Graffiti On My Wall

By Seema Sinha

Dr. Seema Sinha is an Associate Professor in English. At present, she is working as Head of the University Dept. of English, Binod Bihari Mahto Koyalanchal University, Dhanbad. She is also the Dean of Humanities and a Member of the University Senate. She has written various articles and authored two books

• Language: English
• Publisher: 24by7 Publishing
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9789391488451

Book preview

GRAFFITI

ON MY WALL

Dr. Seema Sinha

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Copyright © 2021 by Dr. Seema Sinha

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First Published in August, 2021

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ISBN: 978-93-91488-45-1

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For all that and to all those who wrote in indelible ink a

Graffiti on My Wall

….. for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.

T.S.Eliot [Portrait of A Lady ]

To

That Delicious Feeling. For Ashesh,

Lisa and Kunal

Ashesh and Kunal and Lisa

Two loves, and now three…

Three days, three dates, three months

Thrice blessed.

The journey of love

From here to eternity.

I willingly pay the ransom of love thrice.

It is surreal. My being split in two

My heart beats not for me; but for you.

Graffiti on My Wall

Books say : she did this because. Life says : she did this. Books are where things are explained to you : life is where things aren’t …….Books make sense of life. The only problem is, the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.

[Julian Barnes ]

This book is dedicated to my friends

To my friends ….

Saroj di, Linda di, Shibani di, and Alo di.

Shubha, Bansari, Lavanya, Sujata, Sunita …….

And those……. who got away. Sarabjeet di and Kakoli di.

Words were not needed between us........and we were never short of words either.

Acknowledgement

To all that which came my way. I specially mention my student Rakesh Bauri whose help in compilation was invaluable.

August, 2021      Dr. Seema Sinha

Preface

These are mental journeys, which run parallel to the physical one. From the moment we learn to see the world with eyes that see, we find it changes shape and shifts according to the seasons, perspectives, experiences. Our view gets coloured with our own emotional journey as we travel in time. What enriches this journey is what we encounter on this passage from the beginning of the consciousness to it’s end. Some things remain etched on the wall of the memory, and create a pattern, a design in our lives.

They are like graffiti on a wall, funny, random, meaningless, meaningful, beautiful, ugly, anonymous words written for the world. There is an artlessness about it, which is like the chaos of life itself. Lines running into each other, different handwritings, some say a lot in very few words, some sentences remain unfinished. Isn’t life like that, haphazard, some moments priceless, some prosaic … And often it strikes a chord, touches a string in our hearts, juggling feelings. Sometimes some words are scratched out, sometimes overwritten.

Life is a series of graffitis etched on our mental walls. Like memories, some remain clear, some are erased out, some are overwritten, but they are visible. Memories translated in words. Feelings, experiences scribbled as graffiti.

Some might seem familiar to you, some unfamiliar, but they all speak the voice of the heart.

List of Contents

Life

My mantra…

The Colour Purple

Yesterday once again….

The Art of Zen

God of Small Things

When you get a chance ….

On Trivia.

As I race towards the finishing line …..

Perfectly Imperfect

A day in life...

The dance of love.

Midsummer Day Dreams

The Wheel of Fortune

The extra ordinariness

A Bohemian Rhapsody

To catch a falling star…

A Winter of Discontent:

The World

The Aruna Story….:

From a Teacher’s Perspective

Lost in transition:

Getting up close and personal.

Women

I am my own Durga....

I will never lose touch .

If Beauty lies in the eyes …

Theatre of the Absurd:

A Happy Women’s Day.

Dedicated to all Women

On Fake Values .

Points to Ponder:

I Claim my Right to be Me.

Don’t Hide Your Tears....

If you live long enough

O Womaniyaa

Mother

Amrita, I vote for you.

Pink or Purple...

Paradoxes....

Points to Ponder... ...

It takes Two to Tango…

The Circle of Life

The Empty Nest....

Parents

Today is not a day .

I think the bond

In my beginning is my end

My Parents: Me.....

The Best thing I did.

My Grandmother .

Friends

The Difference between Friends and...

Blessed

Blessed Again

On Facebook Friends…...

I Love You …like I hate you …

Sorrow and Bereavement

Mourning

Sorrow…

I am what you will be.

