You, my Blessing.

I could feel the weight of her body over mine.Her arms lay across my neck. Her soft body enchanted me. I slowly brushed my hands across her bare back. I knew it would deepen the bond we had developed over all the time I had spent with her.Gradually, her weight increased and I knew now that she was fast asleep. She was somewhere in the deep realms of that unknowings we all delve into, away from the world..creating our own..where the world comprised of just 'I' and the rest was all secondary. For her, everything might now be a happy place.. a wonderful place to explore.There was nothing gruesome or scary there..in her little world. I was certain of it. I had seen to that. I had protected her from 'fear' and everything 'sad'. 

Now I felt my chest constrict. My breathing was getting harder under her weight. Her tight hug had left no space for my lungs to expand. Nevertheless, I loved the feeling. There was a certain level of intimacy that it stirred. Suddenly conscious of the rhythm of our breathing I tried to follow it.

Hers and mine. Now in, now out.and mine...now out, now in. Somehow, that made breathing easier my body had decided. I tried to re-tune our breathing. 

When she breathed out, I held my breath...and when she started inhaling again I slowly exhaled. In a few minutes I found myself in tune with her body's rhythmic fall and rise. But, my body didn't find it that accepting. It pained my ribs to have weight upon them when the air bags that held them were empty. 

Yet, I kept at it. I could feel her lungs expand over mine. And I knew that I was then in contact with something pristine. Untainted. Even the air in her felt  pure. I felt all her innocence and love, flowing through her, cell to cell. There was no anger there. No resentment. No judging person within

that little barely two-and-a-half-feet of pure flesh and blood. My hands rubbed her body. Perhaps trying to detect any little damage that had unknowingly occurred. Perhaps, I had missed some little part of her and it needed my attention. 

My hands reached her buts. They barely filled my entire palm. I smiled. A memory.

 "Rs 50 for one, Rs 50 for two". That was our little pass time. Selling her little butts to anyone imagined.

Then she would suddenly shout, "No!! ". And when I looked at her questioningly, she would burst out "hmmm...TEN !! " with an accomplished cheer.  And I would laugh. That was the only number she knew that was BIG.

She would look at ten rupee notes and read from them enthusiastically "one, jero...TEN! " while I patiently waited for her to finish the ritual. Then we would, oh no, she would pay the fish seller the money and instruct him," Paisa kalayallu ketta..". The old granny repeating what she had learned from heresay. Not to lose the money.

I caressed her again.
Another memory.
Quite clearly, now, I recalled how she had reacted to my sister's 10 year old son- her older cousin-when he had grabbed her little butt playfully. With quickly-assumed sternness she had warned him.
 "Nyan vaa kazhukumbol ende kundi pidikalle enn parnjille!!" (I told you not to touch my butt when I was washing my mouth,didn't I?). In spite of the tangible cuteness of her baby language, her stern warning had sent chills through me too. But now, I smiled. I had taught her that. To react to people who would compromise her identity. And she had learnt well, I could see. 

I held her tighter. Afraid to lose her. In many ways than one she was a lot akin to me. Fiery. Independent. Strongly opinioned about almost everything. At least she was crystal clear about the things she actually wanted. 

                Her shoulder-length straight hair started to prick the back of my ears. There was no way I could brush them aside without stirring her awake. And there was something here more priced than an undisturbed slumber, I felt. Whatever it was, it felt fragile. I was purifying myself in it whilst hoping that the deeper bond we 'ad been etching in time would never be lost. 

That the first thing I saw the next day should be her.That she would flutter open her eyes and give me that contended happy smile.. that made everything in the world seem right.

That smile, full of joy, of having seen me again. And again, I would feel blessed .
<<Prose>>

Source: Mother and Child by Pino Daeni

Eyes.

I seek

eyes that are not demeaning

That rooted in all reality cherish me.

Eyes.That scan me 

nary hungry animalism

but seeking,searching for the real me.

Eyes.That so drifting halt at my

breast

curious, not thirsty.

Probing for the secrets of that heart.

Eyes. That like an amateur swimmer 

stares on into the ocean's expanse 

slowly preparing. 

Eyes. Thirsty & curious

Then,obdurate.

Dive in driven by some primitiveness.

Eyes.That delve into its colder depths

an explorer of new lands.

deeper, determined, creeping shadowy steps.

Eyes.That touch the abyssal

in an ocean turbulent and restless

Until now.

Eyes. That make quite the battlefield

before conquest 

of a country now already conquered.

The youth of today: their role in society

India, among all the developments it boasts about needs to spruce up its image it presents in other universities and centers of learning abroad. The stereotypical image it showcases to the developed world is that of ITians, doctors and engineers. Ask an American who an Indian is, he will be quick to answer ‘Oh! Gee! I have a friend, Indian as you asked. A computer wiz.. obviously.” 

Now, what is it that makes India project such a face to the outside communities? To answer this, we need not look further away from home, but instead should delve back into the homeland and the intricacies of its education system. We Indians spend an entire lifetime mugging information and coughing them up at the exams. In our endeavor for a job/ a government job/ a job abroad we fail to stop, and ponder whether all that we read really makes sense to us. To top it, we also get easily selected into international companies and firms who but need a continual output of man power no matter how lame the performance is. That is though fortunately changing. Only the elite who can survive the churning machines of corporate management, the stress and the strain, finally make it out alive.