Nidhi Katoch blog

After a long day of labour, Uma stood with her group while waiting for bus. The smell of sweat could be felt from their group if someone passed by them. Carrying baby on her one side and empty food box on another, her feet were not supporting her properly. Wasn't body ache enough that her baby started to cry? She had built up tolerance to it after few initial setbacks. She used to lose her momentum earlier, but now she couldn't care less. Babies cry, it's their job! She was told. She put up a careless face now,  but what was going on in her head, nobody knew. What had this baby brought in her life? Pain! Another mouth to feed! She had to go to work within a week. Still she carried her baby everywhere. She wanted to lie down for a bit. She eventually did. She saw a beautiful house, full of colors, clothes like those Seths in their Kothis (rich people). She was smiling and was content. Her soul flied away, breaking the gates of material houses. There lay her body, with gleam

Hey all,  It's raining here for third or fourth day or centuries. This made me sit down and write blog, while sipping my masala chai (as friends from West say Chai Latte). It works wonders if you've cold. I had talked about my writing slump in one of the previous posts. There are numerous incomplete draft. Today I've tried to come out of this.  Here's a raw piece of poetry, which I'd scribbled in the early hours of morning. I hope you'll like it. The humidity in the air shirts cling to bodies,  moving for their dears from dark potholes to bright lobbies. How the color of skin changes with path, place, time When shadows come out of the wall, leap over to hymn,  to the temple of lost dreams. Clouds are gathering moving in circular motion,  rain will fall over the ashes,  will lead to the corrosion.  But how much one can damage the already damaged iron. None of the ointment are going to work Neither can carry the disappointment nor can pull off the smirk. 

While going through the shelves of bookstore, I stopped at Hindi section. You were sitting there on stool waiting for me to pick up some books for you. How much you trust my choice! I decided to pick few books by Amrita Pritam. This was when you asked me to not buy her books, not of any Indian woman author.  'Why?', I asked casually. But I could sense your unease at the prospect of someone bringing your own experience in front of your eyes. When someone writes about pain, loneliness, atrocities, molestation, oppression, exploitation and so on, at a certain point we all start to see those writings as our own experience, our own life. I've seen them through my eyes. My thoughts, my behavior are products of those experiences. When I came through you I knew I'm destined to these experiences. Little girl in me was gone long ago. Unnecessarily before. Do you really think I'm not aware of your uneasiness? I'm. I always was. Ps. Reader might want to know whether we boug

  "The mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and brings out surprises of beauty.", I found myself muttering these words of Rabindranath Tagore while we were sipping our tea. It was nearly 6 in the evening when we reached Gadegal Homestay . I listened to the conversation between our host and my friend. Conversation in Hindi with the pinch of pahadi dialect. Melodious in its own way. The mist was hovering over the cedars in front of our balcony. One or two vehicles were passing occasionally through the empty road below. We fixed our gaze toward the view and tried to relax after the long day in Shimla . The cool breeze of Narkanda kissed our skins. One could easily sense the hint of snow in them.  Sometimes I can't understand the kind of paradox I'm. I always brag about not being a nature person. How much I love the monuments of concrete. And again I found myself there, in the mountains, so close to the nature. In between the play of mist and clouds, night