment. There was no one with whom I could amble on your shores hand in hand. There was no one to who could recite a poetic verse or two to commemorate this splendid moment. There was no one who could be my anchor on your shores or in my life.  I often say this, and I say it again: I’ve never had very big aspirations. I’ve always looked for joy in small little moments such as these, but when one is denied even those, then, one is bound to feel a little resentful. Won’t you second me, O Mighty Ocean?

With fondest love

aviD


                                                               

Cheese Spread

The mother must have gotten used to it by now. It was not the first time it had happened: sometimes it would happen multiple times in the same day. He would snap at her for no reason, or for a reason too picayune. Today it happened when she was edifying him about the importance the scrubbing the crevices of the kitchen-wares lest dirt should settle there and won’t just budge. “I know all that already, mother. Don’t tell me how to look after the kitchen. I’ve known it all my life. It’s hardwired in me. There are better things I need to learn from you. If only I was half as street-smart as you.”
“’Hard-wired!’ damn! That was the word I was looking for today in the school. Your snapping does me some good, I must admit” mother returned.

Not knowing what to say, he just smiled. Mothers...

And then came the routine process of deconstructing the reasons of his crankiness in his head, and the pangs of guilt. Maybe it was the lumps in the white sauce. He should’ve stirred it slowly adding the milk carefully in small quantities. But he knew how to fix it. He got it off the flame once it was done and passed it through a fine sieve. And there was his white sauce—smooth and perfect— all set to be added to the cheese spread he was preparing. He somehow just knew the remedy. No one had taught him all that. It just came so naturally to him. He amazed himself with things such as this.

Or maybe it was the conversation that he had had with an old school-friend today. She just wanted him to be there for her if (God forbid) things don’t work out between her and her boyfriend. “I’d just want you to be around when I am raising the baby. I’d live next door to you, or somewhere in the same locality as yours. Whatever! I would never have an iota of physical or financial expectations from you. Just be there mentally or morally or whatever the f**k they call it.” The lines played out and rang in his head verbatim. It cannot be a coincidence that another dear friend had said exactly the same thing—almost word by word— to him. It was a bit eerie. What should this arrangement be called? Quasi-marriage? It was a commitment however unconventional. Wasn’t it? A commitment he wasn’t sure of—at least at that point in his life. He loved both of them very much. Each of them was such integral part of his life. One with whom he had spent the most adventurous and blissful days of his school life. And the other who had practically initiated him into his youth, and had helped him explore those facets of his existence which he himself was unaware of. Yet, he could not willingly give his consent to either of the proposals. There was something that held him back. Perhaps it was a matter of allegiance. He could not commit himself to something that he wasn’t sure of fulfilling. His life was not entirely his. He owed it many others. He couldn’t be selfish no matter how hard he tried. Everyone was busy envisaging and designing his future for him: parents, sibling, few close relatives, friends—without asking what he wished for. Ironically, he himself had not taken any call yet. What if he doesn’t even live that long. Envisaging so distant a future seemed a smug exercise to him. Nevertheless, each possibility was equally satisfying and would come with its own set of prospects and consequences. But he wanted the latitude of exercising his choice. It was his life too, after all. What he’d want ten years down the line would depend on his frame of mind then. Why would someone want to lay his/her claim on it. He also knew that eventually he’d end up hurting at least one of the parties, which was again something he’d never want to do. Expectations: the root cause of all the sufferings, in this world.

Or perhaps it was the new territory (a dating website) he had ventured into lately. It was quite an “it” thing among his peers. It was transformative exercise for him and nostalgic too. The same array of emotions had rushed through him as did when he was merely twenty one years of age. The same set of misgivings, realisation of inadequacies and the worst of it all—hope. Hope: something that he had conveniently managed to inhume under the overlay of his academic and career pursuits. It was a fun(ny?) place undoubtedly. But he realised that there were no takers of what he had to offer. And what was expected out of him there was something that he was incapable of. He was trying sincerely though. He had seen a couple of known faces there, but he was too prudish to walk up to them and greet them...at least there. In the real world he would wonder if he could ever manage to foray in to those dark and animalistic recesses of the minds of the apparently decorous people; in the virtual world, on the other hand, he would try to seek the humane side of the clientele thereof. “There must be something more than that to them, more than what meets the eyes” he would think in each case—former and latter. But the very initial few visits to that zone had taught him that all the qualities that he had acquired with such a lot of perseverance were of absolutely no value there. Who cared to what length he could go to get that just the right texture for his white sauce and prepare the most scrumptious cheese spread his parents had ever tasted.

Mother patted his back upon tasting it. “You are quite something. Honestly, I had never expected it to be this delicious” she said as she munched on the toast.      

