Of Betrayal, Revenge, and the Rise of the Amazons!

 

 

After a wonderful vacation, coming home and picking up the reins of daily life can be quite unsettling. The mind, which had been happily occupied with new sights, sounds, and experiences, suddenly finds itself back in familiar surroundings. And mine, for one, seems to have developed a mind of its own! It questions everyone, everything, and almost every action.

I confess I am an escapist. Whenever life becomes overwhelming, I retreat into my little world of games and fiction. These offer me a parallel universe where nothing depends on me, where I am not answerable for anyone’s actions, and where the complications of real life can be safely kept at arm’s length. It is a comforting place to be, even if only for a while.

And then there is social media.

I find myself scrolling aimlessly through Instagram and Facebook, where an endless stream of short stories competes for my attention. Some are delightful little romances, full of tender moments and adorable children. Others, however, leave me rather unsettled.

These stories usually revolve around women. Women with cheating husbands. Women suddenly thrown out of the cocoon of security they had taken for granted. Women trapped in relationships with controlling men from whom they must eventually escape.

The plots may differ in their details, but the endings are remarkably similar.

The woman suffers. She struggles to rebuild her life. She discovers her inner strength, becomes astonishingly successful, and eventually returns to confront the husband, boyfriend, fiancé, or mother-in-law who wronged her. The wrongdoers are suitably humiliated, while the heroine emerges triumphant, independent, and vindicated.

And just when the story appears to have ended, a series of short, pithy sentences follows, dispensing wisdom about love, togetherness, family values, mutual respect, and the importance of giving one another freedom.

One almost feels that these little stories are less interested in telling us what happened than in instructing us on how we ought to live!

I often wonder why these stories keep appearing in my feed.

Is it because of algorithms? Most probably. I may have clicked on one such story out of curiosity, and the ever-watchful AI has concluded that I am particularly partial to tales of betrayal, revenge, and female triumph. Having made this discovery, it obligingly serves me more of the same.

But here is what puzzles me.

If I have read so many tender love stories, why does my feed not overflow with those instead? Why does a sweet story about two people falling in love, or a heartwarming tale about a child, seem to have less staying power than a story about a cheating husband and a woman who rises from the ashes to show him what he has lost?

Perhaps these stories are simply more engaging. Perhaps outrage, indignation, and the promise of revenge keep us hooked longer than quiet happiness does. Or perhaps stories of betrayal and injustice are so plentiful that the algorithm has an inexhaustible supply to draw upon.

Whatever the reason, I find myself wondering whether the world really is as grim as my social media feed would have me believe.

After all, there is no smoke without fire—or so the saying goes. If so many stories revolve around unhappy marriages, controlling husbands, abandoned women, and broken families, does that mean these are the realities of modern relationships? Are women perpetually the victims, forever having to fight their way towards their rights, their happiness, and their freedom?

Or am I simply being shown a distorted picture of the world?

One question leads to another.

Women bear children, but does that make childcare their sole responsibility? Many of these stories feature unwed mothers abandoned by the men who fathered their children, left to manage the emotional, physical, and financial burdens of parenthood alone.

Why should this be so?

We live in an age when women are increasingly educated, economically independent, and capable of making their own choices. They can earn a living, support families, build businesses, and carve out lives on their own terms. Yet the stories suggest that many continue to endure harassment, violence, and controlling behaviour, sometimes for years.

Why do they put up with it? Is it fear, financial dependence, concern for their children, social conditioning, or the hope that things will eventually improve? Perhaps it is a combination of several things.

It would be unfair to assume that leaving an unhappy or abusive relationship is always as simple as packing a suitcase and walking away. Real life is rarely as accommodating as fiction, and the road to independence may be far more complicated than a few triumphant paragraphs suggest.

Yet I cannot help wondering why the burden of keeping a relationship together so often appears to fall on the woman, while the burden of rebuilding a life after its breakdown also seems to be hers.

Is this genuinely how relationships work, or is it simply the narrative these stories prefer to tell?

What intrigues me even more is the response these stories receive.

