Monday, March 31, 2008

Short story: What’s in a name?

Like any other girl, Ratnapoorneshwari Mahalingam loved reading the tragic love-affair that was Romeo and Juliet. She begged to differ with the great bard on just one line – “What’s in a name?” It was a name that she regarded as her biggest problem – her own name.

Her unique name had a history that was just as interesting. When after three years of marriage, Mr and Mrs Mahalingam were still without progeny, it was a kind, albeit interfering, relative who suggested they undertook a pilgrimage to the ancient temple of their family deity. The couple complied and sent up fervent prayers at the holy shrine. In a further attempt to solicit the goddess’s favour, Mr Mahalingam vowed to name his child after her. The goddess was apparently pleased, for within a year the couple was blessed with a baby daughter. Although naming her daughter Ratnapoorneshwari did seem a little unfashionable to Mrs Mahalingam, but her husband would hear none of it – a pledge was a pledge, after all.

Little Ratnapoorneshwari was a charming girl with a sweet disposition. She was intelligent and incredibly well-read for her age. She did her parents proud by winning most competitions at school. Except for a few pesky boys who derived sadistic pleasure in her irritation at being addressed by her full name, most of her classmates called her Ratna. Expectedly, it was during the roll-calls or when the prize-winners’ list was read that one could find her in her worst tempers. She would cringe and frown in embarrassment, and even an innocent cough sounded like a stifled snigger to her.

Her good form in academics continued as she secured admission into a top-notch girls’ college. With age came maturity, and with it the understanding that certain things in life must be accepted as they are. In fact, she even used her name to her advantage during the college elections. After all, a slogan like “Vote for S. Padma” barely stood a chance against an impressive “Vote for Ratnapoorneshwari Mahalingam”. Needless to say, she won the elections hands-down.

After graduating with honours, she found a job at a call-centre. It was the best time of her life owing to the fact that for fourteen hours of the day, she could be Rachel Mendes. She loved the work, in spite of the odd hours, and it was here that she met a colleague called Harish. It was love at first sight for both, and the relationship grew stronger as they discovered they had so much in common – right from their favourite movies to the restaurant that served the best dosas in town. Incidentally, Harish always knew her as Ratna, and though their conversations sometimes carried on for hours at a stretch, she somehow didn’t find an occasion to tell him her full name.

After about six months of courtship, they decided it was time to get married. While her parents, being of modern leanings, raised no objections at the love match, Harish was not so lucky. His father still believed in the virtues of an arranged match, and didn’t merit his son with enough wisdom to choose the right girl for himself – or for the family. However, being a staunch proponent of secular ideas, he couldn’t make a case on the grounds of difference in caste. Instead, he sought refuge in more scientific means – he consulted a numerologist.

It was a perfect move – Ratna and Harish could never make a match, so the numerologist declared. The marriage, if allowed to happen, would spell untellable doom for both families. Harish’s father had all the ammunition he needed to shoot the proposal down.

Defeated, Harish apprised Ratna of the situation the next day. She couldn’t believe how her life was going to shatter for the sake of a few numbers. However, after a few minutes of cursing luck and everything around her, she was struck by a sudden brainwave. She told Harish her full name.

The goddess seemed to be smiling upon her once again, for this time, even the numerologist seemed baffled by the perfection of the match! With no more excuses to make, Harish’s father had to give in. His mood improved appreciably when he discovered that his son’s choice was of good upbringing. He further melted when he found her family to be quite a well-heeled one.

And so, like all good love-stories, Ratna and Harish lived happily ever after – well, almost. For, post marriage, Ratna was known as Mrs Ratnapoorneshwari Swarnamurthy which irked her even more that her maiden name, but that’s another story.

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Minutes of a Meeting

Here is a message for everyone who must attend long meetings at their workplaces - "You're not alone in your suffering!"

I take notes
As didactic bosses
Assail stormy seas in paper boats
Analyse frivolous gains and mighty losses

I doodle
Or play noughts and crosses
Or think of home and my pet poodle
Far away from vexing schedule variances

I half hear
Blame going in circles
Of slack workers and tardy managers
For promotions are at stake in these deadline battles!

I argue
For some semblance of sense
Icy stares freeze me to a statue
The world, I think, is best viewed through a fisheye-lens

I delight
My mind at sudden ease
So I clear my throat and sit upright
And say aloud, “Can someone pass the wafers, please?”

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

It's all Maya!

What would Indian politics be without its fair share of caricatures? Here's an ode to one of them.

Ours was the land of dust and grime
Life a motley mix of anarchy and crime
And yet they said all was just fine
“A lot better than the rest” was their line

All that is a thing of the past
For you’re finally here to save us at last
When the majestic elephant trumpets thither
The men on bicycles run helter-skelter

Just your name makes them shiver
The king, the joker and his elder brother
For when you conquered all races
They now keep busy with court cases

But O messiah in pink, daughter of the earth
Hear our humble plea for what its worth
There are still a few wrongs to set right
Our children still cry of hunger at night

Concernedly she said, “Not to worry my dear subject
I have the perfect remedy for poverty so abject
A beautiful park beyond compare
Hundreds of my idols here and there

Oh, wouldn’t that make a pretty sight
I, smiling upon you day and night
With your heart full of praise and adulation
Will there be time for minor tribulation?

A few crores it will cost though
And a few will kick up a row
Nothing new for me, a seasoned campaigner
For I can twist them all round my little finger”

Thank you, O goddess of mercy!
But for your kindness, where would we be!
Some citizens, though, don’t understand your generosity
And threaten to don black with impunity!

“Is that so?” she replied, somewhat irritated
“Such insolence can never be tolerated
Till they are brought to book, I shall not rest
No black shall be tolerated, whether a shirt, pant or vest”

Ah, just the treatment they deserve
For assuming democracy to be their reserve
For when we have a ruler so wise and just
Is democracy really a must?

“Yes, my dear subject” she said with satisfaction
“What is democracy, after all? – Freedom of expression
So what if it happens to be only mine
Freedom or expression – it’s all Maya!”

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Treasure Trove

Memories are probably like good wine - they just get better with time. The sour twinge of pain fades away, and what remains is bitter-sweet molasses of our fondest recollections. Often, objects that people would solemnly castigate as "junk" are our most prized possessions. They lie in an obscure corner, to be unearthed whenever we think of those treasured moments.


A twisted trumpet, a fallible flute
A toy-train with a shrill whistle to toot
A doe-eyed doll and a stodgy soldier
A few pennies in a modest coffer

A humble house, a river rippling by
Ragged mountains and golden crops of rye
A hideous cow and a fat, harried hen
All part of a painting marked ten-on-ten

A broken buckle, records of art rock
A faded photo in a bright red smock
A crumpled rose amidst sheets of paper
A golden pen, an unfinished letter

A shabby stash in a creaky old chest
Memories lying in a lone corner
Reticent yet steadfast allies of mine
Filling many a dull day with sunshine

© Copyright 2008 Madhulika. All rights reserved.