Emotional Saina takes CWG gold, a title to heal Rio Olympics pain

Looking up at the sky, Saina Nehwal let out a scream after grabbing the coveted gold, eight years after she had become the toast of the country with a maiden CWG title at 2010 Delhi Games.
Saina played with aggression and never let the intensity slip to outdo her younger compatriot P V Sindhu, who had taken over the mettle as India's premier star after her Olympic and world championship silver.
It was a moment she has been waiting for long ever since suffering a knee injury at the Rio Games. Her emotional reaction after the win was not as much about celebration as it was a release for all the pent up emotions that she endured in the last couple of years.
"It's a very emotional moment for me after the disappointing loss in Rio due to injury," said the second seeded Indian after her win.
In the run-up to the Games, Saina faced flak after she threatened to pullout if her father Harvir Singh is not allowed to stay with her in the village. She insisted his presence was important for her success and she proved her point when she beat Sindhu 21-18 23-21 in the finals today.
"It's a gift to my father and my mother, my country. I really term it as next to my Olympic medal and my world No.1 ranking. So I would keep it somewhere there," she added.
Injuries are an integral part of an athletes' life but the intra-articular injury to her right knee just days before Rio Olympics robbed Saina of a chance to win that coveted gold at the Olympics.
She had to undergo surgery and what came next was weeks and months of rehabilitation.
Saina, who had achieved the world no 1 ranking in 2015, now was reduced to a bystander. She lost valuable time and there were times when she even thought of giving up the game she loved so much all together.
But champions are made of different clay and Saina needed to embrace it wholeheartedly to heal and salvage any hope of a quick comeback. Within three months, she was back on the court to test her knee at the China Open and she also played in Hong Kong and Macau.
As time passed she healed a bit more and eventually claimed the Malaysia Masters last year but a major title was hard to come by despite the fact that she was making the quarters and semifinals consistently.
Then came a bronze at the Glasgow World Championship, which led to a reunion with long-time mentor and chief coach Pullela Gopichand, whom she had parted ways in 2014 after an consistent run.
The world championship final between Sindhu and Japan's Nozomi Okuhara turned out to be an epic contest that clocked 110 minutes and it made Saina realise that she has to step up her fitness level further if she has to achieve her absolute best.
But injuries continued to trouble her as she developed some ankle issue. She came back again to reach the finals of Indonesia Masters this year. However, results still continued to elude her in major events as a quarterfinal exit against USA's Beiwen Zhang was followed by a first-round ouster from All England.
This gold at Gold Coast will go a long way in healing all those scares of the last few years and hopefully pave the way for more titles before she walks into the sunset.

You are in a wrong profession, they proclaim.
I neither deny nor confirm the truth,
perhaps it is a bit of both.
Doctor? Doctor? Should we call you one now?
'Call me as you please, I say.
'I am still not the one.'
They smirk at my fading memory,
I smile, choosing peace over truth.
'A spineless man is a snake'.
But they don't say the word,
And I prefer not to listen.

pair of wings

I always wanted to fly,

staring through the windows

when the birds flew out of the guava tree,

or the pigeons gurgled in our neighbor's roof,

as if mocking my existence,

I always would shoo them away.

Then an idea struck me,

what if I could grow a pair of wings,

So I begged for some magic spells from my grand mom,

who could make the fever go away, or cure an upset stomach 

just by chanting some words into a pinch of salt.

She would pacify me by telling many stories but never gave away any magic spell.

My science books too didn't offer any help.

I also went to Ronto kaku, who had a penchant for machines. 

He did promise to make me a pair of wings

only if I study hard.

Time rolled on and I buried myself in books,

Ronto kaku also passed away and his promise remained unfulfilled.

Many years later, 

now when I see the pigeons fluttering around me, 

I don't feel mocked anymore, 

perhaps I realize now that I can never fly,

I was tied to the earth when I was born.

Delhi sheds its leaves,
gets ready for a long summer ahead.
I too drop a few dead skins,
and wait for the flowers to blossom.
I spent a decade in this cycle of ice and dust,
pacing to and fro, in search for what I desire
and what I need. It took time to realise,
need always trumps wants.
Now when the fruit ripens,
it seems I can't find my hunger,
or feel any sense of smell or taste.
perhaps, it's best that way,
But what good it would be when the buds grow red?
Who knows how it will reveal itself.

I sometimes wonder about death, that last sleep that strips you of all vanity, chops off the threads, letting you to float in the infinity universes, all windows leading to more windows and each door falling into another door.

l wonder how will it come to me, eavesdropping by the shadows of a night, emerging from the river like a white angel or in a moment's flash, breaking the camera forever, like a jump cut out of the sequence, like a missing alphabet of a letter, how will I say goodbye, like a Supernova reverberating in the sky or whimpering like the last song of winter.