I sometimes read the comments, and they are often filled with women passionately condemning the male or occasionally female character responsible for the protagonist’s misery. Many readers appear convinced that the stories are true, or at least representative of what happens behind closed doors.

The accompanying message is often that we never really know what goes on inside a home. A smiling couple may be concealing a deeply troubled relationship. A seemingly respectable man may be a tyrant in private.

Of course, this is possible. Appearances can deceive, and suffering is not always visible to outsiders.

But does the possibility of hidden unhappiness mean that we should begin to suspect every apparently happy relationship?

I find myself asking another question: Are most men controlling, selfish, and wicked?

My own experience does not quite support this conclusion.

Among my friends and acquaintances, I have come across many men who are caring, responsible, and considerate. Some enjoy making jokes at their partners’ expense, but then, I have seen women do the same. A little teasing, when it is affectionate and mutual, need not be a sign of disrespect.

Of course, my circle of acquaintances is hardly a representative sample of society. I cannot claim that my experience tells the whole story, any more than a collection of social media posts can.

But surely there is room for a more balanced view.

There are men who hurt women, just as there are women who hurt men. There are people who manipulate, dominate, and exploit others, and there are people who devote themselves to making their partners feel safe, valued, and loved.

Why must we allow the worst examples of human behaviour to define an entire gender?

And while we are at it, why do we so readily assume that women are always the emotionally stronger sex? Physical strength may differ on average between men and women, but emotional resilience, courage, kindness, and the ability to endure hardship are not the exclusive possessions of either.

Human beings are considerably more complicated than the labels we attach to them.

There is, however, something about the changing attitudes of younger women that I find both interesting and encouraging.

The women of the new generation seem far more willing to express their opinions; question established conventions and pursue their ambitions. They are creative, outspoken, and increasingly unwilling to accept the idea that marriage or motherhood must define their entire existence.

They want choices. They want respect. They want the freedom to decide what sort of life they wish to lead.

And why shouldn't they?

For generations, women have been expected to compromise, adjust, accommodate, and preserve relationships, sometimes at considerable personal cost. The desire to break free from these expectations is hardly surprising.

But I sometimes wonder whether, in rejecting the old rules, we are in danger of creating an entirely new set of assumptions.

Does being independent mean that a woman must prove she can do without a man? Must every story of female empowerment end with the heroine triumphantly demonstrating that she never needed her partner in the first place?

Surely, independence should mean having the freedom to choose, not being obliged to choose a particular way of life. A woman should be able to live happily on her own if that is what she wants. Equally, she should be able to enjoy a loving relationship without being regarded as any less independent. There is no shame in wanting companionship, just as there is no shame in choosing solitude.

The real achievement lies in having the freedom to make that choice without fear, coercion, or social pressure. And surely, a world in which women are empowered need not be one in which men are diminished.

And here is where my already restless mind begins to wander into rather more fanciful territory.

If women continue to become more independent, more assertive, and less willing to tolerate behaviour they find unacceptable, what will the future look like?

Will men eventually find themselves relegated to the sidelines? Will women decide that they are better off without them? Will the Amazons return to rule the world?

And, in a rather more absurd leap of imagination, will we one day have to worry about male infanticide?

The questions sound ridiculous when put together like this, and perhaps they are. But they arise from a genuine curiosity about the direction in which our ideas about relationships, gender, and family life are moving.

For centuries, women have had to fight for rights and freedoms that men often took for granted. Correcting that imbalance is both necessary and desirable. But equality is not a seesaw on which one gender must rise only for the other to fall.

A world in which women have greater freedom need not be a world in which men have less dignity. A society that values women's voices need not silence men's. And a future in which women are no longer compelled to depend on men need not be one in which companionship between them becomes obsolete.

Surely, the ideal is not a world ruled by women or one dominated by men, but a world in which neither needs to rule the other.

Perhaps I am taking these little stories far too seriously.

They are, after all, stories, written to entertain, provoke, and keep us scrolling. Some may be inspired by real experiences, others may be entirely fictional. Their popularity cannot tell us how common such situations are, and their neatly packaged endings cannot capture the messy, complicated reality of human relationships.

