I was beyond excited when I got to know that I would be going to New York even though winter was just about trickling in and I hated the cold. It was just absolutely awesome. I was warned though that I would either love it or hate it. Well, fortunately, the former worked for me.

Turning every street corner, I would just picture someone like Carrie Bradshaw walking out from one of those high-end stores, while we listen to her endless tales of love, sex and life in the big city and question the reality or absurdity of it… (I don’t know why this came into my head, it’s not like I adore this series, although they call it ‘iconic’). I longed to see a movie star, but I didn’t come across any.

Apart from this, New York is just overwhelming, as one friend put it.

It’s a concrete jungle. It’s full of sky-hugging buildings. I tried my best to capture that famous Manhattan skyline, but I’m really not a good photographer. And besides, it was freezing. My fingers felt numb after a few clicks. But, that sight was just so cool. Please don’t call me godey. I was just so impressed and I still am.

Manhattan (a little blurry and not so proper - I'm not a good photographer)

Yellow cabs

And then… the famous yellow cabs. Lines and lines of them. And you stand on the side of the street, put up your arm and shout ‘taxi’… ah, again, like in the movies.

But there is so much to do and see in New York. And culture-wise, history-wise too, and that is complex in its own way.

Liberty

I went to the Statue of Liberty. A ferry took us there after about half-an-hour of airport-style security. Here was this great symbol of freedom, democracy and friendship. It was a much calmer setting – away from the stock market and the Security Council. Beyond this was Ellis Island. This is where millions of immigrants landed over a century ago looking for freedom, for a better life. It was the New World for them. The stories of these immigrants are moving. To some, this island offered hope. To others, it meant suffering. Some found work, their families live to tell the tale. Others died of disease and faced many traumas.

They came here looking for freedom, for new hope

Besides that, I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was something I was told I had to go and see. This was simply stunning. A day was not enough to go through it all. I particularly enjoyed the European collection. I was extremely excited to see Van Gough’s Self Portrait right there in front of my eyes, just as much as I was with about all those other paintings.

The Van Gough collection

Then there was shopping. Those stores…Macy’s – ‘the self-proclaimed world’s largest department store – was a city of its own.

Central Park was a little gloomy, but crowded nevertheless.

I was also lost several times. But I don’t think New York is complete without being lost. But, once you figure out how the avenues run, it’s pretty easy.

The whole area was lit up for Christmas and there were plenty of sales. The streets were busier and prettier in the night. There was that really famous big Christmas tree at the Rockefeller Centre. Time’s Square was packed whether it was morning, noon or night. The famous Plaza Hotel was richly decorated. The interior was very pinkish. There was plenty of food and plenty to do in the city.

I met with old friends and made plenty of new ones.

It’s the city that never sleeps, and it’s the city that keeps to its word.

New York’s a lot modern. There was a little bit of old England in Lincoln Centre (where you get the Julliard School and the home of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra), and those English-type horse carriages (forget the protestors demanding an end to that). The buildings, the people, the pace, the billboards… it’s just very different. America’s culture, I was told, is about change, and I guess that’s what New York is about. Well, also, it’s cosmopolitan or ‘international’. It’s the Free World. They change. So do we.

Just one last thing about New York, and this is something that will always stay with me. I went to watch the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. They were playing Handel’s Messiah. The orchestra was much smaller and no matter how many times you’ve heard this, it was… blazing, brilliant, stunning… such effortless playing. Out of this world. And it didn’t matter how tired we all were, as we rose to our feet when they played Hellelujah chorus. But, even more than that, was that trumpet solo – the Trumpet Shall Sound – the clear, crisp tone of the trumpet still resonating in my ears.

New York… till we meet again!

Tomorrow came,
She kept watching his window.
Moments passed by.
She waited.
An hour…
Two…
Three days…
A year.

And then,

He was gone
Just like he had come.

No one saw him go, just like no one saw him come.