Death

To my dear friend

Death be not proud...

The moving finger having writ, moves on....

Facebook

An Inflatable Halo

Surrealism...

My deep gratitude and love to every one of you

Facebook caters .

FB asks me what is on my mind?

Count the ‘likes’

Footloose and Fancy-free in the Never Never Land of …

The World of FB

Mind Games

I am Happy in My ‘Coro’ Nation.

India

The power of the Namaste!

Corona

The Rural Adventure...M.P. Ishtyle...

Day Trippin’

Amazing India.

Ye Duniya, Ik Dulhan

Seasons

January

Points to Ponder:

February...

If you came this way

Hello spring!

Two faces of nature in spring.

March…

Points to Ponder:

If you come this way,

Amazing April.

April

Circle of Seasons...

May!!!!

Points to Ponder: Summer’s Promise Fulfilled

Sunday thoughts on the month of June!!!

We are all imperfectly perfect in a perfectly imperfect world.

July

August:

September.

Seasons of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness ….

Criss Crossing Seasons. Criss Crossing Seasons.

End of Seasons

Graffiti on My Wall

Festivals

It’s the time to Disco…

When Gods smile at you...

The Dance of the Shiva

Holi

This Rakhi I dedicate

Krishna Ashtami

Janamashtmi of the Makhan Chor

Happy Janamashtmi!

Perks of living in a Secular country

Ode to the Shakti of the Shiva...

Divine Alignment

This Time… That Year…

Welcoming the Devi. Mahalaya

The Enigma of Arrival

There is magic in the air!

Nine Devis...

Durga in My Soul:

Happy Durga Ashtmi

Durga in My heart:

Durga in My Soul:

Durga, An Autumn Sonata!

Ashtangi:

An Ode to the Goddess of Good Times...

Happy Diwali…

The Beauty of Hinduism is in it’s opulence.

Points to Ponder:

The Morning After…

Are the Divine Babies Different?

Points to Ponder:

Faith

Appearance Vs Reality.

Gods -The Ideals

Arrogance of the Righteous

License to Think

Random Musings

History

Games of War.

Grief has no religion

Point Counter Point

Knowledge : The Key to…

Timeless Moments

Spiritual Vacuum

Idol Worshippers

Longings

Whiffs from a bygone era.

Cities

Oh Antwerpen!!!!

Oh Calcutta! An Ode...

Weekends. Graffiti on My Wall.

Mundane, but yet..

Monday mornings....

On a Monday Morning...

Sunday thoughts

One is never too old…

Romancing myself

Romancing the Diya…

Scribbles on a Rainy Wednesday in Singrauli….

Something to chew on a monsoon day...

Changes236

I will talk of Dhanbad .

Close Encounters of the Pakistani kind.

Ironies of Life

John Allen Chau

Skeptics

When Sally Met Harry

The Dangers of Stereotyping.

Coronation ke Side effects

As we grow older and hopefully wiser,

License to Kill

It’s a funny old world…

In my dictionary, freebies equate to bribes.

In this topsy turvy world

Intellectuals and Pretenders

Patronising

My opinion entirely.

Let us think of sundry things

Nosey Tales from Here and There

Quirks

Ape-isms.

‘K’arma

On ‘Being Human’ and all that Jazz...

Adjust your Lenses

The weak spot

Of the ‘T’ word...

Perfectly Imperfect

Life is not endless waiting, like

Waiting for Godot....

Crazy Ride

Dog Lover? You Bet.

Dognama

Significance of Dogs in Hinduism.

The World According to Viva...

Tumhara naam Kya hai, Basanti?

Points to Ponder

Points to Ponder

If Only …..

The Thin Line

Perspectives

Thoughts

Signed, Sealed, Delivered.

Some people are born great

The weather in Europe

The ‘T’ is silent

Thoughts on Innocence

Tips to Declutter:

Tips to Balance life.

Looking Back –Elections 2019

Look Back In Hope

Wonderful read.

Graffiti on My Wall

Confessions of a Word - o -holic.

Win Some and Lose Some!

Words are all I have...

When words hurt...

Plagiarism?

Wish for the better happenings of the Days…

Stung by the splendour

Whiffs ….