Yet, when we encounter the same themes repeatedly, it is difficult not to wonder whether they reflect something larger about the society we live in.

Social media offers us a peculiar window into the world. It allows us to witness experiences beyond our own, but it also presents us with a carefully selected stream of material designed to hold our attention. The more we see of something, the more familiar it becomes. And the more familiar it becomes, the easier it is to mistake it for the norm.

Perhaps the danger lies not in reading these stories, but in forgetting that they are only a small, selected part of a much larger picture.

There are unhappy marriages, certainly. There is cruelty, betrayal, and injustice. There are women who struggle alone and men who fail those they love. But there are also happy marriages, enduring friendships, responsible fathers, devoted husbands, loving mothers, and couples who navigate life's difficulties together without needing an audience or a dramatic final confrontation.

Their stories may not go viral. They may not generate thousands of indignant comments. They may not end with a triumphant heroine delivering a devastating speech to a remorseful ex-husband.

But they exist all the same, perhaps they deserve a little more space in our imagination.

As for me, I think I shall return to my fictional worlds for a while. At least there, I can choose my adventures, close the book when things become too distressing, and retreat into a game when the going gets tough.

Real life, unfortunately, does not come with a pause button.

Still, I shall probably return to Instagram and Facebook tomorrow, where another tale of betrayal, revenge, and triumphant female emancipation will doubtless be waiting for me.

And my mind will, no doubt, start questioning everything all over again.

For now, all I can do is laugh at myself, and at my wonderfully addlepated mind, where questions jump about and frolic, and where even a harmless scroll through social media can turn into an existential inquiry into the future of humankind!

 

Love Beyond Comfort

 

These days I am going through a romantic phase in my reading list. The trials and tribulations of the aggressive, feminist, docile, downtrodden, rich, or poor heroines as the case may be, is keeping me enthralled. I know you must be thinking that I am too old for romance but here I am old and romantic in this bitter war filled world psyche. A world where marriage seems to be on the way out (it has been like that for decades now; but I suppose, slow and steady wins the race!)

Of course, google keeps track of my interest and so I am bombarded on all fronts (specially on Instagram) by reels which are romantic. I have these eye candy English heroes who read love poetry, romantic letters, and dialogues in their baritone voices. I also have young couple who have just got into a relationship, just got married or are in the process of enlarging their family (some of them have four children already!) I do wonder how it would feel to have your whole day filmed and put up for public consumption. There is one young lady who is having her fourth child, she is in throes of labour but is being made up for a pre-birth photo shoot!

What Google insists on filling up my feeds is inter racial couples (I must have clicked on one of them sometime!) So, I have interesting couples- ‘Indian-Italian,’ ‘Indian-European,’ ‘Korean-Indian,’ ‘Chinese-Indian,’ ‘German-Jew,’ ‘French-American’… the list is endless. But let me assure you it is educative and interesting. I not only learn about all the different cultural differences, but I also learn about their commonalities.

I recently heard from a young man (not directly but via a conversation) that we should stick to our own culture while getting married. His argument was that if you love a girl who does not belong to your community you should not go ahead in the relationship. It is eminently possible to find the same qualities in a girl of your own community. Do you really love someone for their qualities?

According to him this and only this is a win-win situation. The reasons he gave forth was interesting- you do not have to change your faith, this in turn will lead you to be comfortable in your relationship, this in turn will lead to less confrontation and this will lead to an ease of co-existence.

I was so disappointed! Is marriage or having a relationship all about co-existence? Is love all about being comfortable? Granted I am not very experienced in such matters, but I know all about romance (theoretically!) Romance is not for the faint hearted. It is all about going against the grain. It is, I believe, “live and let live.” Wouldn’t a relationship be boring if each of the partners agreed with the other. Whether it was their faith or their behaviour in question.

There is a very uncomfortable trend that I am noticing these days where couples who have been married for more than twenty five to thirty years are going in for divorce. As one of them said, “There was nothing more in our relationship, we had squeezed it dry. The excitement was missing and so we decided to live our own lives.” There is nothing wrong or right in this but throwing away a bond where you have invested so many resources (emotion, time, feelings, and passion) seems pointless.

