Vagish K. Jha

Orbituary by Neelesh Deepak

मन बहुत दुखी है। शब्द नहीं है मेरे पास। मन बहुत भारी लग रहा है। मेरे गुरु, बड़े भाई और दिल्ली में अभिभावक Vagish K Jha नहीं रहे। आपका अचानक चले जाना मन को कचोट रहा है। पिछले महीने घंटों आपसे बातचीत करके आया हूँ, और आज सुबह आपके निधन की सूचना, स्तब्ध कर गया।

आपका जाना मेरे लिए
व्यक्तिगत क्षति है। जब भी मैं मन की विचलन से भ्रमित होता था तो आपको फोन करता या आपके घर आकर आपसे दिशा निर्देश लेता रहता।

आपसे मैं संस्कृतिकर्म, शिक्षा, इतिहास, रंगमंच और लोक कला पर घंटो बहस करता रहता था। इन तमाम मुद्दों पर आपकी समझ विरल थी।

गुरुदेव सादर प्रणाम👏👏
आज मैं जहाँ भी हूँ आपकी ही वजह से हूँ।

लगभग 25 सालों से आपके सानिध्य में काम करता रहा हूँ। आपके ही नाटक ‘बिजुलिया भौजी’ से सार्थक नाट्य जगत में पदार्पण किया था। तबसे आपके साथ सानिध्य का सौभाग्य प्राप्त होता रहा है। आज आप नहीं है। दुःखी का पारावार नहीं है।

यही जीवन है, ओह😢गुरुदेव

Memorial service Saturday

Brief Biodata
Vagish K Jha held a Master degree in Philosophy and Masters in History from J.N.U, New Delhi. In the field of communication, he had ventured into journalism, theatre, television and has also written articles in national dailies and magazines

“I learned about sexuality when I was in high school. I wanted to know if I was such a person or if there were other people like me. I thought I would tell my parents when I mentioned my marriage. I thought I would die if I married a man. After passing high school, I was angry when my mother told me about marriage. I met ‘A’ in the first semester of my BA. After talking, I realized that she was probably like me.’

In exploring the Assamese language, one inevitably confronts an obvious gap: the absence of a recognized term to encompass individuals beyond the traditional dichotomy of male and female. Within this framework, the term ‘third gender’, often equated with ‘queer’, remains an elementary construct, lacking the nuanced depth required for full comprehension. Its acknowledgement in ancient Indian literature and portrayal in artistic depictions of sexual activities serve as examples of historical acceptance, countering prevailing narratives of deviance and abnormality.

Yet, despite this deep-rooted socio-cultural tradition, the contemporary discourse surrounding the third gender has, regrettably, been relegated to the periphery. Social taboos and deeply ingrained prejudices have conspired to throttle open dialogue, relegating the experiences of this marginalized community to the shadows of society’s consciousness. However, amidst this prevailing silence, there exists a glimmer of hope – an increasing recognition and acknowledgement of the inherent rights and dignities of third-gender individuals.

Recent shifts in societal attitudes, coupled with governmental initiatives aimed at addressing the needs and concerns of this oft-overlooked demographic, signify a slow departure from the status quo. Concurrently, scholars and researchers are embarking on a journey of discovery, exploring the psychological intricacies and socio-cultural dimensions of third-gender identity. Through their nuanced analyses and empathetic inquiries, they seek to illuminate the lived experiences of this community, thereby amplifying their voices and advocating for their rightful place within the fabric of society.

Edited with meticulous care and scholarly acumen by Dr. Kaustubh Padmapani and Dr. Prateeti Barman, the book ‘Queer Voices from the Periphery- a collection of perspectives from Northeast India’ serves as a beacon of enlightenment amidst the prevailing darkness of ignorance and indifference. Centered on the portrayal of ‘queer’ identities in the vibrant landscape of North East India, its pages offer a comprehensive exploration of the complexities and challenges faced by this marginalized demographic. While awareness of queer issues may be blossoming in the region, the dearth of literature serves as a poignant reminder of the pressing need for greater social engagement and discourse.