She replayed the conversations between them, all of which had taken place in her head, clinging on to each strand of hope.

Alas, she knew she wouldn’t see him again.

He had gone off… they said… looking for greener pastures.

All the time she’d strained her neck, fought suspicion and broken sleep to catch a glimpse of him, the assumptions she’s arrived at, the tips on approaching him… well, she can laugh about them later

I remember well what this lady told me. How she cried that night when her husband quite frankly told her she’s nothing to him, but instead he’s attracted to another. He had lied to her the previous nights. Not given her money when she wanted, but spent on celebrations with ‘her’. They’ve been married for years now. She had a grown up daughter herself. And she felt trap. She’s laboured for him for years. She said a few had tried to talk to her husband. But, he’s been adamant saying, “This is who I am. I’m selfish. I’m like that.” She was told by friends to not care too much for him, be cold. “But, this is my husband. If I don’t treat him well, he would discard me more,” she would say.

He told her he would give her money and leave. But, she didn’t want that. “What will other people say? What will it be for my daughter growing up? Isn’t it silly just to pack up and leave over something like this?” she asked. She kept insisting that she wasn’t been treated too badly. That there are people who suffer more at the hands of their husbands. That she was lucky. Was she?

This may seem less significant compared to the cases of abuse we often hear of. But, it’s the fact that many women feel trapped and helpless in these instances that’s distressing. They would continue to live this way for fear and for shame. As in the case of this lady, maybe she wasn’t hammered by an iron bar, but she continues to live with her husband knowing he cares for her no more, yet hoping he would.

These women come from troubled regions. Sirleaf is the President of Liberia. The first female head of state in Africa. Ghowee, also from Liberia, is known for leading a group of women to fight against the use of rape and child soldiers during the war. Karman is a mother of three. A key figure of the uprising in Yemen this year, she had, for years, led her country’s struggle for women’s rights, democracy and peace.

Their stories are  inspiring. Armed with courage and confidence, audacity and hope, they are warriors of a different kind. They give voice to the voiceless in their countries, and perhaps, to the millions around the world.

And their efforts have been recognized by an eminent panel. To quote them precisely, these women have been recognized for their “non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women’s rights to full participation in peace building work.”

But, what does this really mean? Does this  recognition mean anything in their countries, and other such nations, where women still struggle for peace and equality?

In many parts of the world, where women have almost no legal rights, authorities don’t seem to want this changed. Yemen is among the 10 worst places to be a women, according to a recent Newsweek study. Domestic violence isn’t illegal here, and there s no legal recognition of spousal rape. They are slightly better than Chad and Afghanistan. It’s common in these countries that girls are married off young, and they lack access to education and health. Girls are raped and subjected to humiliation. Yet, their concerns are often dismissed by authorities.

This year’s Nobel Peace Prize will no doubt bring hope and encourage women across the world as they struggle for equality, for peace and for a better life. But, is that enough? Will it bring about change in the minds and acts of the oppressor?

In the meantime, Sirleaf will be running for re-election soon. There’s talk that  she would lose the election. She has won acclaim internationaly, but within her country, support for her is waning. Her efforts have been overshadowed by high youth unemployment and corruption.  This will be worth a watch.

My sticker book, pencil and other stuff

I finally got down to watching Harry Potter 7 part 2. It was sad, very sad. The saddest part of the whole movie to me (and I don’t know why this part was the saddest) was where McGonagall cast all those protective spells around Hogwarts. It was sort of… like… final. Like ‘do or die’, like protecting something so valued. She also did it with such authority, with such demeanour.

I’ve always liked Harry Potter, even though my friends never understood why. For all its magic, awesome spells and unrealities, it was human. There was love and death. There was pain. Even with magic, nothing could be perfect.

There was also this sense of escapism from the real world… what if such a world actually existed?

I often found myself in Hogwarts. Ok now don’t panic… I just envied the invisibility cloak. Aaaand, well, sometimes went a little overboard trying to make those spells work.

