(for all those who lost their lives on the 7/11,Mumbai blasts)
The day you never,
Turned again home,
The day that shook,
Our spirits,
Left cold.
It wasn’t so very,
Long ago,
(Just about a year,)
The memories – grown.
Into a past,
Weaved and sown.
These are the days,
We survive, with no hope.
What was the point,
They lost their lives,
People like you,
People like me.
People and their lives.
Doesn’t anyone understand.
The seriousness of the crime.
What was the point,
Of such a big crime.
Blasted in a day,
In a second and minute,
Lives washed and wasted carelessly away,
Under the pouring of the monsoon rain.
People like you,
People like me,
Left with a pain,
To live our lives,
Left with just a few memories inside.
The day you never,
Turned again home,
The day you left,
There is now no hope.
It wasn’t that very long ago.
Just about a year ago.
I have nothing to say except that,
I miss you bro.
There was no point,
There is no point,
You don’t hear me,
Because you never,
Turned again home.
-Paromah
July 2007
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Child in the Valley
The child in the valley, innocent and sweet,
Walking, strolling down the road, beneath the summer heat…
Passersby smile at the sight, but never stop to question why.
Why in solitude he walks,
At his age without a cause,
Without a penny for some feed,
With no where in this world to sleep.
With nothing on his mind but tears thus he weeps,
Living on dirty streets.
The child in the valley, innocent and sweet,
At age 3 he didn’t know he’d grow to see,
Days wherein he’d have to be,
Alone and lost on this street.
He loved his mother, it broke his heart,
When in a drunken rage his father would pound her hard,
On that day he still believed,
In dreams that he knew he must meet.
On his way he sought still seeks,
From a distance he stood and watched
A lover’s quarrel, standing on the porch of a house
On 54th Street, he watched
As father pinned mother down,
As his mother was hit till there came no sound,
Till father turned and saw him along with the others in the crowd outside what was once their haven – their house.
The child yet so innocent, so sweet
Fled the scene from 54th street
Wanting to forget and break free.
Ten years have passed,
He doesn’t live his dreams
Because his fears have scarred him so deep.
Alone in solitude I see him walk,
Beneath the summer heat…
He has no place to go, no house of his own.
He remains the child in the valley,
Innocent and sweet.
By – Paromah Sen
Walking, strolling down the road, beneath the summer heat…
Passersby smile at the sight, but never stop to question why.
Why in solitude he walks,
At his age without a cause,
Without a penny for some feed,
With no where in this world to sleep.
With nothing on his mind but tears thus he weeps,
Living on dirty streets.
The child in the valley, innocent and sweet,
At age 3 he didn’t know he’d grow to see,
Days wherein he’d have to be,
Alone and lost on this street.
He loved his mother, it broke his heart,
When in a drunken rage his father would pound her hard,
On that day he still believed,
In dreams that he knew he must meet.
On his way he sought still seeks,
From a distance he stood and watched
A lover’s quarrel, standing on the porch of a house
On 54th Street, he watched
As father pinned mother down,
As his mother was hit till there came no sound,
Till father turned and saw him along with the others in the crowd outside what was once their haven – their house.
The child yet so innocent, so sweet
Fled the scene from 54th street
Wanting to forget and break free.
Ten years have passed,
He doesn’t live his dreams
Because his fears have scarred him so deep.
Alone in solitude I see him walk,
Beneath the summer heat…
He has no place to go, no house of his own.
He remains the child in the valley,
Innocent and sweet.
By – Paromah Sen
Monday, February 23, 2009
Little Thrills
Growing up in Mumbai and the old heart of it, meant that one found and made friends and categorised them according to either where they met them, interests & hobbies groups, good friends and just friends or well, anything else fit.
