Little Voice: The Words That Becomes Your Lyrics

She sat by the window of her tiny apartment, staring at the world that bustling outside. She had come to the city with hopes and dreams, like many had done before her. And like the many before her she had her dreams shattered by the cruel city.

A songwriter was what she wanted to be, and writing songs for the biggest names was her dreams. She always felt that music and lyrics went hand-in-hand. If the music was rhythm, then lyrics was the heart. Like all the songs she heard a daddy played, since she was a little lass, she wanted to write songs that told a story. Lyrics that spoke to the listener, a meaningful song, rather than a meaningless thumping beat that played on loop. She found ways to talk to the worlds in the words she wrote.

Family and friends said she had big town dreams that a small town like theirs couldn’t fulfil. So she packed her bags and grabbed her guitar and kissed her mumma and daddy goodbye. She headed to the big city with head full of dreams, a heart filled with hope, a bilked filled with lyrics, and pocket full of cash, which she had saved while working at the local diner. She wanted to make it big on her own merit.

But a big city can be cruel to a small town girls with hopes and dreams, especially one who suffered from stage fright. She could write the lyrics to a song but she could never sing it. Not that she had a bad voice, she just couldn’t sing in front of a crowd. And who ever she approached, with her book full of songs wanted to hear her sing, and some wanted to take advantage of her, as she was young and pretty. 

Everyone wanted to her to be this way and that, but she couldn’t be this way and that, she was not comfortable with it. And so she lost loads of opportunities cause she’s refused to compromise about who she was, her parents taught to be better than.

And as she should stood there thinking, it came to time to do her first gig, walking the neighbourhood dogs. She had to do something. Her finances were running thin, and she couldn’t live off the words of her songs, they didn’t seemed to get her anywhere. So she took up odd jobs to help make ends meet.

So quickly put in her coat and headed on the street to collect the little furry friends she had to walk. Sh loved walking them cause she felt their love for her was genuine and there was no motives behind them. She couldn’t say about the people that came in her life. The ones who came with a purpose, befriended her, got what they wanted from her and went their own way. And she like a believed in the goodness that she saw, almost blinded by it, ending up being deceived.

They say when you are sad or feeling low, you need to go to your happy place. These are the times when the memories you treasure become the light that gets you through. But lately that too didn’t help her.

After strolling through the park, she sat on her usual bench where she usually sat to give her four legged friends a break. It was also her vantage point from where she could view the people playing in the gazebo, admiring them. How she wished she could have the courage like them to stand in public and sing like them, never wondering, or being afraid, if someone out there was judging them.

She remembered a music producer who she had recently met. She showed him the body of work, the lyrics that she had wrote. She even tried playing it for him, the best she could. He told her point blank, unlike other who came before him, that she had talent, but it seemed wasted on things that were sickly sweet and gooey. This wasn’t the kind of music he wanted to make. For him life wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, or garden of roses, cause there’s always going to be rain sometimes, and the roses would come with their thorns. Once she was able to tap into that raw emotion that’s when she would be able to do her talent justice.

She sat there , closing her eyes tightly shut. She let his words echo in her head. When she opened her eyes she knew  what she had to do.

That day after she she had dropped off all the dogs off, she headed back quickly to apartment she called home. She wrote down the lyrics, tapping in to the raw feeling she had felt. She tried to put together the musical arrangements for the same till it was time for her next job, a waitress at a local diner.

Once she was done with her shift, she quickly changed, collected her guitar, and headed to nearby coffee house that had an open mic. 

She sat patiently in the crowd watching one by one people perform to varying degrees of success. By the time it was her turn to go on, the crowd had become restless. Her heart seemed to beating loudly against her chest. She went into a complete flight or fight mode, leaning more towards the later. But she felt as if her feet were frozen and refused to budge from the spot. So she had no other option but finish what she had come hear to do. She prayed, like she had never done before that her stage fright wouldn’t hinder her.

As she introduced herself, trying hard to be funny, she saw face that weren’t paying attention to her, who busy chatting, enjoying her orders. Her heart sank, but she was determined to finish what she has come here to do.

She closed her eyes and began strumming, trying to drown out the fears in her head and the voice outside. She started to sing the lyrics that she wrote. 

It's everything I am and what I'm not

And all I'm trying to be

This is the part where I spit it all out

And you decide what you think of me

I'm not trying to be complicated

I'm never waiting to get the last laugh

But I've been handing out benefits of the doubt

I'd like a little bit back

It's just a little voice

And if you're listening

Sometimes a little voice

Can say the biggest things

It's just my little voice that I've been missing

Looking over the precious moments

It hurts don't it

They can cut both ways

No amount of remembering the better things 

Will make the bad ones go away

But I've been broken and the one to blame

So my savior of self defense taught me to

Sing what I can't say

It's just a little voice

And if you're listening

Sometimes a little voice

Can…

When she finished, she felt a weight lifted that was weighing down her heart. For a brief moment there was pin-drop silence. What followed was applause that her lyrics, her words, her song rightly deserved. 