The Writer’s Itch

What is the reality behind the illusion?

Literature

On Poetry and Poets

Popular literature.

Enid Blyton :

The Mystique

‘Lock’y Tales

What are Myths?

What is reality?

Canterbury Tales

In The Light of Contemporary Reality

The Women in Canterbury Tales:

Sleeping with the Enemy

Time to Read the

Great Expectations

The Story Teller

Puritanism and Hypocrisy

Puritanism in New England

Bible Spouting Villain

Insufferable

Sin and Sinners

Marlowe, the enfant terrible of the Renaissance age.

The Sin of Overreaching. And Illusions...

Dr. Faustus

Drawing analogies

Shylock –ShakespeareNama

[Shakespeare Nama]

Shakespeare on My Mind:

Shakespeare Week

Literary Huddle

Hamlet

Henry VI

Measure for Measure

Twelfth Night.

The Merchant of Venice

Much Ado About Nothing

Taming of the Shrew

Shakespeare Week. A Midsummer Night’s Dream

Everlastingness…

A Beautiful Life

When we pause

Postcript

Bibliography

Life

Isn’t life an ongoing Conversation, with self?

A Random celebration of everyday things?

The Audience keeps changing but the inner Monologue goes on... because to lose touch with self is to lose touch with reality and all that is precious in life.

My mantra… to be a blossom under the bough

Stay positive, think positive, dream positive.

Positivity begets positivity.

Ariel.

"Where the bee sucks, there suck I.

In a cowslip’s bell I lie,

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat’s back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

‘The Tempest,’ William Shakespeare.

The Colour Purple

Sometimes you wish miracles happened, and the wish you made as a falling star blazed across the night sky actually came true.

Wish you remained the little girl who walked tip toe on dewy grass early in the morning, and opened the petals of flower buds breathlessly to see if fairies were actually sleeping, curled up inside.

Wish you could hold back time, clutched in your fist, and take memories out one by one and gaze at them.

What would they look like, I wonder. Bubbles of air maybe, with rainbow sheen as they float above us and around us, suspended in midair twinkling invitingly.

If I touch one gently with a finger it will dissolve wispily, into nothingness…..almost like something which has never been.

Memories are not so fragile, so I would rather compare them to butterflies which I like to think would flutter on my palms, settle on my shoulders, or my nose, fly, disappear and then come back. A blaze, a riot of colours enveloping me in a shimmering haze of dizziness.

Rainbow coloured and jewel tones......in my whimsical thoughts I choose different shades and colours for different memories and the emotions they evoke.

Red and yellow for the sunshine of childhood, green and pink for adolescence.

Peacock blue for the tantalizing emotions and the headiness of youth.

Violet and crimson for youthful dreams.

Purple and magenta for the richness of experience and maturity of life.

Have to choose the colours of sunset, yet.

For now I am content to cradle the butterflies in my palm again and again, with love and with nostalgia.

Let them nestle within my closed fingers till they disappear one final time with me.

I shall not leave with them but remain, as the fragrance of memories in other closed palms.

Yours then, to hold the butterflies captive or release them.

Yesterday once again….

Mind is like a sponge which is constantly absorbing.

Impressions are like a shower of atoms apropos Virginia Woolf and are continuously bombarding our conscious and unconscious.

As the present recedes in the past with each tick of the second, some memories sink, some remain clear, a mix of the trivial, meaningless and meaningful.

Often some half forgotten memories float back to the surface to remind you of faces, seasons, experienced emotions, people and the life lived.

What starts off this sudden recollection, is difficult to describe.

The edges blunt till something triggers and jogs the memories which come alive.

Sometimes it is a tune...often old photographs smiling in the sun of childhood, unaware of what life holds.

A scent and an an aroma can evoke memory like nothing else.

I can think of some fragrances, some present, some past and some evergreen.

The smell of naphthalene balls, brings back the memories of woollens, the coming winter and the huge metal trunks where the winter clothes were packed in our childhood. We still smelt of the naphthalene balls after we had put on the sweaters.

The fresh strong pungent smell of crushed marigold petals remind me of Puja, camphor and aarti.

The spicy smell of chrysanthemums, of games played in the childhood under the winter sun.

