बच्चे!

बच्चे! वे अपने चेहरे पर  जो था उसकी शांति लेकर चलते हैं,  और हम बैचेनी का सागर ढोते हैं, हम चुन-चुनकर किसी की फिक्र करते हैं,  उनसे स्वतः सबकी फिक्र होती है,  सब में फिर चाँद - तारे, जल-जीव,  मनुष्य और जो कुछ है,  वो सभी आता है!

© मनन शील

Ramkuwar’s Lassi, the cool drink of the Gods

Ramkuwar loved the cool weather as a child. And he loved the mountains. Though it was only once that he had visited the Himalayan mountains with his family during his summer vacations, the cool air, the smell of the pines, the flavour of the mountains had stayed with him. Kharkhoda is extremely hot in summers. So, Ramkuwar’s family, when they were well off, went to the mountains to escape the heat for some time. Later on, when the business of his father declined and they became extremely poor, Ramkuwar didn’t get a chance to visit the mountains again till he was of a ripe age, but as I told you the coolness, scents, and the flavours of the mountains stayed with him.

Now, he had to take care of his family as well because of the declining health of his father. He must find some business to start, but when he started looking for a suitable business for himself in the summers, the weather was extremely hot, it was as if the Sun God himself was filled with rage, bent on burning and boiling all that lives. Ramkuwar wasn’t able to do anything with this much heat in the weather, and at some time the heat went to his head and he started fighting with anyone he met with even a slight disagreement. The going was getting more and more difficult for his family, when one afternoon, something happened…

Ramkuwar visited an old halwai shop in the neighbouring village where he had gone to look for some job or some business idea, with his friend Tillu, where there was a gathering of people all listening to a Storyteller guy. He was narrating the story of ‘The Legend of Andy’ which is one of the most popular myths of Kharkhoda. He also started listening to the narration - of how Andy used to bless Kharkhoda and do great deeds while always sipping his favorite Lassi. The narration of this sounded heroic to Ramkuwar and he suddenly knew what he wanted to do. When he returned to Kharkhoda, he started a halwai shop with the help of Tillu, the special offering of which was ‘The Himalayan Lassi’...

He flavored his Lassi with rare ingredients - other than the basic ingredients like Curd and dry fruits, he also added one drop of a mysterious syrup - the ‘Tantana Thanda Pahadi Jhatka’ he called it and it is heard that he was provided this syrup every night by the ‘Goddess of the mountains’ during his dream of the Himalayas and when he woke up the very little bottle that he kept under his pillow was filled with the syrup…

His Lassi was loved instantly and till today we say that Ramkuwar’s Lassi is the cool drink of Gods. Whenever we visit his Halwai shop, we feel as if we have entered a shop in the mountains and when we taste his Lassi, we reach almost to the Kailash mountains where Shivji dwells, meditates and blesses us all…

© Manan sheel.

A Joke

A Joke

You laugh

when you get it…

There can be no

half understandings, 

half laughs about a joke,

that is the beauty of it

If your mind

is clear enough,

the joke penetrates

to the layers of absolute-ness,

leaving the relative,

stops relating to all,

And in its utter depths,

a Joke is pure giggle,

a guffaw of purity,

endlessly communicable,

Sans any reason,

Really, just a Joke…

© Manan sheel.

DAKU HUSH !!!

DAKU HUSH !!

People are not sure about DAKU HUSH, whether it was a legend or a figment of Manu’s

and Golhu’s imagination. But whatever it was, the new generation of Kharkhoda has

taken to loving the character of DAKU HUSH dearly.

A word on the pronunciation of HUSH -> It is not pronounced to rhyme with English

words like ‘blush’, or ‘hush’, but it is pronounced like ‘push’, so HUSH has an ‘uuuuuuu’

sound to it.

