Rainy Days and Untold Stories

I’ve always loved rainy days… especially when I don’t have to go to work or venture out.

I fell in love with steaming mugs of black coffee by foggy windows. It only gets better when your hair is still wet from the shower and you are wrapped in a fluffy blanket. Oh how I loved rainy days!

There was a time in my life when the rain inspired me. Back in Delhi, when it rains I either dance or write. Yep!! I have a ritual whenever monsoon hits the capital - A rain-dance on the hostel rooftops until I catch a bad cold. Whenever the sound of rain hits the scorching courtyard, I’d run outside to smell the freshly-showered wet earth – one of the most pleasant smells in the world.

Or I’d write.

Rain would always bring out the storyteller in me. Stories about past, life and love would silently be hummed from my fingertips to the keyboard in Font Calibri(Body) size 11. Sitting next to a foggy window with a steaming cup of coffee (or green tea on occasional health conscious days), words would flow, tunes would suddenly arise in my head and untold stories would be told.

But those were days of long ago…

I woke up to rain this morning as I snuggled up in my blanket. (Yes! I wear blankets in May! The perks of living in a hill station.) After my usual hour with my Maker with a bible on my knee, I sat at my couch near the window wishing that I’d not waste the rain. It’s too cold for a rain-dance, and choir competition’s coming up, so I can’t afford to catch a cold. So I took out my notebook wishing some untold story would materialize.

It didn’t.

So I guess I zoned out for a good hour until my nephew knocked on my door to tell me that brunch was served. Yep! I wasted the whole morning zoning out!

Mornings like this makes me realize how just 8 months and a change of location have changed me. I hardly write or find the time to write. I hardly have time to listen to myself or my thoughts!

Church and social activities take so much of my time that sometimes I can’t find the time to catch up with my nieces. I can forget about having an ‘alone time’ to reflect on my own!! Believe it or not! I am free only on Friday evenings but even Fridays are often taken away by meetings. Other nights are taken by church services, compulsory choir practices and whatnots. I hope I am not disrespecting or insulting the church or anyone when I say that church activities have taken a toll on my personal relationship with God… sadly, for the worse!! I am just so busy and tired from all the running around that sometimes I can’t find the time to spend with my Maker, talking to Him or just listening to Him!

And I am thoroughly ashamed to say that there are days when I don’t even crave for my time with my Maker anymore. It’s like, you are in a relationship with someone you don’t make the time for, that slowly you realized you are accustomed and sadly, comfortable living your everydays without that person. I don’t want to be in such a relationship with my Jewish Carpenter!! I have no one to blame but myself! I’m definitely not trying hard enough!! I have to make changes!!

Sometimes Mizo Christianity disappoints me! A lot! A couple of weeks ago, we had a Retreat for the Pastorate Choir. (I know, I know… only 8 months in Aizawl and already a member of the Pastorate Choir? I still ask the question myself!) It embarrasses me to no end that hardly any of the members have a regular quiet time, my own self included. I wonder, with the ridiculously little time we spent with our Maker, how can we sing ‘in the Spirit’ or expect our light to shine?!! We hardly have ‘light’ or take time to light our feeble little candle to begin with!!

A work colleague once asked me if I know a certain someone from my church –  a very active member of the Youth and also a member of a renown denominational choir in Aizawl. Then he added “Down South, we know him as Zual-Nam-Nileng-a, Zual-zu-heh-a, Zual-‘thih-ka-ngam’-a (Yep! I changed the name for privacy reasons). Now when I see him on TV with his choir, I can’t help but judge. I’m a bad person. Ain’t I??” I didn’t have an answer. I probably never will…

We have been deceived thoroughly!! And we still allow ourselves to be deceived. We judge a book by its cover over and over again that we don’t know how else to view a book! What's worse, we weigh ourselves with the pathetic scale of that same 'book cover logic' that we are so contented as long as we wear our best on Sunday services. And I say again, we have been deceived!! Thoroughly so!!

I’ve always loved rainy days… especially when I don’t have to go to work or venture out.

I’ve always loved rainy days because rainy days bring out the storyteller in me. The rain, today, sadly brings out a story of frustration, of masks worn and the lack of depth and authenticity in our church and in our Faith.

But there are two sides to every story.

And this is just my side of the story.

What’s your story?

Forgotten

Those eyes.

Those eyes used to gaze at me with love, but now look at me without a hint of recognition.

Those hands.

Those hands held me before I learnt to walk, now hanging limp and lifeless by her side.

Those lips.

Those lips always curve up in a smile and shower me with kisses, now frozen, unable to turn on the smile that lights up her face.

How does it feel like to be forgotten?

It feels like dying. Like being killed.

Like your existence is wiped away from the world against your will. Not just from any world. But from the world of someone who loves you and someone you owe your life to. And the worst thing is that there’s nothing you can do about it, to claw your way into being remembered or somehow try to redeem memories of you in that world.

I am always someone in love with life. Yet, somehow I always have this firm belief that my days are always numbered in my Maker's Hands. And that when ‘my time’ comes, I will not try to hold on to life. But sitting by her bedside, holding her hands, calling her, without her having an ounce of recognition in her eyes, I wanted to fight: fight for my existence in her memory. I wanted to claim my rightful place in her past and her present. Never in my life had I wished to be remembered. Never in my life had I wanted so bad to live beyond ‘my time’. 

Just a little bit longer.

My Ma’s cousin, my other mother, my second mother who was with the family even before my eldest brother was born; ‘Ka Nu’ we called her. She was nothing short of a mother to me. Since Ma was a working woman, she was the one who took care of me, kissed each wound, dressed me, fed me and clothe me. A single mother, she moved away from our home after her only daughter got married in a sleepy little town down south.

May, this year, I was in battling the peak of Delhi heat when I got a call from my cousin who told me that Ka Nu was sick and that she’s taking her to Aizawl for medical checkup. A few weeks later, I was informed Ka Nu had multiple brain tumour and that  the doctors told her she doesn’t have long to live. Treatment wouldn’t work at her condition and her age, I was told.

The only thing I did when I heard the news was that I got on my knees and begged God to allow me to meet her and bless her before her time is up.

God is good.

Within a couple of months, I underwent numerous changes in my life. Not a thing was pre-planned. I moved to Aizawl and a month later, I was on a bumpy road towards the southern part of the state.

It was raining when I reached the town. And though it was September, dark rain clouds hovered with mists fogging up the town. And to make it worse, the whole town was out of electricity!! It felt as if the universe knew what sort of emotional state I was in and conspired to make sure I stayed in that state.

