H-appily ever after

Imagine. 

Our much loved fairy tale characters, armed with apps. Would the stories have taken a different turn? Let’s put 5 of them to the app-test and see the stories, h-appily ever after.

Poor Hansel and Gretel had the misfortune of being lost in the big, dark, forest. Now, if only Hansel and Gretel had been armed with google maps, they would have never had to strew breadcrumbs on the trail back home. As for the poor hungry bird who ate up all the breadcrumbs, a food technology delivery app like Swiggy would have got her all the bird-feed she needed before she could even tweet her distress.

What about Cinderella and the fairy godmother? Ever wondered why the godmother had to ask Cinderella to return by the stroke of midnight?  Did the magic spell broke then or maybe it had something to do with return policy of the things she procured for Cinderella? Valid for only 6 hours? Now, if only fairy godmother had access to Amazon or Flipkart on her magic wand smartphone, she would have dressed up Cinderella to the hilt and Cinderella could have partied away all night without losing her hair or shoe.

Now, Sleeping Beauty had a different challenge. Falling asleep for 100 years and waiting for the Prince to wake her up. How boring it must have been for the poor Princess. As for the Prince. Why wait for a 100 years? Maybe the Prince was fighting traffic challenges of a different kind. Well, one click of Uber or Ola and the Prince would have been delivered to the doorstep of the sleeping, bored, Princess. And while he was waiting for Princess to wake up, he could have read her stories using the latest Kindle app. Till it was time to wake up to the new mobile wake up alarm.

Let’s peep into the tower of Rapunzel combing her shiny, long hair with hundred painstaking brushstrokes, yet to realize the hair would soon disappear. And that the poor Prince would not have her braided tresses to make the ascent to the tower. Well, one clap to Urban Ladder and a new, shiny ladder would have saved the duo much drama and the evil witch would have been able to take a nap in between her wicked spells.

What about Rumpelstiltskin? The queen went to so much trouble, sending her loyal soldiers all over the country to search for the name of evil Rumpelstiltskin. Well, a crowdsourcing app to get answers from multiple people; Quora.com or such, would have crunched time and money; not that money would have been an issue in those pre-double-dip-recession days. But yes, the ending would still have been the Queens’ victory, with crowdsourced intelligence.

Alas, our fairy tale characters, had to work much harder in those days, without the tell-tale apps of today to click on their hearts’ desire.

App in hand, they could have been singing these stories, h-appily ever after.

An invitation for the Imagination

Inside the Sarcophagus

A Pop-up Marketplace

A Tale of Two Rocks

“Hey NosyRock,” goes BigHead
In the ancient land of Cappadocia.
“Your nose seems crooked today.”
BigHead breathes in the sunshine
And waits for the usual reply,
“No less than your cracked head,
Woke up wrong side of the bed?”

“I see we have visitors today.”
“You mean the hot air ballonists?
They are here for the sunrise, silly.”
“No, the two humans climbing this way,
Their faces look cracked, don’t they?”
“They don’t get free exfoliation, like us.
Maybe things are a bit rocky,
What do you know, Mr. Cocky?”

“Hey don’t crack me up now,
Am a little creaky these days,
Going on 4,000 years after all.”
Say BigHead, maybe it’s easier
Just being a rock these days,
Crooked noses, cracked heads and all.”
“If only they could exfoliate their fears,
NosyRock, no wonder we don’t shed tears.”

Rocked by Cappadocia, Turkey

When I first looked at the rocks, they looked straight out of a Starwars movie or maybe from a scene in the Flintstones cartoon. But they are real, an act of nature, so sublime and ethereal, that you can just sit and gaze in wonder at the landscape dotted with rocks carved, shaped, re-shaped and exposed by natures' seemingly cruel hand.

Cappadocia, in Turkey is a land that compels you to imagine. 

There are rocks and there are caves. 

Empty, bare, stark in summer and covered by a white sheet of snow in the winter. And then, there is history. Millions of years of history, steeped in those caves, hiding from the sight of the casual travellers who are happy to get another photo opportunity clicked for the latest Facebook Post. Fairy Chimneys, the rocks were called when they were first discovered, no doubt because they looked a bit too unreal to be true, as if they could only exist in the land of fairy tales.

