The Fly Called Failure

failure,success,motivation,inspiring,definition

Every time in life, when I need to accomplish certain thing. It might be work of great importance to me or as simple as passing on a glass of water. The perception remains the same. I need to be there for my people. The world as such is a mirror and the more I smile, the more happiness I tend to share. But very often we are weighed down by the circumstances or twists that destiny has to offer and we meet Failure.

In this journey we will fail and I assure you that you will not be able to escape it. You go down the stairs, take a right turn and there it is. Your failure waiting to lurk in like a phantom and gobble you up. But the most important lesson we ought to learn is that, the specific place where we fall down has something great to offer us. That lesson will take us forward. That knowledge will be the beacon for the rest of the journey. So get up and start again for you can never escape failure or death. The motto here is to keep moving, just keep your head straight and keep delivering what is meant from you.

But what you need to remember is that, not to take your failures personally. Do not ever abuse yourself mentally or physically over what you lost. It was not you. It was just a stupid decision or an unplanned endeavor or even perhaps just not the road for you. But what lays ahead of you is much more important and of great value than compared to a past or the present that you are succumbing into.

It is the respect that you earn for yourself is what is important. You  must be in a position to thank your younger self. Take that you are in your thirties and hitting the gym. The fifty year old will be thankful to you for keeping his heart and liver healthy. The twenty is old will be thankful to the eight year old you to have had the guts to bunk your classes and reach out for that dance classes.

Creativity and talent are boons that needs harnessing and uplifting. If you shove it away, you can kill yourself but not that person inside you who full of energy, full of ideas and an epitome of positivism.

Fail and fail as many times you want but make sure you rise up like a fire. View the failure to be as mere as fly, let it go. Don’t hang on over it.And that, my friends is taking failure the right way. It is called success. It is all about the ability to  think, talk and do things alike. Keep a promise and deliver the promise and that’s it. For there is a saying

If you hang around the barber shop long enough, you will get your turn for that haircut.

So just don’t quit and keep moving.

” So Until Next-time”

photo credit: William M Ferriter Failure is Overrated via photopin (license)

An Activist and the Last Rain

agriculture,social evils,sacrifice,activist,rain,superstitions

The curtains yielded flowers, white, yellow and red but anything beyond those drapes only had barren brown to offer.

The earth is cracked and dry with no rain to heal. Sometimes lush green is a temporary illusion. It has been three years since it last rained. Children of my family have shrunken with bones stuck out and eyes bereaved of moisture.

The ladies walk miles everyday for the water. It was the worst drought of the decade. And I still think I’m lucky for none in my family have ever complained about it. But today my oldest daughter came in with a face that spoke of drained energy, ailments and dreaded life I pushed them into.

“Father, can’t we leave this place and go find a job in the city?” She pondered.

“And what skill do we have to survive there, my dear? I know how to yield, plough and gather weeds. Nothing beyond it.

“Mother and I can weave,” She sighed and picked up the clothes for cleaning the floor.

I took her near me, she was merely ten, her deep brown eyes had lost the moisture to even cry. Her dusty hairs weaved a story of strong winds and dusty land. Her darkened shrivelled skin made me wonder if she had grown older than she is.

” Where shall we live then, my dear. We have no relatives who would help us. There is no land in the city to plough, only tarred roads and plenty of vehicles. But there, it rains!”

We both knew that we understood life beyond it offers us the chance to realize. But I had to instill the lost faith in her. We were waiting, waiting too long for the last rain. It would make them believe again. Of miracles and life and the moisture in the eyes.

My beloved wife prayed day and night while I stared into the vast skies. And one day, there was a new sparkle in my family’s eyes. A sparkle that was lost. I hurried outside to see if it rained. No, but my family said they heard of a rumor. The rain god had asked for a sacrifice or so the village priest said.

I was taken aback. A sacrifice? For the rain. Pitying their false hopes. It was a social evil.

