To Tarun Tejpal: The Alchemist of Desires?

Mr. Tejpal,

The cat is out of the bag. While they still try to ascertain if it’s black in colour or white, the crow has certainly flown away, never to return and sit as honestly, fearlessly and with as much dignity on letters which stood for all three – TEHELKA.  

Since news is all about numbers circled in red and flashed till the lights go off, let’s begin with what your site shows me. On searching for stories on ‘sexual exploitation’ covered by Tehelka, this is what I find. What a big number! More than 500 times, you have told us the truth and nothing but the truth, be it on trafficking of little girls or the ‘saint’ Assaram losing his halo. Losing his halo. Why, makes you think, does it not?

First – What you did, allegedly 

A woman journalist has accused you of sexually assaulting her on two occasions during a media event organized by the publication in Goa, earlier this month. Let’s put it differently. A woman whose father was your colleague once, and who is good friends with your daughter – someone who ‘had so deeply respected and admired you for years.’ If you fail, it will not just be at a professional level but at a very personal level too. You also know how shamefully that failure, if at all, will come about, for it would be proven beyond doubt that you assaulted someone who considered you a ‘paternal figure … responsible for offering me my first job, and always just a phone call away whenever I needed his advice on a story or life.’ 

After the first episode of what you call in your conversations ‘a drunken banter’ ... 

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The Lamp in the House

Rachna Says says her blog. I say, Rachna does not just say, but says it such that it cannot but touch you with its truth and beauty. Even as she manages all her loves and all the relationships at home – logging off on weekends, working, holidaying, packing lunch boxes, managing two boys – her journal on Love and Relationships is a constantly woven carpet of thoughts, with designs and threads picked from her immediate milieu.  

Her classic style of writing depends on no external frills to make itself charming. No added hyperbole or extra adjectives thrown in. No sensational revelation and not a single drum beat. Rachna’s writing is as pure and simple as it gets – and as warm as the person that she is. She is like my God-sister in the world of blogging. The wise one behind the 'relax and ignore' in my mail box. And Rachna’s blog is what my blog aspires to be one day – a space which talks about the everyday in a manner I connect with, as does every reader who stops by. 

No wonder then, that her request to be a guest on her blog was met with mixed emotions. A feeling of elation for being asked by a blogger of her repute coupled with a misgiving about my own writing skills. I did not want to be a spot on her blog, a blob of mindless writing trying to find footing amongst brilliantly thought-out posts. 

Out of exactly this stress context was born ‘The Lamp in the House’. I left it just as it was born. Unedited. Truest in sentiment. For nothing less can suit Rachna and her space.

Here is the link then :  http://www.rachnaparmar.com/2013/11/the-lamp-in-the-house.html

We Two, Our One

So many are roaming around breathless just now. They just finished talking to me about the Merits of Having Two Children, or more. Truth be told, I am a little breathless myself. For looking for air space to explain my views. Got none, their enthusiasm for me to deliver another child far exceeding my own will to make another bundle. 

But, I am happy. 

Not just because I finally know I can make people breathless, but also because the arguments used for forwarding the idea of having more than one child are something I carry my own answers to. And that, our decision of ‘we two and our one’ is not taken merely because everyone says so or that’s-how-it-is, but because we are the parents who reasoned between ourselves and decided to keep it that way.

And when I look around I realize that in this we are not alone. 

An increasing number of couples are opting for a single child. Reasons are aplenty ...

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Babe in the Air

Richa was the first person to drop a ‘keep writing so beautifully’ IndiMail, soon after my blog was born. Richa it was who sent me my first Liebster Badge too (and I celebrated, went out for dinner, did not cook). And over posts and comments and mails, one day, we grew to call each other ‘Soul Sisters’. Full of love and warmth to spread, and bubbling with energy that reaches me through my computer screen, she has been that constant ‘pat-on-the-back’ that I needed. And her 'well done' matters!

One look at The Philosopher’s Stone and you will know what I mean. She writes, of course. Writes wonderfully, always. But what inspires me the most is that she writes for the love of writing. ‘I write so I exist. I exist so I write’ is what she says. And it shows - prolific, talented, committed, writing-after-the-kitchen-is-wound-up and a long day at office done. I am yet to come across such consistently interesting and well-written short stories as I read on her blog. I am also yet to meet a person who merges her public journal with her personal life as elegantly as this woman here. 

So, when she tells me – I need a guest post, darling. You have 2 days, the topic is Travelling with Children and you cannot refuse - I do not take it as a threat. I take it as a compliment, for she adds, as usual in her ever-encouraging voice – I know you can. I trust you can. Just write!

And I write. About a baby in the air. A babe in the air, if you wish to call it that after you read the post. 

I do. I call it ‘Babe in the Air’ and for the rest, here is the link.

http://subzeroricha.blogspot.in/2013/11/babe-in-air.html

By the way, don't let the pictures down there mislead you. 