Each rock seemed to be hiding its own story. A rock shaped like a monk saying his morning prayers, another rock shaped like a yogasana gone wrong, one tiny rock shaped like a man with a slumped back, who just lost his dream. Each rock, an invitation to the imagination. But there's more, underneath, literally.

Beneath these rocks are remmants of the underground cities of Cappadocia. Multi-level underground cities that saved generations of Cappadocians from invading armies. A march down the caves is not for the claustrophic.  As entire families fled the fairy chimneys to hide in the underground cities, there were spaces for cooking, prayer, even for hanging people, could be traitors or enemies. We'll never know.

The geography still remains a testimony to the regions' uniqueness but the history remains sketchy, at best. Did the enemy warriors ever find out about the underground cities? Did the underground cities get used as bunkers during the World Wars? Answers we'll never know. No one wrote an Anne Frank's diary in these caves, after all. So, we can imagine. Just imagine.

And wonder. We have not seen the last of these caves. As late as December 2014, a new archaeological site has been discovered at Nevsehir, by accident, by a building company.

It's almost like you could try hitting a nail on the wall and by accident, stumble onto a new underground city. An archaeologist's dream for sure. Give me a shovel and let me dig, I say.

But coming back to the rocks. They aren't sharing any of the secrets. Maybe, over their rock gossip, they discuss the old tales one more time. We can only see them, and what better way than to float above in a hot air balloon waiting for the sunrise to paint the entire panorama in a mystical, magical, mythical glow?

A new dawn breaks. The faces change. Visitors change. New travellers come and marvel at the rock formations. From a distance, it feels like the rocks are having an evening get-together and joking about all that is changing around with, with them; a nose that got shaved off, a head that got tilted - exfoliation they call it, all part of the game. Tomorrow is a new day. As always.

A Rain Song

Drenched, soaking,

I enter the café,

Pocket empty of notes.

“A grande latte,

Make that a large”

“Cash or card?”  she asks

“A poem, actually.

I’ll pay with a poem”

She stares at me,

I need that coffee. I start,

My poem song.

At the corner table,

He sits alone.

I watch him,

Watch the rain.

The notes dance,

The notes fly,

A smile stains his eyes,

The coffee is still warm.

Drenched, soaking,

I leave the café,

Heart filled with the right notes.

The Sun never sets in the land of social media

A conversation between a new content wave and the Sun of social media marketing

"What if I forget to create ripples?" asks the newbie

"What if I forget to shine, for even a minute?" 

"What happens when it turns dark and still?" 

"O there's never a still moment here. We are omnichannel, we are omnipresent. Welcome to our land."

"See, a ripple, a ripple! I just had a ripple."

"We call that a like. Quick, back to work. I need to spread the good news"

Jaipur with a dal kachori

You might have a myriad reasons to visit Jaipur. From shopping for Jutis and searching for bits of history in the old palaces to seeing the writers take celebrity centre-stage at Jaipur Literature Festival.
Chances are, you would also make a trip to the much hyped Chowki Dani and feast on a multi-course traditional meal.

On the way, you'll probably make a quick stop to listen to the folk singer singing his poignant song to an unknown audience. And you'll return, your hearts and minds full of the beauty and warmth of Jaipur.

But stay back, just another while to have the dal kachoris of Jaipur. Crispy with the lingering taste of lentils that melt in the sweetness of the chutney, the fresh, hot kachoris are a perfectly sinful way to start your day.

Of course, if you have spent some time in West Bengal, you might remember its Kolkata cousin. Dalpuri. Fried puri, stuffed inside with ground lentils. A must-have feature in every sweet shop, they were a part of every Kolkata born person's weekend sweet shop binge.

Similar in taste, maybe but completely different in the way they are eaten. But you don't need to have eaten Dalpuri to enjoy the Dal Kachori. That is, by itself, quite a food wonder.

So next time you are in Jaipur and you see the snaking queue in front of the Jaipur Literature Festival to hear ahem...Shobha De or maybe Mr. Bhagat, maybe you'll sneak off for a quick bite of dal kachori.