Going back “to be comfortable” I realise that if there is no discomfort there is no growth. If the Neanderthals had not interbred with Homo sapiens sixty thousand years ago, we would not be the intelligent and exciting race we have become. As far as I am aware, medical advisory about marriage is, we should not marry into the same genetic pool as some of our negative traits get amplified. In India we are not supposed to marry into the same “gotra” (system of identifying one’s patrilineal ancestry, tracing descent back to a common ancient Rishi. It serves as a lineage marker for, marriage, and rituals, where individuals with the same gotra are considered siblings and generally prohibited from intermarrying)

I thus appreciate the inter cultural relationships. They not only expand our horizon, but they also enlarge our gene pools (in case of offspring). They make the world anti-insular, humans more broad minded. The racist mind set is in danger of becoming extinct and the world will move slowly towards peace but not boring peace. A peace hopefully filled with the right amount of discord and pain to enhance growth spurts.

In the end, perhaps love is neither about comfort nor constant upheaval, but about the willingness to be changed. To choose another person not because they mirror us perfectly, but because they expand us, sometimes gently, sometimes painfully. A relationship that demands nothing eventually offers nothing; one that challenges us, unsettles us, and yet holds us, is the one that leaves a lasting imprint.

To love across differences of culture, belief, or temperament is not the easier path, but it is often the more enriching one. It resists insularity, questions inherited boundaries, and keeps alive the possibility that human connection can evolve beyond what we have been taught to accept.

If there is to be peace, let it not be the quiet of sameness, but the vibrant, imperfect harmony of differences that have learned not just to coexist, but to grow together.

 

 

 

 

 

The Perfect Half-Boiled Egg

 

For all my growing-up years, breakfast meant the same three things: bread, eggs, and milk. It was non-negotiable. An egg each morning was a ritual my father followed unfailingly, and continues to follow even now, nearing ninety.

I, however, never shared his enthusiasm. Poached eggs were far too gooey. Omelettes were worse, filled with offensively large chunks of onion. My mother, determined to get some protein into me, settled on the only remaining option: the boiled egg. I ate it with deep reluctance, so much so that if she was distracted, I would quietly slip it into the dustbin.

Years later, after raising two children and a husband (who comes from an egg-loving family) I have made my peace with eggs. Not entirely, but enough. Poached eggs remain a firm no. But scrambled eggs, cooked my way, vegetables chopped into near invisibility, fried until crisp, with a dash of soy, are something I genuinely enjoy. Omelettes are acceptable too, provided nothing inside them announces its presence. And boiled eggs? They are my fallback when I don’t feel like cooking.

My father, on the other hand, comes from a generation where men stayed out of the kitchen. Their culinary authority came not from experience, but from comparison, “My mother made it best.” But he always liked to think of himself as different. Naturally talkative, he gathered recipes and techniques from anyone willing to share, storing them carefully and building elaborate theories around them.

Over the years, he has explained to us (often in great detail) how easy it is to make rasgullas, how simple it is to make cottage cheese, how perfectly one can prepare sugar syrup. During his time in Malaysia, living with housemates after retirement, he even claimed to have made parathas from scratch. His repertoire is vast: roast chicken, baingan bharta, fish roasted over a campfire you’ve caught yourself. As children, we believed him unquestioningly. As adults, we began to understand that his knowledge is impeccable, but entirely theoretical. I realized that he is a theoretical physicist! The ingredients are right but following the method is dicey.

These days, life has slowed him down. A fractured leg, age, fading hearing; all have made him dependent in ways he never was before. He lives with my sister, who ensures he gets enough protein through the day. The highlight of his evening is still his egg.

But not just any egg.

For years, his breakfast egg was fried just so, the white crisp, the yolk soft and gelatinous. Hard-boiled eggs, therefore, are unacceptable. What he wants is a perfectly half-boiled egg.

Since he can no longer make it himself, he instructs the cook.

“The water must be boiling before you put the egg in.”