As a child living in Mumbai - a bustling city, made for getting immune to, accustomed to, passing days with and or without simple things that are usually taken for granted. Meaning which, in Mumbai , and further right uptil now, alot of residential areas faced and face , rather alot of good residential areas faced problems of lack of proper water supply, lack of cooperative housing, noisy neighbours etc. Most places have their own sets of issues for people living there to deal with, which is why, our own closer to home issues, became soon , a part of daily living. Something, we fretted over but accepted eventually and worked our days around it so that we could live with it.
So anyway, coming to the actual point of this. Commonly for kids who had parents born and bred here... we had our parents homes and then their parents homes to visit and have play time during school off's and summers.
My maternal grandparents who live in Mumbai and their homely house was the quickest and commonest get-away while growing up. Every once in a holiday season we wound up there. And breathed in and enjoyed the simple living in with our grandparents and their life styles, visiting their friends, visiting their friends kids and their kids and going to the local shopping centres to enjoy and feast on local delicacies, being pampered and loved , to the core.
It's around this time that i made the set of "friends from the grandparents house".
So, my grandparents house, had one thing that i appreciated alot in it. 2 rest rooms instead of the 1 in my own home and 24 hr running water supply unlike in mine where it was dominated by hourly supply (read: Mumbai's Living issues).
This simple fact made me glow with glee when i knew i'd be staying there for even a short period,
When they say that nothing beats a parent's love, they should've also said that nothing beats the warmth of a grandparent's hug. Cuddling up to my maternal grandmother's saree and laying in her lap was the warmest most cosiest feeling i remember as a child.
Anyway, so, to tell one the truth. In my own housing society, i never made many friends. More so cause the area we lived in leant more toward the traditional & conservative lines of living. And we, i, dealt with a mix of traditions and modern day living. We understood the importance of our own culture, yet, meshed it with others alot. Which meant that my own outlook was alot different that others in the neighbourhood, which ultimately resulted in me making more friends outside of my home;
3 girls.. including me. Summers at my grandparents house. Winter holidays and diwali holidays at my grandparents house, 3 girls. All around the same age group.
I can't remember how to entertained ourselves to the exact point of narration, but i do remember that our days just flew by...
One thing we derived a very great thrill from was, ringing on random people's doorbells and then running away and hiding! What pleasure a growing child can find from doing that is one only a child would totally comprehend.
My grandparents housing block had about 2-3 short little sweet buildings laid around a single compound. All of which were not more than 4 storey's high. The ground floors were of course our usual targets. Due to the having of a couple of short buildings around each other, our hiding places were always in abundance. We use to just ran up randomly to a house unknown to us, ring the bell with a straight face and scram! Then, once hidden from view, we use to listen to the door opening and the innocent non suspecting inhabitant going, "hello, who's there?".
Our efforts to stiffle our upcoming giggles at this simply yet giddyheaded thrill gave us another joy altogether.
How innocent and foolish, one would think. But , it was fun, Think as you want!
Laughing out loud without inhibitions , without a care in the world, with just the feeling of being us, being me, being free, that's a good childhood.
Common in Mumbai, or maybe anywhere in the world is to loose touch with old friends.
I don't know where my "friends from the grandparent's house" are, i don't know what they do.
If i looked hard enough, i'm sure i'd be able to find them again and reestablish contact, but right now, my heart just wants to hold on to the old memory of these little thrills without meeting their grown up versions. Not just yet at least!
Today, i was at work. In the building i work at, is a lift. A special lift in the stairway corridor for higher level seniors.
As i walked up the stairs, the yearning to press the lift bell and run was felt, hard!
If only....
As a child living in Mumbai - a bustling city, made for getting immune to, accustomed to, passing days with and or without simple things that are usually taken for granted. Meaning which, in Mumbai , and further right uptil now, alot of residential areas faced and face , rather alot of good residential areas faced problems of lack of proper water supply, lack of cooperative housing, noisy neighbours etc. Most places have their own sets of issues for people living there to deal with, which is why, our own closer to home issues, became soon , a part of daily living. Something, we fretted over but accepted eventually and worked our days around it so that we could live with it.