If you stay back at the road-side shop for Jalebi and onion kachori, well, don't blame me:)

Basic Instinct Redefined

Basic Instinct Redefined

“How mean was the mean”

Median complained while

Mode was busy choosing

Most popular selfie of the day.

“Is anyone normal here”

Skewness whined.

Kurtosis jumped high,

In his usual leptokurtic way,

To avoid being caught in

Random sampling gone wrong.

Even as Poisson and Binomial

Tossed coins to have their say.

Standard deviation strode in

"I just can't deal with MAD

Tell him to keep his distance.

Variance, you have to make him pay"

But suddenly, there was silence.

Was that a knock on basic stats door?

“You people are too basic. No instinct.

I am big data. Time for you to pray.”

A singer whose name we shall never know

The walls of the majestic Mehrangarh fort reverberate with the soulful sounds of Sufi music. Every year, during the international Sufi festival. The few days of festival bring famous musicians from across the world and eager listeners from even more far-flung corners.

And at one of the corners of this fort, sits this man. No crowds around him. He sits alone with his ravanhatta and sings in a voice that sounds like the unexpected bursts of rain melting in the dry desert soil. Would you stop to hear him this year if you are at the fort?

Would you let me know his name if you do?

Red. Bleeding, flowing red.

Red. The colour of Christmas.

Happy families ushering in the festivities with Christmas trees, Christmas gifts, planning the Christmas dinners. A few just taking the chance to spend time with friends and family, planning holidays and getaways. Even fewer spending time with those less fortunate, spreading cheer and happiness at orphanges and old-age homes.
Christmas, a time to hear the happy carols of little voices, see  the joyful laughter on little faces, read their letters to Santa and watch them eagerly opening their Christmas gifts.
Christmas, the season, children all over the world look forward to.
But for a few, this Christmas, meant none of the above.
The innocent ones who got killed. Before they could even imagine their gifts this Christmas.

Red. The colour of blood

Terrorists rounding up school children and killing them mercilessly. I can't call them humans. They lost that claim the day they killed children. Nameless, impotent animals who could look at the children in the eye and round them up and murder them. Unflinchingly. Mercilessly. Using religion to justify the massacre. Children who had probably gone to school with eager hearts, full of plans for the holidays. Children who had probably thrown paper planes at each other, waiting to open their lunch boxes and drawing cartoons on their notebooks when the teacher turned his back.

Till he entered. Till they entered. The gunmen.

Red. The colour of rage

I cannot even imagine what the parents of the children who were gunned down feel. No parent can. It is the worst imaginable nightmare. And the children who survived? Can anyone even feel their terror and their fear? Their friends being gunned down in front of their own eyes? As a parent, I sit, numb with fear, my hands shaking even as I pour out words. As a writer, I know I am shooting words as the only medicine that I feel can stop my shaking. Anything that will make me stop everything and run to my daughter's school right now. Hold her close and pray. And  wonder how I'll explain to her about evil that even I cannot comprehend.

We teach our children to gaze into the prism of imagination, paint a rainbow of dreams that crosses the bridge of reality. We teach them to be brave, to be independent. Can we teach them how it feels like to be held at gunpoint, in your own classroom, in your own school? Can we teach them not to cry when they are alone at that moment, needing us desperately? Can we take their place and save them from a destiny that was never meant to be theirs?

What should we tell our children?

Red. That's the colour all of us are probably seeing today, in our hearts, in our mind.

A 100 hands and more

Centuries ago, Kabir, the weaver and the mystic poet wove his tales of mystic wisdom in his bhajans that transcended boundaries of faith and race.

Today, a Hundred Hands and the Handmade Collective that showcases work of artisans across India celebrated its 5th edition of annual exhibition in Bangalore bringing together work from states across India using multiple mediums but all interwoven with the common thread of poetry.

Artisans, poets and singers have often been inspired by the everyday nuances of life that they saw around them.  But people have rarely tried to combine them together and search for the common threads of history. Today, as many such traditional, hand-made art forms are struggling for patronage, it was wonderful to see the Collective bringing together people for such a wonderful cause. And it was much more than an usual Delhi-Haat copycat exhibition where the sellers sold outpriced material to the unsuspecting, rich buyers.