Home & Survival

Home
A three-room house

Soaked in time,

Built on sweat and tears,

Now weeps like an orphan.

An eerie lullaby resonates the walls,

The shadows hides in the dark,

Only a ghost loiters around,

Searching for the lost key.





Survival

Like a semi-circle,

Arranged in no particular order,

old Lights, clocks, cables and radios,

lay around, giving him company.

From dawn to dusk,

He fixes their broken heart,

heals their bruised souls.

People say he has forgotten how to speak.

The lonely night trains pass through the dark alleys,
lit sometimes by the yellow splash from buildings and street lights,
standing like wide-eyed witnesses, under the charcoal faced sky,
chained to the ground by irons and stones,
they too long to travel sometimes.

The tracks spread out like straight lines,
keeps its distance from each other,
but always together nevertheless,
when the sleepless trains are too drunk to see beyond the mist,
the tracks guide them home.
Yet sometimes the rattle of the iron wheels,
sends a shiver through their spines.
And they too long to toss and turn,
to shed their decades of weariness.

Reading ‘Joining the dots’

1.

She looks out through the window,

trying to figure out the landscape.

After flyovers spit us on the highways,

long barren lands appear,

followed by parks, fuel stations and eateries take their turn,

while dhabas, swanky restaurants and motels coexist,

sometimes almost out of nowhere a shanty colony appears and disappears,

lit by yellow neon lights.

Cars, trucks, highly-inflammable petrol tanks, buses

 and occasionally scooters and bikes pass by,

till everything becomes a blur.

Still swimming in her head,

she looks out for the crescent moon

 and tries to measure its arch.

2.

Ghastly factories stand in no man's land,

opening their mouths to a dimly-lit night,

spewing smokes and ashes,

that rise only to melt into the dark night.

Trees lingers like ghosts,

only showing their sleepless faces,

when a drunk truck or insomniac bus passes by,

the road like an old story repeats itself.

3.

The night slowly slips into a dark pit,

trees just stand there in silence for the night to grow old.

A reluctant sleep falls over my eyes,

I doze off,

the lights of vehicles that zoom past in the opposite lane,

break my reverie from time to time.

After a while I lose direction,

I lay my wits at night’s feet,

and fall into the dark pit.

4.

Drenched in morning sun,

the soul rejuvenates and returners

like a fading old song that midwives sing to the newborns

on the first day of their bath.

I too feel the same,

like a thousand needles falling on my wired soul,

acupuncturing me to life again,

like cascades of water poured to wash away decades of weariness,

the night evaporates under the ocean of light,

dark pits loses their complexions,

iron rusts shades like dry leaves

and naked steel shines again.

I feel naked, yes!

I feel new

Like a seed waiting to sprout out

from a long winter in wilderness.

5.

Sing to the mountain,

cry at its feet,

like a bird circle around the trees,

fall to sleep gazing where the clouds and hills meet.

Here even the crows croon a language that puts your mind to rest.

Listen to the trees,

they tell you stories of greens leaves,

which turn brown before shading all attachments

into an installation of death.

They know it all, they have seen it all,

much wiser now they don't speak about it to each other.

but they will whisper them to you,

you will find answers if you seek.

When the night comes to the balcony

don't scare her away with flames,

Let she be you and you be the night,

spread like the breeze and fill every corner, 

try to find what conspires between the sun and moon,

and learn to surrender to sunrise.

Sometimes walk to the river,

hear it create an opera with the stones,

the drone can heal all headaches,

and put you to sleep

where you can find out the seed that created the ocean.

6. 

The transmission tower stands there,

with a red light burning in its heart,

crows take shelter in its lap,

while dogs howl to keep the winter away,

They doze off when the sun is up,

follow perfect strangers with imperfect hearts,

before night brings shivers.

Trees pose like mannequins,

-  all broken and butchered,

mountains sleep after a day-long wrestle with the clouds,

while the river keeps humming a song.

7.

So much a man wants,

So little a man needs.

A sun to heal the heart,

The blue sky over our head,

A land to quench hunger,

rain to calm our nerves,

a night to tell us stories,

and a river that can lull us to sleep.

Yet miles away,

everyone is busy,

breaking numbers, burning hours,

yet most can't even afford tranquilizers.

8.