Comprising an anthology of contributions from researchers and scholars, each chapter endeavours to navigate the undiscovered alleys of queer identity with sensitivity and shades. From probing examinations of cultural nuances and identity dynamics to insightful critiques of general homophobia within Assamese society, the book offers a rich compilation of insights and perspectives. Through rigorous research and empathetic inquiry, the authors seek to peel back the layers of societal prejudice and misconceptions, offering readers a deeper understanding of the lived realities of queer individuals.

Namami Sharma’s compelling discourse on homophobia in small-town Assam serves as a stark reminder of the entrenched biases and systemic inequalities that continue to infuse our social fabric. By shining a light on these injustices and advocating for greater awareness and inclusivity, Sharma underscores society’s collective responsibility towards nurturing a more equitable and accepting environment for all its members. It is through such concerted efforts and unwavering commitment that we may begin to dismantle the barriers of prejudice and discrimination that have long hindered the full realization of human dignity and equality.

In intertwining together these diverse narratives and perspectives, the book offers readers a panoramic view of the lives, struggles, and triumphs of queer individuals in the unique context of North East India. From the emergence of queer identities within the cultural landscape to the challenges of navigating societal expectations and prejudices, each chapter serves as a testament to the resilience and courage of those who dare to defy convention and embrace their true selves. Dr. Bibhuti Patel’s commendation of the book as a critical catalyst for encouraging dialogue and understanding among diverse identities speaks to its profound impact and enduring relevance. Grounded in evidence-based research and filled with a deep sense of empathy and compassion, the book stands as a testament to the power of scholarship and advocacy in advancing the cause of equality and justice for all.

First published in

https://cutt.ly/Rw8ZiNqv

First Published in IIC DIARY

India International Centre New Delhi, recently
organised an evening evening with Javed Akhtar, where the celebrated poet recited his outstanding poetry and conversed candidly with Anil Shrivatav and audience.

Shri Shyam Sharan, President India International Centre introduced the legendary poet and writer Javed Akhtar as apart from being an author and a poet, was also an outstanding lyricist, script writer who has been awarded with several awards and honors from home and beyond.

Anil Srivastav, engaged with Javed Akhtar in a candid conversation as he talked against casteism and fundamentalism. He used the metaphor of toy very appropriately and said most of us are happy with toys as a child and not when grown up.

He said lineage, heritage didn’t give any pride as the genes are not as important as the environment of poetry that made him. He recited wonderfully with great sensitivity two of his brilliant poems, waqt(Time) and Anshu(Tears) to the appreciative audience overflowing in the auditorium.

He took it as a compliment when asked by Allok Srivastav that though he calls himself an atheist still he wrote of Lord Shiva’s tandava, He went on to say that an author has to write differently in different situations that the script demands. He made an extremely significant statement that , “We have to surrender to time and norms.” And also mentioned that we are living in a bubble and everyone wants to be victorious. Instead we have to look for yesterday’s innocence, respect, honesty and surrender. He talked of the golden era of Hindi film songs with great appreciation as common people don’t attend philosophy classes but learn from good film songs.

One very significant statement the erudite poet mentioned is that Hindi and Urdu are of the same origin . Urdu is written in Persian script while Hindi is written in Devanagari and eventually the script is just Hindustani .According to him Hindi and Urdu merged together bringing the best poetry and literature though only time will tell what is good literature. With ghazals, nazm, shayari and splendid conversation a splendid evening passed in an overflowing auditorium with Jadunama or journey of Javed Ji in hands of the captive audience.

Mandira Ghosh

Note
Jadunama is about a writer, poet, lyricist, and political activist. It is also about this one man’s struggle since childhood to become what he is today and to create a hallmark of success in everything he does. Named Jadu at birth, it was Javed sahab’s father, Jan Nisar Akhtar’s poem, ‘Lamha, lamha kisi jadoo ka fasana hoga (Every moment will be the story of a certain magic)’ that was the inspiration behind the name. When the little boy was in kindergarten, everyone realised that Jadu was not a serious name and to have a word as close to Jadu as possible, he was renamed Javed (meaning ‘eternal’), Akhtar (meaning ‘star’)—Eternal star! Not only has he remained in the limelight ever since, he continues to shine brightly like the eternal star!

