So Long Dad...

Nightmares, that's how people would refer to unwanted and dreaded dreams. 20th June 2007, was one morning when I woke up just to find one of my most dreaded nightmares coming true. Churning up deep inside with me were the things which I think I would say to my Dad when he comes out of the ICU or in that case, comes back to Lucknow. Now, he never will.

This happens to be my final tribute to him and perhaps for the last time people are going to see my name on the chic pages of HT We. Perhaps some things never come back. Neither would he, nor I. I have been dreaming too long knowing that he had laid a path ahead for me. There sleeps the man, all in white, who filled colours into my life many a times. For once he wasn't sleeping in some cozy bed; instead he was in the chilling freezer of a mortuary.

Ever since he went far away, I have seen people walking up to me and telling me that I can do it and ultimately the difference between the past and present will fade away. I wonder whether it can.

His coffin on his way back to his home read "Human Remains of LATE Mr. A.K.Singh", that's where the difference is my dear people. The word LATE preceded his name and now it is going to haunt me through out my life.

Being the eldest son, I am expected to carry forward the legacy and I wasn't even allowed to cry. I just sat there holding the dead hands of my dad while he lay there straight without any movements.

Things flashed by and the lifeless hands were the most painful things ever because these used to be my pillar of strength and a lot more. I might have held his finger with my hands ages back when he was teaching me to walk on his and now he himself needed four shoulders.

He never preferred shortcuts. But somehow, one of his last wishes was about his cremation which he wanted to be by the electric furnace. We put him at the tip of the furnace, he didn't move. I put the pieces burning camphor up his chest, neck and other parts, he didn't react. Finally I pushed him in the furnace and switched it 'On'. I burnt my own father. Despite of the fact that nothing meant more to me than his gentle kiss on the forehead for every good literary work or a good deed.

I hear the words echoing deep inside me which remind me of the tricks he wanted to teach me and every time I would walk up to him and tell him that I wonder whether he has me. He always told me to sleep till I am fresh enough because once I am awake I have got to face the blues. I have been fooling around with my funny dreams but I have to aim higher because he wanted me to.

For once I started envying those people who have got Fathers. This Fathers' Day when everyone was busy celebrating the day, I was praying that some more days be added to my father's life but things didn't work out. I have lost my friend philosopher, guide and my Santa. Coincidentally, I started with HT writing about the Real Life Santas and putting full stop to my journey with HT We writing about my Santa.

Here is me and the wishing wells are drying up. The lands are parched and there is no hope. Open windows, let the rain come in. You feel alone and you have got no one to blame, say it to me. The temple bells still chime, and this is me the little boy who is left in his little world.

Seems like time gets lost in space. So, you know, how far you'll be.

-Piyush Singh

PS: This article appeared in the paper in the year 2007 and ever since then, I am often reminded of the people I have met and things they have said. I would like to thank Trinity, wherever she is and ofcourse Sera who lead me through this entire ordeal without letting me break down.

Teri Aankhein ...

Long time ago, a brilliant musician from down south approached me with a very ambitious plan. At first, the plan didn't seem feasible but by the sheer energy that he had put in while he explained the idea to me, I decided to give it a shot. The musician was none other than Ifthikar Ali and he approached me to be one of the lyricists for his album Patchwork which featured artists from all over the globe.

There was something so special about how he convinced me to work on a project like this with him and I loved being a part of the whole process. A lot of people have been writing to me to share the song or for the lyrics so I decided to put it up here on my blog for one and all to hear.

Listen to the song here:

Why the song is called Teri Aankhein? Simply because the dummy tune I received had a hook line Teri Aankhein and it was quite difficult for me to ignore it because it did fit in beautifully. I went against the brief and finished it and this is what the outcome is. 

As a part of Patchwork, Teri Aankhein was the first song I wrote and there were quite a lot of different versions of the same song in between, but this version featuring Chordrush remains to be my favourite.

The lyrics are as follows:

Kitni sadiyan, hain beeti

baatein teri, woh suni si

Har pal mein, basi khamoshi

Aur aankhen teri, yeh jhuki si

Teri aankhen, maula

bechain kare yun mujhe

Teri aankhen, allah

kho jaaon kahin inme

Teri palko ke saaye mein

base khwab jo hamne dekhe

Teri aankhen jaise koi daastaan

jaise nadiya koi hain chhalke

Ruk ke dekho to ek baar tum

teri aankhon mein janaat meri

Koi apsara koi hoor

ki baat hi HAIN kya

Jo maine dhoondha to haseen

tum sa nahi

Jo kuch hain mere armaan

mehke hain tum hi tum se

Door tumse ho kar bhi

teri aankhon se door

Main jaaoon bhi to, jaaoon

kahin bhi nahi...