I started reading the first Harry Potter book some years after it was released. I was sick for a while (a small accident). I borrowed the book from my cousin to pass time and I was hooked. I read through the next two books rather quickly and then the others as and when they were released.

I wasn’t a big fan of the movies though. I just thought the books always had more feelings, and somehow the actors didn’t really capture these. Maybe I’m being too harsh here, having formulated my own feelings and perceptions on behalf of the actors. The movies weren’t as dark as they portrayed them to be, and I didn’t cry that much (as I did with the books).

I had a thing for Sirius Black. Also for Cedric Diggory. But then, Robert Pattinson came along. Haiyo.

I’m also not a big fan of the end… the way he died (I was banking for a painful death where his life splashed before him) and also that bit ’19 years later’. I would have liked to see Malfoy come out a bit more.

My favourite book of all was Prisoner of Azkaban. My favourite chapter, ‘The Prince’s Tale’. I’ve read it over and over… and will do again, soon.

Recently, I found this Harry Potter pencil I’ve gotten from somewhere. I don’t know who gave that to me, I think it was a friend of mine… Thank you for that. I got it when I was in school – along with a Dawson’s Creek pencil – and I haven’t used it. It’s still in good condition. I also have a HP sticker book and I don’t know what else.

Oh well… till I take the kids through this….

P.s. – it’s amazing how McGonagall, Hogwarts and Azkaban even show up on the spellchecker on Word

Mullaitivu Beach

The beach in Mullaitivu is beautiful. It’s so calm, so serene.
I stood there with mixed emotions,
A beach so pure, untouched, yet also wounded
By the callous acts of a few,

It was in contrast to what we saw on our way here
Things best not seen or spoken of,

But there’s one thing I can’t get out of my head,
It’s this girl I saw
When I visited her school

Resting her head against arms, folded
and firmly placed on her desk
She started at me
I couldn’t read her expression,
I only managed a smile,
Afraid to look at her eyes for too long
Coz they told a story
of betrayal,
Of injustice, of shame, of a lost generation
She smiled back, heartily,
We spoke in a series of shy smiles
But, I wasn’t able to understand what she told me,
I wouldn’t understand even if I spoke to her
Coz I knew not her language,
A foreigner in my own land,
And I knew this is how they would feel
When they went to a place where none spoke their language
Would we smile then, heartily?

At the beach, the water trickled by, gently,
Disturbed only by the occasional wave that would lazily rise against the shore,
It was picturesque, it was free,
The water, the place where I stood
Free from worries at least for now
And I hope it would be this way for long
For the sake of the lost generation

Ok, maybe that was too harsh. The match wasn’t that bad. The Australians struggled too. We just didn’t bat enough.

But the funny thing was this. I came to realize this later, but watching our team struggle to make 133 on the ground wasn’t half as bad as watching them on TV! My brother said the same.

Had I watched it at home, there would have been a 90% chance of me shutting down the TV the moment A-Mat got out. Had I watched (a 10% chance) I would have sworn and kicked at the screen. On the ground however, the atmosphere got the better of me. The wickets didn’t stop the whistles or the band. The people wanted the papare to play on each time a wicket fell or dot balls passed us by. There were the cheers, the jeers, the laughs, the food, the drinks, the beautiful sky, a creative mix of blue and gold, Brett Lee, Mitchell Johnston and of course Malinga and Matthews! Plenty to keep me occupied and take our attention away from the realities in the middle.

Isn’t it amazing how we’re blinded by these trivialities (for the lack of a better word)? Isn’t it amazing how these succeed in taking your attention away from “the real thing?” Isn’t it amazing how they keep your spirits alive no matter how horrible or pathetic certain situations might be?

Anyway, getting back to our cricket – has it gone for a six, really?

