Longings of a heart

The pleasant breeze comforts the humid bodies stressed out in summer heat. Trees nod in unison confirming  the sweetness of that sensation. The birds are just back after a busy day out. The crickets rustle in rhythm as if they are the orchestra of the evening. I sit in a wooden push back chair welcoming the guests trickling in well past the scheduled time. My mother calls me in with a tone of urgency. I quickly change from Peter England formals to a vest and Lungi - the south Indian attire of the layman which can be confused to a bed sheet tied round the waist and well known for its comfort. A neighbor who is well versed with the traditions of wedding brings a chalk to a place in the verandah  cleaned by a bucket of water. She artistically draws a floral design. A plastic stool is arranged and I am asked to get seated over it. My nephew who is 8 years is asked for and he appears more out of compulsion than curiosity. He is the best man and he gets a similar plac...

It was during my second year of medical school that I first attended VCA. I learnt of this congregation that met in Bethany school every Sunday, by a group of seniors. The first time I saw Aunty Ambrose was on one of these Sunday mornings. She was clad in a cotton sari and the way she walked around those holy precincts betrayed her age. I was introduced to her by one of my seniors Vidya. She smiled at me as if we had years of rapport and encouraged me to attend every week. That first encounter with her left me thinking. She had inextinguishable energy about her. Though her skin was wrinkled and looked frail in physical frame, she greeted members with genuine concern. It was not a superficial social gesture. But it was a love that came from a sincere faith in Christ. Rarely did she preach during those final years. But when she did, there was encouragement and strength to the listeners. For a newcomer to Christ like me, more than her words, her presence spoke volumes. She used t...

I am venturing into murky ground here. There are people who have laid down lives for their worldviews and it is difficult to pull it off without causing offence. Let me confess that I am a struggling Christian and a Dalit trying to make sense of my identity in the Indian society of 2015. This prose is a natural consequence of that struggle and it is, I believe, the state of affairs of lakhs in our country. I have long tried to evade this topic, but I now think that I have to get into deeper waters to arrive at a semblance of truth, which according to the Good Teacher would set me free. I also admit that my opinion may not be complete or circumspect. After all my views are the product of my life and the realities it has presented so far- incomplete and at some instances wet behind the ears. I am a member of a fusion family. My father is an atheist and a Dalit. My mother is a Christian and a Dalit. Being their child I had the unpleasant experiences of being bombarded by the phil...

(TWO YEARS AGO The serene lanes of Lamtaput bustle with life at 7 AM in the morning. Children run merrily in the ground staining their uniforms with dust. Like a Maharajah’s procession a train of motor vehicles trudge along the market street. As one gets down the vehicle, he can smell the sweet Jalebi from the nearby eatery. Women in a variety of tribal attires present a cultural odyssey before the day of intense marketing begins. It is Saturday and it is Hato meaning market in local dialect.  By 8 AM the noise hits a higher octave as men and women bargain in full intensity at fish stalls as children obstinately drag their parents to a confectionery shop. Ladies squat in the midst of their vegetables trying to strike the right deals with the customers.  It is one of such ladies who shall be the object of this story. Gurubari is a 50 year old woman who has presented to AshaKiran hospital with intense knee pain that she was brought on a gurney to the consultation ro...

 Days and months after the EAMCET, the 2004 batch of our college was back to examinations. Internal assessments came and went, but these final tests were the ultimate challenge to their calibers. The first half of September delivered some electrifying moments of anxiety and apprehension to the young hearts. This essay is a casual reminiscence of the first part of our course that scuttled to termination. The first semester of MBBS began in August last year. For the first few days traumatizing episodes of ragging were experienced. Then came the freshers day. The oath of a medical man we took that day was an indelible experience. Matters turned worse after that day. Police surveillance that was present earlier vanished and seniors carried on their activities with impunity. The austere and secluded living continued for the first few months.  This was also the time when intense co-curricular activity took place. Some resorted to rhetoric, wh...

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 c...