I reached her bedside, held her hand and whispered “Nu, ka lo thleng tawh asin!”. Her eyes look at me without an ounce of recognition. My cousin called out to her, “Nu, hei Senmami a lo thleng asin. I koh I koh thin kha!”. No response as she stared at me. Fresh tears spilt on my cheeks as I cried. It was guttural, it was a heartbreaking sob triggered by the pain that has been knitting inside my core for so long. I didn’t care who was there, there was no room for etiquette. And as I sat by her bed, staring at the lifeless limp body, frozen by stroke; a fresh doze of emotions shot through my heart. It was a mixture of happiness to just see her and pain to see her in such a condition. Don't get me wrong! I had my silent "thank yous" to my Father that he granted my wish. 

But to be forgotten by the woman who raised you… the pain was magnificent.

Right at that moment, all I wanted and all I wished was to be remembered.

Sometimes, when you wish for something that bad, you start a ‘make-believe’ world. Just half an hour by her side, I started creating my make believe world.

I would like to believe that every squeeze of her hands tells me that she’s glad to see me, that she missed me; that I make her proud every single day. I would like to believe that every blank flicker of her eyes tells me that she loves me; that she’s happy that I came; that she remembers every memory that we’d made together.

I would like to believe that though the words are missing, though there isn’t a flicker of recognition in her eyes, somewhere behind the thick clouds that cover her, there is still that woman who raised me into the person that I am today.

And though I can’t see from the other end of the view, though I don’t know what it feels like to forget, there’s one thing I refuse to accept.

I refuse to be forgotten. 

And I refuse to give up the fight until I am remembered...

Dear Zac

Dear Zac,

I know we’ve never met and but I’ve known you from what other people have talked about. I don’t know when we will meet, but I know that one day, I will meet you and there are so many things I need to ask you. But until then, this letter will do.

Last weekend, I was at a cell meeting with my group of teenagers where we were talking about you and that one encounter you had. Zac, I’ve heard about you millions of times and I’m sorry I haven’t paid enough attention. I just realized today as we were talking about you that there are so many things I could learn from you.

I’ll be honest here, I hope you don’t get hurt. But Zac, my mother, I remembered was the first person who told me about you. And I never liked you from the start. First of all, I never liked short men. (Hehe!! It’s just a personal preference!) And secondly, I don’t like corrupted people who grew rich from cheating other people. My mother told me that you were that kind of person. And just that thought of you climbing a tree was downright… unattractive, I must say. So, I guess it’s safe to say that I never really admired you, or liked you. And after that encounter you had with God, she told me you changed, but doesn’t everyone??

But last week, while we were talking about you, I rediscovered so many things about you. There were so many things about you that I never really cared to look: the efforts you made, your rock-hard determination and your proactive ways. From my talks with my teen cell group, I guess I’ve come to see you in a different light. I’ve come to admire you and these past few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about you!! Sheesh!

How frustrating must it be for you when people refuse to budge when you wanted to see that one person? Did you stamp your feet and mutter ‘I am a government official, I deserve some respect’ when the crowd pushed you to the back that day? What went through your head when you saw that fig tree? How embarrassing must it be for you to climb that tree among that crowd? How awkward was climbing a tree with your tonga? By the way, did your tonga get caught in some branch revealing more than you wanted? (Just curious, you know. Cause skirts sometimes act that way!) Did someone make fun of you while you made the attempt to climb that tree? Did you bruise your knees, were there ants or insects in that tree that bit you while you were on that tree? 

I heard, that One person you tried to see that day didn’t have any plans to stop in your town. But after seeing you on that tree, he came to have dinner at your house. Well, that one encounter changed you. And in order to have that one encounter, you made an effort both mentally and physically. You were determined to see him and even climbed that fig tree.

Have you heard about Mahasen, the cyclone that was headed for Mizoram a few days back? Well, the 5/11 Aizawl tragedy and the (then) impending cyclone had me on the edge of my seat for a few days. I’ve been told that people back home were fervent in praying, asking God to somehow keep us from destruction. For the past few days, I have also been lead to have an intercessory prayer for everyone back home.

The D-day arrived and I was relieved to see on my twitter feed that the cyclone fizzled out before it reached Mizoram and changed its course. I was thankful then and there and I thank God for answered prayers. But then there were some people all over social networking sites joking and making fun of certain things about the cyclone and the prayers. It saddened my heart a bit to see how we take so many things for granted! Even the supernatural!!

Then I remembered you.

God changed His plans because you made an effort. Jesus never intended to stay in your town, he was just passing by, but because you made such an effort to meet him, he changed his plans. Likewise, I realized the cyclone fizzled out because so many people stood in the gap and prayed for deliverance.

And it’s not only about the cyclone.

It made me realize, if your efforts could make God change His plans, so can mine! I am a lot like you Zac, and I’m nothing like you at the same time. But in the end, we are both imperfect people perfected by grace.

But there is one mega-huge thing that I should not overlook. Zac, after you met Jesus, you changed your old ways! Now that is a challenge that I should take for myself. A self-reflection that I need to carry out daily: Have I changed after I’ve met Him??

I hope to meet you one day, and ask you certain questions face to face! Like how short are you exactly!? Hehe! I’m short too, but I wonder who, between us, is shorter? Or did you grab some of the fruits and eat them while you were on that tree? (I would have, if I had been in your place.) Mindless little nothings that would start a good conversation once we meet. I hope you will have some time for me when we meet and I hope you don’t have a long queue of people to ask you such questions! But then again, even there is so, when we finally meet, we will have forever (and I mean, forever, literally) to talk!

So until then,  Zac, thank you. You’ve taught me a valuable life lesson. You’ll be in my mind for a long time to come. But, don’t worry! I don’t have a crush on you. Again, I’m not attracted to short men! Heh!

Much Respect,

Seni

P.S: I hope you don’t mind me calling you Zac. You full name sounds so ancient and I realized I could never relate to you in person when I call you Zacchaeus. J J J

...You...

Dancing with the shadows,

Couldn't help but face the dark.

Shadowed Past bruised my heart

So I bruised yours in return!

And there are times I bled your pride

Shamed your name

Cloud your fame

But all the while you held my hand.

They tell me love, sweet love

Gives you fireworks;

Makes your heart go racing;

Gives you wings to fly.

They tell me love, Sweet love

 Feels like falling;

 Sweeps you off your feet;

Makes you want to soar.

But, love is what you showed me...

I get lost in the shadows,

You show me  the light.

My storm blew;

You bend quietly till it pasts.

You held my hand though it bleeds yours;

Wiped my tears instead of yours.