Coming Out

It was not a new practice for Taj to wake up in middle of night all anxious and soaked in sweat. It was the same dream she had been seeing since she was five. It's hard to even call it a dream for even dreams have a narrative however vague and absurd. It was rather a series of fragmented visions. She tried very hard to recall the details no sooner than she awoke. All she could remember was that it was the same dream. Exactly the way it had always been. The content, however, eluded her as always. No amount of visits to the mazaar had helped. She was even taken to Ajmer. No success. Psychiatrists said they could only help once the contents of the dream become known. Badi Bi did not allow his son (Taj's father) to consult the elderly relatives fearing that if discussed too much and with too many, the problem may give Taj a bad name. "We have to get her married one day, Rehmaan; don't forget she will be turning 22 this year. People would be loath to accept a disturbed girl in their families. I know...I know she is absolutely fine. It is just these weird dreams. Dreams are dreams. They come and go. Why so much pother" she would solemnly remark cutting thin slices of supari  with the sarota(metallic slicer) which her grandmother had given her.

The same events recurred tonight. Flurried, Taj switched on the bedside-lamp, and gulped down the water in the glass kept on the bedside-table. But as the she felt the chill of the water passing through her throat with every sip, she also saw the contents of the recurring dream flashing before her. Her heart started pounding. The sweating got even more profuse. She began reciting the Ayatul Kursi , but she paused mid-way. She could see each of the fragmented vision ever so clearly. Every detail of it visible with a remarkable clarity. Suddenly it all started making sense to her. Horripilation.

Her breath returned to normal after few minutes.
With squinted eyes she glanced at the wall-clock. It was quarter to three. Fifteen minutes from now Badi Bi  would wake up and go about running errands as if she had never slept the night before. She always woke up so fresh. Today, of course, she would be even more charged. It was Eid. Taj decided to go back to sleep. It was still two hours for her daily routine to start.

It was morning, and a pretty one at that. A mid-November morning. Sun-light was warm but no more prickling. Taj observed the house. It was exactly the way it had always been on Eid: the vases filled with fresh and fragrant flowers. Roses, particularly, as Rehan-her younger brother- was too fond of them; the air redolent with the delicious fragrance of sewainyan; the deewans covered with spotless and crisp white sheets; the covers on the bolsters had "Eid Mubaarak" embroidered on them in pale green silk. Badi Bi said Taj's mother had embroidered the message with her own hands. When they were kids Badi Bi would not allow Taj and Rehaan near the deewans lest the sheets should get creased. "Learn to sit gracefully, Taj. Don't want you grow up to be a cultured woman. There should be elegance even in the most mundane of the acts of a woman. You can't be as unruly as your brother" she would say frowning.

Taj would never feel bad at being checked by Badi Bi. She would always smile back. The table would be ladened with sundry snacks-- some roasted but mostly fried, variety of seasonal fruits, dry-fruits (her favorite dates too) neatly arranged in sparkling glass bowls. As the day would progress many guests would walk in carrying presents for the family and eidi for Taj and Rehan. Abba would greet the guests and hug them dressed in his new bandh-gala. Badi Bi would escort the ladies to her bed-room where they would have sewaiyan and closely observe the mehendi-patterns of each other. Humza aapa was always too proud of her designs. "I don't settle for anything less than the best, you see. I call the artists all the way from Hazrat Ganj"  she would say.

Taj, not being able to find Badi Bi, went to the courtyard to look for her. Badi Bi was scouring clean the big cauldron. "Good morning, girl! I am just cleaning this handi for the biriyani. You know how your father got angry the last time when we ran out of Biriyani before all the guests were done. Last night I asked Shaukat to hand me down the handi  from the attic. Your mother was an expert at cooking Biriyani. It's a science very few people know. It's not merely a mixture of rice and chopped lamb. It's an exquisite dish to be wrought with great care and patience. What would this new girl Salma know. But I am growing old, you see. I have to rely on domestic help now. I am a strict supervisor though, wouldn't you agree?" she said grinning. Taj could see her kattha-tainted teeth. "I miss your mother, especially on festivals. A house ought to have a mistress" she added misty-eyed.

Taj changed the topic as she did not want to dampen the festive spirit that had enveloped the house. "Badi Bi wouldn't we have Zarda this time? You know I like neither the Biryani nor the Paya" she said. "What kind of a Muslim woman does not like Biriyani? I know this has nothing to do with the Biriyani. It's about the lamb, isn't it? Why do you always fuss over non-vegetarian food? You are depriving yourself of such gastronomic pleasure. Foolish girl you are!" Badi Bi said in a tone that spelt exasperation and genuine concern.