 

PT and Serendi-Pt

We joined our new school the same year. Different classes, for some we have to call our seniors. But the same year. Coincidence. After 9 years of the nuns working hard on me, I was in a co-educational set-up. Happy. He, after years of hopping schools as a ‘transferable case’ was finally in 9th standard to hop no more. I was in 8th. Close behind!

No idea that his class was next to mine. Or that we were welcomed in the same orientation. That we both shared apprehensions and curiosity of the new school together, but apart. We did not even know what the other looked like. 

Years went by, like they do in school. He did his thing and I did mine. Best student he would be declared every passing year, whereas my report would read ‘she tried’. He would travel to play, sing and debate for his school all over the country, and I would travel too – to school and back. He shone bright, I instead socialized. Apart, still. 

Fast forward! Standard 11th and he in 12th. Still ahead! 

And now this is important … 

A rumour somewhere, that he has his eyes on me (Even tried finding out from a cousin of his from my previous school, about me). I closed up mine, totally. Did open them, those eyes, sometimes to see admire him from behind the herculean century old pillars and wonder – Him, Oh I see. But why me? The peahen danced secretly, but gathered all her feathers the moment him she would see. He was told it’s the wrong bird, for she is taken already. Someone’s jealousy! So he wound up his feathers too. And we went about doing our thing. Apart, still, but proud in our own swings.    

And then there was no choice one day. No pillars to hide behind. 

We both hated PT. Coincidence. 

And sports day was fast approaching. Which meant our PTIs would don their caps and running shoes with salwar-kameez, polish their whistles, get all worked up standing under the cool shade of the trees as we tried to jog, crawl, trot, swim and sleep walk around the 500 mts track at 40 degrees. Hundreds in the field. Trying to look sporty, be sporty and win their races. And 2, just 2, looking for excuses to not do anything. Me and him. Apart though, still, not knowing that the other’s anatomy too was making similar excuses to skip the march past. To sit on the sides, in the shade and watch the world slog, left-right-left.  

He reached before me, to that certain step where I saw him seconds after he sat. Too late to turn back and no other place around. Fidgeting with my hair, re-buckling my watch strap and doing other mindless things that being conscious is made of, I reached where he sat. Trying to look away to look disinterested. Him and me, both. Failing miserably. The first encounter after the rumour, and there were 2 pairs of jelly legs and a pair of teenage hearts shaking and beating to the tune of – ‘Oh Lord! What next?’

Serendipity. 

A fortunate coincidence.

“I am sorry for causing you embarrassment. I did not mean to, was never my intention. I just wanted to be friends. And we can never trust these middle men and women” said he. I looked up to him, literally, for he sat a step above, as had always been. 

“Cool!” said I, as nonchalantly as I could feign it. Did not expect it. Who admits it, except a gentleman of the highest degree? My voice was not prepared. My heart even less. It skipped loops upon loops. What nice jaw line he has.Thank God for the drum beats of the march past. 

“So, I guess it’s all OK then. No discomfort no turning away no need to make the visible invisible, right?” So he had noticed, thought I. Even me behind the pillars, and I turned red.

“Yes” is what I said. This time my heart danced. 

Friends. 

Down he came to sit beside me. Two yellow dots on the grey steps. One still towering over the other. 6 feet. No, nearly there. But then, he was always a step above the rest. Wasn't he?

We talked, and soon we were speaking to each other. Drums and whistles and PTIs’ instructions no longer claimed our ears. “I quite like you, you know” and I wondered if he was proposing? “You’re okay too, actually!” and I could see our feathers opening. Not to flaunt or be a prude. No. Just to reveal everything that we wanted to. About ourselves. At this point. From inside. 

And that moment etched in my photographic memory. His too, or so he claims.

Thank God for hating PT. Thank God for a kind PTI. And for the fortunate coincidence of lame excuses of anatomy.

Thank God for Serendi-Pt. Serendi-Pt? 

Platinum – Pt. 

Did you know?

Rare material and hence highly valuable. For sure he is, my man I speak about. 

Resistant to wear and tarnish. Of impeccable character, I tell you! 

A by-product of mining and processing. Really! It does show, those manners, that polish! 

Non-reactive even at high temperatures. The calm in the storm of my tea cup. 

Catalyst for many reactions. He made me pick up my pen, again. And so much more.

“Little silver” but lots of love. 

It’s rare. 

It's so him.

And it’s been 13 years since we shared that berth. Married for 6 years, and with a bundle who loves to pull my ears. Especially when I don these you see in the picture above. The first ever gift in a little red box, from a fellow yellow-dot, who I fell in love with when no such plan existed.

On our day of love. Our day of Serendi-Pt.

[Written for 'Platinum Day of Love' hosted by IndiBlogger]