You’d rather be the last so I could be the first;

The dark sky, so my star could shine bright.

You gave me hope against hopeless hours;

Forgiveness through forsaken times;

Gravity to keep my feet on the ground;

Strength when my fight is gone!

So the next time, they ask me what love is…

No, I won’t tell,

I’ll show them…

… You...!

(Found these lines scribbled and tucked away in some random folder. Brings back some really good memories.... Ah!! That feeling of being in love!! 

I shall miss it terribly...)

Shame

I have often raised voice against sexual violence on women and children, more so recently. If you are a regular at this blog, you would know the kind of emotional turmoil I have been going through the past few months, again because of this same issue. But the current news on the Delhi gang rape left me totally speechless. 

Yesterday, I was at my usual evening classes with S. I came straight for the class from the hospital where I spend Sunday night and I haven't had a peek at the newspaper. While S was working on a comprehension passage, I took a twitter break where I came across feeds on the gang rape. What was more chilling about the news was the details. The incident happened just on my 'neighborhood' on a bus route I often took.  And the victim had a male friend with her when they were attacked. I could not help but be slapped on the face with the reality and the close vicinity of the incident. It could have been me!! So many times have I tread that same route with but mostly without male friends. 

I'm not proud to say it, but what can I do, I live in India's Rape Capital. I travel alone most of the time and I am also in research where sometimes I have to stay out late or return to campus late. I often talked about the difficulty of living in a city like Delhi with this 'alien' face. I always make sure I am appropriately dressed; I don't venture out in certain places at certain hours; I only keep close company of  people I know well; I do not party, I do not drink and I always make sure I do not mix with 'certain' people at certain hours. If I have to travel alone after dark, I always pick the busiest street and I go out of my way to stay away from big burly autowallahs and pick the puniest ones no matter how much they charge me.  All the while I know with all my heart that such precautions are not going to work for long, if rapists run rampant in the city I live in; Delhi Police looks for reasons to blame the victims and law and order turns its head the other way.

Do I feel safe in Delhi? No. Have I ever felt safe in Delhi? Never. I always tense up when I travel alone in  a lonely stretch of road even during daytime. And this evening, I panicked, screamed and ran when a huge van with dark windows slowed down next to me. The driver looked puzzled. It turns out he was asking for directions. Though it was a good hour before sunset, can you really blame me for being jumpy when such news haunts the city? But when I looked at the statistics, I was nauseated. According to the National Crime Records Bureau figures, which document only cases registered with the police, the national capital had 453 cases of rape in 2011. Mumbai, the city with the next highest incidence, had only half this number.

And all that talk about dress code, Bullshhhhh!! During my first semester in Delhi, I was 'grabbed' at the supposedly 'safe' environment of the the Library an hour after lunch. And I was clad in a full salwar suit, complete with the dupatta. When the campus security reached me, I was already a jumble of nerves and tears. Luckily they nabbed the culprit without asking me weird questions. I vaguely remembered filing an FIR before he was dragged away. I went a couple of times to Patiala House for hearing. I wasn't about to let it go easily. It doesn't matter to me if that person barely grazed my shoulders or tore my salwar, if he can do it in a campus library in daylight, he will do worse in a dark alley at midnight. And that was also my argument to the judge. I hope his stint at Tihar Jail intimidated him to some extent. 

So many times have I taken part in protests against rape and sexual violence against women in the city I lived for the past six years. Had I known, I would have taken part in the protest organised by the JNUSU today. The NDTV crew came, interviewing students on a dhaba in the campus while I went out for evening tea. I was glad to hear that the issue was debated in the Parliament today and that Jaya Bachchan had a breakdown asking the government if it had apologized to the victim's family and the country. Good question Mrs. Bachchan. Respect! 

But what can mere mortals like us do on such grounds. I'm an extremist and God forgive me if the next sentence denotes scant respect for human life. I say send the rapists straight to the gallows (I would love to say 'guillotines'!). My roommate strongly disagrees. She says castration is a better option. Let the rapists live out their life, forced to reflect on their deed every single day of their shameful existence. A few months ago I applauded when the MHIP ( the largest women's organisation in our Christian state) issued a statement saying that child rapists should be forcefully made impotent by castration. Many of my male friends disagreed saying that the MHIP should think again and are too extreme. I say, what is more extreme than rape?? You  murder a woman's soul without taking her life.

I am just too disgusted and angry that so many times have I deleted certain paragraphs from this post because I can't level with my emotions yet. I would love to end this post in a positive note. But forgive me I just can't. Rather I'd end this post with an excerpt from this brilliant article.

...being a rape victim in India is so much fun. First, you’re humiliated by the cops, then your personal life is put on trial by the media. After a couple of years being ground down by the judicial process, you get your moment in court where you’re expected to recount every detail – and I mean, every detail – in open court. All this only to find that in the great majority of cases, it’s all been for naught because the original investigation was shoddy and flawed. Your assailants go scot-free while you are tarnished for life as “damaged goods” in our enlightened society.

Good going, Delhi!! A city who boasts of its political, intellectual and feudal elites! It's a shame you will be known as 'India's Rape Capital' and rightly so!

Praying for the victim (who continues fighting for her life as I write), her injured friend and her family!!

Not Another Christmas Post...

It all started one blue night in late November. My roommate was out for the night and I was alone; in a Christmas mood and hunting new Christmas songs to download. (Yes, I'm a pirate. Notoriously so!). But I ended up being disappointed. Well, almost every album I downloaded has songs like 'All I want for Christmas' (though I'm partial towards the the Michael Buble version), Frosty The snowman, Santa Claus, Winter wonderland, White Christmas and Blue Christmas (and whatnot colored Christmases) blah blah blah! 

Then a friend of mine (a very good singer) told me to try his favorite Christmas song - 'Tennessee Christmas' where the lyrics go something like 

Another tender Tennessee Christmas, the only Christmas for me 

Where the love circles around us like the gifts around our tree

Well I know there's more snow up in Colorado than my roof will ever see

But a tender Tennessee Christmas is the only Christmas for me

(Yes. I googled the lyrics)

I went from being disappointed to confused. My first problem is that I've never been to Tennessee (or any other place mentioned in the song), and I can't fall in love with a song where the lyrics are so foreign and removed from my psyche. C'mon, I've never even seen snow yet, to even decide if I would at all love a 'winter wonderland'. (Though I strongly doubt it, my knees already sing every Delhi winter morning.)