Why is that our batsmen bat well in one match, and they don’t in the next? The pitch? Why do they keep playing a certain middle order batsman even though he fails every match, but doesn’t give youngsters that many chances? Is that the new way of identifying talent? Why is that some people are kept to warm the benches and carry water after they play just a few games, but have performed exceptionally well?

Oh well!

On another note, did the Australians really struggle against our bowling, or were they merely taking a more cautious approach?

According to my Australian friend – well, not the born-and-bred-in-Australia type, but rather, local in every sense but supporting Australia because they are more competent, they fit as a unit, fast bowlers have a tougher job, Ricky Ponting fields well even with a broken finger and I don’t remember what else – Australians were being ‘nice’.

Like, hey! Messing up in the field and struggling to get to 100 – that was once heard of when you said Australia. What’s up with them?  I think they are no longer feared as they once were. There was a void created when some of their top cricketers retired. Yet, keeping aside those little creative stunts they used to pull off once in a way (like playing with a tennis ball hidden in your glove or resorting to sledging), they still have people who are capable of filling big shoes and who are assured of getting a few runs on the scorecard every time they come out to field. They are a bunch who is hungry for victory, for revenge. Are we?

They stood in one long line,
Some casting sly smiles,
A few looking bold, and others, uptight
As they waited patiently under the shinning light,

Here were the final 10,
The best of the lot,
Fighting it out in the middle, to get
their hands on the crown

They were all good!
There was no doubting that,
they sang their hearts out,

But only three would make it to the top,
after a brief pause
The three names were called out one by one,
And the comments that accompanied these names
Had a common clause:

These three were great!

There was no doubting that,
They had stood out from among the rest
They have been bold; they have challenged the norms,

But only one would own the crown

Who would it be?

They sang again,
These great ones,

Their tracks were diverse, their tones were varied,
Yet each a great display of skill and talent

But one stood out
He was truly amazing,
His voice almost magical, his song so beautifully sung,
His face, a medley of emotions, his hand, reaching out to the teary-eyed child,

He was amazing!
There was no doubting that,
As they crowned him the winner,

The lights flashed again,
And the applause was deafening,
He screamed to the audience,
And they screamed in return,

In a post contest interview, they had a question ready for him,
“Wow, how did you do that, there was no doubting that was one tough competition?”

“There’s good,” he said,
“That was where I was once,
Two years ago,
When I stood like the rest here in that line.
Then, there’s great,
I was there too,
Not so long ago.
But my father said,
I had to be amazing to win that crown,
So I practiced, sang this song, for over 10,000 hours,
I sang this song to so many people,
I sang this song from my heart,
I sang this song because I loved it, because it made sense,
I gave it my all… I gave it more than my all,
And tonight, as I walked up this stage, I feared no one, I feared nothing,
I was at the top of the world,
Was I amazing? Did it show?”

—————-

I was challenged by Random Girl on ‘there’s good, there’s great, and then there’s amazing…’ I challenged Cedar.

It was still dark when Roko headed towards the beach, tugging Ahil, his six year old son, under his arm. The fishermen were busy pushing their boats into the waters. The sun had not yet dawned. Roko couldn’t sleep. He was happy. He hadn’t felt this free in ages. Vyan, his beloved wife was trotting along towards him. He smiled and kissed her forehead gently as she reached him.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

“No, I was too excited,” she smiled.

Even the Sky Gods seemed to sense their excitement. The rain of the past two weeks had stopped. Instead, the sky was a striking blend of hues, shades of bright orange, red and yellow, mixed with thin lines of blue, grey and white, forming a brilliant canvas. The birds chirped away merrily. Their harmony was astounding. It was the perfect sunrise, his son, his wife, all by his side, just like old times. He couldn’t ask for anything more. They were all welcoming a new day, a new beginning. Around him were happy faces, ready to face the brightest day of all.

Ahil cried.

“Shhhhh,” Roko rocked him in his arms.

Vyan stared into the distance, deep in thought. Roko lifted her chin towards him.