For that matter, continuing with the existential qualities provided by this pronunciation -

‘uuuuuuuu’. Hush hailed from ‘Hushlok’, which was also the old name of Kharkhoda. So,

at that ancient time, as the legend goes, Kharkhoda was really ‘Hushlok’. People are not

really sure whether this was an ancient time, or are they talking about a parallel

universe that is cuter, more friendly, and whole than our present one. The name

‘uuuuuuu’ provides a round quality to the place. At that time, the only inhabitants of the

place were ‘Daku Hush’ (who was the King of Hushlok), his queen ‘Mehbooba Hush’

(Hush’s love), their mantris like ‘Pappu Jamura’ (who played a fiery Guitar), ‘Harrattu

Hazam’ (Hush’s personal barber), a few more mantris who kept on always dancing and

singing, and cute animals and birds of all kinds. These animals and birds looked like

stuffed coochi poochi toys and were named like Sheru (Lion), Bandaru (Monkey),

Ghuggu (Bird), and so on with the characteristic ‘uuuuuuuu’. These animals and birds,

around twenty of them were the subjects of DAKU HUSH, who provided them with all

the necessary things not only for their survival, but also for their joy and songs and

dances.

On the appearance of DAKU HUSH -> He had a big round tummy which her

beloved wife Mehbooba Hush lovingly called Pyaaru Tondu (Lovely Tummy).

Daku Hush used to wear Police Uniform Khakee colored. And he had thick,

curled moustaches like that of the demon Ravana, from Ramayana. His tummy

and his moustache were the most notable features of him. Apart from them, he

had little bowed legs, he wore a constable like hat. And one more thing, in the

little pocket of his shirt, he kept a photo of Mehbooba hush. The photo was

always visible above the pocket.

Mehbooba Hush was a very beautiful lady. She was fair-complexioned and had a

beautiful nose which Hush called Tunnaku. Hushu was a deewana (ecstatic

lover) of the Tunnaku nose. Tunnaku always attracted Hush because of its

smoothness, roundness, shine, fluffiness and the most because it was a part of

Mehbooba Hush, with whose soul Hush was in love.

In Hushlok, everyone was Happy, so happy, Jolly, so Jolly. People enjoyed comedy. A

long time back, a resolution was passed in Hushlok that the name of everyone and

everything will end in ‘u’. It was done to make everything sound cuter (Pyaaruer in

Hush(u)’s language). So, new born animal babies were named like Pappu, Sheru,

Birdu, Raldu, Bhandu, Bandaru, etc. And ‘u’ was added to the earlier names. It had a

wonderful effect. The names really became cuter, Pyaaruer and Wondru in every sense.

Hushu was wondru in every sense (‘Wondru’ was the word in Hushlok for

‘Wonderful’). He was a man with lots of luxurious interests. Thus, He was

‘Shaukeenu’ in their language. Hushu seldom became angry. There were some

fixed, rare (because everyone knew them) circumstances when Hushu became

angry (‘Gussu’, in Hushlok language). One of these circumstances was when

somebody skipped the second ‘h’ in his name while pronouncing. That is when

someone called him ‘Husssss’, ‘Daku Husssssss’…In such circumstances, Hushu

would start ecstatically dancing and order his subordinates to fire their guns in

air (which emitted a ‘Tha Tha’ sound) and a song would automatically

(magically?) start playing in the background, the words of which were ‘Tha Tha

ki beat pe naache Hush.’ (‘Hushu dances on the beats of ‘Tha Tha’). After the

great dance would end, Hushu would become extremely happy and on that day,

he would take the role of ‘Tondu Halwai’ and distribute ‘Naan Khataai’ biscuits that he

prepared himself to everyone in his Kingdom, never ever failing to take his share. In

Hushlok, even things started because of anger ended up being danced about, because

of our Jolly hero DAKU HUSH.

I think this legend of DAKU HUSH became the heartbeat of the present generation of

Kharkhoda because of the laughter and jollyness it provides to the world which is

becoming rarer and rarer with each passing year. Today, everything is taken seriously

and people are forgetting the simple laughter and the forgiveness and carefreeness the

laughter brings. DAKU HUSH will save this world…

P.S. DAKU HUSH always insisted that wherever his name is mentioned, it should be in

CAPITAL LETTERS. He had a reason for this insistence - he felt that the people who

always use small letters and disdain the use of CAPITAL ones, are probably too careful

with everything, and all he wanted was the people to be CAREFREE, JOLLY and

LOUD!!!

