Anuradha🇮🇳

Here's a story in two parts: 1 and 2. Part 2 continues in the replies. Read it all at once or later. Come September: A Story About Shiny Shoes She had been full of life once. She sang, she cooked for twenty without blinking, she stitched her own clothes. In the old days they threw parties, and “Come September” played until the neighbours drifted in. He was the same, a gregarious man who brought everyone home. He always wore shiny shoes. Several pairs of cufflinks, and his cap looked so good on him. He loved to feed people, to entertain. His laugh, and the welcoming notes: “We haven’t seen you for a while. Come in for a cuppa.” It would infuriate her. But they came, and they made friends, and then some more friends. Then he was gone, and she closed the door. The house went grey. She kept his clothes. She cooked his favourite dishes every day and laid two plates on the table. She picked up the tanpura and sang for him. She let no one in and wanted no help, because she was sure they would take a part of him away. She sat in her recliner. It sank deeper every year, and something hard pressed against her back that she never looked at. Every time she tried to rise, her back hurt more. One day, frail and sick, she knew it was time. Death came knocking, peeping through the sunlight. “Hey, I have come to take you away.” “No. My husband is very much alive in this house. I can’t leave him. I don’t have time.” Then the moon shone on the recliner, and she saw what she was sitting on. A heap of money. He had left it for her, to enjoy her life after he was gone. She understood. She could have shared the wisdom he brought into her life. She could have enriched everyone she met. He was a man who loved company, and she had turned into a closed woman, and that was not what he had left her. “Give me two days,” she said. Death, who was in no hurry, sat down to wait.

Music Diaries: SD Burman and Mohammad Rafi When Burman da wanted to express quiet longing, hope and ache, he turned to Rafi. He never chose singers out of habit. He chose the voice that served the emotion. "Mera Mann Tera Pyasa" from Gambler (1971) is a perfect Rafi song. Neeraj's lyrics are deceptively simple: Mera mann tera pyasa… poori kab hogi aasha… There is a thirst behind pyasa and a hope behind aasha, and Burman da's composition lends both to the song. Just two words: pyasa and aasha. Listen to the way Rafi sings them, with effortless ease. The song is woven around a makeshift statuette in the heroine's likeness. Dev Anand pours out his emotions to this symbolic presence, blurring the line between imagination and reality. Years later, the song found an audience in the Hollywood film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Without fanfare, Mohammad Rafi's sublime voice travelled across continents. A maestro, after all, needs no passport. Burman da made it possible. youtu.be/hkySoACMSmE?si=5SKy…

Jyotish Diaries: Remedy for competition, lawsuits, and nervous days Before a competition, a job interview, a lawsuit, anxiety is a normal state of mind. Sometimes the enemies are right within: insecurity and self-doubt. One needs a great deal of willpower to take on the world. There is a simple devotional ritual for such days. It is particularly powerful if done on a Sunday. It draws on the Aditya Hridayam, the hymn Rishi Agastya taught Bhagwan Ram on the battlefield before his battle with Ravana. 1Take some water in a copper glass, cup or small vessel. 2Add a little rice, some kumkum, a couple of dried red chillies and a red flower (hibiscus is a great choice). 3Rise at dawn and wear clean clothes. 4Face east and offer arghya to the rising sun. Keep gazing at the sun through the pouring water, when the light is soft, just after sunrise. Let the water and flower fall gently onto the earth. 5Chant the Aditya Hridayam thrice. 6When you are done, sit facing east. Close your eyes and visualize the inner sun, the one that gives light to your being. Sit quietly for a few minutes. Then chant "Jai Shri Ram" thrice. To me, this invocation also celebrates the victory of the light of conscience. There is something powerful in the sound itself. When we say "Ra", the tongue briefly touches the upper palate. Let that sound remind you of illumination: the courage to face your fears and the strength to act according to dharma. Bhagwan Ram is revered as Maryada Purushottam, the embodiment of righteous conduct. Try it with faith. Let it remind you that a divine hand is guiding you towards righteous conduct, and victory over all enemies.

Thought Of The Day✨ “At some point in life the world’s beauty becomes enough. You don’t need to photograph, paint or even remember it. It is enough.” Toni Morrison Perhaps I have not reached that point yet. My brother went back to the home where we grew up. “There is nothing,” he said, with quiet resignation. No dahlias, no sweet peas, no roses that won prizes at the flower shows. Just a concrete structure. The gate, however, had the same creak. It was much the same with our village. It was still lush and green; nature had been kind. But the people were strangers. I never want to revisit a place I love. What lives in my memory- the colours, the sounds, the smells- is far more vivid than what stands now. I never want to change the architecture of my memories. In our family, there’s a small joke whenever we take a holiday: let’s not spoil the beauty of a monument by standing in front of it. Let us just look, keep a place for it in memory, and let it breathe there.