“We’ve only got a bit of bread. There’s also nothing proper for lunch,” she told him.

“That’s ok. We’ll get something,” Roko said softly, putting his arm around her thinned waistline. Vyan opened her mouth as if to say something, but didn’t. Roko knew what she would say. They didn’t have much money now. They had spent it all on getting Roko’s release sorted. He would have to find a job soon. But for today, everything was perfect.

In prison, they didn’t have all this. They gave a good enough breakfast, but Roko longed for his Vyan, his Ahil. He hadn’t spent this long with them in five years. They’ve always been rushed, disturbed, their conversations buried in tears.

Roko let out a scream. Ahil had grabbed his hair. He hid his face in his father’s shoulder as Roko tickled the little boy. Vyan laughed affectionately. “You should cut your hair,” she reminded Roko, “…and shave too.”

The sky was now a perfect blue. The beach was beginning to fill with fishermen anchoring their boats home, villagers, tourists in beach shorts, boys looking for some money, lovers, the elderly and young.

“Let’s come back when the sun sets to fly kites,” Vyan said, rubbing Ahil’s hair.

The sunset will be as beautiful, as perfect, Roko thought as he made his way quietly towards their little house by the beach. It had lost its magnificence of the past. No longer were the walls a polished white. The roof was broken in places. The chairs needed replacing. Spiders had slowly crawled up the ceiling making perfect patterns. But still, for Roko, this was perfect. It was more than he had bargained for.

His cell in prison was smaller. The walls were black. There was a small window, but he couldn’t see much through it. He had no idea of the insects crawling up his roof. There were too many to distinguish.

Roko didn’t want this day to end. He had spent most of the day cuddled next to his wife and son. They were too precious to let go. He had protested when Vyan had suggested he go to the market. He feared he would lose his wife and son again. He didn’t want that.

It was around four in the evening when Roko went for a walk. Vyan and Ahil were fast asleep.

The beach was still crowded. Roko listened to their voices. All seemed happy. He walked further. The memories of the past five years were still fresh in his mind. They had accused him of aiding in murder. But, he never did that. Yet, the jury had enough evidence, apparently, to say he did. He was friends with the group of people believed to have done that. He was the most innocent of the lot. He had never heard from the group since he was imprisoned.

But, the case was turning tables. Roko was released. Apparently, they were hunting for the “mastermind”. They were close enough to getting him. But Roko was warned. He had once had a visitor – a clean shaven, well-speaking guy he’d never seen before. In a calm voice, the guy had delivered a message, “if you get out, you will pay.” Roko hadn’t quite understood this. He had told his lawyer, who calmed him. He had never told this to his wife though.

It was getting dark. Roko quietly made his way home, lost in thought, without sensing the mayhem around him. He was unaware of the swift movement, the screams and the panicked voices. He was forced to look up only when two big guys knocked on him. They muttered a ‘sorry’.

With a glance at the guys, he walked ahead. But stopped in his tracks. What was all that commotion at his house? Has someone come in search of him? What the ****! Couldn’t they just leave him alone? He quickened his space. He was annoyed. He walked fast, picking up a branch lying at the beach, ready to chase away the mob now crowding his home.

As he moved closer to his house, he was greeted by the most unpleasant of shrieks.

Roko froze.

A man stood holding up what was a lifeless little body, wrapped in just a piece of blood-drenched cloth. To his right, a woman’s body rested against the knees of a white man, bloodied and bruised.

Roko was shaking. Crying. Screaming. Howling. He fell on to the floor. He grabbed his hair. He tore it. He bit into his flesh. Like an animal. He knelt. He stood. He rolled. His face was wet. He sobbed into the still body of his wife. He kissed her forehead, gently again. He wrapped his hand around Ahil. The little boy’s face was expressionless. What did he do to deserve this?

The sky was dark. The sun had probably begun to set, in the West, unknown to Roko.