With love:

Piyush Abhay Singh
- www.piyushabhaysingh.com

The Dark Side - Short Story

The phone was ringing. She looked at the display. ‘Javed Calling’, it showed. She looked at the clock which was close to strike 9:30 pm. With utmost reluctance, she picked up the phone and held it in her hands for good ten seconds as she continued to put lip stick on her pretty lips admiring herself as the beauty that she was.  Soon enough, she forgot totally about the phone that was still in her hands, getting louder with each passing second.

The phone went silent after its failed attempt to get even the half of Rashmi’s attention. She was about to wipe off the lipstick that she had just put on her lips. She seemed unsure and then was lost again into the eyes of the familiar face in the mirror. The phone started ringing. Javed seemed to have called at the right moment now to get her attention.

 She picked up reluctantly and without any formalities in a cold tone, uttered, “Yes. What now?”

Javed on the other hand sounded like as if God had answered all his prayers just to avoid him from getting angry. He asked in a loud tone, “Why didn’t you answer my call for the first time?”

All she said was- “Lower your voice, you bastard.”

Javed was taken aback and realized that anger just won’t work. With a tinge of a giggle, he said, “You bitch”.

Something in Javed’s tone made her smile too. She asked, in a more polite manner, “Why have you called? What is it?”

“I have called for work”, Javed mentioned with utmost professionalism.

“Haven’t I told you a million times that I don’t work after 9.” she stated as a matter of fact as she continued to wipe that lipstick from the side of her lips.

Javed was convinced that he will convince her. In a pleading manner, “I don’t call you up every day for work after 9. Once in a while you need to do this. It is difficult for me to get you clients like this. Please. You have to do it”.

There was a long silent pause as she continued to think with the phone still close to her listening to all the ‘Please’ by Javed with her least possible attention. The silence was interrupted by the door bell.

She opened the door to a guy who stood there holding food parcel in his hands. In a very usual manner she gestured him to keep the stuff in kitchen and asked him to add the bill in her account at the shop. The guy left.

After closing the door, with phone still held close to her ears, she sat on the very same chair facing away from the mirror and asked Javed in a low voice preceded by a deep sigh. “So who’s he?”

“They are two people. They are from some foreign country staying at the hotel across the road from your house. They are Sumer’s clients”.

“Javed Bhai, you know me. I don’t do such stuff”, she resisted.

“Everything happens for the first time. They are paying you Rs. 12,000, which is thrice the amount you get paid for handling one single man”, Javed stated with confidence.

“I am not getting a good feeling about this. Anyways, how many hours?” she continued.

“10  to 12. Two hours and 12,000 rupees. These a****** foreigners can’t keep it going like Indian men”, Javed said with a huge laughter as if he had cracked the best joke ever.

With almost a fake giggle, Rashmi asked, “What if I say no?”

Javed’s laughter came to a sudden halt. He continued, “Do it or get yourself a new manager. I am not doing it for you. I have given them my word.  No one would even pay a penny for your body if it wouldn’t have been me behind you”.

She gave in, “Okay. 10 to 12 and not even a second more than that”.

Javed looked calm now, “I am sending you the details, go through the sms. And yes, those are foreigners; I don’t need to tell you what they want”.

She uttered in a low tone, “Okay”.

After keeping the phone down, she made sure that everything, right from her gloss to eye lashes are in place. She picked up her bag and as soon as she reached the door, she paused for a while unsure of her decision. Somewhere in that dilemma, she chose to open the door and leave and paced to the hotel. When seen through the window of her house, it seemed like the darkness of the night engulfed her giving out suggestive silhouettes of her every now and then as she crossed one street light after another.

The clock showed 9:45 pm now. It was a long haul before she would be back. The lights of the house were left on. May be because she forgot to switch them off or probably she didn’t want to. The grim silence that engulfed the entire house was in a constant struggle with the second hand of the clock as it kept on moving. And somewhere in the mid of this extended tussle between the clock and the young night, the clock reached to show 12:20 am.

The door opens and Rashmi walks in. She threw her bag aside and sat on her chair in front of the mirror. After staring at the person in the mirror for a good span of time, she frantically started looking for the pile of tissues almost in a desperate attempt.  As soon as she got hold of the tissue box, she started taking out tissues hurriedly while still trying hard to hold her tears within her.  She started to wipe her face leaving aside the few drops of tears that rolled down her eyes. She almost made a conscious attempt not to bother the two drops that made efforts to reach all the way to her eyes from her soul.

She stayed there for a long time, motionless and thoughtless. She looked at the clock and it showed 1 am in the morning. She got up, moved to the kitchen to get herself a glass of water. While she was busy quenching her thirst, she noticed the untouched food packet she almost forgot about. She picked up the packet, almost unsure as to what to do with it and placed it back. She got out of the kitchen and moved towards the adjacent room. Just as she was about to enter there, she made sure that her eyes are clear from the traces of tears that she embraced a while back. She took a deep sigh and stepped inside the room that was barely lit with the help of a side lamp.

