Innocence died yesterday. Again.

A popular Gol Gappa & Pav Bhaji joint could not have been a hot bed of irrationalists. Neither could a bunch of youngsters watching a laser show have been an opportunity for ethnic cleansing. Someone obviously crossed a line. Of reason. Of sanity.

I don’t care whether he or she was a Hindu. Or a Muslim. Or a Christian. Or even a closet Buddhist. I don’t care if he or she had a deprived childhood. Or had been wronged by society. Or had been trained in a camp on the other side of the border.

I want him, her, them caught. And shot. I want the message to be heard, loud and clear. Don’t mess with Hyderabad.

For all those who died in the bomb blasts yesterday at Hyderabad. For all those who died at Mecca Masjid a few months back. For the calmony that was Hyderabad. For the heritage that we seem to have forgotten and for the legacy that we seem to have lost. For the culture that we are proud only to talk about, I don’t feel like observing a minute of silence. That’s dumb!

What we need is immediate action.

Rain saves lives.

Yesterday we had visitors. As lady after lady, aunt after aunt, in law after in law, cousin after cousin trooped in to meet the wife who had just prayed to Goddess Lakshmi (or Lady Luck as I sometimes call her), my dogs were going ballistic. Not being used to being kennelled for so long they experimented with various soulful renditions of operatic grandeur hoping that I would at least heed the plea of a Pavarotti or Bocelli.

I am certain that one of them, and I think it was the Labra'dog', even tried a combination of Diana Ross and Karen Carpenter. But my hands were tied. So they remained behind bars. My little Sallu and Sanju.

And then it was over. And they were let out on bail. After rushing around madly, pushing every semblance of order and cleanliness into the nozone of beyond, they rested. Their tongues elasticking. Their chests heaving. And they just looked peacefully at wet paw prints as they listened to the torrential.

And I heard the gate.

One last cousin. Running between raindrops. Leaped from Car to Gate in one easy movement. And froze as she took a hurried step in.

The Doberman froze too. Shocked that someone actually had the guts to be so casual. Or maybe he was wondering whether it was worth getting wet. Perhaps waiting for her to take a few more steps so he could attack in dry run mode.

I don’t know. She doesn’t know. And he won’t tell.

But that one second freeze gave her time to recover her wits. And pull back behind the security of the iron gate.

She is today like a mixed up James Bond Martini.

Shaken. And stirred. Out of her wits.

I am homesick Daddy.
My little one cries.

And my heart skips a beat.
Tumbles. Stumbles. And then rhythms into a smile.

I think of the woman she has become.
Of the confidence she exudes as she puffs
away her stress and drinks away her blues.

I think of the adult she has evolved into
as she takes decisions
as if she was born calling the shots.

For a minute I can’t come to terms
with the apparent contradiction
between her voice and her words.
Till I remember my mother telling me
that children grow up only for the world.
For parents they remain infants in arms.

Hush my baby. I think out loud.
Wishing my hug a safe journey
straight into her arms.
Wishing my kiss a speedy return.
Praying that my love
is the only strength she really needs.
And she always has.

Today I am told is Friendship Day.

I must be getting old.
I thought it was yesterday.
And day before.
The week before.
In fact I think it is tomorrow.
And the day after.
The week after.
A couple of months from now.
I am you see, of the old school.
Where every day is a day of remembering.
Friends. Friends. And more friends.

But that’s perhaps also because
I have been blessed.
My life has been enriched.
With friends who have lit up my life.
By igniting a smile on my face when I was down.
By coming through when all else seemed lost.
By hanging on to a value system that’s fast headedtowards extinction.
By sharing mad moments.
By suffering bad jokes (and yes, even bad poetry).

Or just being there for me.
When it counted the most.
Or even just being there with me.
When it didn’t matter at all.

As I enjoy each trigger that reminds me of my several friends.
Most of whom have many years ago, graduated into becoming more family than friends.

I wonder why there is a generation that can only dedicate a day to friendship.
When I have always felt that even a lifetime would not be enough.

But today, I am told is Friendship Day.

So I thought I’d just invite you to the bar that I call my heart.
Where there is a drink waiting for you.
Everyday, as long as I live.
And if technology permits, even beyond.

So cheers my friend. The drinks are on me.

When did all this begin?

This violent reaction to inflammatory writing.
This insensitive knee jerking.

When did all this begin?

This intolerance. This bigotry.
This utter lack of respect for a
freedom called expression.

When did all this begin?

This chucking of brickbat missiles
where bouquets were actually de rigeur.

When did all this begin?

This drawing of lines.
This crossing of them.

To the dark side of indecency.
To the muddy depths of inappropriatism.

There’s a painter hiding in the canvas of London. Cowering.
A knighted muse whose wife has left him with a baby death threat. A fatwa.
A princess who stays awake most Arabian nights.
And an author who prays five times a day, religiously.
Asking only for the freedom to give her feelings the vent of a voiced thought.

When did all this begin?

Perhaps it began when those who wanted to speak, forgot to listen.
Perhaps it began when those who had a view, turned blind to others.
Perhaps it began when those who lost a cause, found a heart to wear on bloodied sleeves.

When frustration was ministered to by
the masturbatory ejaculation of misplaced angst.
When satiation was but a sigh of relief
that at last, a distraction was at hand.
However demeaning. However debilitatory.

There is a cure for this disease.
And it is us.