Jam Baby

She would be called a Jam Baby or perhaps Baby Jam. Or perhaps Zardari Jam. No, they wouldn’t want to associate her with Z . Lets call her Jam Baby.

Lucky, isn’t she? That she is born. Even if it is in a Jam. Isn't it better to become a Jam Baby instead of having been preserved in a Jam Jar? Zardari should not be upset about her for She and her mother are stronger than those babies and mothers who are forced to suffer the glorious practice of saving female fetuses from the trouble of being born. We women should honor and applaud them both. Even Zardari should be honoured for providing the baby an opportunity to show her strength.

Talking about a different sample of woman power, I have always been somewhat doubtful about the abilities and the merits of our own President, Madam Pratibha (Who??) Devisingh Patil. When I compare her to APJ Abdul Kalam, I often wonder what merit did she have to succeed a man of Kalam’s temperament. Just the accident of birth! Not that I am against her becoming the President. She has raised my own ambitions to the sky. Everytime I see her on television and everytime I see her talking about the imaginary babas that visit her in her dreams, I console myself, “Mampi, tera number bhi ayega.” I would also, inshallah, be the President of India one day. If SHE can, anyone can. And I am not that bad, am I?

Now, I was on a prominent Delhi road, waiting for my bus one day when the President Pratibha (Who??) was to pass by. The security personnel on duty (poor chaps) were requesting the people rather forcefully to go behind a barricade. Everyone moved behind the bus stop screen. Why they did, I failed to understand and I didn’t go behind the screen. I had to work hard to stop myself from laughing. I, however, moved back a little. The Delhi Police Jawan was not happy with the way people hid behind the screen. I wasn’t either, but I didn’t matter and the policeman did, obviously. He asked the people to move further back.

"Where?" The people wanted to know.

"There." He gestured. So the people moved behind the road on a link road.

"Further back," he demanded. I refused to budge. "Why should I go hide when my President moves on the road?"

"Orders from above, Madam." He was trying to be humble.

"But she is our president." I was adamant.

"Whatever. You got to go behind that barricade." He meant business.

"But you are also a danger to her, what with your gun and all. And, for all that you know, I can throw a bomb at her from that afar also, hee hee hee." I teased him. He was stunned.

"Chaliye chaliye, madam."

And I dragged my feet. Though I wanted to spring on the road militant style and tell Madam Pratibha Who?? that she had no business disturbing our life like that. But then, she is not at fault. After all, she does not know that she is causing this kind of inconvenience to people. Hell, she does not know many things. Poor lady didn't even know that she was to become the president of this country when she did.

I know, you Dilli walas/walis would say, "Mampi madam you suffered it one day and we are suffering it everyday." I would say, "Well that is part of the fun of choosing to live in the capital city."

Thank God I was not pregnant and due when Pratibha Who?? passed by.

Otherwise I would have been nursing a Jam Baby too.

...And On this 9th March

You went

I crumbled away.

then I gathered the bits again

and built myself

limb by limb

again.

Some days

the pasting was

just a bit harder

then life came along

to give me a wall

to lean against.

Now,

why am I scared

of forgetting you?

***

Some days you do not have the luxury to cry. On those days, you do not have the compulsion to laugh either. You go back, and again try to balance all your equations. And you suddenly find that life was not fair to you. That life took from you what you desperately needed. And then you suddenly realise that another side to balancing the equations is to start counting your blessings. You had realised that three was not four and five was not six; but you recall that you have had some threes that plussed with one to make a four, and some plussed with two to make five.

Life gave you the cards that you could deal in your own way. It were your hands that mattered. But some hands are just not lucky with cards.

Like clay. It destroyed a pot, then you picked up the bits and pieces, and kneaded it again and wet your hands again and then you put it again on the wheel. It took another shape to give you one complete whole.

You are scared, lest this new vessel should break too. So you cover it, so you protect it-at all costs. At your cost. And then you set it free.

I know the story is not complete. It can never be completed. Not by me...

Love La

Congratulations !

You failed

my borsalino test

when I said

“no”.

I built my bridges

but

did not cross them

over to you.

Now,

all that remains

is

lingering around in

lonely

libraries

looking

at dusty covers

and

faded loves.