ChirpyQuill

  Making of a Frittata  Just like eggs, you get broken ; not once , not twice but a dozen times and whisked like there’s no tomorrow. While holding on to your equanimity, you start to wonder what is happening- you were suppose to be a chicken but then a lot of dust just like baking flour is thrown onto you and you are whisked more - again like as if there is no tomorrow.  You meet a lot of other chopped ones - like onions , peppers , chillies and wonder why it is all being put together. Then some more strings get attached - just like them cheese strings. Meanwhile somewhere, a pan is getting buttered for you, of which you have no idea. That’s not the end - now, in that pan, you are thrown into the heat which feels like a pre-heated oven at 350. With nothing to forfend, you accept your fate and wait to meet your destiny , not for one or two or three but a whole 60 mins. Then, realisation start to dawn upon you, why you had to be broken , why every thing got added to you to make that mix

When we start engaging in a discussion with some people, many a times we walk away frustrated. We walk away with a feeling that nothing was accomplished and the discussion went in an entirely different direction from the stated or understood purpose. Instead of clarifying the issue at hand, we ended up defending something entirely unrelated, mostly ourselves.  Here are a few ways that is done, very purposefully. What Aboutism Shooting the messenger i.e. questioning your intent, motive or casting aspersion at your character itself Making light of the matter, laughing your concern off as trivial Seeking support of others who are politically or socially aligned and then shouting you down or scoffing at you. Emotional blackmail i.e. playing the victim card. Conflating your position with an untenable one and putting words in your mouth This happens in discussions within families and in social scenarios. I will lay out a few examples and share how one could recognize and therefore deal with

  We all have seen it. From a hill or just from some distance. A line cutting through the foliage, scratching the ground, snaking, meandering across the landscape. Starting from the far side of the creek or from the bottom of the rocky hill, cutting across the jungle floor to eventually vanish into the thicket of trees up yonder. Zigzagging like a drunken sailor. A mile long reptile hugging the forest floor. A Trail. It is pretty too. It must mean something, mustn’t it? It must have a Purpose. A path designed to take one from point A to point B? From here to there or perhaps bring’em from there to here? Both seem plausible enough, for a Purpose. Don’t they? Wait, but who designed the Trail? Who, what, when carved it onto Earth’s chest? It seems like it may have existed for ever. Like life itself! Wait, who, what, when designed Life? Therein may lie our foible. The path may exist afterall, not to take people from here to there. It may exist because people went from here to there. It was

In endurance sports such as Running, Mountaineering or Triathlons, the ones  I am familiar with, we don’t race against another person. We also don’t race against ourselves. We instead race towards a version of ourselves that sits perched on the other side of that distance. A version that we have conceived through arduous meditations on those long trails and training runs.  That version of us, on the far side of the 26.2 mile or a 100 mile long trail or road is prettier, hardier and a more desirable version of ourselves. It’s who we wanna become. A Marathoner, a Mountaineer or what have you. Event day comes around and the Caterpillar must push itself out of the the Chrysallis and the Butterfly must earn its wings. It is a hard day, no matter what has gone on before that. It is a terribly hard day. But it does get done, this version of the metamorphosis complete. The Ghost that sat on the other side and beckoned us, has become us now. A stronger, more powerful, more confident us, with pr

  May 31st 1984, Amritsar – we were huddled together over a tub filled with cold water and lots of mangoes in it. After a scorching hot day, eating those chilled mangoes were such a delight. Dad was listening to the 9 PM news bulletin and the news reader was ever beautiful and graceful Salma Sultan. The mood of our family and every other family became tense when she read .. “ अभी अभी समाचार मिला है के पंजाब को मिलिट्री के हवाले कर दिया गया है और पूरे पंजाब में कर्फ्यू लग गया है ” ( Just got the news that Military has been given the control of Punjab and a curfew has been declared for the entire state).  In the next few weeks, the events which ensued, would write a dark chapter in the history book of Punjab. This was not the first time, Punjab was drenched in blood but this time, the events ripped through its heart – The Golden temple, Amritsar! The very fabric of “Punjabiyat”, weaved with the threads of basic tenet given by first Guru, Baba Nanak – “ ਅਵਲ ਅੱਲਾਹ