“Whom are they to sacrifice? A chicken, a goat or a sheep?” I asked her as I munched over the last morsel of rice and potato curry.

“That is to be decided tomorrow, at the panchayat” She smiled.

I felt something fishy. An urge to move out of the village occurred. Later that evening another rumor spread. The family that the gods decided for the sacrifice was ours. It seemed so that we had sinned. The gods came in the dream of the village head-priest. Both our families were rivals from decades.

I  had to leave. It was time. I packed the rugged clothes, picked up my three year old son, woke up my wife and my two daughters. They were all in musky in their sleep. We fled that night.

I had set my own home on fire when I left and put in some bones of the goat that I had sacrificed.

Now that the sacrifice was done, not of my child but of the whole family in their eyes. I fled to the city, where superstitions and sacrifice were dormant. There we made a living. My girls weaved while I helped in construction.

Now, over the years, my first daughter is an activist against all these superstitious beliefs and she stages street plays in many villages. My second daughter whom I spent more time with opened her own classes of organic farming to the city folks. My son helps me in the market, selling seeds and pesticides. My wife was the change.

She met an activist when we fled to the city, and since then, she tried educating my kids, not on the various subjects of physics and mathematics but on what is essentially required to sustain and enrich lives. I fell in love with her again for I had never come across her beautiful and brave mind.

The last rain did occur in my village. It has rained since then, sometimes like a wrath, sometimes soft on the petal. Today my family are returning. My daughters with their powerful voices to change minds and my son’s tactic to a better agriculture will save us. Finally I hold my wife’s hand, she smiled beckoning my thoughts. And I knew, for an instance that I have won in Life:)

That one activist changed the way we live and how we perceive our lives else we would have been weaving on roads or spent my old-age being a mason on construction sites. She was barely seventeen and she worked for the society. Hoping to meet her again, the one who inspired my daughters to fight, the one who filled my wife to stand as our biggest support. Let her live in peace!

photo credit: roseannadana P6030012.bwsm via photopin (license)

The Flight

Not once did it occur to me,
A myth so profound to be true,
Flipping past the dreams, once dreamt;
Accepting a sanctum that never was mine.
Secure I was now, in their eyes;
Disturbingly insecure, in mine.


Not once did the wise old society deter,
While shoving me into the daily regime.
Dragging through the infinite circle,
Knocked in the monotony and a soulless journey,
Sophisticated I was now, in their eyes;
Disturbingly retarded, in mine.


Not once did the magnificent currency,
Nor the custom-tailored suits free me.
Strangled by the company tie and a huge bonus.
Fingers mine, set to last on the keyboard!
Fortunate I was, in their eyes;
Miserably unfortunate, in mine.


Not once, did a small flutter leave me,
Resilient through the polemical thunder.
Colors defined me, Art never left my side.
Slowly from under the shadows, A light found me.
Crazy I was, in their eyes
Finally sane, in mine.


The Flight was taken bereft of the compelling chains!

Born In My Heart- Adoption

adoption, mother-daughter bond,short story

I heard a whimper at the corner. A silent cry. She wiped away her sparkling tears as they strolled down her pink cheeks.

“Mom, I scored a C minus this time” She scratched the floor below and handed over the progress card.

“Is dad going to be mad at me. Please tell him not to put me into boarding” Her squeaky voice melted my heart. She was adopted when she was four. She doesn’t know that. I will let her know but her tears now had to be wiped.

Not through an ice-cream nor a hug. She needed a letter for a lifetime.

So I made her some hot chocolate milk and smiled at her marks. It was time to grow, to accept the truth. I sit down to write a letter while she sloppily drags herself into her room.

Dear Rithi,

It’s ok, how should I tell you that it’s ok to be imperfect. It is ok if you are going through a bad phase in life. It’s ok to shut yourself up and do nothing. It’s ok to cry.

It’s ok to fail as long you know that you can try again, that you will be able to cross the hurdle.