There on the bed in that room, was a 13 year old boy who was lost in his sleep. The races he used for walking were perfectly placed against the side table. The hearing aid was placed on the table next to a few scattered crayons. The teak wood of the table had a few interesting strokes of red, yellow and green on the shiny brown surface. Rashmi walked closer to the bedside almost stumbling over the false leg of the boy. She picked it up, placed it on the side and kept walking.

She stood there looking at the boy for a few minutes by the bedside until she noticed a piece of paper tucked inside boy’s fist. She carefully took the paper out. It was a paper that had a few scattered words placed here and there with colours and a stick sketch. In a writing that looked like to be of a 4 year old was written, “Happy Birthday to the world’s best mommy”. The emphasis given to the word ‘Mommy’ brought tears to her eyes. She was clearly lost. Her lips moved a bit and tears started rolling down one after another. She placed the card next to the boy, sat by her bedside and lied down next to the boy.

She switched off the table lamp and decided to go through a message on her phone one last time.

It read,

“Hi Rashmi. You have not been answering our phone calls and every attempt to get in touch with you has been a waste. We have no other way than this to tell you that your reports have come and we don’t know how much time we have in our hands. Please try to be strong. Don’t lose hope. We will do our best. Dr. Sharma”

In the light from the display of the cell phone, she kissed the boy on his cheeks and hugged him tightly. She looked at the cell phone once again, deleted that sms and switched it off. Now the night was even darker, the sound of the clock was even louder. The only thing that was racing fast and was yet not making noise was her own heart which somehow came to terms with the reality. The clock now showed 2 am in the morning. The lights were still on but they failed to flood in the dark insides of Rashmi’s heart.

- Piyush Singh

www.piyushabhaysingh.com

Picture Courtesy: World Wide Web

The Unforgettable Chhotu

Picture Courtesy: Internet.

The Sun was out there waiting for me and as usual I was tossing from one side to the other on my bed. No matter how things change and how far you have come out to be yourself, there will always be a few scars that you will cherish forever. Some scars are memories and a part of you wants to go back to them but despite of everything, you know that you have come a long way from them and you can never go back. 

I was just thinking about those mornings, which used to be relatively free. Being too lazy to cook something, I always landed up at the eating joints a block away. There is this joint which only served South Indian food along with added colours of ‘Gulab Jamuns’. When I moved to Kharghar, New Bombay, I wasn’t really keen on South Indian food. A year passed and when I settled more into the environment, I started observing things. my observation included everything, the food, utensils, tables and the chairs, and most important of all, the never fading smile on the faces working there. The only difference there was about the faces, the faces were all of boys who were under 14 and take my words, they were cute.

I didn’t even realize when I became so fond of them that the South Indian served in that joint became the only means on which I could survive. I would bank on every opportunity to rush there and see the daily happenings with a 'glass of coffee' in front of me. I would just watch them as they moved fast in between tables carrying the plates and the glasses as it was relatively a smaller place and most of the time it used to get so crowded that there were queues of would-be-eaters.

I became a familiar face out there. And as soon as I stepped in that place, all four of the boys would gather around me and with just a few exchanges of smiles they knew what I was going to order for food. Venkateshwar (one of them) would yell at Anna, “Ek mas-ss-aa-l-aa, ek ch-aa-i”. Sometimes when I used to ditch him with guesses, I would order ‘Uttapa’ and then he would yell “Mas-ss-aa-l-aa can-cel, ek Utt-a-pp-aa”. Then, if I was alone (that never happened), and if they were free as well (that also never happened), they will come up to the table where I generally sat and start a conversation.

There was this guy, who wore a T-shirt which was supposed to be of Ryan International School but only if he could know the meaning of the scrambled words written on his T-Shirt. I always found him cutest of the lot. He would come up to me and tell me tales about his days, and I would be no one than an active listener. He would tell about the girls he liked in my society, about the ‘off for a day’ he recently got but his favorite topic was to talk about my cell phone endlessly. Sometimes it would have been the Wallpaper or the ring tone or the sms tone, but he really liked them all. He would go out, click some good pictures and return the cell to me and then kept on reliving the memory till I give him my cell for the next time.

Way back in 1979, Government formed the first committee called Gurupadswamy Committee to study the issue of child labour and to suggest measures to tackle it. It observed that as long as poverty continued, it would be difficult to totally eliminate child labour and hence, any attempt to abolish it through legal recourse would not be a practical proposition. The Committee felt that in the circumstances, the only alternative left was to ban child labour in hazardous areas and to regulate and ameliorate the conditions of work in other areas. It recommended that a multiple policy approach was required in dealing with the problems of working children.