He stood up and smiled at her. He finally found the talent he was looking. He smiled and left the room. 

You’re Far from the Shallow

In a world thats slowly descending into chaos

It’s very easy to be overwhelmed by all that’s transpiring around you

To get anxious, to be scared 

To close your eyes tight

And hope that when they open all will be well

To want to hide under a rock and pray it will all be gone

But then you are thrusted into it all

Thrown into the deep

Failing and crying for help

Scared that you may drown

But that’s when your instinct kicks in

You will find away to survive 

To make it through

And doing you’ll help other make it through

Cause you’re far from the Shallows Now!!!

Cold

As he stood there in the cold, sterile ICU, he felt a chill run through his body. It wasn’t the cold of the room that he felt, it was the chill of loss that he felt in his heart.

He stood there staring at the monitors that were beeping. He couldn’t see her as her bed was surrounded by doctors and nurses fighting to bring her back. He knew she was fighter abs she would fight till the very end. But was this the end of it all, he never knew.  “Que sera sera, whatever will be will be, the futures not ours to see, que sera sear!”

And then heard the a beep and the monitor flatlined. And with that he felt a cold ice stabbing through his heart. It was all over. As the doctors and nurses cleared her bed, he saw her stomach rise and fall, and for a moment he felt all was not lost.

But the doctors told him what  he feared the most. He began to shiver, not from the cold outside but from the cold he felt inside. He felt weak and all alone, vulnerable and cold.

If he needed to take her remains back home. He had run pillar and post from church to church, raising funds for her treatment. The family sold the little jewellery they had, they had took loans and tried to repay it. But now it was for naught. 

He deposited the remaining cash and cleared the bills. As he stood there, he felt so small. He felt shrunk. The pain he felt left him feeling weak and frail. What remained was a broken man, weary from the shuttling from one pillar to another.

He made the payment and returned back to the ICU. As he opened the door. The cold blast hit and the sterile smell made him feel nauseated. They had taken her off the ventilator she was on, and all the other machines and medication. He saw her lifeless body. All signs of life had gone, and in its place lay a frail lifeless body. Once again he felt the cold. 

He held her hand in his. He felt the coldness that replace the warmth that he had felt when he had held her in his hand, his first born, the one that bestowed the title of father on him. He remembered the warmth he felt when she caught his hand learned to walk, when she had caught his hand when he took her to school. The warmth he felt whenever she hugged him.

As he sat in the ambulance with her earthly remains. This was not how a father should bring his daughter home. He as supposed to walk he down the aisle, not place her remains in a casket.

As he stood by her casket, as they covered her face with a  handkerchief and closed her casket. They slowly lowered her casket in to the grave. Later on as he stood with his family as the people condoled them, he couldn’t get rid of that cold feeling, even when he was shaking warm hands and being embraced by warm bodies. 

That cold he would never be able to shake it off till the day he found himself enveloped in the same cold.

And History Repeats Itself...

It’s a different day, in a different year, but there’s that feeling of déjà vu. We thought we had put 2020 behind and were ready to start a fresh and a new and suddenly we are staring at a much scarier beast. A case of history repeating itself.

The only thing different would be that last time “Justice for Sushant” was the antidote that made us forget the virus, this time around its khumb Mela, election rallies have made forget that we are going through the second wave.

It looks like all the plate banging, clapping, conch blowing, candle lighting and flower showering only did the opposite. Maybe the virus mistook it for a welcoming party, so it it came with more force. And the same thing had an inverse effect on our leaders.

And though we make memes and jokes about the announcements, there’s an uncertain scary feeling hanging in the air. No matter how much we deny it, in our hearts we know the truth. We can blame the local, state and centre, and they in turn blame each other. But in all this Blame Game we need to acknowledge that somewhere we have dropped the ball. Somewhere we have let our guard down. Somewhere we have ourselves to blame to predicament we find ourselves.

Though the current situation, the sheer numbers, the ones affected, the young infants with IV lines and ventilators, the sheer number of people loosing their lives, the doctors, the nurses, the healthcare workers, buckling under the sheer number of cases, may move us to tears, may lead us to saying in exasperation, what kind of cruel god would do such a  thing to  their creation, what kind of God would let it’s people suffer, and no matter how much we may curse and lament at our Gods for the situation we may fin ourselves in it, in actuality it’s us who have created the situation.

We may say the virus knows no religion but somehow we have proved it’s not so. Last year we may have hounded one religious gathering as a super spreader, while we give another a free pass.

We say that the virus know no social status. Then we need to tell that to the ones who lost their jobs, lost their businesses, shut shop cause they couldn’t bear the losses they faced, the small businesses, people who have had to take pay cut, suffer bankruptcy, lost their jobs. And other end of the spectrum you have country’s billionaires getting more richer during the pandemic. Makes you wonder how did ever get wealthier when everyone, including the country’s GDP took a beating.