Javed Akhtar (born 17 January 1945) is an Indian screenwriter, lyricist and poet. Known for his work in Hindi cinema, he has won five National Film Awards,[1] and received the Padma Shri in 1999 and the Padma Bhushan in 2007,[2] two of India’s highest civilian honours.

किसका मोती किसकी झोली

बचपन में देखा था उसे पहली बार।
उसकी माँ हमारे यहाँ काम करती थी। एक दिन संग बेटी को ले आई। बोली,”आज कुछ हरारत सी लगे है बीबी जी। इसे ले आई हूँ, कुछ हाथ बंटा देगी।”
मेरी माँ बोलीं”अच्छा किया, दोनों मिल कर काम कर लो।”

इतवार था सो मैं भी घर पर थी। लड़की ने झटपट काम करना शुरू कर दिया।
मैं छटी कक्षा में थी। नाश्ते के बाद पढ़ने बैठ गई थी। काम करती लड़की को कनखियों से देख रही थी।

गोरा चिट्टा धूप जैसा रंग, सुतवां नाक, पलकें ऐसीं कि झुके तो चेहरा छू लें उठे तो भौंहें। लंबे काले बाल, ये मोटी मोटी दो चोटियां लाल रिबन में बंधी हुई, दंतपंक्ति कुछ टेडी मेढ़ी पर चेहरे को और भी सलोना बना रहीं थी। गूदड़ी में लाल कहावत याद आ गयी।
मैंने इशारे से बुलाया”क्या नाम है तुम्हारा?”
माथे से मोती जैसे पसीने को कुर्ती की बाँह से पोंछ, इंच भर लंबी पलकें उठा कर बोली” मीत।”
“कितने साल की हो?” पूछा मैंने

“पता नहीं, माँ कहती है शायद 12 की, बाबा को तो कुछ पता नहीं, पड़ोस के एक अंकल जी कहते हैं, सोलह की लगती हूँ।” एक साँस में फर्राटे से बोल गई लड़की।
तभी उसकी माँ आ गई,”री छोरी, बस फिर बतियाने लगी। हे राम, कैसी औलाद दी है तूने। बाँस की तरह बढ़ रही है पर ये नहीं के कुछ काम ही कर ले। कुछ तो मुझ बुढ़िया को आराम मिले।”

माँ क्या थी, हिडिम्बा का अवतार, किसी पहलवान सी कद काठी, काला भुजंग रंग, बीड़ी पी पी कर काले पड़े दाँत,चौड़ी गुफ़ा से नथुने,चेहरा चेचक के बचे प्रसाद से भरा।
“हाय राम! इस राक्षसी सी माँ की ऐसी रूपवती सन्तान। जाने कौन से पीर से मांग कर लायी होगी !”

मेरी उम्र तब 11 की थी। मुझे वो हमउम्र ही लगी। पहले ही दिन दोस्ती हो गयी। अब वो अक्सर आ जाती अपनी माँ के संग।
एक दिन चाय बनाते हुए बोली,”जिज्जी तुम गुड़ की चाय चखी हो कभी?”
“न, नहीं तो, चाय में गुड़ कौन डालता है मीत?”

उन दिनों चाय में गुड़ डालने का कारण बस ये था कि चीनी मेंहगी थी, गुड़ सस्ता,, तो निचले तबके के हिस्से में गुड़ आता। आज की बात और है,अब सफेद चीनी को बुरा कहते हैं।

आज सोचती हूँ क्या पैसा दे कर हम ज़हर खरीदते थे अब तक और अमृत गरीबों की थाली में सजता था?
ख़ैर गुड़ की उस चाय का नैसर्गिक स्वाद
जिह्वा आज तक नहीं भूली।
फिर तो बड़ों से छुप छुप कर इमली गटारे, कच्चे आम, चूर्ण, आम पापड़ जाने कितने चटखारों को प्रसाद सा चढ़ाया अपनी जिह्वा की चटोरी देवी को हम दोनों ने।

पास ही एक गाँव जंडली में रहती थी मीत। उसके पिता का छोटा सा खेत था। कभी कभी माँ से पूछ मैं मीत के संग गाँव चली जाती।

मीत उछल उछल कर खेतों में आगे आगे चलती, मैं पीछे। आज सोचती हूँ कि ध्यान से देखती तो उसके पाँव के नीचे शायद पंख दिख ही जाते !

