Longings of a heart

National highway 43 is an epitome of India’s post-independence progress. As the sun turned the ochre horizon to ripe orange on that Sunday morning, we were racing through the 8-lane expressway that connected Hyderabad with Bangalore. Three hours later we retreated from the enviable route to the dusty kutcha roads to reach Kurnool. My mom had an invitation to a baby naming ceremony of her relatives. In India, we have celebrations on innumerable occasions and I am inclined to think that the strength of our society lies in bondages we have as families with one another. A new life was born and it was time to rejoice. The neonate was awed at the sea of humanity that embraced her that day, not knowing that she was the cause of this familial hullabaloo. I got to meet scores of aunts, uncles, cousins. Old relations were renewed, new ones were formed. After a heavy lunch we set out to Hi-tech city again reviewing the revelry that we were part of. Few miles down the road, the post lunc

GLAMOURISING GODS I walk through the streets that flaunt a huge L’Oreal hoarding pummeling us to buy the nail polish without which we are not worthy enough. I enter the cloth showroom that encourages me to sin with a nefarious tagline- because it is so easy to forgive yourself. The roads are replete with advertisements showcasing blonde half naked women cajoling us to fall for temptation. As I move on there are flexi boards of colleges with beautiful teenage girls (and no boys for a co-ed institution) with small font description of their infrastructure. Enter my house you will find the plastic carry bags with women adorned by heavy jewellery foisting on us the philosophy that happy marriages are not possible with out gold and silk saris. I then enter my dining room and glance at the walls painted by fine distemper. I see a moderate sized rectangular wall hanging reminding that Christ is the silent spectator of this house. The other wall has a portrait of Jesus and a cursorial

METAMORPHOSIS The howls of the wolves and the rattle of the crickets interrupted the scary silence of Lamtaput. It was just 9 pm but the thick blanket of darkness was not challenged by any flickers of flames unlike urban India. I had just had the last morsel of my supper when a phone rang with an aura of urgency about it. A woman in labor had just arrived and I being on call that day had to see her first. With a torch in one hand and a stethoscope in another, I trudged along the path to the hospital. The labor room was filled with the customary hustle-bustle as I walked in. The patient crying in pain, a dozen chaperons attending to her, a dozen more outside the room separated by a wooden door and the nurses busy with recording vitals- all caused an unrest in my heart. I pretended confidence and gave a ‘I-saw-this-a-thousand –times-before’ look to the husband of the patient assuring him that I would take care. Just out of medical school, that too from one of the best in our s

Do you remember me teacher? 12 years ago I was your student in St. Francis De Sales high school. In one of the long walks over that building corridor, I met you for the first time, with an explanatory letter for coming late to school. The initial encounter was marked with fear and uncertainty as you guided me to the class. The way you taught us English was exemplary that would send our blossoming minds to imaginary worlds. From Shakespeare’s Macbeth to Khuswanth Singh’s Mother Teresa; from O Henry’s New York to Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes, we wandered through each of those worlds. The captivating situations you asked us to write about ignited our intellects. You were strict and Oh! How much I hated it! You would not budge from the standards you set for us for anything. I was asked to write an imposition 5 times for having written a prose in ‘active voice’, when it had to be done otherwise. But thank God, that the sense of language had taken good hold of me since then. How simple y