Here, the focus was more on awareness and interaction which worked better than just selling the wares. The Let Poetry Be event, an informal session with poetry and music discussed the many dying art forms such as Miniature Mughal Paintings and the Sojni art form of Kashmir. And to have a theme of art inspired by poetry, was indeed something Kabir himself would have dedicated a bhajan to!

Who knew that the Mughal miniature artists lose their eyesights by the time they are in their 40's needing to train their next generation or forever lose the mastery of the craft?  And the paintings, which started as an infographic recording of the kings' valour, have now become a recording of the history of the times? Or that the baskets that are woven in different parts of India have their own quirks and stories? Yes, history played a large role in the event as the interplay of motifs and colours across the regions of India added variety and richness to the display.

The delicate wares might decorate upmarket drawing rooms in apartments across the country. But for the artisans, it was a chance to tell their stories. Each stall, a story, of dedication and determination. And if some of them sold, well, then that wouldn't be a very high price to pay, would it, to adorn our beautiful drawing rooms?

The exhibition will continue till Sunday, for those interested in participating.

https://www.facebook.com/pages/A-Hundred-Hands/128624817195354

Who needs stories more?

Stories. We all loved them as children. Some of us still do. Last week as Kathalaya celebrated 15 years of their storytelling journey, that's what I felt as I heard internationally acclaimed storytellers Anotoni Rocha, Geeta Ramanujam and Prahlad Acharya shared their magic with the audience.

A folk tale from Brazil with crocodile and chicken teaching the powerful lesson of universal belonging. A message we would love our children to learn as the world increasingly becomes more polarized and intolerant. A lesson we might have thought they are too young to understand. But a lesson made simple and memorable by the plight of the thirsty, dancing chicken and the questioning, lazy crocodile.

Sometimes, even sounds and words seemed superfluous. With just hand movements showing the caterpillar's walk transforming into the flight of a butterfly and a spider busy spinning his web, Antonio created a world we had all seen, but rarely stopped to observe.

Geeta shared the simple message of spreading happiness through the tale of a scary, monster that was too scared to look at its ugly heart. Happiness, how much more simple could the message be? How much more important could it be for our children, and for us?

And then Prahlad showed his magic, literally. A single string of rope that transformed into threads of magic in his dexterous hands. Not happy with just showing kids the Indian rope trick, he also had them in splits with his ventriloquism act with an oversmart monkey. And saving the best for the end, he demonstrated the classic "Mile sur mera tumhara" with shadow play. 2 hands. All he used to recreate the differences and similarities of the myriad, different faces of India. Mesmerizing. Not just for children. Quite a few adults were moved to tears.

For two hours, children forgot their iPads and video games. Parents ignored their whatsapp messages and facebook posts. As they all returned to the simplicity of a world of stories. "Storytellers are just observers. We observe and then we share." Antonio summed up the evening even as eager children clamoured for autographs from their new heroes.

Over 15 years of storytelling from Kathalaya has now become a larger movement in Bangalore. New storytelling institutes have emerged today, engaging with schools and parents to share stories with children. Lessons of history, morals, geography are being shared today in the language children understand the best. Stories.

As a mother and a storyteller, I only hope more people join this movement. And that stories weave their colours of imagination and tapestry of dreams in the hearts of our children.

But wait a minute. We all know children love stories. What about us? Don't stories have the power to still give inspiration for the most cynical souls among us? The ones who have lost their way, the ones who are tired of battling with their own demons, the ones who are just a tiny step away from giving up, the ones who are so busy that they have forgotten how it felt like to just forget the world and hear the magic of a simple story? Can we observe and learn again? And share?

Stories. Our children need them. But I guess, we adults need them more.

A wooden post card

I was not just a clean, rectangular piece of wood. You knew that. You knew that when you splashed the tears of black onto me. When you drew swirls of circles, each small circle blurring into the next, like wheels that had lost their reason to be in motion.

Why did you not choose any other colour? Red would have looked nice. Maybe a touch of green too. But you choose black. And I felt your tears, black, as black as the colour you poured on me, as you swirled up a storm of emotions that left me exposed and you empty.