So anyway, coming to the actual point of this. Commonly for kids who had parents born and bred here... we had our parents homes and then their parents homes to visit and have play time during school off's and summers.
My maternal grandparents who live in Mumbai and their homely house was the quickest and commonest get-away while growing up. Every once in a holiday season we wound up there. And breathed in and enjoyed the simple living in with our grandparents and their life styles, visiting their friends, visiting their friends kids and their kids and going to the local shopping centres to enjoy and feast on local delicacies, being pampered and loved , to the core.
It's around this time that i made the set of "friends from the grandparents house".
So, my grandparents house, had one thing that i appreciated alot in it. 2 rest rooms instead of the 1 in my own home and 24 hr running water supply unlike in mine where it was dominated by hourly supply (read: Mumbai's Living issues).
This simple fact made me glow with glee when i knew i'd be staying there for even a short period,
When they say that nothing beats a parent's love, they should've also said that nothing beats the warmth of a grandparent's hug. Cuddling up to my maternal grandmother's saree and laying in her lap was the warmest most cosiest feeling i remember as a child.
Anyway, so, to tell one the truth. In my own housing society, i never made many friends. More so cause the area we lived in leant more toward the traditional & conservative lines of living. And we, i, dealt with a mix of traditions and modern day living. We understood the importance of our own culture, yet, meshed it with others alot. Which meant that my own outlook was alot different that others in the neighbourhood, which ultimately resulted in me making more friends outside of my home;
3 girls.. including me. Summers at my grandparents house. Winter holidays and diwali holidays at my grandparents house, 3 girls. All around the same age group.
I can't remember how to entertained ourselves to the exact point of narration, but i do remember that our days just flew by...
One thing we derived a very great thrill from was, ringing on random people's doorbells and then running away and hiding! What pleasure a growing child can find from doing that is one only a child would totally comprehend.
My grandparents housing block had about 2-3 short little sweet buildings laid around a single compound. All of which were not more than 4 storey's high. The ground floors were of course our usual targets. Due to the having of a couple of short buildings around each other, our hiding places were always in abundance. We use to just ran up randomly to a house unknown to us, ring the bell with a straight face and scram! Then, once hidden from view, we use to listen to the door opening and the innocent non suspecting inhabitant going, "hello, who's there?".
Our efforts to stiffle our upcoming giggles at this simply yet giddyheaded thrill gave us another joy altogether.
How innocent and foolish, one would think. But , it was fun, Think as you want!
Laughing out loud without inhibitions , without a care in the world, with just the feeling of being us, being me, being free, that's a good childhood.
Common in Mumbai, or maybe anywhere in the world is to loose touch with old friends.
I don't know where my "friends from the grandparent's house" are, i don't know what they do.
If i looked hard enough, i'm sure i'd be able to find them again and reestablish contact, but right now, my heart just wants to hold on to the old memory of these little thrills without meeting their grown up versions. Not just yet at least!
Today, i was at work. In the building i work at, is a lift. A special lift in the stairway corridor for higher level seniors.
As i walked up the stairs, the yearning to press the lift bell and run was felt, hard!
If only....
Friday, February 20, 2009
A Red Rose
A child on the road,
Probably just four,
Caught my eye,
As i walked by the shore.
He walked on the street - plain, simple, sweet,
Looking pretty neat,
In a shirt quite clean.
A child on the road,
Not more than the age of four,
Begged for some more,
Money from the people
who sat,
Close by the shore.
Urchins live on streets,
Hear their sound when you leave,
Their giggles pretty sweet.
And their running feet.
A child on the road,
Begging for some feed,
Just something to eat, That's all he seeks.
I walk by the shore,
There is a child on the street,
With No place to sleep,
Except beneath the stars by the sea.
I walked by the shore,
Saw him deep in sleep,
Put a rose on his sheet,
A rose that he doesn't need.
A rose - the symbol of peace? Of perhaps hopes and dreams?