  July    1947, summer heat was scorching the plains of Punjab. A feeling of impending doom gripped the village of Padhana; a small hamlet near Lahore, which was earmarked to be in Pakistan after partition. There were rumors that a bunch of Muslims are going to attack the village during the night to kill and loot all Hindus in the village. An air of tension gripped the male members of a Haveli ( a big multiroom house). A decision was made ; all ladies of the house were    to leave in the dark of the night and walk to a nearby village which was to come under India after partition. An old lady and four little girls ( age 16-9) started their 34ish Km journey on foot, which passed through a pond and eventually land in Naushehra ( Village in Indian Army control). Male members reached through a different route. All livestock , all expensive clothes and utensils left behind as it is and were entrusted with friends and neighbours. Jewellery was buried underground. Everyone believed that once t

 यह बारिश और तुम बहुत जलती होगी तेरी घनी ज़ुल्फ़ों से ,  जो आसमान में घटाएं उमड़ आती हैं,  तेरी मुस्कराहट का कोई जादू ही होगा,  जिसे देखने को बूँदें बरस जाती हैं,  तुम्हे अपनी गीली ज़ुल्फ़ें झटकते हुए देख लिया होगा,  सब्ज़ हो जाती है बहार और हर मंज़र धुल सा जाता है,  तुम्हें छूने को कितना तरसता होगा इस मौसम में,  जो चाय कुल्हड़ भी तुम्हारे हाथों में इतराता है,  तुम्हारी आवाज़ की सरगम ही होगी यह,  जिसे सुंनने को हर पत्ता बूंदों के साथ मल्हार गता है,  सोचो कितनी चाहत होगी इस बारिश को तेरे दीदार की ,  वरना  कौन आसमान से उतर के ज़मीन पे  मिलने आता  है 

You always arrive where you are meant to be, not where you intended to go. And so, I found myself unexpectedly in Mumbai, pacing up and down the staircase outside the ICU where my mother was admitted. It was a traumatizing sight that afternoon; I had met her for the first time since her brain surgery, her beautiful soft hair, her crowning glory, had been shaved off. She had a row of staples running down her beautiful bald head from the center all the way to the back and left, marking the spot where the neurosurgeon had exposed her brain to remove the clot that was threatening to send her into a coma. Her face lit up brightly as she saw me walk into the ICU. A slight grimace as she struggled to recognize me and then magically that thousand-watt smile when she remembered it was me! It took a superhuman effort to push back the tempest of tears threatening to betray my composure as I walked up to her, held her hand, and told her that she looked absolutely perfect as she did every day.

 बहता हुआ पानी   बहते हुए पानी सा है यह समां,  ना थमता है ना रुकता है यह कहीं  कई लम्हे डूबे हुए रहते हैं इसमें,  अभी अभी होते हैं यहाँ तो अभी कहीं नहीं,  कभी शोर-ओ-गुल है ज़िन्दगी का तो हैं कभी तन्हाईयाँ,  कभी साथ होता है कोई तो कभी रह जाती हैं परछाइयां,  कभी चमकता हुआ कोई दिन होता है, होती हैं कितनी बातें  और कभी चुप सी तनहा गुज़रती हैं कितनी रातें कभी खंडर से दिखते हैं घर जो थे कभी आबाद,  कभी हम बनते हैं यादें तो कभी सताती है किसी की याद,  कभी हाथ डालो इस पानी में तो मिलता है सोना खरा ,  और कभी अधूरी ख्वाहिशों से दिल रहता है भरा,  कभी होता है सब पास हमारे और कभी खाली से हाथों में कुछ नहीं  बहते हुए पानी सा यह समां, ना रुकता है ना थमता है कहीं

  It’s a day people say Yeah, I’m so happy finally it’s a Sunday It’s a day kids say mom today I’ll go out and play The husband says today I’ll rest and relax And maybe later if I feel like, I’ll exercise and work on building my six pack I’ll also binge watch that Netflix show That I started not so long ago  Today’s I’ll call my college buddies Just to say hello But the lady of the house, she’s wise she knows Just how her every Sunday goes She cooks she cleans like any other day In addition to making special dishes her family says Nothing changes for her and her routine Except deciding if today she’s cooking beans or greens  And there’s piles of laundry to tackle in between So while her family rests and relaxes on weekends For her the routine never ends                                                            ………..Leena