I wanted to stay on your desk forever. But you were not done with me. And you were not done with her either. She, who had left Koru forever. You labelled me, stamped me, posted me.

Now, I am just a rectangular, piece of wood, looking for an address, looking for an identity. 

And then there were none - top 10 ways I could murder the top 10 lists

Today happens to be Agatha Christie's birthday. Well, the queen of crime in her brilliant book "And then there were none" conjured up a story about an odd mix of people stuck on an island with no room for escape and no place to hide as the killer silently chooses the victims one by one till none remain. The chilling suspense of the book and its arresting title will forever remain a testimony to her unmatched mastery over her art.

So, if you had a way to murder something till there really were none left, what would you choose? I would choose the list of top 10 ways to do, well, almost anything.


See a quick search result from buzzusmo on this topic - a website which claims to give the social buzz on any trending topic. Well, there seem to be top 10 lists for just about anything from losing weight to am sure losing your mind as well. There is even a list of 10 ten ways to stay alive. Just in case we forgot that we are not dead yet.





Quite paradoxically, if you run a search on Google Trends on the same topic, the result you get is quite contrary. It actually says the trend of top ten lists is on the wane over time; though you wouldn't believe it with all the top 10 lists you are forced to see everyday unfailingly, even if you manage to avoid reading them.



Now this article is meant for my fellow struggling writer-in-waiting souls who write content at work apart from writing fiction in their inspired moments. It is not enough that we stare at the clock, sweating beads of frustration, gulping our 5th cup of cold tea as we wait for that perfect phrase to reign sunshine on our content darkened souls?

Wait, the world tells us now. Before we hit publish, we have to do buzz check; how good really is our content? Does it have the potential to become trending content? Don't publish unless it's a top 10 list. Why not 12 or 13, you ask? It has to be 10, you see. That's what sells.

Did I hear right? Now, did they just discover a way to predict the next best-seller blockbuster content? Did Salman Khan and Chetan Bhagat just compile a joint book of top 10 dummy ways to best-seller success?

Or are we just chasing the shadow of trending content before it vanishes in the trail of its own tiny scroll bar, lost till another tweet or link claims the fantasy of the reader? Who decides permanence or success of content? Who can predict the mind of the reader through the lens of the top 10 lists?

You decide. And yes, till we do that, if anyone else talks about 10 lists on the Queen of Crimes' birthday, it is as good a day as any to get started on the top 10 ways to kill that person. Now that would be a good list, I guess. The Queen of Crime has more than 10 lessons for that.

Sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks

At last, a social challenge for the ones who ones who would rather ignore social conventions and curl up with a book. Aha, naming top 10 books you have read when reading books has been a compulsive habit all your life! Child’s play really, you thought. That’s before you actually sat down to name the books and organize the rush of emotions and memories that accompanied the name of each favourite book.

You scan through your bookshelf. You open the first book. Remember?

• The book you were reading when your sister called you to feel the rush of rain in the balcony on a summer evening choked with the sense of an impending wait, as if the stifled air was waiting to be released from its prison of dampness. You felt the wet wind on your face even as the first raindrop fell on your book and you ran to save your book while the relentless rain drenched happiness on your hair, your eyes, your arms, your senses.

• The book your best friend gifted you in the library when sharing books was a hallmark of shared friendship. The book which formed your very first definition of love before you even knew what love  meant. The book you discussed and debated over steaming plates of Maggi. Much later, you thought about why your friend gave that particular book to you. Was he trying to say something? You were just friends, weren't you? You discussed every plot in every book you both shared and read but you couldn't ever discuss the reason.

• The book you read when you were recovering from your first heartbreak; snuggled in bed with a large bar of chocolate, the treacherous tears threatening to create pools of darkness that your self-pity could easily drown in. Then you laughed, incongruously, as the character in the book cracked another insane joke and suddenly the world did not seem so dark anymore. You cracked up, rolling on the bed and despair seemed to melt faster than the melting chocolate in your hand.