A little ghost knocked at the door and glared when I said I'd forgotten Trick-or-Treat day. A little finger wagged at me: "You'd better not forget next year…"

Added the second part.

She rose from the recliner, and for the first time in years it didn’t hurt. On the first day she ordered flowers, changed the carpet, and called the cleaners to take down the cobwebs. The fans gleamed. The doorknob shone. There was jasmine, there were roses, everywhere. A neighbour saw her happy and came with a small string of fairy lights, and the house lit up. On the second morning, she began to lay the table. She took out the checkered tablecloth. She polished the silver. She took out the crystal wine glasses her husband loved so much, and as she ran a finger along a rim, she found a thin layer of dust. She had treasured his memories, and they had been buried beneath it. She wiped the glass clean, and it rang. She laid out the napkins she had embroidered with forget-me-nots on his birthdays. She baked his favourite cake, cinnamon walnut, and set it on the gleaming cake stand. She took out the silver candlesticks and the tapered, rose-scented candles, the smell he loved. And then she remembered the date. Today would have been their sixtieth anniversary. She had always stitched her own clothes, but the crumpled ones in her cupboard would not do today. She took out a beautiful purple silk sari, the colour her husband loved. She took out the Chanel No. 5 and dabbed it on her wrist, because it was the first perfume he had bought her, on the Paris trip. She looked at herself in the mirror. Then she looked at his photograph on the mantelpiece. For a moment the two seemed to merge, and she saw them as a couple. The guests arrived to a house that smelled of flowers and Chanel and cinnamon from the cake. The candles burned. The crystal clinked. “Come September” played, and with the party and the music she could hear his full-throated laugh and almost see his shiny shoes gliding across the floor. There was song, there was laughter, and it tickled her, and she felt him again. Everybody looked at his photograph and remembered him. One of the guests leaned in. “Chanel? He bought you that, didn’t he?” She smiled, and told them about Paris. That was the wealth, she thought. This was what he had left her. As the guests left, she gave each of them a small present. Somebody got his cufflinks. Somebody got his pen. Somebody took his handkerchiefs. A young one took the tanpura. He was a good man, and his memories needed to breathe in other people’s homes too. The candles burned down. The fairy lights were still glowing. At the crack of dawn, somebody noticed an old man in shiny shoes and an old woman walking away toward the horizon, holding hands. The moon, going down, was a little more silver than the night before.

Hey everyone! So I wrote an impromptu story yesterday. It is long enough to go in instalments. Should I post it as a long thread later today or in part 1 and Part2 tomorrow. Or maybe next week?

Jyotisha Diaries: There are times when we feel we are not making any progress, and we meet blockages no matter how hard we try. For these times, there is a very simple ritual that restores faith. Whichever deity is your Ishta, Bhagwan Ram, Sri Krishna, Mahadev, Hanuman, the Devi, or Lord Ganesha, stand before your chosen deity or altar and propitiate it with these five mantras, with utmost faith. Our body is a microcosm of the macrocosm. Creation is made of five elements, and honouring them with their beejas helps restore balance. 1. Chant Om Lam and offer a little sandalwood paste. Earth element, ruled by Mercury. It governs the sense of smell. 2. Chant Om Vam and offer milk. Water element, ruled by Venus and the Moon. It governs the sense of taste. 3. Chant Om Ram and light a lamp, ghee or oil. Fire element, ruled by the Sun and Mars. It governs sight and discrimination, and your jataragni, your metabolism. 4. Chant Om Yam and light incense or dhoop. Air element, ruled by Saturn. It governs touch. 5. Chant Om Ham and offer flowers. Ether element, ruled by Jupiter. It is through ether that sound travels. With the elements in balance, clarity comes. The right decisions follow, and we are happier and more content. Once the right discrimination dawns, success follows.

Thought of the day✨ Nothing in life is to be feared, it is only to be understood. There is a lovely story that illustrates this. A farmer's wife lay dying. On her deathbed she warned him never to marry again. If he did, she would haunt him as a ghost and never let him rest in peace. She died. A few years later he fell in love again, and he married. The moment the second wife came to live with him, the ghost began to visit every night. She taunted him and scared him out of his wits, repeating exactly what he had said to his new wife, and the gifts he had got her. She seemed to know everything. Frightened and troubled, he went to a master. The master's strategy was simple. "Tonight, when the ghost appears, let her finish her diatribe. Then pick up a fistful of beans and ask her how many are in your fist." That night the ghost appeared, and as usual she frightened him. But he gathered his courage, took a fistful of beans from the sack by his bed, and stood up. "I understand what you have told me. But since you know everything, can you count the beans in my hand?" The ghost stood there for a moment. Then she vanished, never to return. She knew everything the man knew. She did not know what he didn't. She was made of everything he knew. Once he saw that, there was nothing left to fear.