Then my ultimate frustration blew last Monday when the auto that I rode on stopped on a red light. A street vendor came up to me carrying a Santa Claus mask and while coaxing me to buy it, said "Madamji, le lo! Aapke Prabhu hein!" (Take it. It's your god!)

I'm against Santa Claus. I always have been. I don't blame myself especially after my incident at a certain red light in South Delhi. I grew up in a household where my parents also take care of cousins three times the number of our siblings. Christmas time is always a headache for the earning members of the family. And there was no place (or the finance) to fool us kids with the 'Krismas Putar' story. I consider myself lucky now. Compared to some of my friends who grew up otherwise, Santa Claus never had a place in my heart. (Goodness Gracious, I sound like a Scrooge!) Maybe it's because I felt that Mr. Claus stole all the attention from the King born for the world, especially in the hearts of children.

A week ago while googling for the Christmas songs, I told my roommate, a Buddhist, how disappointing it is for me when  all these songs talk more about the weather and the decorations and Santa Claus rather than Christ and the gospel. That very same evening, while having dinner at a friend's place, a much older friend, a church leader expressed the very same sentiments that I had the whole week long. He quickly added "I must be getting old. I'm so narrow minded". I laughed because he is one of the most broad-minded church leaders I've ever come across.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not exactly Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes but I've been very particular about the core of Christmas. Yes, Christ Himself. And I feel that all these chart-toppers are a little bit too far off. If I look for a Christmas song, I want something which soothes not only my auditory senses but even my spiritual senses (Am I making sense at all?).

A week ago, I went for an Advance Christmas Celebration with some friends. The service was good, the programme entertaining and the food delicious. But after, a few of us decided we'll join a group of old ladies singing together in one of their homes. We ended up singing and praying the whole night. 

The next morning, on our way back to campus, I realized I hunted for the Christmas songs that I wanted in the wrong place. The Christmas spirit that I so longed for was not in the chart-topping music or in the decorations and tinsel town.

The Christmas spirit I longed for has always been in the heart of worship.

So here's to wishing you 'heartfuls' of the true Christmas Spirit every single day!

(And I stay away from a picture of a Christmas wreath or of colors red and green. :) )

My perfect Now Vs. My real Now

In my perfect now,


I study 8 hours a day
I sleep 8 hours a day.
I 9gag less, Facebook less and blog more.
I'm a morning person. I wake up a skylark at 6 AM, half of the day's chore is already done by 9 AM and I retire for the day two hours before midnight.
I'm a lady through and through.
I eat healthy and I exercise well.
I'm best buds with the hottest nerd on the planet, Zachary Levi. 
I master the Government and Binding theory of Syntax.
Delhi is in it's November temperature.
I trust God without panicking.


But,

In my real now,

I hardly study 3 hours a day
I sleep 5 hours a day on an average.
9gag, Facebook and studies go hand in hand, which muddles my mind on what to blog about.
I wake up so late that sometimes I miss breakfast and as a result toss around in my bed till 3 AM.
Sometimes, I get tired of being a girl.
Fresh veggies and fresh fruits are things of the past and a walk to the mess hall counts as my daily exercise.
I get overexcited when Zach Levi's bot retweeted me and kept watching his videos on Youtube.
I bang my head on the table by Page 21 of the 600 paged Syntax Theory book that I am currently studying.
Delhi records the highest minimum temperature of the season. Read: 34 degree Celsius.
I get overly agitated and confront God with my problems!!


In my perfect now, I would have concluded the post with a positive tone.


But this is my real now...

Late April Musings

It's been a month since my last post and here I am again sheepishly admitting that I should make more frequent posts. But jumping on my defense, I was having a quiet couple of months, and I don't know how much longer will I take a step back and take a long hard look at my life. 

The weather's lovely today. It's late April in the capital and somehow the temperature hasn't been soaring as yet. I spend the morning sprinting from the School to Ad Block running after some signatures that I need so badly yet by the time the sandstorm blew in the afternoon, I was safely tucked away in my room with a wet face towel on my nose!!! Yes! I have officially retreated on my war against sandstorm season... and mosquitoes!

Before I knew, we're almost halfway through the year and 2012 hasn't been good to me as of now. So I somehow wished it'd just past me by. Last year, I had a lot of plans going on for this year but nothing, absolutely nothing has been working out lately. My academic life is a drag, I'm perpetually broke and after five long years, I'm single again! I'm constantly on an emotional roller-coaster ride sometimes even hating myself on some low points. And to top it all off, bad news about a close relative's demise reached me last night. And still, there is something in me that tells me to prepare for the worse!

I was joking with my dear friend Engkima about how I just want to quit everything I'm doing here, go home, build myself a little shack on my father's terrace, grow old and die alone! I was joking, but half my heart is serious!! I call it the 'Tip of the Depression Iceberg'! Haaa!!! Only because I consider myself too young and too unaccomplished to be in a 'mid-life crisis'.

I probably need to be in this situation. There's a brighter side to everything. If my life has always been a breeze then I wouldn't know how to count my blessings. I've also realized a mistake I have committed through the years. I've realized how much I've depended on other people for my happiness and how pathetic our plans for the future can sometimes turn out.

So, today, it's all about taking a step on the journey to the inner being, learn to be thankful for what I'm blessed with and working hard for the rest. I've learnt that nothing's going to come easy for me, that I'll have to work for every single thing I need and want. After all, there's no such thing as a free lunch.

I haven't come across someone who died of 'bad situations' or breakups or  'things-didn't-work-out-according-to-plan' situations. I know I won't be the first! :)

So listening to the thunder rolling in the distance, I'll pray and most importantly, prepare for rain!

A Christmas Post.

Recently, a friend of mine who moved to Australia a few years ago wrote to me and told me that she still can't get used to Christmas in Australia because it's falls in peak summer over there. I read her mail while bundled up in an electric blanket while an old wool cap itched my forehead but I couldn't help but being thankful for the cold Delhi evening because the dipping temperature makes it even more festive for me. Unlike my friend, I have never spent a warm Christmas in my life yet despite all my cold Christmases, I've never spend a snowy Christmas either.   

It will be my fifth Christmas away from home and my third consecutive Christmas here in Delhi. Until a few days back, I didn't long for home. But since last night, I have been very very homesick. Though I didn't want to admit it, there's a tiny voice in the back of my head screaming at me, telling me that I should have fought to be back home this time around.

What is it with Christmas that always makes you long for the things you don't have??