• The book you read when you felt nothing made sense, when the steps to success seemed slippery and steep and emptiness and bitterness gnawed gaping holes in your heart. The world seemed to be your enemy and no one seemed to understand your feelings. Except the author and the character in the book you were reading. Each page seemed to be a story of your struggle. And as you turned the last page, the night disappeared into the dawn and you felt, whole and inspired, all over again.

• The book you tried to read in snatches as your child slept in her crib, her tiny hands holding on to your fist. She stirred in her sleep and you automatically reached out to soothe her nameless fears; even as you turned the page of your book. The silence of the long afternoon and the questions that the book raised emerged as answers you were looking for and could ask no one. You still found the bookmark in the book; the bookmark you had crumpled over and over again as you thought through decisions that needed to be made.

Memories. Books. Friends. You dust each cover and replace them back on the bookshelf;  the handwritten inscriptions from your friends and loved ones, now timeless imprints on the yellowed pages. Each inscription, an ageless memory of love and care.

It wasn’t just the top 10 books. In a way, for the ones whose lives have been shaped irrevocably by the books they have read, it was also the top 10 memories of their lives. For “sometimes memories sneak out from your eyes and roll down your cheeks”.

Vizag: Lost pages of history

"Long weekend in Vizag?" you hear incredulous whispers. "What will you see there?" "Why not Goa or Kerala?" India's only natural harbour, Vizag or Visakahapatnam, is hardly seen a place of choice to spend a long weekend. It is as if its rich tradition steeped in the culture of centuries from King Ashoka to the Cholas, Chalukyas, Mughals and British are now forgotten pages of old text books resting on dusty book-shelves. As if its wartime history with the Japanese bombing in 1942 and its contribution in the 1971 Banglalesh war could be shrugged as lost secrets from its high cliffs.

Vizag today is seen more as a canny real estate buy for the rich and moneyed looking for another sea-facing getaway. Signs of commercial development are obvious all across the coastline even as the local people go about their business at their old pace; the smells of a small city merging with a rising commercial hub.

Vizag is not well-marketed today. Even on a national holiday, there are very few people from outside town flocking its so-called tourist attractions.  But for the few relentless travellers that make the journey, Vizag holds a  lot more surprises and beauty.

1. The Sound of the Sea against the Soundless Hills:

The waves of the restless sea crash relentlessly  against the narrow sand beach. The hills in the distance stand tall, as if protecting the secrets of the past and guarding their beauty against the rush of uncaring commercial travellers.

A Hollywood style VUDA (Vizag Urban Development authority) sign, a narrow ropeway and a super-slow toy train aptly called "flying" train; can all be forgiven for the majestic view of the Sea and the hills.


2. The Submarine Museum

In the fading evening light, INS Kursura Submarine, stands at the banks of  the RK beach like a rock still capable of protecting the nation, the way it did 30 years back. The real-life statues of the crew once you step inside, tell a vivid tale of lives lived during battle, not an inch of space to spare but hearts filled with courage and dreams.

A fascinating treat for children, this.



3. Thotlakonda

A reminder from the Kalinga days, the vast expanse of 120 acres overlooking the majestic sea today shows the excavated ruins of virahas, stupas, pathways and signs of learning and religion.

The waves make no noise at this distance; there is absolute peace, calm and quiet, the way it would have been, centuries ago.




4. Borra caves

The majestic Borra caves situated about a couple of hours away from Vizag in the breathtaking Araku valley is a journey worth making not just for the destination but also for the journey. As we set out early in the morning on the road to the caves, the rain Gods smile on us, the clouds playing hide and seek with a truant Sun as our tempo traveller meanders its way up picturesque hills dotted with tribal villages.

The caves themselves are among the largest in India. As you descend downwards, your eyes blinking at the darkness, the stalactites and stalagmites forming imaginary shapes in your mind, your eyes turn towards the ceiling - just a sliver of light painting a golden ray amid the layers of darkness. You hear the bats screech, maybe, as you touch the damp walls of the cave. Despite well-positioned lights and staircases, the caves are sure to bring a thrill for the travellers whose imaginations always travel with them.