© Manan sheel.

What is a writer? Who is a writer?

What is a writer? Who is a writer?

Someone who doesn’t take sides - 

Who is neither with the hero,

nor against the villain,

Who knows the part each character plays,

who creates life in the written word…

A writer is the God of his world,

whose opinion is equally conveyed

by the positive and negative…

Being a God

he thinks of the hero and the villain,

and cares for both of them,

He knows the Dusshasana and Krishna

characters of his inside out,

and himself is neither…

Nor is he just a reporter,

but someone who knows life

enough to be confident

of the truth of what 

he is conveying…

© Manan sheel.

Tailor Stopping midway

What caused our tailor 

to stop in midway of his work?

What stopped his hands

while sewing, and brought his moving feet

to a standstill?

What was that thought?

Was it some past event, or a possible fear

of an event in the future?

Or was it something that overwhelmed 

him in his present train of thoughts?

Only he knows what happened,

Or maybe after the moment has passed,

he also has forgotten…

© Manan sheel.

With the old poet...

Looking at the photograph of an old poet of a lost language, people see a bamboozled expression, as if he got lost while attempting to know this life, What story of life he understood they don’t know, he is looking at a flower through his glasses, but he is also looking  at something else, the thing isn’t visible to the people but it is reflected in the empty, yet somehow meaningful gaze of the poet,

As his daughter sits close to him,

holding his wrinkled hand into hers,

it looks like she understands his gaze,

and enjoys his smell of the old people,

that is like the smell of old things,

rich, overwhelming, humble, not forceful, subtle,

that I call the fragrance of wisdom,

the poet points to the flower

and the butterfly circling it,

and little buds of moistness float

in the daughter’s eyes,

for here is the nectar,

collected in the little moments

with the old poet…

© Manan sheel.

A Cow

A Cow

Gentler than any saint,

Walking with soft steps, Devoid of frustration, An ideal of patience,

Eyes with the depths of the cosmos,

Look into them and you are reminded

of your true self,

God was in a mood of calm compassion

when the Cow was created,

Understand her eyes,

even when she is suffering

there is no desire for harm in them,

There are animals,

There are humans worse than animals,

There are selfish, withered saints,

There are god-fearing men,

A Cow is above humans,

A Buddha by nature,

Healthy in the spirit even when

the body is spent,

A darling of the Gods,

who knows the language of love…

© Manan sheel.

Tender Arguments of a Poet...

Then you say to me -

How nothing is happening,

How the time is getting wasted,

How life is draining,

How should I tell you what I see -

The infinite possibilities I see of every moment

that lie in front of me,

The infinite love every tender thought brings to me, how these are messages of richness coming from the future...

You say all this is invisible and abstract -

Oh! How can you ever be hopeful unless you look at the invisible!

Oh! How can I ever be hopeless if I am looking at the invisible, knowing that the present is pregnant with a delightful future!

© Manan sheel.

The Seed...

One -
The truth,
Alone,
Eternity,
Always,
yet...

Thus,
Two -
Play,
Mix,
Love,
Marry,
Mingle,
Fight,
Fun,
Chaos,
Creativity,
Exhaustion,
Trouble,

Thus,
Back
to one,
The truth,
Alone,
Eternity,
Always,
yet...

yet
causes
an infinite
loop -

yet
creates
the infinity
of the world,

yet
is the seed
of this universe...

© Manan sheel.

Two painters of Kharkhoda

“I paint music!” declared a man with all his wild energy, during one of the storytelling and art discussion evenings of Kharkhoda. This man who was a painter had wild white bedraggled hair and this declaration was made because of the discussion that was going on on the forms of painting. The discussion had almost brought him to tears, as the painter favoring the realist artist form had almost successfully convinced the gathering that that is the only art form and that depicting the things how they are in reality as skillfully as possible, is all there is to art. After making this declaration, the wild painter was overcome by very strong emotions as he was very sensitive and an introvert, and he spoke like this very seldom. Also, the truth in his statement that he knew was there, made all the electricity in his body move towards his brain. So, in the remainder of the meeting, he sat with his head bowed and didn’t speak a single word.