She nods, already thinking about how much milk she can spare for her tea.

“Boil it for exactly seven minutes.”

Another nod. Whether she owns a watch is doubtful, though she does have a mobile phone.

“Then take it out, put it in cold water, peel it, and bring it with salt and pepper.”

By now, she has left the room.

In the kitchen, she fills a pan with water, drops the egg in before it even warms up, and lets it boil for as long as it takes her to prepare her tea. The result is inevitable: a hard, grey, overcooked egg.

My father is disappointed. The yolk is no longer soft, it is solid, lifeless. He repeats his instructions the next day, and the day after that. Sometimes the cook changes, and the process begins again. But so far, the perfect half-boiled egg has remained elusive.

It must be frustrating that the person you are instructing lets all the sound bytes slip in and out of her ears without retaining even a miniscule amount of it. But the as we grow older and infirm we do get dependent on someone for something. It is less frustrating if we were to accept the imperfect world and its imperfect activities rather than whipping ourselves to try and reach a perfect destination

Perhaps the perfect egg is no longer the point.

Perhaps, in the end, it is about accepting the imperfect ones—the overboiled, unyielding eggs of an imperfect world—and learning, gently, to live with them.

 

 

 

Honemoon, Selfie and Everafter

 

She stood on her tiptoes, turning her profile just so, lips pursed close to her new husband’s cheek. Her hair flowed freely in the soft zephyr over the calm ocean. A short, bright-yellow chiffon frock swirled around her well-proportioned figure. Her husband with ubiquitous knee-length shorts, tight T-shirt chosen clearly to show off his rippling muscles, stood a little stiffly until she prodded him to relax. Unobtrusively, she pulled his hand around her waist and lifted one leg in the universal pose of romance.

Are you wondering whether I have changed my genre from crime and ghosts to romance?

We were married thirty-six years ago, when public displays of affection were present but not common. I don’t think we had an official honeymoon either (though living alone in Mysore is a honeymoon in itself). We began taking “second honeymoons” only after our twenty-fifth anniversary and have continued for the last eleven years, as if to compensate for all those busy, non-celebratory anniversaries before.

As the years pass, I find myself shedding inhibitions like a strip-tease dancer. We make it a point to travel, and lately we’ve been indulging in cruises. My wardrobe has grown less stilted and far more energetic. (The knees may protest on long walks, but I insist on walking shoes that match my dress.)

The opening scene, however, was not us. It was a young couple we met on our most recent trip to Phuket via a cruise. We took a boat from the mainland to an island in the Straits of Malacca. It was a warm December day, and the boat held an eclectic mix: two honeymooning couples, two families of four, an elderly mother with a sulky youngish daughter, two athletic young men and us, the second (or rather, the twelfth!) honeymooners.

The journey took an hour and a half, filled with snacking, drinking, and indulging in every possible photo opportunity.

As is the wont of older people, I observed everyone and provided a running commentary to my long-suffering “lord and master” (who pretends to hate gossip). Being in a romantic frame of mind (it was our anniversary trip) I focused on the honeymooners and decided to write a mental thesis on them.

The first couple were openly, exuberantly in love. They tripped over each other trying to get the perfect pictures and enlisted every passenger at some point to help. We complied indulgently and happily. They were the very essence of newlyweds: gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands, hugging whenever possible. The groom fetched cold drinks and snacks; the bride smiled, pouted, teased. Their affection was open and refreshing.

The second couple was different.

They too posed for photographs, but here it was the groom who took charge, perhaps too much so. He behaved like an excited boy, leaping at every beautiful sight, clicking away enthusiastically, though not at his wife. Instead, his lens focused on distant mountains, forests, and waterfalls.

The bride, like me, noticed the other couple. Unlike me, she was clearly put out. She tried repeatedly to divert her husband’s attention from the scenery toward herself. She succeeded briefly: he allowed a few posed photographs. But once the duty was done, he returned to the helm, DSLR in hand, absorbed in photographing the non-animate world.

I noticed this. So did she.