In shapes beyond borders

of design and dimensions,

Stones huddle together,

rolling out of the mountains,

breaking into pieces,

Crashing into each other or

sliced by the river,

creating newer ones,

each one of their own,

each a planet, a star and dust.

breaking, slipping, sinking and floating

they travel to different realms.

I take one in my hand,

and watch the sun glisten on its edges in my palm.

I feel small.

9.

Whatever I hand over to you,
turn to ashes.
Every twig is on flames,
I watch them burn, 
one after another,
fire licking the woods,
while they hallucinate in
yellow, red and blue
in death dancing like a thousand rainbows.

Sometimes I wondered why you have to burn while it's me who is fearful of the night.

10.

And then it snow,

Like white rain falling in slow mo,

blanketing the hills,

adorning the trees

With silvery hue,

Covered in a white cloak,

All memories turn to ice.

Even the crows turn into dove and croons a sigur ros song.

But then the sun shows up,

The silver melts, drop by drop,

the painting shed some of its colours

But never it's beauty.

11.

Not a fancy restaurant

Nor a swanky food joint,

A half burnt wooden shanty

Served us with a bowl of maggi

And a cup of tea to keep the jitters away.

While our backs broke by the weight of boredom and anxiety,

an old lady standing on the pavement healed us with a bhutta.

12.

Our feet like cold stones,

Head - heavy and high,

hallucinate about the night we had left behind.

Our spent eyes too sleepless to argue,

scan the streets for a warm bed

to unload our aching body, unwrap our capsuled bones

just then the division bell of a nearby Mandir healed us.

A cheap hotel cured our sleep.

As we kept time behind the discolored curtains

and munched on a moon-size dal kachori.

Much after we crashed at Mandi

and slipped into the snowy Manali night,

we could still hear the division bell.

They kept banging in unison,

till dawn gave way to dusk

 and time flowed like the eternal Beas.

13.

When the strangers return home,

The two chairs will sit there,

watching the sun set behind the mountains,

The stringless guitar will hum the same folk song to serenade the flakes,

the trees will remain the same,

listening and soaking everything

like rain, snow and sun,

always watching like the tower of time.

A day, a week, a month
Or a year at best
And your memory won't haunt me,
The dark veins won't follow me to sleep,
The betrayed eyes won't hunt me down,
Your feeble voice won't ask questions,
The smell that you wore for 11 months, 
the blood that you puked, tears that you shed
The sound of cough that kept you awake,
Won't knock my doors anymore,
I will walk away from all of it,
Disowning the womb which I put on pyre.

Anti-social

I am not clever,

never was, never would be,

When I traded the bylanes for flyovers,

I tried hard to be one,

to be accepted,

So that my words weigh in,

makes one believe me,

find meaning in my truth.

I've spent a decade in wilderness,

wild, hungry and sleepless in this concrete city,

Now I am just tired of this perceptions business

The only thing I can manage with much difficulty

is an appealing half-baked smile,

No, I don't even wait anymore

for my mime to be deciphered.

Because they are hollow,

there is no meaning in them.

I am just happy being a mute,

Too happy to be a ghost in the corridor.

Like these imprints on sand,
I too shall be forgotten,
left untouched in the old belongings,
in store rooms and ancient trunks,
like leftover of a childhood diary.
One slap of the crushing waves,
and I too shall be a part of the unknown,
swept away into the void,
left to be deciphered,
through discussions and debates,
a cold tiny stone in tunnels of memory.

Neither dusk nor dawn

finds its way to her room

sun dies an early death here,

squeezed out of its breath

by two facades of buildings,

standing face to face,

but not talking ever.

These claustrophobic chambers,

like forgotten Dagshai cells,

drenched in a sepia hue --

she calls it home.

Sometimes when a beam escapes,

momentarily from its clutches of concrete,

and falls on the parapet,

she cranes her head,

trying to catch the sun,

on her face, eyes and neck.

Laying out her soul,

soaked in a rage less silence,

Like an old book, 

wet and cold,

she tries to store the warmth within,

for the many winters that are yet to come.

Of Religion, Sufferings and Science

Why all this whining?
Its a simple calculation of checks and balances, if you believe in karma, then its a cycle of zillion births across innumerable species, in search of light that will always elude you, but every birth is a chance to reach a little closer to the shining star, where the home of our soul rest finally. What you do here writes a new chapter in another Universe beyond time.

The word is detachment, the idea is to float in a light with all your roots connected to the ground but yet you are not bound by it, you could traverse the various realms of reality and find a truth that makes you one with yourself.

If religion is not your poison and you believe in machines and the fathomless ocean of science intrigues you then stay rest assured that it is just a random event -- all your pain, your suffering and anxiety, along with the heights of ecstasy, pinnacle of happiness and mountains of peace. Its all a coincident, a change of events all unrelated and related in many ways sometimes creating a ripple in our lives.