Don't know what it means,
I think of the angel sound asleep.
I walk by the shore,
The next day, i walk along, looking for more,
But there is no child on the road,
He finally shed his load.
He died of broken dreams,
Broken wounds, didn't heal,
No food for his feed,
No love for his need.
A red rose, by the sea,
Lay alone, it's petals flying gently in the breeze.
I look toward me,
There are no angels sound asleep.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Love, Life, Forever.
What i believe the problem with the majority of us is, is that we all tend to, even if only sub-consciously, believe in the aspect of "forever".
This could be the only reason why we would, generally, feel pain when we lose someone, when we lose out on a relationship, when your close ones part ways, when friends leave. When there is a final goodbye.
Everyone wants to believe and hold on to some kind of faith. Some hope amongst when in the mid of a crisis be it professional or personal. This faith, intruded and supported by forever.
Because, we change so much and so fast. Because places, people, dogs, houses, cities, life -all grow and change so quickly, what you were last year of this day, is not who you are or probably not where you are since then.
Because, memories and pictures help us to think and hope and believe. Because, at one time during the picture clicking spree, you wished it had lasted forever.
We all wish at times that "it had worked out". We all sometimes wish that "we could have made it last forever".
There are times when we do thank our forces for the reverse. But yet, all of us, are basically and simply made of the same feelings, emotions and material. We can all be good and we can all be just as bad. We all cry and we all laugh.
And we all need and want the basics of life. And love. And forever.
We've all had that "first love" and the glimmer and gloom that came with it.
We all tried things we weren't suppose to while growing up.
We all fell and lost our way at least at one point in time in life.
And we all needed help moving on.
It's all because we believed in the "forever".
If nothing is as constant as change, if nothing can last forever, if life is all pre-destined, if loves come and go and if we all move on any which way,
I wonder sometimes what the point in it all is.
Are we built to really be this way and make life this way, or is this just the way it turned out to be? And now has to be?
Unhappy - contributed by Sushmit Roy Chowdhury
Unhappy
-- by Sushmit R.C
Bent down,
in this big ol’ town,
is despair that moves mountains.
It won't be long,
before the dawn,
and dream-wreck is all that remains
And in the midst of it all,
is the rise and then the fall
And I am sure I will never make it through.
And I don’t care how it ends,
and I don’t care at all.
I know how to dream,
Don't know how to realize.
The death of a fool,
Mourned lesser by the wise.
But I will make them see,
the faith I have in me.
Will never bring me down to my knees,
I will never ever be unhappy
The other day,
I dreamt away,
I flew back home.
Had no wings,
or any magic rings.
just the fear of being alone.
I woke up with a start,
but the dream had made its mark.
I cried myself to life.
These tears often give reason,
they often make me believe.
life's much harder without them.
This mess will make me go mad
But yet it's is such a beauty,
and its all that I ever had.
And the lips that tasted my tears,
now break into a smile,
It's all so bitter-sweet
How could I ever be unhappy?
-- by Sushmit R.C
Bent down,
in this big ol’ town,
is despair that moves mountains.
It won't be long,
before the dawn,
and dream-wreck is all that remains
And in the midst of it all,
is the rise and then the fall
And I am sure I will never make it through.
And I don’t care how it ends,
and I don’t care at all.
I know how to dream,
Don't know how to realize.
The death of a fool,
Mourned lesser by the wise.
But I will make them see,
the faith I have in me.
Will never bring me down to my knees,
I will never ever be unhappy
The other day,
I dreamt away,
I flew back home.
Had no wings,
or any magic rings.
just the fear of being alone.
I woke up with a start,
but the dream had made its mark.
I cried myself to life.
These tears often give reason,
they often make me believe.
life's much harder without them.
This mess will make me go mad
But yet it's is such a beauty,
and its all that I ever had.