These are all words, written in black and white, I would rather go for the untold stories which he wanted to tell me, they sound much much sweeter and I am more than happy to listen to him every time. Even in my busiest of schedules I would try anything just to take out time and hang out there. Ch-aa-i after ch-aa-i, coffee after coffee, I started spending my holidays at that place, though I did not get much of holidays but I always made sure that 5 on 7 days a week, I land up there for dinner and I was always welcomed with a smile on those four faces, as if I was the remedy to their tiredness. Again the same miraculous tone and the yell ““Ek mas-ss-aa-l-aa, ek ch-aa-i”.

“The shackles are there on the body,

Dreams can never be tamed

The sky up above and the horizon unknown,

His wings can claim

The tears roll down and dry

With indifference in name

The murmur rises and dies

But it’s all in a game.”

- Piyush Abhay Singh

Please note that I wrote this blog sometime in the year 2006 and I still remember chhotu's face. Ever since I left that place in the year 2009, to this date, every house help we have got, despite of his age, is called Chhotu. The only thing that I still crave for is that smile.

The blog has been edited a bit in today's context. The old context of blog was different and I am sure you don't want to read about that. 

Ganesh Festival: The Acceptance

Photo by: Piyush Abhay Singh

It is probably a very bad start to a even worse blog, but I miss being in Mumbai round this time of the year. I don’t mean Septmeber generally when there is a slightly hazy envelope that covers the morning and the evening, but what I am referring to is the festivities encircling the amazing Ganeshotsav.

I still remember the first time I moved to Mumbai in the year 2005 for my course at National Institute of Fashion Technology. The environment was a bit different as we were the freshers and in a way we were the source of endless entertainment while we gladly gave away our dignity and whatsoever self esteem we were left with after a long tiring day of college. And practically there was no other way to skip these senior-junior interaction aka ragging.

In between those times of being away from the home for the first time and then successfully surviving the 26/11 deluge regular visits to the hospital in order to either see a friend of yours or get yourself for malaria, it was quite a necessity for us to look for safer and better alternatives because frankly, almost 2 months down and most of them were simply not accepted by the city.

On one such evening three of my house mates and I decided to sleep early as we were pretty much delighted with the fact that the following day was off on account of Ganesh Chaturthi. It was not because of the festival that we were delighted but the whole idea of having a holiday in middle of the week so that you can catch up on ever increasing list of pending assignments was getting us excited.

Being from northern India, I really wasn’t aware of the magnitude or the importance it holds in every one’s life in Maharashtra.  At around 12 we woke up to the sound of crackers echoing one after another in the entire society. Jumping out of the bed, the first thought that crossed my mind that “Oh damn! This time the seniors have taken it too far”. That estranged moment was strengthened by the sight of the house-mates running to the balcony to ensure if everything was okay.

The house was on the first floor and I could see some smoke rising up from the streets. Before I could have jumped to conclusions, the whole environment was filled the shouts of “Ganpati Bappa Morya”. I was numb looking at the huge sea of people who were just walking by carrying the idol, screaming and shouting and celebrating the arrival of the almighty. In that momentary trance, I decided to let go and give in. We rushed down the stairs and joined them. By the time it was 2 am in the morning, we were tired, drenched and liberated.

The following day, as it was reserved for assignments, took a different turn and none of us who were a part of something so beautiful and grand the night before, couldn’t focus on finishing assignments anymore. The outcome of that one magical night made us all feel at home. We decided to took a day off and went around roaming on the streets visiting every pandal the entire day. There was a pandal in almost every corner, every street or even the tiniest of the alleys. It was just strange getting used to the idea as first but we were high on celebrations as soon as we gave in.

Every since that first time, I made it a point to be out there in each and every Ganeshotsav that followed. It is true that my patience was tested at a lot of times but at the end of the day it was worth it. I still remember the time when we had to walk for miles to reach home on the day of the visarjan or the time when we were stuck in a traffic jam for about 6 hours. But looking at those piled up memories now, I am delighted that I went though all that. Because frankly, if I wouldn’t have gone through it, I wouldn’t have missed it so very bad this year when I am not in Mumbai.

At a time like this when I can not be physically present in any of the pandals in Mumbai, I am really at ease seeing that my timeline is flooded with photographs and updates from everyone who celebrates Ganpati festival with the same (or even more zeal) that I would have done.

At the end of the day, perhaps I am happier for the fact that we can leave aside the usual political discussions or the dollar rupee comparison or the crashing stock market and surrender completely to the almighty in His very grace and grandeur. Not to miss, do make it a point to cherish as many Modaks as you can for now because any other time in the year, they won’t taste as yummy as they do now.

Piyush Singh (9^th September 2013)