In her inexperience, she sulked and snapped at her bewildered new husband. She looked disgruntled, cast occasional glances at the other couple, and appeared ready to snap off her groom’s head as he obligingly photographed them.

We eventually reached the island, swam in the calm, unruffled sea, and frolicked like children let out of school.

The first couple splashed, cavorted, and romped in the shallow water against the golden beach, clearly having the time of their lives. The second bride sat at the water’s edge, letting gentle waves tickle her toes, while her untamed partner gambolled in the sea, camera held high above his head, still clicking away.

A couple of days later, we saw the second couple again, this time getting out of a cab. She wrestled with a large suitcase, yelling, “Come fast or we’ll miss the flight!” He paid no attention, peering instead through his DSLR at a hedge in bloom, clicking away happily.

I sometimes wonder which of these marriages will survive.

In these days of Instagram marriages and TikTok divorces, I’ve become cynical. The overtly romantic couple lived as though life were a movie—but would that film endure the long run? The impatient bride and her shutter-happy husband already seemed to have lost the first sheen of romance. Would he grow into her expectations? Would she learn to share his gaze?

Then again, why get married at all, if not for photo ops, petty tiffs, sulks—and the inevitable making up?

 

Dare to traverse!

 

There I was again staring at a blank word document. A few months back I had my book published. It took me more than two years, a humongous amount of angst and doubt interspaced with self-introspection, misgiving and distrust and the final moment of uncertainty. I refused to touch the pen (metaphorically speaking!) for the next couple of months. I felt my vocabulary had withered and died or had got lost somewhere along the way. 

The doctor in the family decided that she had to push me off the diving board otherwise I would forget how to swim. So I was tempted with some crazy platform where I had to draft a poem every day for twenty-one days. Other than the haikus that I write for my Instagram posts I haven’t authored a serious poem in the last twenty years so it was a challenge.

Starting something creative is thrilling, a spark of inspiration, a blank page, an idea that feels alive in your mind. But finishing it? That’s where the real art begins.

I went, switched on my computer, opened a word document, and looked at it blankly. Nothing came to my mind! I opened a folder of my old poems and went through them, searching for inspiration, nothing happened (they were so different that I wasn’t able to believe that I had written them!) I then just jabbered on the keyboard and the Eureka moment came upon me!

The fight that my mind, body and soul were having at that moment, turned into a constructive argument and my first poem was born “Arguments.” I celebrated the potent new animation that infused into me and I was excited! Could I do this? I wondered.

The next twenty-one days were a rollercoaster ride. There were the highs and lows of creativity. The words flowed in incessant chatter, their noise clamoring for space in my restless mind. “It was more of a fight between the mind and soul though body put its tentative touch hither and thither! The mind, arrogant and impetuous refused to bow before the sanity and calmness of the soul, hence the continual battles in this whole collection.

At its core, creativity is the ability to connect seemingly unrelated ideas and form something new. It’s not about “being original” all the time, but about remixing, rethinking, and reimagining what already exists. Think of creativity as a muscle, the more you use it, the stronger it gets.

Every creator faces moments of frustration, the dreaded “blank page” or “empty mind.” The key isn’t to wait for inspiration, but to start anyway.

Am I a creator? I think each one of us is. Creation is not limited to writing, painting, stitching, or sculpturing. I believe each of us at every moment of our lives are creating something. Whether this is meant for us personally or to be shared amongst friends or with the whole world is your personal choice.

It could be as mundane as planning how to spring clean or could be a deep creative urge to make a vase, it could be the simple task like arranging flowers or making a decision of what to wear. Each of us have our own unique way of exhibiting our artistry. It is when and how we indulge in it that is important.

We often celebrate beginnings, the fresh energy of a new project. Yet, completion demands something quieter but equally powerful: discipline, patience, and the courage to decide it’s done.

Creativity isn’t a straight line. It’s a loop of doubt and discovery. Halfway through, we second-guess everything, the colours feel off, the story drags, the song doesn’t sound how it did in our heads. That’s normal. Every artist hits that wall where excitement fades and persistence takes over.