And the lips that tasted my tears,
now break into a smile,
It's all so bitter-sweet
How could I ever be unhappy?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Valentine's Day Special
Valentine’s Day Special: written on (Feb.14.2008)
-- by P.S.
So here it came, creeped up on me, the 14th of Feb. Valentine’s Day, the 1 day that’s set aside for the celebration of love. If not grandly at least simply.
But this year I was single. Not that it matters… I mean, there are lots of kinds of love, but yet, the most sweetest and special V-Day for me was the one this year.
As is so common in India, we have a little sweet lady coming in everyday to help out with the cooking and everyday household chores. .. She’s been doing this for us since at least 10 years and of course, the relation ship has grown into something more deeper, more meaningful because she deserves it, because she’s more then just the help around the house. She's family now.
V-day fell on a Thursday and the mid of the week is nothing special! So, here I got up at the same normal time and rushed to get ready to be in time for work, the usual one would say.
I didn’t expect anything great or anything close to different or special for V-day because well, I just didn’t.
But, in any contrasting case, this one turned out to be quite memorable.
I was given a Rose. First thing in the morn. A sweet Orange-Red rose, by my domestic help, with the most-genuine V-day wish that ever came my way. And the tightest of all hugs.
This didn’t just make my day, but her innocent thought, and her simple gesture made the day better than special in it’s own way. I smiled through out the day.
In a bigger way. In a warmer way.
There’s really no need for the flowers and the chocolate boxes and the fancy jewellery and etc when there’s the little things like this to make you feel loved. Truly loved.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I’m wondering if the true meaning that St. Valentine intended got lost on the way?
p.s: Happy Valentine's day!
-- by P.S.
So here it came, creeped up on me, the 14th of Feb. Valentine’s Day, the 1 day that’s set aside for the celebration of love. If not grandly at least simply.
But this year I was single. Not that it matters… I mean, there are lots of kinds of love, but yet, the most sweetest and special V-Day for me was the one this year.
As is so common in India, we have a little sweet lady coming in everyday to help out with the cooking and everyday household chores. .. She’s been doing this for us since at least 10 years and of course, the relation ship has grown into something more deeper, more meaningful because she deserves it, because she’s more then just the help around the house. She's family now.
V-day fell on a Thursday and the mid of the week is nothing special! So, here I got up at the same normal time and rushed to get ready to be in time for work, the usual one would say.
I didn’t expect anything great or anything close to different or special for V-day because well, I just didn’t.
But, in any contrasting case, this one turned out to be quite memorable.
I was given a Rose. First thing in the morn. A sweet Orange-Red rose, by my domestic help, with the most-genuine V-day wish that ever came my way. And the tightest of all hugs.
This didn’t just make my day, but her innocent thought, and her simple gesture made the day better than special in it’s own way. I smiled through out the day.
In a bigger way. In a warmer way.
There’s really no need for the flowers and the chocolate boxes and the fancy jewellery and etc when there’s the little things like this to make you feel loved. Truly loved.
Happy Valentine's Day.
I’m wondering if the true meaning that St. Valentine intended got lost on the way?
p.s: Happy Valentine's day!
The unidentified Talent
The unidentified talent
-by Paromah Sen
3/1/2007
On a usual Thursday January morning, I woke up from my deep slumber (late as usual) and found myself pushing myself to complete the usual daily morning chores before I could finally prepare to get ready to go to work.
Sleepy and tired, and jaded more than ever, I slowly made my way through each chore and realized I was running late, I pushed myself to finish faster and reached the part where I had to press my chosen white cotton outfit for the day. Cotton Outfit. Do you know how incredibly tough it is to iron out a cotton outfit yourself? I mean, it’s close to impossible. I mean, it requires talent!
A complete cotton outfit requires wisdom to ease the creases out!
I started ironing my cute white dress but but but… the creases just stayed!
See, I have this little issue with myself. I don’t like, rather I hate sending my clothes out to the laundry or the iron guy (dhobi in India) because I just prefer doing things for myself…. !
