REHANA BLOGS

I am a prisoner. I live a life of shadows; of untold drudgery, and unimaginable woe. It is a life that does not let go; the harder you try, the harder it keeps a hold on you. The more you struggle against it, the more firmly it binds its arms around you. And then, it smothers you. Kills you. My mother was a strong woman; a brave one. She lived alone, and died in a cell full of people, watching her take her last breath. I was born in those last seconds, I’m told. I don’t know where she’s buried. Someday when I get out of this place, I’ll look for her grave. I’m twelve years old. In my short life, I’ve experienced many sorts of feelings. Hate, anger and regret. Mostly regret. In different circumstances, I would be a normal boy, going to a normal school, playing with other children. I dream of them, these other children. Would they look like me? I want to see another child, and compare him with myself. Maybe then, I would discover my shortcomings. He used to say that it’s always...

I sit at the edge of the garden, and I wonder. I wonder at the breeze, playing softly with my hair. I wonder, at the flowers, of different hues and shapes, that smile at me. I wonder at the weeds which are growing, that seem to have taken root, which threaten the flowers I adore. I wonder at the palm in the middle of the garden, that seems to symbolize my life, this life. I wonder at the lamp-posts, whose strategic setting is meant to improve upon the aesthetic beauty of this garden at night. And finally, I wonder, at the stars that are supposed to be doing this job. And then it strikes me. There are no stars. And there is no life. These flowers, this garden; do not exist. They represent a place which once was. A place of beauty, a place of joy, a place of freedom. A place where love lived. Without constant nourishment, the plant dies. The baby wails. The earth cries. The moon hides. Human beings have the pity of all nature's bounties. For we have free will. We have the will to...

Once upon my visit to India , I met a transvestite on a train, who proceeded to take my specs off of my nose, and demand one hundred rupees should I want them back! This was way after the times when transvestites, or rather, Chhackas, as they are known in Hindi, were socially acceptable. Historically, the Chhacko has always been a very mystical figure, an oddity rather, to be feared, but never understood! They had no rights, and were treated with as much contempt as rabid dogs. In this day and age, however, it is socially acceptable for a Chhacko to board any train, overcrowded or not, and demand rights, whether or not they be his! As an interloper in the train (did I mention that I was traveling without a ticket? It all comes under the rule, When in India, do as the Indians), I couldn’t very well raise a racket, for that would bring the ticket collector scrambling through the masses of teeming humans to my side, and I was rightly wary of being charged a hefty fine. Reluctantly fis...

The Indian Auto Rickshaw (pronounced ‘Riksha’ in South India ), is typically a dull yellow conveyance with a two cylinder engine and excessive exhaust fumes. Having never sat in one before, I watched with some trepidation as a passer-by hailed one, harangued over the price with the driver, got in, and braced himself for the ride. When it started moving, I understood why. I was standing outside Chennai International Airport , on my first trip to India . The air was different, the people were different, the language was different. But it didn’t take me long to notice, that of the all differences, it was the difference in transport that was truly different! Gone were the ‘matatus’ that are so abundant in Kenya . Gone were the clear streets, and the greenery in the cities. Gone were those red metro buses that have fixed rates. In fact, a fixed rate for transport is a design that is not only not common in India , but sometimes if you mention it, you’ll be the cause of a few good laughs!...

Life is a comedy. One moment in time, I’m on a rainbow, dancing upon the beams of light, absorbing the different hues, and radiating them. The next, I’m in a pit, too deep to climb out, yet too shallow. I can observe the world enjoying, but I can’t enjoy with them. And then comes another moment, where everything is the way I want it to be, but nothing is the way it should be. Who was it who said that day by day, everything is the same, but at the end, everything’s changed? For a long time, I’ve been in a cocoon, protected from the fallacies of the universe, and its people. And when I came out, it was strange and different. Assaulted from all sides by the views and opinions of people I find I can’t tolerate, I try my best to make do. What happened to the ego? What happened to thinking for yourself? They say its all about you now. We’re modern, they say. The world is at your fingertips. Grab out and catch hold of what you want, and never let go. They say. Is it true? Is it right? One won...

Sometimes when darkness covers the earth The fog hides the mountains, Shrouding certainty, faking reality, Within, I sit, and dream Of death, and sometimes, Of beauty, Sometimes. I dream of the times, When mountain tops shimmered White with snow When deer gazed at me silently Within the woods When dew, sweet on the red petals, I tasted, When love, hidden yet open, filled Innocent faces Sometimes, I dream, I remember And so it helps, that dream For the times that I am, Within reality, within reach, Of that fog, that wall of white, The darkness inside, is the darkness everywhere Mould has grown, taking over, All the figments of the past That remain, undestroyed, yet violated, Because they were there, They saw, they observed. Where are the woods? Where is the snow? I sit on the rock, thirst unquenched, Never to be quenched, I await death, along wait, In sight of that mountain, Where once, there was snow, but no mo...