खेतों में कभी लाल सुर्ख़ गाजर उखाड़, पानी से धो,दो टुकड़े कर देती,एक उसका एक मेरा और कभी अमरूद के पेड़ पर गिलहरी सी चढ़ अमरूद तोड़ लाती।

बड़ी अजीब बात है कि बचपन में ढूंढते थे तोते का खाया अमरूद। हमारी खोज और अनुभव के अनुसार ऐसे अमरूद शर्तिया मीठे होते थे। और अब फल चाहिए एकदम बेदाग, भले ही मसाले से पके हों। फ़िर न तो बगीचे वाले घर हैं न पेड़ों पर चढ़ने वाले बच्चे।

दो तीन साल ऐसा ही चला। हम बड़े होते गये। मुझ पर पढ़ाई का बोझ बढ़ने लगा,, मीत पर जिंदगी का, दो तीन और भी घरों में काम करती पर जब तब हम दोनों मिलने का समय निकाल ही लेते।
धीरे धीरे मीत का आना कम होता चला गया। उसकी मां ने बताया उसकी शादी की बात चल रही है।

अरे वाह ! मन मे सोचा जिद करके मैं भी चली जाऊंगी मीत की शादी में। दुल्हन बनी मीत को देखूँगी। यूँ ही जो रूप की खान थी, दुल्हन बन कर तो स्वर्ग की अप्सरा ही लगेगी।

कभी कभी कहती थी वो, जिज्जी,क्या करूँ इस निगोड़े रूप को,,, लोग ऐसे देखते हैं जैसे बदन टटोल रहे हों। पराये भी और कुछ अपने भी। जिज्जी गरीब की बेटी को सुंदर नहीं होना चाहिए न,, कहते कहते कंचन से चेहरे पर जैसे कोई बदरी छा जाती।
पर मीत की शादी में न जा पाई,अनुमति नहीं मिली।

फिर एक दिन वो आई। लाल साड़ी, सिर पर पल्लू लिए, ढेर लाली सिंदूर माँग में,कलाईयों में कांच की खनखन करती हरी लाल चूड़ियां कानों में सोने के बुन्दे सोने जैसे चेहरे के रंग से होड़ लगाते हुए।
“जिज्जी” कह कर लिपट गई। मैंने भी गले लगा लिया। लिपटी ही रहती पर अचानक माँ कह कर किसी ने पुकारा। देखा तो 7,8 साल का एक बच्चा पल्लू खींच रहा था।
“कौन है ये, किसका बच्चा है,, माँ किसको बुला रहा है?” मैंने गोली से प्रश्न दाग दिए।
मुझसे अलग हुई कुछ कहने को थी कि टक टक की आहट हुई जैसे बैसाखी हो।
सचमुच ही बैसाखी टेकता एक अधेड़ पुरुष आ खड़ा हुआ। गहरा कोयले सा रंग,सिर पर छितरे से लाल बाल, पान से एक गाल फूला हुआ।

कौन हो भई तुम,, पूछने ही वाली थी कि बड़े अधिकार और अभिमान से उसने अपनी पुष्ट चौड़ी हथेली मीत के कंधे पर रख दी। खींसें निपोरता हुआ बोला,”आप से मिलने की बहुत इच्छा थी हमारी पत्नी जी की, इसीलिए ले आये। देवी का हुकुम कोई टालता है भला? और हमारा बिटवा तो नई माँ को छोड़ता नहीं पल भर को।”