When I was six, my uncle passed away in an accident. My mom and my uncle were the closest among their siblings and it was my mom who supported my uncle through engineering college. My uncle's demise left my mother so shattered that she couldn't even sit for her Master's finals. I learnt, years later, that was something she wished she could have braved through. The last thing my mother told me before she passed away was not to let grieve get the best of me. The Christmas after my uncle passed away was the saddest Christmas for my family especially for my mom. I remembered hearing her cry on Christmas morning and I remembered us visiting my uncle's grave soon after Christmas service got over.

The most painful Christmas I've ever spent was the first Christmas without Ma. Since my mom and I were the only two females in the family, all the festive decorations and the cooking usually fell into our hands. That Christmas, I remembered decorating our tree, hanging the silver bells that my mom and I picked carefully from the stores just a year ago. If anything was difficult that Christmas, it was hanging a silver bell without bursting into tears. Even a single red ribbon held too much memory. I remembered sitting by her grave that Christmas Eve, wondering if she'll like the flowers I brought for her. I remembered asking silently 'I didn't let grieve get the best of me, Did I, Nu?' while I helped with the Christmas Church Feast that year.

That was 8 years ago, but even tonight, here I am in the wee hours of the morning, punching this line with a lump in my throat because I long for the mother I no longer have. Why is it that this pain always gets magnified when Christmas draws near?  I wonder if it is the same for anyone else!

I've told myself many Christmases ago, that I should be thankful for the things I have and cherish the memories of the loved ones no longer with me. I tell myself that, every single Christmas for the past 7 years. I'll tell myself that very same thing tonight too!

Dear,

         Me

This Christmas, take time to cherish the memories, take time to remember them, relive the moments in your head. Take time to remember her face, her smile, her voice, her laughter. Take time to remember how she called your name or how her hands felt on your hair. It's OK to shed tears and laugh through the funny memories in your head. But, take time to thank God for those memories. Take time to be thankful for having the experience of receiving a mother's love for 18 years of your life. 

Take time to be thankful for what you have. Take time to thank God for your family. Take time to thank God for taking you this far. Take time to thank God for the things you usually take for granted.

But most importantly, take time to look inside to see what Christmas is all about. 

Take time to remember that Christmas is not all about you, your pain and your loneliness. Christmas is, but, about the Gift of Life that has been given to you. Take time to be thankful for and rejoice in the Ultimate Gift!

For if you spend Christmas without the Ultimate Gift, Christmas would just be another cold and lonely day in December.

Love,

         Me

Merry Christmas one and all!! May you spend Christmas with the Ultimate Gift!

Christmas away from home... Again!

We're entering December this week! And I'll welcome December with a very bad cold, sneezing and a low humming in my ears. I'm all excited and not so excited.. all at the same time! I've decided this year that I will be spending another Christmas away from home! This will be the fifth Christmas I spend away from home and I have quite a mixed feeling about this one!

The other four times I was away for Christmas was, once when I was in my secondary school in Chennai when I didn't have a winter holiday and, thrice after research when I felt going home for Christmas would distract me from my work. But this time, the case is different. I could somehow blame it on my (hopeful) impending synopsis interview in the first few months of the new year but mostly it's because I'm too broke to pay for my tickets back home. My student budget allowed me a trip home only once in a year, and I've already gone home during the summer. My family would want me home, but then again, I'm but too proud to ask my dad to pay for my tickets. Pride - it has always been my biggest vice, especially when it comes to asking for money. 

After the 15th of December, only two of the Mizo students will be left in campus - The 'often misquoted' Zara and I.  We've already decided that we'd team up during the holidays but we haven't decided on what we'd do yet. We said that we'd start by picking each other up for church. But with the Delhi temperature furiously dipping, I highly doubt if I'd want to sit behind him on his 'vintage' bike on  freezing Sunday evenings.

So what do I do during the lonely month? In reality, I have a lot to do. I have to make sure that my synopsis is perfected for my interview; I have to kick start my exercise routine again (My latest visit to the doctor  confirms my ribs are healed completely) and go for a lot of Christmas Carols. Christmas in Delhi is not too bad, I have close friends here where I know I can just bunk in if Christmas or New Year's Eve ever got too lonely. In fact, when it comes to social life, I have a thriving one here in Delhi rather than back home. I guess I've been away from home long enough to kill my social life. The friends I had back in Aizawl are mostly friends from church. And after 10 years of being away, you either lost touch or you grow out of that comfort zone into the awkward zone. My friends back home, if not married, already have their own circle which I can't quite fit into after this many years of being away. So when I go home, I take part in church activities like an outsider and the very church I grew up in already treats me a like a mikhual. But inspite of all that I can't deny the fact that Christmas is best when it's spent back home.

Ah!! The struggles of a student life!! When am I ever going to stop being a student? And I realized with the line I choose, it's for a lifetime!

My roommate, an UPSC aspirant, once told me about two filthy rich sisters from her hometown who are here in the city for their UPSC coaching. The sisters, used to their luxurious life, continued living so even after moving here. They lived in a flat so grand that it is decorated with chandeliers where they have their own group of staffs to take care of them and the house. I remembered my roommate's lips pulled up to a raw smile as she said "The whole point of clearing UPSC exams, apart from the respected job, is the struggle and the success story behind it". I agreed with her. Those sisters, given they cleared the exam, I reckoned, will hardly have any success story to top the cherry.

So stealing a line or two from my roommate, the whole point of fighting for a PhD is not just the degree in itself. It's the struggle behind it; the stress and sleepless nights and the sinusitis caused by it; the innumerable hours spent at the library; the painfully small hostel room you have to live in; the missed holidays and the Christmases you have to sacrifice; the stringent budget you have to live with and most of all, the success story you get to tell your future children. I know, a few years down the line, it'll be all worth it.

So in the meantime, let me go air out that super-mini Christmas tree that a friend gifted me a few years ago. The tree, too small, that when I try decorating with even the smallest ornament I could find, it topples over. So each year, I decorate it mostly with earrings! The person who gifted me got his Doctorate, I reckoned, after a struggle too. The 'Dzuvichu tree' which reminds me that each Christmas spend away from home will be all worth it in the end! After all, Christmas is still Christmas. Be it Aizawl, Delhi or even Bethlehem!

I'm sure Lipok would've given me a much bigger tree had he known I'd draw so much inspiration and strength from it! :)

Now and Then: Of 11 year olds and 'normal' childhood

For a few weeks, I've been giving English Classes to an 11 year old.  Lets call him Sam K. for the time being. Sam, an only child of two scientists, is in Seventh Grade and scores above 90% in all of his subjects except in English where he scored 84%. And I am brought in to give him an hour long class, four days a week after his school. 

