Sad Songs and Funny Stories

Sad Songs and Funny Stories

Introduction

I was scared as I walked out of the kitchen, the glass window which was smeared with dust and mud, threw a shadow of myself through the darkness and I got goose pimples.  My thoughts immediately went back to those torturous nights when I had been given to the temple, when I would run from my own shadow, the brutality of the Mumbai brothels and nightmares that never ended for years.  I was just a little girl then and when the memories came back they scalded me, there was nothing I could do to hold them back.

It was a long road to freedom even then, we had died a million deaths those days and when I looked at my husband these days, “What has he done to himself,” my mind was running away just looking at him.  Did he follow my shadow into the town to find out what had happened to me in those days, the haunting look and the etched out eyes, greasy beard like he hadn’t had a bath for days, his eyes wide open like a dream had just gone sour,  but the pain won’t go away.  

Yesterday, he had purchased a cream roll for me and we both had sat and eaten it the tea stall.  He told me about Macdonald’s at the big city, the lights and the crowd and it turned me off, I knew what he meant by the lights, after all when you have lived in the shadow of seedy rooms every night of your life for 10 years, you would prefer to remain in the shadows too.

Suddenly, the whispers in the air had changed a tone, the wickedness and cruelty came back, I saw once again the one who had sold my dreams to the first in the queue.  I would have killed him if I met him again,  I could hear him in the wind, was this what they called the WhispeRing, soft words spoken of long ago and I told the whisperer in my mind, “Yes I am waiting for you,” waiting to kill you.

“It’s Just a Waste Of Time, coz no amount of rain washes away this pain.”

The Road Map to Freedom

I was scared too, after I heard from a neighbour of this tale of Sefali Marik  from the city of Magrahat, South 24 Paraganas Village in West Bengal, her freedom could not bought with money, it had too steep a price written on it, it bayed for blood and I saw it in the bloodshot eyes of her husband this morning that if he to the WhispeRing he would kill.

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That’s when I saw her, looking at the Bluebird who was had just come to sit on a branch with the Crows and the Mynas.  Suddenly, in this quiet village, something had changed, even the birds seemed to be whispering something to her.

“All the guru’s in the world couldn’t help once life had touched you,” she said to nobody in particular, still staring at the bluebird. 

“I have just come from far far away,”
  said the Bluebird and the Crow just said,
“Go back Go back, right now,”,
 as the Myna looked up at him, stared and said,
“Wrong time, Wrong Time.”

Solar is a Lifestyle, every morning the Sun must rise and the birds must sing, though if you listen closely, the song changes every day because of your mood.  The birds and the trees, the bees and the ants and everything else nature had, came with the systems that I sold, it was about connecting each part to his own everywhere I went. 

      

        “Honey, You don’t know How Much You Miss Your Papa Till He Is Gone.”