Roko ran, without sense, without direction. He ran towards the ocean, he kicked it, he cursed it. He cursed the sun, the sky, the moon. He cursed this world. He fell on to the ground, buried his face in his hand, heartbroken and dejected. But no one heard his plea for help, for mercy, for forgiveness… for revenge. He cried into his arm in anger, in pain, like a helpless and incosolable little kid, his sobs drowned by the rising tide under the setting sun.

—-

I was challenged by Dee on the topic, ‘the perfect sunrise, the hearbreaking sunset.’ I loved the topic at first glance, but when I got to writing down, I got a little stuck! Hopefully, I’ve done something ok. I challenged xtinabosco

Riots, bloodshed, violence…

The death of the young bright scholar, after he was accidentally shot down by the police during a protest, in which he had nothing to do, had sparked protests and rage. Police were being hounded for answers, and they responded in no friendly manner, with one big bang! But the protesters barked on the streets demanding answers. No one knew what this meant. Homes were burnt. Schools were closed. Shops were shut down. And the high-up just watched and waited.

There was so much of uncertainty, remorse and injustice.

Raya looked towards the darkening sky, her own future up in the air. Not because of the riots. That too bothered her. But she was uncertain, undecided, of what she wanted to do, what she wanted to become.

She had rebelled against her parents’ choice of a man for her. He wasn’t too bad, but she didn’t like him. So she didn’t want him. She was 28 and her parents were concerned about marriage. She didn’t blame them. But, marriage was something she wanted to be sure of.

She had also quit her job, taking a risk there. She wanted to start her own business. She was still gambling as to what business that would be. That was going slow. She still had money saved from her previous jobs, so that was enough for her, for now. It wasn’t that bad. People find themselves in even worse situations. She also wanted to make herself useful in the world, give something back to the people. But she didn’t know what exactly.

And deep down, she was afraid. Afraid of failing.

Her eyes darted across the clouds as if looking for answers. Somehow that seemed more convenient.

She looked behind her. She had company. Her grandfather, now almost 90, stood beside her, peering curiously into her. She smiled lovingly. After a while though, he left her to her thoughts. She recalled the times her grandfather would sit staring into the distance with his hands held high. She had asked him why he did that once and he had replied, ‘There’s only one thing that awaits me now.’ She had cajoled him into singing his favourite song, ‘I’m getting married in the morning.’ He had sung, with little enthusiasm. To him, his future was almost certain. It wasn’t a matter of it being ‘up in the air’.

Bang.

Just firecrackers this time.

She listened to the news again. It was too loud to miss, anyway. The police chief had resigned and the high-ups have promised an immediate investigation.

She looked up at the sky once more and watched the kites, hovering above her now. They were colourful. They flew up, up and away, freely, unaware of the barriers they might have to face on their way. She could almost see the pride in those who held the end of the thread, craning their necks to map the route of the kite. She could hear their childish laughter. They had either forgotten the day’s events, or it hadn’t affected them too much.

They were still flying free, flying high.

Then it hit her.

Everything was up in the air.

It was here, there, everywhere. But that was the beauty of it. All of it was right in front of her. And while that was the case, the possibilities were endless. It was almost like a fresh start. Everything she wanted to do was just staring into her. Here was her chance to build new plans, and here was their chance to build new hope. She just had to grab what was there.

She smiled. A tinge of excitement gripped her.

Then, frowned.

“But how do I do that?”

She sat where she sat staring into her future, with questions and one answer at hand.

——————————————————–

I was looking for a way to get some writing done again. I came across the Indie Ink writing challenge, which seemed quite fun. It even had a deadline, which meant I had to write, otherwise be disqualified. I was challenged by Lindsey on ‘everything is up in the air’. I hope I did justice to the topic. I started with one thing and ended with another and I’m not sure if I went off-topic. Basically, I took the idea of uncertainty and tried to write something around that. I challenged Jan. Enjoy!