मैं स्तब्ध, अवाक मुंह बाए देखती रह गई।अब क्या ही पूछना बाकी रह गया था? एक अधेड़ विधुर की दूसरी पत्नी, 8 साल के बच्चे की नवविवाहित माँ 18 -19 बरस की मीत ही थी।

कलेजे पर पत्थर रख उस अनोखे परिवार को चाय नाश्ता करवाया। अकेले में मीत से बात करने का मौका ही नहीं मिला,उसके मालिक ने अपनी सम्पति ने नज़र एक पल न हटाई। मां ने चलते हुए मीत को शगुन दे कर विदा किया।

हरदम चिड़िया सी चहचहाने वाली मीत पूरे समय कुछ भी न बोली, मुंह मे शब्द नहीं थे और आँखों मे जैसे प्राण न थे। बस एक सजी धजी काठ की गुड़िया लग रही थी, बेजान गुड़िया कभी बोलती है क्या?
शाम को उसकी माँ काम करने आई तो मैंने आड़े हाथों लिया,” क्या मौसी, कैसी माँ हो तुम, कहाँ ब्याह दी लड़की,,,उस बुढ्ढे दुहाजू के साथ, जरा दया नहीं आयी निरीह गाय सी लड़की को जिबह करते हुए,, तुम्हारी तो अपनी जाई थी वो” क्रोध और आवेग में मैं बरस पड़ी।

मौसी का खुरदुरा काला चेहरा जैसे पिघलने लगा। मोटे मोटे ऑंसू झुर्रियों की पगडंडियों पर बहने लगे
“सुन री बिटिया,, मेरी जाई न थी वो। आज बताती हूँ सब कुछ।कई साल पहले मेर घर वाला लाया था, बोला टेसन पर अकेली खड़ी रो रही थी। भीड़ में माँ बाप से बिछड़ गई थी।मैं ले आया।लड़की की जात, किसी गलत हाथ पड़ जाती। अब अपनी ही बेटी समझ। अब तू निपूती न रही।”

हिचकियों के बीच वो बोली”पर बिटिया मैंने तब से ही अपनी जाई सा प्यार किया था अभागी को। पाल पोस कर बड़ा किया। हमारे दामाद गांव के साहूकार और हमारे मकान मालिक हैं। बड़ा कर्ज़ा था उनका हमारे सर। एक दिन बोले या तो उधारी चुकता करो या मकान खाली कर दो। नहीं तो अपनी बेटी ब्याह दो मुझे।सारा कर्ज माफ़ कर दूँगा और 5000 रुपये भी दूँगा।
क्या कहूँ बिटिया मैं बहुत रोई पर इसके बापू ने हां भर दी। कमबख्त ने बेच डाली बेटी। असली बाप होता तो शायद न कर देता।”
आँसू मेरी भी आंखों में थे। सचमुच अभागी ही थी, जाने कौन घर में जन्मी, कहाँ पली और कैसे घर ब्याही। तभी तो,नैन नक्श रंग रूप कुछ भी नहीं मिलता था अपने माँ बाप से।

जिंदगी की इस नाइंसाफी का इंसाफ शायद उसे कभी न मिलेगा।

Mithi knew she was lying. She had no option but to lie. She lied and lied and became a mythomaniac. One day she did not want to lie. But the mania would not leave her. Her mouth emitted a lie that her heart did not consent. She became frustrated as she was continually telling lies all the time when she could avoid doing so. One day, she went to a Babaji and told him to give her a remedy. Babaji smiled and said, “when you are tempted to lie, just imagine that the truth that you are speaking is a lie. You will do alright.” Next day, Mithi experimented it. Her father asked her, “Mithi did you take 200 rupees from my pocket?” Mithi replied, “YES.” And while she spoke yes, she imagined it were a lie! And yes, she got rid of the habit!

STORY SAYS, “Your thoughts make it true or false.”

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Two Robots were brought on the stage along with two actors. They were given the same dialogues as the actors. They spoke the dialogues with trained expressions duly. The actors were asked to speak the same dialogue. They looked at each other brought the emotions in and when it was time to begin, one of the actors forgot the second dialogue he was about to speak. So instead of that dialogue, he spoke another one and the other actor had to continue with the new idea as the previous dialogue had been changed.