Sam : a voracious reader who reads everything from science encyclopedias to Harry Potter; a science wiz who can spend an hour just educating me about the black hole and also still a pre-teen who sometimes complains to me about his mother who, he says, nags him a lot and about a certain classmate who sometimes bullies him. Sam, the smart kid who argues with me for 30 minutes on why 'Scylla and Charybdis' should not be used as such an idiom because with Charybdis, the whirlpool, you still have more chances of survival. His argument? The right centrifugal force and inertia can propel your ship right out of the giant whirlpool. I didn't have a comeback for that because it's been eight long years since I've read about centrifugal force, inertia and all that jargon.

This evening, I just spend a couple of hours with Mrs. K discussing about Sam's progress and drawbacks. And I am taken aback by what is expected of him. I can't blame the parents. It's a competitive world after all. But somehow, deep in my heart, I feel pity for the 11 year old boy who is already in Seventh Grade and who is under a lot of stress and pressure at that age. Mrs. K talked about her concerns with Sam, his performance and also his relations with his classmates in school. She noticed a lot of personality change in the past two years and she, as a mother, is concerned when Sam refuses to discuss what is happening in school. In short, she literally wanted me to dig into Sam and learn about his personal problems in school, get him to talk and learn what is bothering him so that the parents can take certain measures. And here I am, with the overwhelming responsibility of 'shrinking' Sam, an 11 year old who is already fluent in four major languages of the world.

On my way back, as I hugged my cardigan against the chilly evening wind, I could not help but compare the 11 year old me with Sam. I was in Class 5 when I was 11 and made my first major slip from 'O' grade to 'A' grade in my second term exams. My parents were unhappy with me but somehow let it slide. After all, there were only two 'O' graders in my class. I don't know half the things that Sam knows, yet I don't have half the pressure that Sam has. My mother, a high school teacher, never nagged me into doing my homework but helps me when needed. But if I didn't do my work, my teachers in school were more than ready to cane me or give me extra work. I was never forced to take extra classes or tuition classes after school as my parents were contented with my grades. I know it is unfair to compare my life with Sam's when I was his age a decade and a half ago, but I just could not help it.

My uncle in Aizawl wanted to put his 8 year old daughter in a boarding school in Delhi ever since she was 5. "I wanted her to have better opportunities" he told me. My cousin, a strong-headed girl for her age, strongly refused. Last summer when I went home, my uncle told me to somehow coax her to come to Delhi. "She looks up to you, she will listen to you" he quipped. When I talked to Esther, her little face fell and she cried when she said she doesn't want to live in a place where she can't see her siblings everyday. I stopped then and there. I never resumed the conversation again. I thought the coaxing is unfair to her.

I cannot say the way we were brought up was the best. My parents never raised bars too high for me and my brothers. One sibling is never compared to the other. 'Each of you have your own personalities and your own calibre' my mother used to tell me. So we grew up contented with whatever marks and results we got. My  parents never had the finances to send us to boarding schools until we finished high school. My mother told me she never found the need to send me to a boarding school, when I got accepted in 'the best school in Aizawl'. I don't know if that would be the same, had we the finances.

Everyone in my generation grew up wanting to be doctors, engineers or IAS officers. Though we don't even know what those were at first. Kids, these days, grow up wanting to be much more - dancers, artists, rockstars, CEO's, lawyers, cardiologists, astronauts. I wanted to be a doctor when I was a kid but I decided I wanted to teach during my secondary school. My parents were fine with me when I changed my stream in college and my dad was ecstatic when I decided I want to go into research after a Master's degree instead of hunting for a job. The case, I believe, might not be the same for another generation. 

I want to be a mother at least by the time I'm 35. Sheesh!! I cannot say I will have the same attitude as my parents with my (future) kids. The bars will certainly be raised by the time they get to high school. After all, it will be a more competitive environment than the one we had. But will I make my son go through the stress and pressure Sam has to go through everyday? Will I want to send my daughter away to a boarding school at a tender age in order to give her 'better opportunities'? 

I know that my children cannot have the sort of childhood that I have. It's a changing world after all. But I would want them to have a stress-free, pressure-free normal childhood where they grow up with their siblings. I would want to share their test marks, their school picnics, their first crushes and their turbulent teenage years instead of sending them away to a boarding school. But then again, 'normal' changes after every decade or so. So by our kids' generation, maybe a stressed, pressured childhood would be the 'normal' childhood. To each his own. But then if the case is such, I will definitely teach them how to 'live outside the box'.

But then again, why do I even write a post on such topics?? I'm not even married yet! What can I say? I am, but, the myopic girl who suffers from perpetual hypermetropia.

When 'Sorry' meant something else...

Remember these two boys?

Sawmtea and Sawmsanga who decided  they wanted to pull a face for the picture! 

My two Sunday school kids, the best friends with the magic words 'sorry' and 'please'??

Tonight the post is all about one of the magic words 'sorry' and a little bit more.

Let me ask you a question and I dare you to answer yourself in honesty. How many times have you uttered the word 'sorry' and not really mean it. What does 'sorry' mean in the first place? Isn't it a word you say when you regret what you did and wished never to do it again!? Now let me ask you again. How many times have you said 'sorry' and not really mean it? Have you said it just so you could get away, just so it would take the load off you for being the one at fault, or say it just because it's the proper thing to do? I must confess, I have, many a times.

But tonight, I looked at the picture of Sawmsanga and Sawmtea grinning with me and remembered the night we took this picture. It was at Delhi Mizo Kut when they spotted me in the crowd, both climbed into my lap and asked me why bamboos are used for the Cheraw dance, while repetitively telling me "Ka tlangval hunah U Autea saw ka ni duh" (Autea was beating the drum while Cheraw was performed). It dawned on me how life is still so fascinating for them and seeing them reminded me once again how many times we, and most of all, I have misused and abused one of their magic words... Sorry!

I remembered many a times, I say sorry after I hurt someone. And I use that mere utterance as my reconciliation with my conscience after I hurt that someone. Not that I made a note to myself to never do it again!

Sometimes I say it just because it's the proper thing to do. But worse of all, sometimes I say it so I could blame the other person for being unforgiving and holding the grudge. "Hey. I'm the clean one here!". So I could say 'I'm the one who apologized first' and paint the other person the darkest shade of black by saying so.

It's the same with those times that I do good for a person just to feed my 'Good Samaritan' ego. Sometimes I count the things that I've sacrificed for a person too much that if that person does not give back, accusations soon follow the him/ her. Ungrateful human, Thankless idiot.

When such situations arises, is my 'good deed' really valid? Or is my 'Sorry' genuine? If not so, what's the use of me doing the 'good deed' or the apologetic utterance anyway? I should not be saying 'Sorry' when it connotes something else. I should not be 'sacrificing' when I expect something back.