It’s ok to cry as long as you know that your face would brighten up with a sweetest smile.

It’s ok to fail as long you have faith in yourself to bounce back, brighter and higher.

It’s ok to be imperfet as long as you know that everybody is same as you, imperfect in their own ways, pretty in the most unique way, trustworthy with time and embedded with flaws, as same as you. It’s ok to be imperfect for none in the whole world is perfect.

As long as the truth is known, nothing can be hidden, nothing can be taken away. What is yours will stay so. What is written in your destiny will be fulfilled. And in our destiny was written a beautiful angel. Dear, you weren’t born to me. I didn’t raise you for nine months in my body, but you were born in my heart. We share a bond. You were adopted when you were four and you are the best thing happened to me.

It has come as a shock to you but give it some time and you will see, with that little hope that you squandered under the bed. Life decides to surprise you with the only thing you have always longed for in the most unexpected times and in the most unexpected ways. You were that most beautiful thing that happened to me and your dad at the most dreadful times.

And your C minus is just a grade and I know you are capable of more, or much more any field that your heart chooses. Just one more thing. Come-on, we aren’t going to send you to a boarding school. Who put that idea into you? I need answers lady!

So gather up all the courage and stand back, lean to a wall if you must but just promise me that you won’t give up. Know your stances, make genuine moves and take alll the little things with you, your courage, your sparkle in your eyes and the fear beating in your heart.

There is a new ice-cream parlour that opened up today around the old church. Ditch your old sweaters and put on the new blue ones I have kept for you! See you there:)

Your Mom!

 

160 Drafts

There was a flip of the pages in the calendar. The month of June showed a colorful paper aircraft  flown over the garden, a message of creativity and nature go hand in hand. How fast the time flew, I reckon it to be a  magician, capable of healing, hurting, reminding, forgetting, creating, destroying absolutely anything, anything in this universe. AND probably the person who can control time is whom I call GOD.

Have we met him then, the controller of time. Even the myths and the holy books says that even god abides by the Horrendous time. Having heard of time machines and time travelling. If that were to be true. I bow to the creator. But why is it most of the times, that we age on earth and time acts differently in other parts of the universe. It sure is a uncertain entity to be defined.

I would go mad in just attempting to solve this entity.

So I would rather not and be awed by the mysteries the nature has to offer. It is almost end of June. And I’m still uncertain of what tomorrow has to offer and what today was all about. In this infinite circle, I slowly pack my bags, unpack it, flip it over and again get ready for the journey. This is going to be a lame post, a small voice squeaks at the back of my mind. But it matters little to me now. With 160 drafts staying unedited and unattended to, leaves a scar on my dreams!

So, as long as I try, as long as I fail. I am on the right track. But being on the right track and sitting like a log will have any train run over me!

So this is an effort to keep going! Thanks to my friends and family for sucking up all my moodswings and still say that I can do it!

Somebody once told me that if you encourage a person with his positive sides and so subtly inform him about the drawbacks. He will rise like a strong tide.

And so this week is all about getting back, writing anything and everything  and having the nuts to publish the same.

The Healer

I never believed in miracles but having been consistently ill for a longer time, thanks to typhoid followed by the damn UTI. I started to believe in the higher power and that someone would be there to heal us back.

Love, in it’s purest form, can only be derived from kids, they say so. I assure you, yes it is. Pranav, more like a son to me is my little healer. Whenever I’m around him. I get a zealous energy to zap back to the world that has so much to offer. During my low times, I wasn’t able to give my best and I’m not perfect either. I don’t intend to! Like everybody else, the imperfect me is in tandem with my existence.

But Pranav doesn’t know that! He loves me. So do I. In the dreaded moments, he has made me smile. In my pain, he made me laugh. In the confused disturbed world, he made me see a clearer version. He has wiped my tears, he has laughed at my singing skills. Never made me complete a bedtime story I intend to narrate to him. He has been an absolute blessing.