And, I suffer thanks to my silly traits. Because, unknown to a majority of us, dhobi’s actually have this immense amount of handed down talent to be able to make our outfits look like what they are suppose to… they press, they iron, they know the right temperature to do it at, for each varied material and their specialized knowledge in this area is amazing when thought of really!
But, of course, like is common in the true world – talent goes unnoticed / unidentified. True talent is always sitting around in the backseat.
They probably get a remuneration that would make the most of us snicker… but that is a fact. And a fact of life is that true talent usually goes unidentified. Sure, there are a few out there who are completely recognized for their talents but when you look at the number of people the worldover, the number of talented people / acts that go unnoticed is significant and it’s significantly rising.
What could I do to fix it? Well nothing really. I am in the backseat myself… helpless, waiting, uncertain, ridden with doubt.
Life is this.
Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.
…..So I smile and hide my tears…..
-by Paromah Sen
3/1/2007
On a usual Thursday January morning, I woke up from my deep slumber (late as usual) and found myself pushing myself to complete the usual daily morning chores before I could finally prepare to get ready to go to work.
Sleepy and tired, and jaded more than ever, I slowly made my way through each chore and realized I was running late, I pushed myself to finish faster and reached the part where I had to press my chosen white cotton outfit for the day. Cotton Outfit. Do you know how incredibly tough it is to iron out a cotton outfit yourself? I mean, it’s close to impossible. I mean, it requires talent!
A complete cotton outfit requires wisdom to ease the creases out!
I started ironing my cute white dress but but but… the creases just stayed!
See, I have this little issue with myself. I don’t like, rather I hate sending my clothes out to the laundry or the iron guy (dhobi in India) because I just prefer doing things for myself…. !
And, I suffer thanks to my silly traits. Because, unknown to a majority of us, dhobi’s actually have this immense amount of handed down talent to be able to make our outfits look like what they are suppose to… they press, they iron, they know the right temperature to do it at, for each varied material and their specialized knowledge in this area is amazing when thought of really!
But, of course, like is common in the true world – talent goes unnoticed / unidentified. True talent is always sitting around in the backseat.
They probably get a remuneration that would make the most of us snicker… but that is a fact. And a fact of life is that true talent usually goes unidentified. Sure, there are a few out there who are completely recognized for their talents but when you look at the number of people the worldover, the number of talented people / acts that go unnoticed is significant and it’s significantly rising.
What could I do to fix it? Well nothing really. I am in the backseat myself… helpless, waiting, uncertain, ridden with doubt.
Life is this.
Smile and the world smiles with you, cry and you cry alone.
…..So I smile and hide my tears…..
A Tribute to my late Aunt.
(My paternal aunt succumbed to cancer on Jan 31, 2008 and i contributed a short note for her funeral. She lived in London and the funeral was to take place on Feb.8.2008 and although i couldn't be there at the time, my thoughts and always with her)
It's the first time that i've written for someone's eulogy and the fact is, it's not just someone i'm writing for - it's my own aunt. Although i met her just a few times in my life, the fact is, she was family and loosing family always has it's downs. I don't remember much about when we did meet because i was too young, but i do remember that she was always the kind of person who believed in being a perfectionist (she was always prepped up, always well mannered and polite) and these little things are things i would always remember. I only visited her in her house in London once - in the year 1990 and i was barely 4 then. But yet, the distance or the rarety of our meetings does not matter when your actually related. She was the only person who wrote letters and who never forgot birthdays and that in today's fast paced world is a great thing. I knew briefly about the pain she went through over the last few years and although i never could do anything much about it, today, as i write for her, i pray that she's in peace. There's not much more to say and so i prefer to keep this short. Had i been there, it would have perhaps been more sentimental. Still, the memories always remain treasured and so, it's not a final good bye. I hope she hears this. -Paroma Sen(Feb.8.2008.)
p.s.: i'll miss your letters pishi!
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