Self-interest. The culprit that perverts and negates all things good into something ugly and contemptuous.

And I end this post with a line which goes against something I always tell the girl in the mirror.

Never love yourself too much!

Before I turn 28...

Happy Birthday to me.

I just turned 27.

My first 27th year pic and I had tired eyes! :D 

When I was 16, I used to imagine that by the time I turned 27, I'd already be a doctor (a medico), married, settled and in control of my own life and finances. Well, I'm 27 now, I'm still studying to be a doctor (a PhD),  single and in doubt to get 'double', still lives in a campus dorm with a roommate and financing myself with a meager research fellowship. If I could go back in time, I'd tell the 16 year old me to give myself a few more years!

I don't mind getting old growing up even though with age comes difficult life complexities. Yet sometimes, I feel like a failure. Three more years and I'll be 30. I wonder where will I be at that age?? But anyways, let me take a look at what other people have accomplished when they are my age.

My mom already had a kid, my brother 2 and my sister-in-law 3. Baby Machines they were!!

My dad was already a Member of the Legislative Assembly in  the Union Territory of Mizoram.

Cosmonaunt Yuri Gagarin became the first person in space. (Yikes)

Jimi Hendrix died. So did Amy Winehouse.

Norah Jones had already won 8 Grammies. (Yikes again)

Julia Child was an unknown government spy. 

Mao Tse Tung was an elementary school principal. (What??)

Jesus Christ was a carpenter.

For some people, they've already achieved so much while for some, they haven't even heard their calling yet.

So here I am on this glorious night that I turned 27, jotting down my list of things to do for the next one year. I just got back from a movie 'In Time' where 'time IS money' (Appropriate with my night, isn't it?), I have a meeting with my thesis supervisor tomorrow and I plan to spend the day at the library and give my usual English classes to an 11 year old in the evening. Nothing fancy. It's not my first birthday after all! :D

I've already said my 'thank yous' to the Big Man above and and my 'readymade' roommate already had a delectable kiwi muffin waiting for me when I got back from the movies. Happy 27th to me!

So here's the list of things to do before I turn 28 and I have exactly 365 days to tick them off!

1. Learn to ride a motorbike (not a scooty). I conquered the bicycle... at the final cost of three fractured ribs. It's time to move on!
2. Learn how to pray in Lai. It's quite a challenge, I know, because I'm out of practice with the language and hardly fluent. But it'll be a good start in practicing it. I wonder how it will be like to pray in my own ethnic tongue.
3. Lose a few pounds **Reminder** Keep it real.
4. Three words. Goa, Leh and Pondicherry. For Pondicherry, it's been 10 years already, a high time I conquer my fear of returning down South. Viral fever and typhoid fever will hopefully leave me alone this time. I know I'll get altitude sick at Leh, but I've wanted to walk on the roof of the world for so long. Remember my breathing problem at Malana? I still enjoyed myself , Didn't I? And as for Goa, I want to take a trip during the monsoon. I know it's off season but I feel beaches are prettiest during rainy season.
5. Pet a snake. (I have nightmares just thinking about it)
6. Make a snow angel. I've never seen snow yet :(
7. Paint my own version of a famous painting. I feel I should move beyond kindergarten art. I'll bribe my dreadlock-sporting artist of a cousin to help me with this. Any suggestions on the painting? Email me a picture.
8. Learn how to swim. I know, I know. There's a lot of 'basic things' I don't know how to do.
9. Mean it when I say "I'm sorry" and never repeat the thing that needs a 'sorry' afterwards.
10. BE happier and stay happy. Everyone deserves to be happy everyday of their lives. I know this point might be a bit difficult to tick off. But I think I need it in my list anyway! 

In the meantime, I tell myself 

"Be happy. Laugh a lot, smile always and Cry when you need to..."

Malana Diaries Part Finale : "Why God, Why Malana?"

So, there I was, in the middle of the 45 degree dirt trail to Malana, tired, stomach upset from indigestion from the travelling, out of breath, panting, throat dry and parched and the night falling on us. Just when I thought the worst was almost over, I looked to the trail just disappearing into a steep rugged climb where you have to grab on bushes to pull yourself up. In my mind I was asking "Lord, of all the places... why Malana?".

I wasn't the only one. A few meters ahead the trail, the Color Kuki was catching her breath, on a dizzy spell  and panting "Lalpa, i rawngbawl tur hian ka tling lo a ni".

There I was, curled up in my sleeping bag against the cold Himalaya winds. I knew it would be just a matter of an hour before my upset stomach would compel me to take "a visit behind the bushes" with my roll of toilet paper and a hand-sanitizer while the others were singing around the camp fire. I longed for the security of my hostel room and a proper toilet with running water. In my mind  I was asking, "Lord, why did You even allow me to take this trip?"

Malana, an isolated community who shun the outer world; A holy community who regards all outsiders to be  filthy; a community with the oldest republic in the world; a community in spite of their shortcomings have  unshaken faith in their deity and  have absolutely no need and regard for the outer world.

And here we are, a handful of Christian Youth in the floating Delhi Mizo population, who are here today and gone tomorrow!

Who are we to think that we can make a change to an old, strong and stubborn culture? Who are we to persist after ten years of failing to make a change? Who are we to think that we can make a change when the proud culture itself doesn't want change? Who are we to poke our noses and push our faith and our beliefs to people who don't want it?

The answer, I realized, after visiting the village, is: We are absolutely nothing!

There have been talks going around even among our own members on why we should stop supporting a missionary for Malana and support something else where we can see results. Since we haven't even made a dent in ten years time, should we stop and turn our attention, our prayers and our money to something or someone else??

I was wide awake while Zama was snoring beside me on the overnight bus back to Delhi. The face of the  topaz eyed Malani girl kept haunting me. She must have been around 6 years old. The same age group as my eldest niece. Her pretty face dirty and her chubby cheeks dry and chapped. Her light brown hair dirty, unwashed and discolored yellow from malnutrition. Her tiny body clad in the shabby salwar doubled as a school uniform and her feet in dirty pink gumboots. The way she'd stand on the side when we pass her in the road, the way her face fell each time Zeta tried to take a picture of her and the way she'd turn her face each time she caught us looking at her.