1. 

Shivering cloak of wind, enveloping the evening
A sharp bullet pierces through my ears 
like a million needle darting in my neurons, 
astronomic explosions light up the laden skies of an endless night. The bullets gun down my memories, 
I bled all my emotions. 
All reasons slip through the wounds. 
A shadow wakes to reality, 
soul sleeps in denial.

You remain in my forgetfulness,
in my meanderings mornings,
my gibberish afternoons,
day dreams and sleepless nights.

If i touch this cold water,
take the wet stones in my palm,
or put in my mouth this hailstone,
remember this leads me to you,
as its here that you could still exist,
like a spectre in this mist.

If I sit on this green grass,
or lie under the fence-less sky,
gaze at the eyes of a starless night,
remember my eyes might not find you,
But I believe this breeze will bring you to me,
unlike a sapling or a tree,
here like a river you can ran free.

Days, months and years from now,
if you find I don't remember you anymore,
don't be pained, don't ever cry,
If you don't find me at this mountain bed,
then know that now I am ever closest to you,
because it is the day I die.

Wani is dead.
So are the others.
Fallen to the bullets of his own,
against whom he had raged a war.
Yet hundreds rise every day,
Masked vigilantes of soil,
march to the mosque on Friday.
What is this disease,
That only bullets can cure?

At the barbed wires, soldiers live and die,
these children of men, never leaving a sigh.
The holes in their skulls will never fill,
The story of war will never heal.
The story of war will never heal.

Blood for blood is an eternal chase
these nights of terror, who will erase?
these nights of terror, who will erase?

We will never be able to understand the lives of the street hawkers or road side dwellers or anybody who has broken off the leaves of life because we all have our own story to go back to. A story we all are interested to write in our own way. 

We are all in someway swimming and floating and drowning in its waves but we have a story. They don't. They don't have hope. 

Imagine you are stuck in an endless night for eternity, will you be able to see the light and smile? You will be frightened beyond imagination for the first time but slowly you will fall in love with this beaming beauty, an unquenchable hunger. 

Now do you really want me to believe that leaving this ocean of sunshine you would ever try to live a life in a sightless tunnel even for a moment. You and me sometimes might slip into the shadows of ourselves from time to time but sinking into a black cloak that devours souls quicker than we can breath? Huh! Let's stop. Let's not talk. It's fine. 

Someday the broken, bruised and battered will rise and then we won't be able to explain. Its destined. So lets rest now.

You are a river
waiting to be born
out of the tears
that could unburden
the dying earth.
Let it bleed
through the crevices,
when there is still time.
The lost kites will not return,
to the sky.
They are done for the day.
Not all pain flow outward,
some travel inwards.
Don't depend on the rain,
they must have lost their way home.

Like an image hanging by the curtains,
tied in knots,
like creepers in my veins,
a calendar dangles across my mind.

An unfathomable soul, invincible heart
Yet how blue the lifeless flower lie,
suspended mid air,
fading from morning to noon,
inside closed windows and shut doors.

If only time could look beyond realism and write it's truth,
some answers might have been left in the folds,
tales of a dawn that never met the dusk.

But I never looked back, I couldn't.
Never dug the left overs,
Broken mirror can never show the whole picture.

But I still worry if there were any meaning,
or if they exist now,
perhaps some new stories have been scribbled on those walls.

Now no one speaks, not even in hushed tones,
not even a sigh escapes the breath,
yet like a sapling it grows inside me,
I cut it's limbs every year but can't destroy it's roots.

What is this propensity to prove me wrong?

Cut all my words into a dice of your own?

Why sharp the edges and use the syllables like knives on our hearts?

Why these pointed stares?

All that you throw,

fall like water on a frying pan,

And all that remains are smokes and stains.

Life is neither diabetic tea cups nor salt-less curries.

It could be though,

Try adding a dollop of smile,

one that shows your dimples that I always found difficult to dodge.

we could have dipped our fingers in those curries
and all ego would have sunk in the bottomless cup of life.

Words can heal wounds and it wasn't even a bruise
but those silicate thunders that brought storms
even on a breeze less desert nights,
just gets amplified through the veins of a decade long tunnel of togetherness.

Weren't we happy in the pitch darkness of tunnel,
where all that we had was our voices to throw anchors and roam around

or just float in the galaxies of imaginations,

of a sightless horizon.

Why this propensity to fathom the depths then,

why now when we don't even remember

the last address of our lives?