Now, the entire presentation was changed on the part of the humans.

Next day, the programmed Robots were brought in. One of them encountered a technical error and could not utter the programmed dialogue. The other Robot kept quiet as it was commanded to speak only after listening to the dialogue of the first Robot. Now, the act came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly, both the Robots bowed down to the audiences and left the stage. They were programmed to do so ONLY after the presentation got over. But, they did it beforehand and went off stage. What made them act in spite of the mechanics?

None knows but conjectures are that there’s a sixth sense programmed in them which gets activated as soon as their technical glitch occurs.

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Does the cold womb speak to the warm vagina,  are we meant to be bound  and knit into the body, so much so we do not seem to belong, not to have any identity ever?  The guess is not in the mystification nor in the pontification of the  “female” in the eyes of society. Nor it it amongst the peering eyes of manhood and by keeping them as some elusive or exclusive superior race.  It  lies in the individuality and the recognition of the self amongst all.  For once let us not see ourselves only through the wombs , the vaginas, or paling breasts but only as having separate yet same voices.  This through which we can declare strongly enough to be defined as all belonging to each other.

The time to be in categories of gender has long gone, it needs to be attacked and discarded as worthless.  These binaries and super binaries that do not see women as individuals first but use the safety net of phrases of gender are to be  shot down as  fallacies. We have been honoured enough by given powerful names by our ancestors.  We have been given recognition for sounding phrases strong.  Enough of gendering, enough and more than enough, it’s time to think ahead, as “you and me”, and “we all”, “as all of us” that belong entirely to each other.

This will allow us to love unconditionally, to let go unconditionally and remain forever within the societal definitions of a “ wife” “mother” “ daughter” or “sister”.  It will thus also not negate the man as a “ husband” “ father” “ son” or “ brother” and bondages will only only grow stronger and stronger.  Such singular terms of unity therefore allows one to outgrow force and coercion that often come within societal  relationships.  The urge here I see to all of us  only as me and you and forget the male, female, alpha male, alpha female etc.  The society will then accept unconditionality in loving and wanting to be loved.

For once live only for you and me and forget all expectations from each other, not because god says so, or you have enlightened and seen Buddhahood, or emerged victorious from the caves of inner meditation, but only because you truly and truly believe in the selfhood of each person. Wombs will then create the universe with its totality and spirit of mind.  Enjoy and embark in this unconditionality of living and letting to live.      

Firm structures are delusional, they are nothing but myths that we are constantly chasing in our closed mind doors and heavily curtained windows. We have grown to believe that we must adorn structures much like the daily practice of wearing our clothes, taking a shower or having our food. Do we even once care to stop and chase the sighting shadows of the passerby? By not giving authority to these shrouded imprints, we fail to notice the wondrous
sights that life has to offer to us, the miraculous forms and figures of the “much needed to define shadows”.

Shadows of course are hazy, difficult to pin as someone true, and further becomes even more not worth a glance, if it belongs to mere passerby. However, for once it is important to
gaze deeply and give the shadow its much needed worth and respect. The bystander needs to be witnessed thus to give it a valuable definition. It is foremost hence for once to believe
in the onlookers’ misty rooted figures and give it a much needed honorable name. Only then will we witness the miracles of life where these clouded shapes have the power to change…
to change your life.

Once we stop to talk, to think along, cry along the sorrow or laugh along the joys of the onlooker and embark on his journey, we are constructing the paths to universal living and
true harmony with all. One only has to believe that the paths to his story are golden and are the flights of the rainbow to the diamond crusted view of the universe. Each figure has the
potential to hold our attention to such an extent, that we come to realise and recognise the prodigy in each person. Our lives are only enriched by these sighting shadows that have voices and conversations we must not only hear, but hear to recollect to enrich our own ways.

We must therefore join in their sightings and believe in the sightings of clouded beings and discard our own fears to join in their tete-a- tete. Nothing then can be thrown clumsily out as worthless and the value of all is in the faithful spirit of all.