"I don't know, Badi Bi. It's just that I've never liked it. There is not always a specific reason for personal likes and dislikes when it comes to food or colour or a mehndi-pattern. Not everything has a reason" Taj said. But the last statement came out a bit reluctantly as if she was trying to convince herself more than Badi Bi.
"You've always been a stubborn and fussy eater. Your abba is famous for bringing the healthiest and biggest of the lambs in the entire moholla. But, wilful child that you are, you will never even touch it, let alone tasting it. I have observed your habits right form your childhood-- you always behaved very different from the rest of your peers. I never figured out what exactly was the difference; but there was a difference nonetheless. What do you mean you don’t like non-veg food! Sometimes I feel you are not fit to be Muslim woman in the first place."

"Badi Bi!!" Taj cried. She took a couple of anxious seconds to compose herself, and said: "You know, Badi Bi, I think you are right."

Badi Bi returned a catatonic look. "La haul vila kuvat! Are you out of your mind, young lady? What do you think you are saying? What if your abba hears you! Come on, repent those words and ask Allah for forgiveness. Never should you repeat such blasphemous words, bitiya.”

Taj did not flex a single facial muscle. She stood there like a statue with her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Did you not hear me? Ask for forgiveness from Allah right now." Badi Bi's voice was stern this time.

"I think you have lost your mind. Ya Allah! such an inauspicious start to such a mubaraq day. Are you possessed by some devil? Maybe it's all because of things they teach you at that "celebrated" college of yours. This new-age education, I tell you, is hell-bent on expunging values and religion. I always told your abba to stop sending you to college and start looking for a groom instead. But then I am just an old woman. Who listens to me! Had your mother Rashida been alive, I am sure, she would have paid some heed to this old woman's counsel. Ya khudda!" 

Taj's father could not help but keep aside his morning-daily upon hearing Badi Bi's bawling. "What's fuss all about? Taj have you refused to help your grandmother in the chores again?" he asked.

" Rehmaan, take your daughter to either a doctor or a mazaar  for either she has lost her mind or she is possessed" said Badi Bi.

"Stop spinning riddles, Amma. What's the matter? Taj, will you tell me or not?"

Taj looked up for the first time in last fifteen minutes or so, and said solemnly: "Abba I don't think so now is the right time to discuss this. It's an auspicious occasion. I don't want to be the mood-spoiler. Guests will start pouring in any time. We better proceed with the preparations."

"I think she is right, Amma. You have a habit of making mountain of a mole hill. Whatever is the issue can be dealt with later. In fact we shall talk about it over lunch. Now come on the two of you, don't pull such forlorn faces. Get going with the preparations. I had sent Shaukat to get some gulkand. Has he returned yet? And, Taj, go and get your brother ready. Go see if he is still sleeping"

The father-daughter duo left leaving behind a speechless and bewildered Badi Bi. "Khuda khair kare" she said under her breath.

In the afternoon  dastarkhwan was laid, replete with sweet and savoury delicacies. Badi Bi had dropped Zarda from the menu. There was an eerie silence hanging over the food and the Malik family. Badi Bi decided to break it.
"So, Taj, would you like to tell your abba about your act of profanity?"
"Amma, are you still stuck with that? Taj, what is she talking about?" said Rehmaan Malik fixing her gaze on his daughter.

Little Rehan sensed the uneasiness in the ambiance and channelized all his attention to the bowl of sewainyan as if mentally speculating on the philosophy of sewainyan.

Taj put her spoon down and took a deep breath. She began speaking thus:" Abba, Badi Bi, you remember the cryptic dream I have been seeing for as long as I can remember. Today early in the morning when I woke up after having the same dream, I saw the dream actually flashing right in front of my eyes wide open."
The mother and son listened intently trying not to miss a single word that slipped out of Taj's mouth.
"So what did you see?" asked Malik.

"It was a lovely forest-- more of a grove--replete with all varieties of colourful flowers and shrubs. There was one particular note of fragrance which dominated among the other fragrances. I can't describe it in words. It was somewhat similar to the smell that emanates from that temple in the next street. An earthy smell.
I could also hear the gurgling of a river nearby, but I could not see it. It was twilight. Darkness had already begun to descend and had started tingeing everything with shades of black. I could also sense moisture in the breeze which affirmed the presence of a river in close proximity.