वो चुप रहें तो मेरे दिल के दाग़ जलते हैं जो बात कर लें तो बुझते चराग़ जलते हैं कहो बुझें के जलें हम अपनी राह चलें या तुम्हारी राह चलें कहो बुझें के जलें बुझें तो ऐसे के किसी ग़रीब का दिल किसी ग़रीब का दिल जलें तो ऐसे के जैसे चराग़ जलते हैं यह खोई खोई नज़र कभी तो होगी या सदा रहेगी उधर यह खोई खोई नज़र उधर तो एक सुलग़ता हुआ है वीराना है एक वीराना मगर इधर तो बहारों में बाग़ जलते हैं जो अश्क़ पी भी लिए जो होंठ सी भी लिए, तो सितम ये किसपे किए जो अश्क़ पी भी लिए कुछ आज अपनी सुनाओ कुछ आज मेरी सुनो ख़ामोशिओं से तो दिल और दिमाग़ जलते हैं

True. Mine came from a book and then a doorbell.

Rains! Flooded home. 😳🤦‍♀️

Wow!

Amritsar Diaries: Game, Set and Match "Motu, you hold the rope too loosely to make me fall," I hissed. I had tripped for the third time and was nursing my bruised knee. Brahma and Baby, my best friends and deadliest enemies, were skipping rope with me in the street. They were both between five and six, like me. I knew they were doing it on purpose. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of an uncle cycling through the street. My dignity was at stake. "Sat Sri Akal, uncle ji," I chirped. "Sat Sri Akal, mera bachha," Uncle replied with a smile. "Tusin vi kadi namaste kar dia karo," shouted Vijay di Bibi from her first-floor balcony, glaring at the other two. Round one was mine. I smiled smugly as they thumbed their noses at me. "Sat Sri Akal, uncle," mimicked that churail (witch) Baby. Brahma rubbed salt into my wound. "Aaye waddi chalako Maasi." Devious cat, he called me. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Round two had gone their way. As was my wont, I had to hide somewhere and restrategise. The house on the bend was going to be my refuge. A newly married uncle and auntie had just moved in. Her painted nails always fascinated me. I peeped through the window. "Auntie, can I come in?" I saw her absorbed in taking the colour off her nails with a liquid from a bottle. She rubbed her nails diligently as the colour came off. This needed further investigation. "Aa ja, bachhe-come in." I went in, propped myself on a mooda, and continued to watch the magic. She seemed quite indifferent but asked me a question that all grown-ups ask children who they think are part of the scenery. "Kehdi class vich- which class do you go to?" By then, Brahma and Baby had moved on to hopscotch. This round is mine, I told myself. "Auntie, do you see those children? They are just nalayak- bad at studies. Duffers. They are in first standard. I always come first. I am in third." At six, a child in third standard was bound to attract attention. She looked at me and smiled. "Very good. Can you read something for me?" Thanks to Toshi Auntie, my tuition teacher who came home to teach me, and all the books at home, I could read fairly well. She could not call my bluff. Smug like a cat that had walked away with a bowl of cream, I went home. Round three won. I became quite a favourite with Auntie. She let me use her magic potion to remove her nail polish. I would accompany her to Bhagwant di Hatti for pakodas and chaat. On my way home, I would shout, "Thank you, Auntie, for the pakodas!" and look at those two jealous louts. They stared at me with narrowed eyes. On the day of Karwa Chauth, the ladies got together at our home and exchanged pooja thalis. "Karwada vataya" seemed like a never-ending chorus. Auntie came too. Mom and she struck up an instant rapport, and she invited Mom for tea the next day. I had to accompany Mom. Between talk of the weather, the neighbourhood, their husbands, and house help, the conversation turned to children. By then, Mom had seen Baby and Brahma playing in the street and invited them in. With all of us munching samosas in her home, Auntie smiled indulgently at me. "Your daughter is very brilliant and well-behaved. She must have had several double promotions in school to be studying in third standard at the age of six." This was my "Waterloo Moment." Mom glared at me. Brahma and Baby were holding their sides laughing. "Auntie, badi jhooti hai- she is a seasoned liar. She is only six and in first standard." To make matters worse, Baby piped in. "Inni waddi ho gayi hai par kan nahin vinnaye." She's a big girl, but her ears are still unpierced. She showed her freshly pierced earlobes. I did not want either the samosas or the rasgullas. Game, set and match were theirs. Auntie came to me and gave me a gentle hug. It did not matter that they had taken the trophy. I did get the consolation prize.