 I imagined her face at 30. She would be married, have a kid or two with a miscarriage or a few still-borns in between. Her flushed complexion would have been wrinkled, saggy and hidden under the layers and layers of dirt covering her skin. Her beautiful topaz eyes would have the same dazed look that all the people in the village had from daily consumption of weed. Her daily chore would have included cultivation of weed and preparing and drying them for sale. By the time she reached 45, she would have looked 60. That little light-eyed girl violently woke up the Protector in me! I wanted to protect, hug and shield that child from the inevitably dark future that awaits her. Of course, she'd do alright by her own because she's never known the outer world, but still that thought doesn't stop me from wishing to give her options other than the inevitable.

I remembered those kids on the terrace playing and pretending to roll weed, shouting at us and bringing a little one into view so we could take their pictures. I remembered those three little children in their town square who were more than ready to pose with everyone for pictures and who didn't even flinch when some of the girls held them. I know that it's out of my reach but it still doesn't stop me from wishing that somehow they'd have more options in life.

LH-a and I with the adorable picture-ready-threesome.

The only Malani kid who approached us. He didn't even mind when  I sat next to him  almost touching him!

My thoughts drift back to my insufficiency and my negligiblity as someone who wanted to make a change in a community which doesn't want change. I looked at us, the Youth Fellowship, ordinary youth members with our bouts of slips, wrong turns and mistakes but with this magnificent responsibility. Then I looked at the looming, roaring Giant, the stubborn Pharaoh and the Stormy Sea called Malana. Then I remembered the little shepherd boy called David, the stutterer called Moses and the coward called Peter. 

I know that there must be a reason why God allows us, of all the Christian groups in the world, to make contact with this isolated place.  More established Christian organisations like YWAM, I've heard, have tried for several years to penetrate this culture without success. And yet, we, the Delhi Mizo Youth Fellowship, a handful of youth who mostly comprise of students and a few working youth, who one day would leave Delhi, are given the once in a lifetime chance to make contact with Malana.

We cannot let this chance go by. A one day Medical Camp will never be enough. A week long camp will not be enough either. But one thing I know is that, we cannot turn back now. We must have faith that He who started this, will finish this as well. After seeing the village and meeting the people and experiencing their life just even for a day, I, now understand why U Eli can't stop talking about Malana, why our ex- youth leader Johnny often said "Hlawkpui kan inti" even without making an ounce of change after ten years and why Debby would burst into tears each time there were discussions on why we should turn our focus on something other than Malana.

We may not see the result in a few years. We may not see the result in another ten years. Or even a lifetime. Our next generation may not even see the results that we want to see. Or even the next.

But there's one thing clear in my heart after I came back from Malana. That one thing is that of all the people in this world, we've been assigned this responsibility by God himself. And it doesn't matter if we never see the results we want to see, we just cannot go back now.

A friend of mine joked yesterday, "What if my grandson asked me 'A Pi, where is this place called Malana that you often talk about"?"

I smiled to myself. I only pray that flicker of light will burn that long in all our hearts!

Tying up a loose end: A letter to God.

Dear God,

I had a long week and a hard one too. And I realized I missed You badly.

You see, God, this week, I didn't miss a single minute of my numerous weekly fellowship or a single hour of choir practice. I taught in Sunday School with passion today, and I felt I got my points across my students. I haven't missed a single minute of my daily prayers and I am well ahead in my Weekly Scripture reading table. What's more, God?? I'm all decked up to leave in a couple of days for a Mission Work Camp to a place that I've prayed for the past five years and Lord, I couldn't be more excited!!

Yet, somehow, I had a nasty fight with two of the closest people in my life. So here I am, past midnight, still hurting from the fight and unsure what to do next.

I know I shouldn't be doing this... coming to You before I've made amends with them. But Lord, they've hurt me too!! In ways I've never been hurt before. And I admit I still hold the grudge and I'm too much of a chicken-heart to go talk to them before coming to You.

Which made me realize how far away I am from You! What was the use of all those prayers, those bible readings, the choir practices and the numerous services I never missed, if I am not living a life that reflects what I read and pray about!?

I'm sorry, Lord, for turning Our relationship into a ritual and a social life.

Remind me once again that my relationship with You should translate into a good relationship with the people around me. 

This is Me signing off 

Love,

S

The (un)inspiring October full moon!

So it's October full moon tonight!

Facebook statuses and tweets have heavy sprinkles of the word chhawrthlapui and lungleng all over them. At least half a dozen friends must have quoted Bruno Mars and his howling conversation with the moon!

Beautiful but still doesn't manage to inspire me!! Pic: srcgchs.wordpress.com

Yet. here I am, wishing I could feel blue. But I just can't get in the mood tonight. 

And while the moon climbs the almost prefect Delhi night sky and sets the 'blue feeling' for people everywhere, I was walking back alone from a dinner with my uncle on a work visit to Delhi. The campus is littered with couples especially on the lonely road back to my far flung hostel in the corner of the campus. Yet, romance, the beautiful weather and the painfully lonesome moon still couldn't change my 'blue deficient' mood.

 Ah! The moon.... The lonesome moon! There are nights when you didn't even shine this bright, yet your light on my floor was enough to send me in a melancholic frenzy. I'd often stare at my curtains dancing in the breeze and allow myself to revisit painful yet beautiful pasts while treading softly on my moonlight floor. I know I'm not the only one! Generations of poets  have derived their inspiration from the lonely moon, destined never to meet someone to share his lonely nights with!

But tonight is just not one of those nights!!

I text a couple of my friends about what they are doing. Their answers made me more worried. They were all  basking in the beauty of the moonlight! The boyfriend text me telling me that he missed Delhi University's Gwyer Hall rooftop (We spend many an hour on the phone on the rooftop when we first started going out). Another friend told me he's rounding up the guys for a rooftop party with the guitar and old Mizo love songs. Yet another older friend told me she's listening to Dolly Parton's 'The moon, the stars and me'. I envy these people. For I'd give anything to feel blue tonight! 

Don't get me wrong but October full moon happens only once in a year! And I would be a fool to let it pass by without enjoying it. Yet after standing in the silent terrace for 15 minutes, I managed to feel uninspired in the way I wanted to! So here I am, punching these un-inspired lines into my overworked keyboard, still hoping to feel at least a light shade of blue!!

Now the Taj Mahal under the moonlight should get me into the mood! But wait!! It didn't . Pic: art.com

The roommate is on her phone, out in the moonlight, obviously talking to the significant person. And since I can't get the blues tonight, I hope she comes back with at least a light shade of it!! 

For she just doesn't help during the conversation earlier in the night!

'Tonight's a full moon night' I told her hoping she'd be reminded of something melancholic.

Her answer squashed my hope.

'Oh Gawddd!!! The dogs are definitely going crazy with their howling tonight."