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August 31, 2013

The lamb and the wolf




Once upon an equal time, 
there lived a lamb in its prime. 
Young and naive and frail was she, 
like a delicate harmony. 
 
And in the forest not so far, 
lived a wolf as black as tar. 
Conniving, cold and smart was he, 
lived his life both loose and free. 
 
Once while wandering here and there, 
the innocent lamb entered his lair. 
The wolf surprised at the lamb so brave, 
was impressed when she reached his cave. 
 
Staring into his demonic eye, 
the little lamb didn't flinch nor cry. 
Unlike all creatures she wasn't scared, 
to befriend the wolf she had dared. 
 
The forest animals were perplexed, 
at the friendship so complex. 
They shuddered and gossiped without a sound, 
while the wolf and lamb would strut around. 
 
They groaned and moaned it wouldn't last, 
but the kinship proved them wrong and fast. 
Until one day, the grapevine spoke, 
"We cannot allow this blasphemous stroke. 
Something needs to be done to part, 
and drive these two friends apart. 
Its against nature don't you see, 
a lamb and wolf are no company." 
 
Packs of wolves schemed and plotted, 
to save their brethren from being spotted. 
The lamb in question so demure and mild, 
couldn't be mate to a creature of the wild. 
Never has it happened as of date, 
that a meal like her had escaped their plate. 
 
Together got the squirrels, butterflies and birds, 
the sambars, elks and gazelles in herds, 
went up to the lamb in an assembly neat, 
to snatch the ground from beneath her feet... 
 'Oh stupid creature, dont you know?
It's all a plan---evil and slow... 
That's just an act the wolf is playing, 
while in his dream, its you he's slaying." 
 
The lamb let out an angry bleat, 
her friendship no one could defeat. 
She refused to budge, her trust undeterred, 
while the exhausted others felt patience frittered. 
 
The wolf too wouldn't hear a word, 
his scheming friends went all unheard. 
And as the wolf and lamb stood strong, 
the forest felt a gloom so wrong. 
 
As time flew by with great elan, 
Ms Busy Bee came up with a plan... 
She whispered to the lamb anew, 
"I think the wolf is in love with you..." 
 
Shell shocked the lamb in silence stared, 
while the wise old bee further bared... 
"We knew it was futile from the very start, 
wicked creature, you are breaking his heart..." 
 
The lamb denied with tear filled eyes, 
but she found her heart believing these lies... 
"Some rules, my dear can never bend, 
no one can ever on just love depend..." 
 
The bee then whispered the same news flash, 
to the wolf whose heart it crashed. 
The lamb, his friend she had always been, 
could her love have gone so unseen? 
 
Both lamb and wolf drowned in despair, 
each wondering whether it wasn't fair, 
to cause such heart break to the other,
they stopped talking any further... 
 
Started avoiding each other they, 
neither would any reason say, 
while the forest animals danced with glee, 
and clinked their glasses with the bumblebee. 
 
Now when the lamb and wolf crossed paths, 
to the jungle market or river bath, 
each merely offered a cursory glance, 
a guilty betrayal that stood no chance... 
 
Thus the wolf and the lamb met a sorry plight, 
but to everyone's delight, 
life would follow the same old trends, 
A wolf and a lamb would never be friends!!! 
 
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Writer's note: This was a satirical take on society and how it is perfectly capable of manipulating the most unadulterated relationships so that we never manage to emerge out of the rigid cast of stereotypes it has created. I hope you enjoyed reading it!

August 25, 2013

The 'Kasturi' diaries

"The faintest waft is sometimes enough to induce feelings of hunger or anticipation, or to transport you back through time and space to a long-forgotten moment in your childhood. It can overwhelm you in an instant or simply tease you, creeping into your consciousness slowly and evaporating almost the moment it is detected. "
~Stephen Lacey, Scent in Your Garden

It is a lazy Sunday afternoon and one that seems truly custom made to my liking.
Those who know me would vouch for me being totally not-a-sunday-person. In fact, I am somebody who will instantly loathe anyone who is in seemingly high spirits on a Sunday evening, mainly because I consider it sacrilege to rejoice in the wake of an impending Monday.
But today is different. I am in a particularly good mood and I guess the world around me should attribute the privilege of my esteemed non-grouchiness to the raindrops pitter pattering outside my window while I huddle up in a warm blanket with my favorite book, and talk to you---the book because it provides me with a deep sense of comfort, and talking to you because...err..because I am nice like that.