To complete something creative is to practice trust, trust in your vision, in the process, and in your ability to bring something imperfect but real into the world. Perfection is the enemy of completion. Art lives when it’s shared, not when it’s endlessly tweaked.

Creativity is not a rare talent; it’s a human instinct. Whether you’re designing, cooking, writing, or simply finding new ways to solve old problems, you are creating. The world doesn’t need more perfection; it needs more imagination.

So finish it. Write the last line. Add the final brushstroke. Export the track. The act of completion is itself a creative victory, a declaration that you’ve made something new exist.

It is no longer avant-garde to float around on unfinished stories leaving enticing tendrils of knowledge for the reader to act on, now is the time to be decisive and firm.

“I am a creator, look at me, learn from me, and appreciate the beauty of my creation! 

Because the world doesn’t need more ideas trapped in notebooks; it needs creators who finish.

Because the world doesn’t need more unfinished dreams, it needs creators who dare to complete.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the world exhales

 

There is that time between midnight and three in the morning when the world exhales. The wind hushes. The moon holds its breath. And if you listen closely enough, you might hear it, the whisper of something ancient, something forbidden. The shadows become darker and bigger and your imagination takes you for a ride.

The tiny forays into the dark portal of the anti-god beckons you with muted sounds and curling tendrils of mist. I have been in this dimension many a times in my life. In my earlier write ups I have categorically stated that I believe in Ghosts. They do exist for I have had many an encounter with them.

I believe that Ghosts are always in the state of limbo, neither here nor there and they (most of them) are not wicked. I have yet to meet an evil one like the ones we see in movies. The ones who try to destroy you. Most of them have been forgotten souls who are lost in the abyss of chaos and do not have the energy to pull themselves out of it.

They say every spell begins with a whisper, a sound too soft to be heard, but too heavy to be ignored. It seeps through candle smoke, slips between shadows, and coils around the listener’s heart like a serpent waiting to strike. Those who hear it never forget. This is the voice of black magic.

I have heard about black magic for years; I have heard the aunts whisper about it and shut up the moment I come into the room. I feel I have felt it too but other than the typical signs of suddenly finding various artifacts related to black magic, I cannot honestly say that I have any proof of it.

Every culture has its version: the witch in the forest, the priest who defies heaven, the scholar who reads one page too far. Each of them, in their own way, becomes a keeper of dangerous knowledge.

I have toyed with my desire to explore this dark world, not exactly for power but rather how to mitigate this force. But there are no temples for black magic, no holy texts to recite. It hides where light falters, in the cracks of forgotten libraries, in the corners of dreams that end too suddenly. It calls not to the pious or the pure, but to the curious, the desperate, and the broken.

Those who answer the call never mean to. It begins innocently, a question whispered to the dark, a candle lit for comfort. But the dark always answers, and never for free.

Black magic is not chaos for its own sake. It is hunger given form. It promises not peace, but power, the power to unmake what fate has written.

I have heard so many stories about this taboo subject, about mothers who control their sons, about wives who wield power over their husbands, about men who worship in the graveyards for monetary gains, about politicians who touch the feet of sadhus who practice this and so on. But like the veil, the actual deed or the actual fulfilment is undulating, misty and flimsy.

But each society has means to fight the curse. That unexplained illness, a spate of bad luck (appliances breaking down; favourite dress being burnt; just twisting of an ankle on a flat road!) all these cannot be just explained away by logic and science. Thus we have the black eye removal ritual (it differs from place to place). But when our puny and tentative efforts cease to help us what do we do? Then the mind searches for ways and means to fight. We start believing in different pujas (very ironical for puja is positive, how can it fight the negative?)

Every tale of black magic ends the same way, with a price paid in silence. Some lose their minds, others their names. A few simply vanish, their absence explained away as madness or myth. Because power, once tasted, refuses to be forgotten. It lingers in the air like smoke from a candle long extinguished. And sometimes, on the coldest nights, that smoke curls back through the cracks of the world, searching for a new breath to claim.

They say light is truth, but that is a lie. Light blinds. It burns away the subtle shades where meaning hides. Only in the dark do we see things as they are, raw, unguarded, alive.