I love to stay dedicated to him, though sometimes I am lost in a world that fears me the most. I have come to realize the true treasure in life. It is health. One needs to be healthy to get anything back to sanity. You need to be healthy to keep others in good health. You need to be happy and smiling to create a happy world.

His smile mirrors in mine. His playfulness mirrors the sparkle in my eyes. He has been there for me. He doesn’t know it. He will not know it unless I tell him. But the healing power that he holds has made me grow stronger. nowadays I like his stubbornness.IMG-20161207-WA0023

It fuels my childhood memories when I never used to listen to a word of my mom whenever I was asked to lend a helping hand. I guess after marriages, mothers become a treasure as well.

Had it not been for my little healer, I wouldn’t be here sitting with a smile, and writing again. With all the changes that made a glorious entry into my life. Writing always took a backseat. So a heartfelt thank you to Pranav for being such a wonderful brave kid.

IMG-20170425-WA0005Stay blessed and have that smile adorning your charming face, my dear.

With lots of Love,

Your Athe

 

 

 

The Lucky Star

“Twelve”

She counted on her tiny fingers, tracing the paths she had just taken in the villa. It was the most spacious thing she had come across in all her 10 years of life. The rooms were like cities, wide, alarming and drool worthy in all its architectural status. She called the big villa as her castle.

“Twelve, it is” she reassured herself and said it aloud, biting her lips, crossing her fingers and anticipating a broad smile from her new teacher.

“Are you sure, young lady? For If you must be wrong then you need to write 21 horses and their talks a hundred times.”

An old man with the receding hairline and graying beard eyed her with a hidden smile.

“Yes Teacher, it is 12, 2 in the hallway, 4 on the way to the biggest rooms in the castle and one each in all the six rooms” She had to be right. She shuddered at the thought of the 100 times she was to write the 18th-centuryfiction, short story, inspiration, writers, authors, oneshots poem.

Mr. Goving Aarya rose up, towering the tiny girl. With his glazing brown supporting stick and a well-tailored suit, he tried to look young but none of them did the charm except the pride that was now dancing on his face.

He had caught her.

“There are thirteen turquoise blue Italian jars dear, you forgot the one in this very room, there on the highest shelf” He held her towards the expensive jars and found her face drop in a second.

” A hundred times it is” She sighed.

“A hundred times it is, dear” He smiled.

Heaving a sigh of relief and studying the retreating shadow of the girl, made his face glow with a shine, a kind of shine one gets to see when someone knows their bright future.

He was preparing a gem for the literature world.

Having published 20 books and a few accolades in his name. His skills had only sharpened as he had outlived his peers. A divorcee at 30 and kids in far away lands, none had inherited is writing skills. And deep down he knew he was the reason for it all.

His fame had him under its spell and that is why commitment was just a fun word back then.

But the raging time promised him the graying hairs, weakened knees, shivering lips, trembling fingers and sleepless nights.

He would barely write now, with creativity at bay, he longed for his family but it was too late. That was when he met her.

The girl on the streets, begging, trying to read articles out of scrapped papers, stolen glances to the textbooks of the wealthy school going kids. Govind had noticed her on his way to the park for his morning walk, intrigued by her commitment and interest. He once took her to the library and her sparkle in the eyes assured him of the hidden potential in her.

From then onwards, there was no turning back. He adopted the orphan, fed her with literature, put her to sleep singing Shakespeare and triggered the writer in her. He was on a mission., to carve out the best diamond from the nugget.

“She would remember me for this or maybe she will forget me one day like my kids but my heart is finally at peace.”

He retired to his cane chair, lost in thoughts while the future writer crooned on the long chair writing the poem a hundred times, savoring the intelligence of each line, lost in a world that her young mind imagined!

“I will always remember you for this punishment teacher” She yawned…

She just didn’t realize how her lucky star had brought her to her bright future, YET!