Stained ink on fingers and copies, chalk and duster transport us back to class rooms. So do the crisp smell of the wood dust and the shavings of the pencil. I remember the feeling of dismay as the pencils came out of the classroom’s sharpeners looking uncomfortably small with impossibly long thin points.

It was the tragedy of our young lives.

A scented rubber which we coveted, smelt like candy. Talk of an enticing smell. It was so delicious, I felt like eating it.

Other heady aromas which take over the senses and become an inescapable part of life and experience.

Harshingar flowers have a smell of decay because they wilt and die very soon..

A kind of flowery scent reminds me of the colors of Abir and the festival of Holi.

The fleeting fragrance of mango blossom in the winds adds magic to the spring season.

Inhale the fresh scent of mint and it reminds you of summer and green mangoes!

The deep seductive scent of mogra and chameli and summer nights...

The scent of wet earth after the first rains...

And

The smell of books.

Bury your nose in the cover, inhale and fill your senses.

A new book, exciting with the newness and an old one, musty, mysterious, capturing the essence of age and wisdom in it’s hard bound cover and crumbling pages.

Now we know the meaning of nostalgia, we were unaware of it at the time and age when the future seemed full of untold promise. We were sure we were marked for great adventures.

Now the mundanity of it all is comforting.

Rhapsody on a Windy Night

"The memory throws up high and dry

A crowd of twisted things;

A twisted branch upon the beach

.........

A broken spring in a factory yard,

Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left

Hard and curled and ready to snap."

(T.S. Eliot)

The Art of Zen: The Space of the Mind

The most exciting voyages are to the interior, not of any physical landscape, but a journey within. This is mental travel, where boundaries disappear, there are no compartments, and the past, present and future merge together in a beautiful kaleidoscope; revolving and changing colours with each passing moment. It is like a magic lantern throwing patterns on the wall. It rotates slowly, highlighting, mesmerising and tantalising us with memories and possibilities, sweet and poignant. Shifting, changing and beckoning with an aura which is ours to interpret and perceive.

We cup time in our hands as the mind allows us to press the pause button, or fast forward, arresting the moments we cherish and blurring out those we wish to forget. In our mental space time has no meaning, it becomes fluid, one can master it and no one can intrude in this very private inner world. It is a blessed state, it rejuvenates and redefines life. In the privacy of our hearts these are the moments we share with no one but ourselves.

It is like staring in a looking glass, where the mirror images of our life are in flash back, fast forward and fade out. This looking glass of the mind tells us the truth and with honesty, warts and all.

Rather than existing in a state of denial and false pretense which can only make us lose touch with reality and bring unhappiness in it’s wake, I think we need to recede within ourselves from time to time to understand ourselves better, to face life and accept reality and the never ending rhapsody of life as it moves from spring, summer, an autumn sonata, and finally ‘A Winter’s Tale’.

T. S. Eliot again:

‘The lamp said

Four o’clock

Here is the number on the door

Memory!

You have the key,

The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount.

The bed is open: the toothbrush hangs on the wall,

Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.

The last twist of the knife."

(Rhapsody on a Windy Night)

God of Small Things

Our opinion about ourselves borders on a presumption of perfection which has nothing to do with reality.

Caught in a mesh of our puny Lilliputian concerns we are deceived again and again by hopeless ambition, impossible cravings, illusions and fleeting time. Who do we blame? Destiny or the Gods?

If only we could distance ourselves from self and view with objective impartiality the hills, valleys and the plains of the distance we have travelled, we would learn that,

"History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors

And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,

Guides us by vanities...............................................................

And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions

That the giving famishes the craving."(T. S. Eliot)

In other words, we are left empty handed. The bitterness, regrets and disappointments corrode the soul. Part of the reason is the expectations one has from life.

No one is born with this presumption of the self; it is acquired on the way.

The sense of self-worth is again an aura which we bestow upon ourselves, breeding a sense of false pride and we become Gods of Small Things.

Self-delusion leads us down the wrong path and too late, we the demi Gods realise that we have feet of clay and with a limited vision, blinded by self-love may have made the wrong choices.

Like Macbeth, chasing an empty dream, the whispers of the unpredictable fate haunts with the worthlessness