All of us are born with memories that we wish to forget and discard like faded photographs having hazy blurry images or the thrown pennings of blue inland letters and creamy pages fading with endearing attachments. We would rather regurgitate the past than carry it within us. Are we in the real sense of failing to remember or do we wish not to hear the words of the recitative past and not get the truthful recollection of the echoing sights? To be called only as a witness is easier than to bear and pour out the visions we wish not to see. The ability to see things as they are, are so difficult to break, that to escape into the light hearted day seems much easier and much more uncomplicated.

No one wants to resound pain, express trauma or grieve for a loss. The identity of the self to happily live only within the confines of the day, going from hour to hour and knocking down the doors of the minutes that dissolves then into seconds, is true serenity and peace. However, many times we need to challenge the tranquillity we have falsely created and listen to the polyphonous sounds of the dead and buried. The graves of the bygone as much as you bury, as much as you decide the deepest depth the coffin should lay, needs the embalming, only and only to cleanse your soul.

To gain the convincing reincarnation of this lost spirit, is only possible if we allow ourselves to cry, lament and mourn for the forgotten memories. Just by dismissing the bygone and not evoking the emotions of sorrow, by not shedding the salty reservoir, we are creating only adulterated personifications of what we term as today. Its reason is enough to moisten the sodden earth of the buried past, so that the watering down can reach the submerged coffins. One has to sometimes open to see the enclosed skeletons and beat one’s breast to lament for the faded photographs or tethered inland letters or torn creamy papers that are screaming to be heard.

So, hear the cries within, grieve for the past, sob along with the beats of your heart and let your tears become the pulse. It will only allow the recitative past to become beautiful, melodious verses of songs of your life you will want to hear again and again.

A home is without any doubt a safe space, an extant that has the infinite capacities to being ourselves; where our clothes need not be washed or ironed and made to be presentable all the time; our unkempt unshaven looks draws no contempt from the gazing mirrors; cutlery can be limited to eating straight out of the pizza box  with greasy tissues thrown carelessly all over the floor; and leisure is our pass time and idyllic conversations the only competing games. The debate arises then, if  we choose to keep this space out of bounds for others, however familial or close.  It is the truth that only when we get this free entitlement to closing these doors of our room, shutting  out those as being totally  non transgerressable, barring these latitudes out of anyone’s reach, do we get a veracious sense of belonging.  The arguments arise loud and the cacophony grows louder  only when we keep these augmented heavens exclusive  for our winged flights, leaving others alone and far behind in what they see as their black earth.

Adoring such realities, one, is discerned to be “ unconventional” or can I say “ odd” to the normal public eye.  However, if we all sieve through the thoughts running in our minds, we  come to this realization, that all of us wish for an exclusive home, that only belongs to us and only to us.  This hearth does not see the privilege only of the “single status” fancy holding few, but to all, men, women or children.  All, I see as wanting to  create an expanse of an unparalleled area that echoes our only headrooms.  We  then come to conclude that we are faithfully heard.  Our tete-a tete might be  limited to the capacity of recording random intramural thoughts, however, inner, however wordless, or however out of tune for others,  it forever plays as a  beautiful melody for our ears.

We, unfortunately, are created as social byproducts and often have to assume suggestive capacity giving roles, inundated with responsibility and risk.  The risk that we can carve out then, for our own employment seems much easier and much more responsible. If created exclusively  for us,  they are results of accurate victories as  being free of failure in the eyes of others. As the endeavours seeked  are for our own purview; and we are un-mockingly forgiving towards ourselves, we sense a literal liberty.  Thus  being unrestrained from scorn, and disdain, we seek everlasting joy in solitude, and  despite being born into a home,  I see the human mind seeking and wandering eternally in the search of this unerring habitat. If our birth homes can define and allow such unconfined liberties, uncontested un-contemptuous ways,  will only then, this never ending sojourns of seeking of ours to belong, cease and stop to identify the true borders of a hinterland.  Let’s become companions to the exodus of the few and return thus to our realistic homes.