There were two painters in Kharkhoda - one was this wild painter who said he painted music, and the other was the realist painter. Their styles were very different from each other. 

While the realist painter was capable of creating art as if he had stopped the world midway, like a photograph. He was very skilled and took care of minute details working weeks on a single painting, and the results showed his skills. Once, he painted a pair of pigeons sitting on the branches of a tree. It looked as if they would fly any moment, their pink eyes were done in soft colors very accurately. Everyone loved his paintings, and he was a very methodical, thoughtful person, also a teacher in one of the few schools of Kharkhoda. His painting skill didn’t show up in the way he lived - he wore gentleman clothes, was calm or angry but never musical. He was steadfast, but the sudden change of life was not present in his paintings. His paintings were beautiful but still paintings, they didn’t move. Manu liked his paintings but he missed the wild music, the imperfect energy, the tears of rhythm that he found in the paintings of the wild painter.

The wild painter was a poor, struggling man, much younger than the realist painter. The realist painter was known everywhere, but the wild painter was loved by a few people. He was a friend of kids. The energy in his paintings came from his sensitivity. He painted in his little poor hut, sometimes the kids peeped through the holes in the walls to have a look at him painting. They enjoyed having a look. The process of creation was more important for him. He listened to classical music while painting. His strokes were ecstatic. It was as if he was possessed by the music. Sometimes, his strokes took the lush colors of the music. Sometimes, his painting was formless, as the music danced abandoning all forms and reached the formless state. He didn’t know what he was painting, but he knew that he was being guided by an unknown force. When sunlight came into his hut, the warmth and music of the rays had an effect on his painting. When the moonlight filtered through the windows, they also left their mark. Kids loved the man and the man loved kids. 

The realist painter didn’t appreciate the wild painter’s work, but the wild painter saw beauty and love in the realist painter’s paintings, as he did in all things. Whenever he wanted to congratulate the realist painter, and approached him, he didn’t get a good response. By and by, he stopped approaching him but his considered that the realist painter’s work was more perfect.

One day, the wild painter created a painting all day, in the sun and during the night when the magical moon came. This was his most wonderful and perfect piece. He had created Goddess Sarasvati, on her White Swan. The piece had music, form, perfection, love, devotion, and something more. The colors flowed like a dance. The Goddess’ eyes were so deep, you felt the fabric of the universe when you looked into them. The Swan’s white whiter than a white cloud was peace to the soul. 

When the painting finished, the wild painter suddenly died. When people came to know, they reached his hut - the painter was found lying in front of the painting in the feet of Goddess Sarasvati, clutching to his painting brushes, and a divine expression of calm and love in his eyes…

© Manan sheel.

Mystery, Dreams, Wonder...