Suddenly, I sensed commotion. I could see clouds of dust hovering a few meters from where I was standing. I saw a herd of cows running past me. None touched me. Cows...such cows Badi Bi....I bet you would have never seen such cows ever in your life time. All of them stood tall. Their bodies were anointed with palm-shaped vermilion marks. Their horns and hoofs were gold-mounted. The gold gleamed in the oblique rays of setting sun. The hue of the sky matched with the colour of vermilion anointed on their bodies. They all looked at me while passing by. The look in their eyes was that of affection and familiarity. The next moment I found myself hollering out their names in a strange language: ' Ari Gaang!, Ari....Bhoori!..Ari Shyama!....O Dhauri!'. I was stupefied, Abba. It was a language I had never heard in my life. I think it was something similar to Awadhi. But it was not Awadhi. And those names-- I had no clue whatsoever how did I know their names. But they responded to my calls. It was as if they had known me forever.

As I stood there trying to make sense of this neo-eternal bond, I felt someone's hand over my right shoulder. It was Indulekha."



"Indulekha, who??" asked a visibly flustered Badi Bi as she ate the spoonful of biriyani that she had to forgotten to ingest listening to the description agog.

"I don't know who she was, Badi Bi," continued Taj in an exasperated tone," I just somehow knew her name, and she seemed so familiar to me. Calling her beautiful would be a gross understatement. Her complexion was like that of polished ivory. She had big and eloquent eyes outlined by thick mascara. I still remember those eyes: eyes which seemed to recite poetry with every blink. I don't exactly remember the dress she was wearing. I think it was a lehnga of the colour of purple tulip flowers.

  'Hey you girl,' she said to me, 'why didn't you fetch the lunch-basket on time today? You know He kept waiting for you the entire afternoon. I never knew you could be this careless. If Braj-rani gets to know of your laxity she will take you to task. Then don't come running to me. Do you realise He was hungry the entire day. Apologize to Him directly. He may be here any moment. He's already a little late...go-dhooli is also about to end. The night would fall in no time. My eyes are eager to see Him. No...our eyes. Careless girl you are!' saying so she swiftly ran away, with her long hair-braid oscillating from this side to that, to join her sorority. There were about seven-eight of them. They all watched me intently from a distance. I knew each of them. There was Vishakha too. She just lived two streets away from my house and would often seek my mother permission to allow me to accompany her to the city for selling curds. Sweet girl she was. We would often sneak out together to watch Him play on the river-bank with his friends. Just watch Him from a distance. Nothing more...nothing less.

The darkness was thickening gradually. The stream of cows did not seem to end. One herd after the other. Then another. There must've been infinite cows, I am sure, Badi Bi.  Following the herd of these formidable cows I saw a silhouette. I think it was Him. A tall figure. I could see the feather on his head flirting with the breeze. The moon-locket hanging down his neck was sparkling. More than visual sensation, I was relying on my sensation of smell. Every time he took a step closer to me I could sense the fragrance intensifying. The fragrance exuding from His body cannot be described. It was intoxicating to say the least. I would not have regretted dying that very second inhaling that unearthly fragrance. My pulse was amplifying every second. Notwithstanding his dark complexion, his face was aglow. Curly locks neatly tied in a turban which had become slightly slackened as it was  late in the evening. Not the turban's fault entirely. How long can it hold something to which so many hearts are affixed. My heart too. Those eyebrows were nothing short of Cupid's bow launching heart-piercing glances one after the other from underneath. Believe me, my heart had actually stopped beating when he looked at me and smiled. I could actually feel a void in the hollow of my chest. With his left arm resting on his waist, he raised his right arm to touch my chin. 'Why did you not get me my lunch-basket today, eh? I was so hungry. My friends went hungry too. You must never do so again. You can't evade me. I never ever let go of my people. Bring me my lunch on time tomorrow. I shall wait for you by Kadamb-Khandi. Alone.' 



As he walked away saying what he had to say, I stood there like a statue, unable to move a fibre of my body. Each strand of hair on my body was erect. My speech was impaired. Not a syllable could push itself out of my mouth despite the best of my efforts. And tears were gushing out of eyes in thick streams. That's when I saw myself for the first time. I was dressed in the same fashion as were Indulekha, Vishaakha  and the other women. My arms were full of chudis and kangans. I was wearing lovely anklets in my feet and the most exquisite of garlands and necklaces. And I was carrying a basket full of many food items in my left hand.

Upon turning I saw him dissolving in the semi-dark horizon. I wanted to call out his name and ask him to stop, but my speech had betrayed me. There were no women. No cows. All there was left was darkness. Surreal darkness. I ran and ran in the infinite darkness only to find no end of it.

You were right Badi Bi, I don’t deserve to be a Muslim woman. I don't think I can do away with my queer habits. Doing away with them would mean doing away with myself. Now I know where my calling lies. I have decided to visit Vrindavan tomorrow. ”