The irony of black magic is that it reflects us, perfectly. Its rituals, whether imagined or real, are mirrors for our most human urges: fear, curiosity, vengeance, love. The flame may burn black, but its light shows us our truest selves.

So when we speak of black magic, perhaps we are not speaking of darkness at all but of depth. Of how far we are willing to go to find meaning in the unknown.

Black magic is not evil. It is simply honest. It whispers what the world tries to silence. But honesty, when spoken in the language of shadows, can tear the soul apart.

Black magic is not an invitation to summon what sleeps beneath. It’s a story about power, mystery, and the price of seeking too much. The wise only listen at the door; the foolish try to open it.

Which one are you?

So when you hear the whisper, the one that sounds almost like your own voice, remember this:
Every door can be opened.
But not every door should be.

 

 

 

 

Closet Confessions

 

Its that time of the year folks! When it is time to rummage through your collection of clothes and decide what to keep and what to throw. To pick out the five sensible dresses that can be worn to function coming up!

Twenty years ago it wasn’t much of a problem. I always ran out of clothes specially during the post August time of the year. All the functions (parties and festivals) came after that. They were followed by innumerable weddings (both friends and family). We were busy till the end of March, after that the summer heat took over and before we could take a breath of relief of the monsoon, one was back again buying sorting matching jewelry and clothes!

I have officially gone into the old age league (not in my mind but according to my passport!). I have stopped wearing uncomfortable clothes (this means sarees, tight blouses, fitting dresses, jeans, and anything similar) I waft about the house in short frocks (loose and comfortable); blaming the rains I continue to indulge in frocks and shorts (so very pleasant!) when I go shopping or visiting. I ignore the looks given by the younger generations at my attire (I have reached the pinnacle of “don’t care” attitude.)

Once upon a time (not a fairy tale!) I used to be fastidious about what I wore at home or to parties or any social gathering. I had different stack of clothes, stay-at-home, stay-at-home-but-could-be- going-out, full-day-out-excursion, relative-visiting, peer-group- meeting, older-friend’s-hangouts and so on and so forth.

At present, the largest pile is stay at home! A small one for shopping, an even smaller one for visiting, a miniscule one for entertaining visitors and one or two for festivals.

I was always an introvert. I never shone socially. The parties in my twenties, thirties, and forties, which I indulged in because we had to be hosts, were busy seeing that everyone else was enjoying and everything was going smoothly. So food, music, and pushing people onto the dance floor was my duty. My part of entertaining myself were the drinks and starters (I still do indulge in these, even when I am alone!)

Now I am at an age when the children of our friends are getting married so wedding invitations are piling up. We need to decide which to attend and which not to.

What is the problem then? You may well ask. I have enough clothes (sarees) and jewelry to last several lives. well, first thing is, I am out of date with what the people at weddings are wearing. I am assuming the safest bet is wearing sarees (not exactly the most fashionable) I made up my mind some time ago not to buy any more sarees (they were really going over board with the prices!) jewelry is fine (You can at least resell them)

Most people in our “now friends” list have not seen me in sarees, so that’s a blessing! The quandary is, I know my sarees! I am trying a new thing now. The fashion for blouses have changed, there I am on a spree of making chic blouses for my old sarees and hope to get away with them.

The greatest obstacle is to choose five sarees out of a hundred (at least!) that are appropriate to the occasion. The trend of having an almost a week of celebration for a wedding has not died down. There is a poker night, a cocktail night, the Haldi day, a mehendi, a reception by the girl’s side, a reception by the boy’s side, the wedding itself and I am sure you can add some more out of your own experience.

The poser continues as one has to choose accessories. The jewelry, the handbag, the sandals et al.

The most fatal of all conundrums is whether I should stick to a saree or go western (just to shock) or maybe wear a sexy lehenga or the newfangled Shararas and Ghararas.

The riddle remains. I have a month and a half to sort all this out and may God help me!

My days of parties may be over but once in a while life throws me a poser which is difficult to handle and I hope the multiple choice that I am faced with has an option of ‘none of the above’!