Understanding 

that makes 

the mysterious

more mysterious,

and not that dulls

the mystery,

that makes gems out 

of seashells,

and not gases out 

of the precious stars,

that makes the melody

from the songs

to be coming from

God's sitar,

not that makes 

it sound like a sin,

that makes lifetimes 

out of moments,

not that makes 

the life drag,

May I put

my head in the lap

of such understanding,

and dream and wonder

and dream and wonder…

© Manan sheel

रोज़ रोज़ रंग

शाम के मंदिर में

सूरज का संतरी दिया जलता है,

मैं भी काम से लौटता हूं,

सूरज भी चुप्पी की दुनिया में चलता है,

आराम करेगा रात भर,

आग और आवाज़ को शांत कर,

उठेगा फिर पहले पहर

जगमग जगमग जीवन भरने

खोलने जीवन के झरने

रंग खिलाएगा दिन भर,

नचाएगा पृथ्वी को अपने संगीत पर,

फिर जब बीत जाएगा 

दिन का अंतिम पहर,

शांति ओढ़कर सोएगा

जैसे एक मस्त लहर,

अंधेरे में रंग डूबते,

डूबकर शांत होते,

उजाले में रंग खिलते,

खिलकर नाच लेते

नाचकर फिर थकते,

शांति मांगते…

© मनन शील ।

Little Golhu and the crisp 100 rupees note

Golhu, Manu’s cousin brother, was a little brat of a kid. He was very little when he was 10 years old, and looked like he was 6. But at that age, he knew many tastes of this life and could defeat anyone in the video games he played at Titu’s shop. Manu and he shared a special friendship. Manu was 2 years younger than Golhu, but was taller than him. When both of them walked in the streets, everyone was delighted to look and it looked as if 2 kings of the street were walking. All the dogs of the street - Sheru, Tommy, Rocky - the descendants of hallaq kuttaq - behaved as if their favourite people were walking. Golhu was more worldly, Manu was Andy (from the legend of Andy), and both of them seemed ready to conquer anything.

Once it happened, Manu was not there in Kharkhoda. The sun was bright, the day was lazy and Golhu was dragging himself in the street with nothing much to do. Both hands in his nikker’s pocket, he walked listlessly. Suddenly, Oh suddenly, he couldn't believe, oh, how he would believe, on the side of the road, he saw a 100 rupees crisp note. He picked it up. Crisp like a potato chip, crisper than the mountain air it looked, and now suddenly, royalty descended on Golhu, as if he was the king of the world. He thought how is it possible without Manu, but here it was, Golhu with the hundred rupees bank note.

His boredom evaporated. The stalls of samosas, kachoris, golgappas, sweets, sharbats suddenly attracted him towards them. Pappan golgappa was shocked to see the note in Golhu’s hands and Golhu gulped 20 golgappas all of a sudden. Then, he went to the sweets shop and gulped half a dozen laddoos and rasmalais. Golhu was on the top of this world. At last, he also saved some money for a video game or two at Titu's shop. He also wanted to have something at Billu’s shop but considered that Manu wasn't with him, so he didn't.

When he was playing the game at Titu's shop, suddenly a hand came to his ear from behind and twisted it. Golhu screamed in pain, the hand was Lilu’s as his son had been observing with envy all that Golhu was doing, and had told Lilu all about it. Lilu took Golhu to his home and told everything to Golhu’s mother. Golhu's mother asked Lilu to mind his own business and wiped Golhu's tears. She also fed him more laddoos and the special halwa she prepared for him.

When Manu returned to Kharkhoda, Golhu told him about all his adventures and they had a wonderful story sharing session…

© Manan sheel.

Bhambhu Bawra

Bhambhu Bawra, mad Bhambhu, was a sweeper in the streets of Kharkhoda. He was not mad like other mad people who lose their minds - he had lost his heart. It was lost in his journey of life. He was now 28 years old and his heart, not the organ that pumps blood, but the real heart that fills with countless joys, sorrows, colors, tears, electricity, was lost. He remembered having a mother, and putting his head in her lap, he remembered that velvety tenderness that spread behind his eyelids then, he also remembered his daily trifles, daily sweeping with his tall broom, frequent insults by the people, but he didn’t remember what happened in the middle of his life, nobody knew that middle period of his life. Manu, who became his friend, took Bhambhu’s hand in his hand and could feel the warmth, the kind of warmth that has become alien in the world of logic. There was a film of tears that floated perennially in Bhambhu’s eyes. Manu used to look into his eyes and saw meaning in those tears, that something inside him knew, but that was not known in words. There was one thing Bhambhu was very particular about. Whenever someone died, he used to go to the funeral pyre and sit there for two to three days even after everyone was gone. If the funeral was of some old man, he used to repeat ‘Baba, mar ga’, ‘Baba, mar ga’ - ‘Baba is dead’, ‘Baba is dead’, while continuously silently sobbing. When Manu used to sleep in the night, before sleeping, he would say a few lines of prayer for Bhambhu, for Bhambhu’s well being. One day, Bhambhu visited a funeral pyre and was not seen afterwards. Nobody knew what happened to him, nobody even cared, but Manu’s heart still aches for his friend, he still keeps Bhambhu in his prayers…

© Manan sheel.