4. Back to the waters

How can I not speak about the food? From signs of bamboo chicken at every street corner, to ample servings of biriyani at all times of the day, Vizag is also a paradise for food lovers.

Of course, there are a few Continental and Chinese restaurants which serve global cuisine to those inclined. And for those looking for authentic local cuisine, Vizag promises a treat for the tastebuds if one is willing to overook the service time which are obviously not meant for those always "on-the-go".


At the end of the long weekend, as we let the restless waves wash over our tired feet, the wind blowing across our faces; the footsteps on the sand receding into the darkening swirl of the waters, Vizag seems to be finally telling us its secret; a secret that we all knew, but rarely stopped to hear. A secret whispered by the waves, carried by the wind, echoed by the mountains, buried deep in the caves and in the layers of the stupas. To just let life be, in all its pain and beauty. To let history remain untouched even as future claimed the present. To stop the hurry and the worry, till we could feel the salt in our eyes and the wind swaying our hearts.

When the iceberg cracks

The show over,

He bowed,

The audience clapped, still in splits

Over his jokes and wisecracks,

Holding their aching sides,

His warmth,

Melting their iceberg of sorrow.

The show over,

He stood, 

Laughter billed by the hour,

Darkness accumulated over years,

Hiding his aching pain,

His smile,

Cracking his iceberg of lost hopes.

They say that "the loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. All because they do not wish to see anyone else suffer the way they do."

On a day when Robin Williams, a man who made millions smile, lost the battle to his own demon of depression, the question that we all might ask is do we know the ones who make us smile and laugh the most are the ones who might be suffering the most?

While we crib our hearts to them and they listen and they give as they always have, do they ever share what is gradually tearing them apart? Can we see the darkness in that kind smile? Can we hold their hand and hope they will find the strength to cry? And in crying and in sharing, they will find the strength again to live and smile not just for others but also for themselves?

Can we save the Robin Williams we all see around us- the ones that seek to inspire always spreading kindness and happiness but never sharing their own darkness? Can we stop the iceberg from cracking?

Which story will you tell your daughter tonight?

"Tell me a story, Mummy" she will say at bedtime, her eyes still wide open, her tiny fingers holding on to your hand, the night lamp still darting shadows on the childish paintings that adorn her bedroom walls. Paintings of rainbows, of butterflies, of a Sun that shines over a small house, stick figures of a family with smiling, happy faces.

Yes, a story. You want to tell her stories of bravery, of dreams, of reaching for the impossible and finding her true self. All that you want her to achieve. You want to tell her a story about the rainbow and the sunlight, about the Sun that shines brightly as she hopskotches her way onto her shiny dreams.

But then there is another story you need to tell her. A story about darkness and a cloud called bad touch, that rains only in the dark shadows where evil awaits wearing masks that she may not recognize - a relative, a helper, a cleaner, a neighbour. Someone she trusts. Someone she has seen everyday. Yet someone who could blacken the rainbow forever. Who could turn her brightly colored paintings into splashes of black and red in an instant.

It is a story that is probably being shared by millions of parents to their children in homes across India tonight even as the latest Bangalore rape reminds us again of the monsters that lurk beneath the faces we see everyday and the utter fear and the utter helplessness that we feel as parents.

Which story will you tell her? How can she be brave if you ask her to be scared?  How can we say we are free if we are worried sick every moment our children are away from us in schools, in daycares, in the very places that are supposed to nurture them and guide them?

How can we answer their innocent questions?

"Is touching on the shoulder ok, Mama?" "Or on the leg?"

"Are we safe outside school?"

"Why are bad people allowed in the school?"

One incident. Many questions. Are we brave enough to answer them for our children? Will we again forget till the next incident comes back to haunt us? How can we tell them the right stories, make them continue to paint in the bright colours that is their right as children?

I am a mother. I have a daughter. And I want to hold her hand and show her the stars, help her paint her dreams in myriad hues of imagination. I do not want her to cower in fear, afraid of lurking shadows at every corner. I am a mother. I want my daughter to be safe. Is that too much to ask for?

So yes, I will tell her a story tonight. A story of rainbows and the Sun that shines over all the dark clouds. Tonight and every single night till no monsters can even lurk near her dreams.