We may say that the virus knows no politics but then why did some states get the stick and the favourite ones get bouquet? Why was the government denying when states asked for help, and to rap them on the knuckles for being assumably careless. What we need is a united front in this battle, and not a battle between the centre and the states, a blame game. It’s not in the interest of anyone that you try to pull someone down, cause in the end the whole is weak and appears bad. And seeing the safety rules so flouted during election rallies, especially where two heads of the country are busy campaigning, makes you wonder what’s wrong with them. And how do we expect to overcome this situation, let alone win it, when the head is no where to be seen, or is firmly stuck in the sand, or busy playing a game of Simon Says and coming up with ridiculous names for vaccination drive.

Speaking of vaccination we say that everyone needs to get vaccinated but still maintain an age limit of 45 and above. We make arrogant statements “the vaccination is for those need it and not those who want it”. This seem ironical when the ones who are hit the most and have to step out are 18 and above, and the government refuses to lift the age limit, knowing that in the second children and youth are also being infected.  This no time for bruised egos and arrogance. No time for silly bhoomi pujans, melas, temples and structure. What is the need for helping other when you can’t help your own.

Finally, we have ourselves to blame. We never wanted another lockdown, but at the same time we never wanted to follow rules. We refused to wear masks, we refused to follow safety protocols. We thought that we had conquered  Carona, so wet went on holidays to the mountains and beaches, without abiding to the safety protocols. We went on workout and runs for pictures and a few hundred likes. 

What we didn’t do is question our representatives, hold them accountable for their actions. We remained a silent spectator and trolled the ones who dared to. We have a free pass to one while ridiculing the other. W safe Twitter tigers but real life scaredy cats, not tell the emperor that he wears no clothes.

Why should the doctors, the nurses the frontline worker, the health care workers, risk their lives once, when so willingly turn a blind eye. Why should they crumble under the immense and  ever growing  pressure? Why should they endanger their lives when the ones in power are not even aware of the number of them who have lost their lives. Why should they risk their lives when the ones who need to listen to them refuses to do so, and have their heads firmly in the sand. Why should they be endangered for the sins/foolishness of others. They don’t want claps and banging plates, burning Candles and the showering of petals. This only seemed to have affected those in power making then dumb, deaf and blind and also lost of smell.

In the end what we need to do is follow the simple rules which are not hard to follow and  are I place to help us only. We need to hold the one in power, accountable for their actions and not give anyone a free pass. Remember we are all in this together. We can make it out and to the other side when we work together as one. Maybe then History won’t repeat itself cause we have learned from our mistakes!!!

Doodh Do Do Biscuit - A Childhood Anecdote

She may have looked old and frail, but then looks can always be deceptive. Cause though time may have aged her, it could never age the immense strength she had within. She may have been small in stature, simple by nature, but was quite the formidable woman. After all she had raised her children and grandchildren and cared for the ones who were blessed to receive her love and care. 

Though we were not related by blood, I affectionately called her Nana (or grandmother in English, not to be confused with nana, or grandfather, in Marathi). A simple lady who always wore a traditional lugda (an East Indian Kashti, or navarri saree), who always loved the simple things in life.

Every morning she would open a packet of Parel G in a  bowl and pour milk into it, and then try to  mix the two together. The next step was getting hold of her grandson, a not so light toddler, tie a bib around his neck (where else would you tie it), carrying him across her hips, or on her lap, or any thing where she could try to feed him. This was her regular morning ritual, feeding doodh do do biscuit (as we used to, and still, call it) to her grandson.

I don’t think he was great fan of his doodh do do biscuit, and I could understand  why, as once attempted to taste it and it wasn’t quite good. This was evident from his constantly trying to escape from her, trying to move his face and wriggling his way out, dangerously bending over backwards, resulting in the doodh do do biscuits finding all but the right mark. And if by some mean that it did, it was spat right out, adding to the splattering on his bib and his clothes, all over his face, and some on her saree.

But she was formidable woman, and she would not give up. She ensured that he ate, even if it was little. She threatened him that the crow birdie would come and peck him and take away his doodh do do biscuit (I don’t think he would have mind this), or the boodha man (not to be confused with budha man) would come and take him away. And if he still didn’t eat, a whack he would get. 

But she was loving and kind towards him. And despite all his attempts to free himself, she would feed every morning like clockwork. She insisted that he have that  as it would make him nice and strong and she had fed his father that when he was little, and did the same for all her daughters, and she insisted that her grandson would do the same.

I observed this with great amusement and interest, often bemused at what transpired between grandmother and grandson and that bowl of doodh do do biscuit. This stayed with me long after nana passed away and her grandson’s all grown up and had a son of his own.

But every now and then I love to remind him how his nana used to feed him doodh do do biscuit and If he does the same to his son too, passing down the tradition.