Gopi Sunar (An Imagination)

Gopi sunar was a childhood friend of Billu. They were very close when they were little, but afterwards their friendship declined and they went separate ways with their lives. Both of them got lost in what their respective fathers used to do. Gopi became a sunar (goldsmith) and developed a concentration of the eyes and deftness of the hands that is essential for a sunar to succeed, and billu as you know, became a clever shopkeeper whose shop became a heaven for Manu, golhu and other children. 

Gopi became a very successful goldsmith, surely the best of Kharkhoda. His profits became unmatched. As Gold and money flowed in his bank accounts, he became increasingly what he already was much - more accurate in the movement of his eyes and measurements, more deft in his handling of gold, but also he started becoming a little wild and a little crazy like a scientist. Something about his appearance - he was almost bald with little hair on his head above his ears, and had a charlie chaplin like little moustache, he was thin and looked older than his years. These hair became more and more like a bird’s dishevelled nest as he grew more crazy. He used to look at people and he would see gold and cash walking, he used to have dreams of oceans of gold coins, of the moon being a silver plate and the sun being a great gold shield.

To the people, it looked as if he was becoming something else - not a human, but a fine robot machine, people at that time had never heard of robots, so they were in awe of this first time phenomenon.

Then, one day, Gopi sunar started dancing in his gold shop, dancing like an absolute madman, like a dervish, he threw the coins in the shop everywhere, all the jewelry he simply threw in the streets outside, all the precious things to buy in his shop were now in the streets or in the street side drains. People, the people of Kharkhoda, looked at him and saw a twinkle in his eyes. He declared in this state that his love for money was now absolute, and has turned into the love for Laxmi goddess…

© Manan sheel.

Gladdening!

When 

a koel sings,

in those moments 

when notes flow

out of her throat,

to gladden the hearts

of all those listening,

or all those busy

with their life,

who will

one day

listen,

then, won't 

a million light years away

a few stars be born,

given birth by the melody

in the notes, of this koel,

Does this event seem

impossible to you?

then, what you see

all around you,

every little thing,

every music,

the peace and colors

in the flowers,

the light filled

stars of the leaves,

the nectar in the fruits 

and how they refresh

your throat, your life,

the dancing of your mind,

the singing of your heart,

how is all that possible?

© Manan sheel.

On my grandmother Lachchmi - a poem, and then something about her grip...

 

Laxmi, Lachchmi (my grandmother)

She was a simple soul

No, she never cared about

things that are not worth caring about

For instance, she never cared about cricket,

or tv serials, or movies

And dismissed all that with a one liner

"yo laambe laambe chehre"

These long faces..

For somewhere inside she knew

that faces are better.

they are not like the diplomatic faces on the television...

that faces are better, like, like

those of her children...

'Sham, Fulad, Raj, Munna and Lala'

like, like..

those of her grandchildren,

maybe like Manu's face,

which was sweetest to her..

on whose birth she had danced and sang,

while beating spoon frantically on the plate...

And what about her grip?

the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm

and dragged them back to house

in the fear that they may get lost

Manu hated it,

for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!

how could he know that this lady, his grandmother

had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was

a nightmare to her!

She who lost her father's family to plague,

And then many of her children at birth..

how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!

Wasn't she a saint?

Her tragedies and then, her devotion to God,

her singing of 'Bhootan ke dere mein, bhaj le pyare, tu sahara'

'where I am trapped in this pit of ghosts, it is you god, who will get me out'

every morning.....

She knew a secret, deep inside that this modern generation doesn't

(though she knew nothing of cricket scores, and once when Manu tried to explain her

cricket, he came to the point of forgetting himself)..

just one rhythm, like Meera's can take you across..it is all that matters

nothing else does....

And what about her cloth and cotton parrots?

Can any living artist suffuse so much love into his art?

the love that she suffused into the parrots she made for Manu..

Art is for love, not for diplomacy,

yes, she knew that too!

And her tale of Hallaq Kuttaq

Wasn't that masaledar??

Manu loved that

and went around the streets repeating it..

'Hallaq Kuttaq it's your turn,

Let your tail put put burn!'

She didn't know how to read and write

She couldn't write her name for that

'Laxmi...(Lachchmi as it was pronounced)'

And when somebody teased her regarding that

and said that you should learn..

Her response was epic

"Baawli na hoon mein...gadanjoge, khapparbharne, daatwe, jaadwe..."

'I am not so mad as to learn now...then some excellent abuses'

She was a simple soul

So simple that she considered her village as the whole universe

Was there something beyond 'kharkhoda' her village?

No, just forbidden zone..

She didn't know much about what was outside,

but she did know a taste of the inside..

that is lost to people now!

By - Manan sheel (Manu of the poem)

-----------------------

“And what about her grip?

the way she clutched her grandchildren's arm

and dragged them back to house

in the fear that they may get lost

Manu hated it,

for how could he know that it was out of sheer love!

how could he know that this lady, his grandmother

had lost so much in her lifetime, that losing was

a nightmare to her!

She who lost her father's family to plague,

And then many of her children at birth..

how could she manage to lose Manu...!!!”

The Grip

Manu was playing in the upper part of the house, that

belonged to his ‘Fulad’ uncle and the family of ‘Fulad’ uncle.

Some ruined stairs connected this upper part of the house to the

lower house, that belonged to Manu’s ‘Raj’ uncle. Manu was

about to descend the stairs, when he saw the figure of his

paternal grandmother coming up through stairs. He couldn’t

return to his uncle’s house on the upper stairs, for the door had

been closed, by his uncle’s wife, for she had seen enough of

Manu’s naughtiness. There was nowhere to go. Manu’s

grandmother was approaching. Her face looked almost ghostly,

horrible, at one glance. It needed a look of love, a look laced with

love, to know what was hidden behind that ghostly face. It was a

sorrow, a kind of sorrow that was forgiven by the person who

contained it, and thus, transformed painfully, but successfully

into love, utter love. Manu was a sensitive boy, but being utterly

immature, he couldn’t comprehend his grandmother and was

afraid of her. Now, there was no place to escape for Manu. By the

time he could think of something, her grandmother, Lachmi, had

grabbed his arm by her nails. It was like a witch’s grip;
which Manu couldn’t escape. Manu was dragged downstairs, and

afterwards, the whole day, Manu made faces at her grandmother.

There was a reason for his grandmother, Lachmi, doing this. She

was afraid, in her soul, that Manu might get lost. Manu was the

child of ‘Lala’, her youngest child. Manu was dear to Lachmi,

more than any of her grandchildren. On Manu’s birth, she had

danced and sang, while beating the spoon frantically on a silver

plate. It was as if, when Manu was born, all her wishes had been

fulfilled, it felt like to her, that she had saved life from the

clutches of death, had been at last victorious against death. Oh! I

may now have to enter her soul to write further. My hands are

trembling, my soul is shedding tears in love, for a fever of love is

gripping me – the kind of fever that had gripped the soul of

Lachmi, for the larger part of her life. She had lost 9 of her

children at birth, by some unknown disease. Some were born,

and some equally loved, didn’t survive. One of the children died

between ‘Lala’ and ‘Munna’. It was like she was hoping that her

child will survive every time, and again it went out like a puff in

the air. From this, she came to know, imperceptibly, not in words,

but in her innermost core, the nature of love, the nature of hope,

the nature of madness, the nature of God. And thus, sung her

songs for the unseen one, that penetrated in every cell of her

body. Her capacity to love was ultimate. For she put her sorrow

into the colorful cloth parrots that she made for a living, and with

her art, magically, she reaped love from her sorrow.

Manu’s grandmother died when he was in 5th grade. He had cried

when they took her body to the cremation ground. Manu is now

28 years old. He has seen a lot of the so-called love of this world

– the sweet and selfish love. None of it is like the ocean of love

that was contained, in that grip, in that uneasy, witch’s grip.

© Manan sheel.