 Anyhoo, when I first read about Ambi Pur's contest on Indiblogger,  I was intrigued. Here was a chance to attribute nostalgia to fragrances or smells instead of the usual visual stimulus that we normally associate with our sacrosanct memories---a concept which made me ponder on the lesser appreciated olfactory sense we are blessed with.
Perhaps it is this very thought that makes me pick up the age old copy of 'Wuthering Heights' that I am reading, and inhale the scent of sweet nostalgia from the bookmarked pages that have been yellowed by repeated handling through the years. The musty and rich scent of an old book, don't you just love it? I remember the first time I was reading this book. How I had managed to devour the passionate love of the scheming Heathcliff and the enigmatic Catherine Earnshaw from start to end, so engrossed in its intricate nuances. It made me shudder, their complicated romance, their undying love, the plotted vengeance, the innocent victims---by the time I had finished with the book, I was red faced and teary eyed. The school girl fantasy of having a passionate lover like Heathcliff slowly vanished---as I came of age, interpretations altered with repeated readings of the novel.
However, even today, no other book has managed to fill me with equal wonder, intrigue and empathy for its protagonists...Perhaps these pages got scented with the same array of emotions that the book evoked in me. Thinking of which, perhaps a little bit of us stays as a fragrance in every book we read. Maybe that is why, I love the soft, powdery, drowsy smell of old libraries so much--they are memories  from an era gone by, our communication with people we have probably never know or seen, but with whom we share in common, hundreds of printed pages........and the fragrance in between them.
I take a break from reading and make myself a coffee, my third mug for the day. As I inhale the aroma of the cocoa beans, my mind races back to those exam nights in Medical school.
Amidst a sea of piled up textbooks with highlighted notes, half read journals, heaps of old question papers and hopes of establishing  some sort of telepathic communication with the examiner, I would be sitting numb at the pillow end of my bed, with intermittent bouts of terribly seductive sleep and excruciatingly hopeless panic clouding my consciousness. That was when Coffee would serve as my only savior and friend. Be it the perfectly brewed cup of fresh coffee by mom or the coffee flavored milky liquid brought by an empathic hostel mate, from the hostel mess, gulping it down would somehow kick start me back into action. The aroma of the fresh hot coffee would render a morning quality to those struggling night hours and an optimistic freshness to my tired droopy eyes, and even before I knew it I was asking for another cup.

Another aroma that wafts around my house is one of baked products. Today is no different. My sensitive nose detects the faintest of aromas and one cannot simply ignore the wonderful muffins my sis is baking. I remember the first time she baked a cake we all applauded and complimented her. Pictures were uploaded on fb, friends were invited over to sample...more compliments...more soaring with pride...sigh!
"If you weren't a dentist, you could definitely be a baker..." my dad sniggered. Who knew then, that she would take the compliment so seriously? Now our house is filled with the aroma of baked products on a daily basis----chocolate chip cookies, custard muffins, banoffee pie, apple tarts, banana bread, she has almost taken it up as 700bakes-a-year challenge (if there is anything like that).
Nobody complains, although we are a little careful with the compliments nowadays.

Speaking of compliments, don't you think petrichor is nature's best compliment? Nature is at its glorious best when its raining. Today is just one such a day. The scent of the rain soaked earth is emanating a wonderful freshness that is entering my bedroom through the open window. I allow a few drops to fall on my face and hair and inhale the scent of the flowers that are now in full bloom, as if rejoicing in the beauty of the rain. Mixed fragrances of roses and jasmine in my front garden fill my senses and I cannot decipher which is more refreshing. Its true, the rain makes all things beautiful.Sometimes I wish I could be a child once again and get drenched in the rain, sail paper boats in puddles of water and not give a damn about the world around me.Then  Jagjit Singh's "Woh kaagaz ki kashti..." comes to mind and I smile to myself....If only...

 The mind is inspired by the weather outside and I cant help but pen them down in my diary.
One whiff out of curiosity,
another might for pleasure be...
What follows becomes irrepressible,
and stays etched as a fond memory...
---Priyanka 25/8/13

Coming back to the topic, the plethora of my favorite fragrances  also include the following, each one of which is able to rekindle a journey of special memories. And what better way to travel than with a friend? So follow close...
  • Fried Mushrooms--
    This is yet another reason why I love monsoons.When I was little, they used to call me the 'Mushroom Monster' for obvious reasons. I fondly remember fighting with my sis for an equal share of this delectable delicacy.
    Even today, the scrumptious whiff of deep fried mushrooms transforms us both into gluttonous  kids, a much deserving mention in the plethora of favorite aromas..
  • Eucalyptus oil---its sharp sweet scent reminds me of my grandmother. It was her favourite medicine for a cold. Every time I had a runny nose, she would dab a few drops of this special oil on my clothes, pillow covers, handkerchief and even add a little in my bath water., When I would complain of smelling like an eucalyptus tree, she would laugh merrily pinching my reddened nose with fingers dabbed with the same fragrance. I remember she had this huge bottle of her favorite oil which I thought would never finish. Today, every time I'm down with a cold or fever, the first thing I reach for is the small bottle of Nilgiri oil, or perhaps the familiar scent of my grandmother's love that it carries along.
  • Corn on the cob--- The aroma of hot piping corn on the cob, especially when its raining carries me back in time when Sunday evenings were spent on the beach, building sand castles, calling out to the waves and munching on snacks by the beach side that included pani puri, bhel, sev puri and not to forget my favorite corn on the cob.
    When I see today's parents fussing over their kids, it makes me wonder what iron immunity we had back then or perhaps the hygiene level of roadside food stalls was far better during those good old days. With much more health awareness and declining standards of cleanliness at the stalls, I find myself only stopping for an occasional heated item, the safest being the ever so friendly 'corn on the cob', the tempting aroma of which triggers off nostalgia of those carefree childhood days.
  • the fragrance of Goa---
    Living in this heaven on earth, I am much acquainted with the salty freshness of its sandy beaches that beckon tourists from all over the world.  Fringed with swaying palm and coconut trees, are the cool and comfortable shacks emanating an array of scintillating aromas
    from every Goan kitchen---from pomfret racheado, crab xec xec, prawn balshao and the quintessential fish curry+rice+kismur combination to the goan sweet delicacies like Bebinca and dodol-a cuisine befitting the 'susegaad' (read relaxed) personality we Goans are blessed with..
  • Cinnamon---brown and dry and sweet and warm, I manage to sneak in this spice in whichever recipe possible.
  • Citrus Potpourri---
    Known to stimulate digestive enzymes and consequently appetite, this tangy fragrance was gift wrapped in a cellophane bag topped with a large lemon colored bow, and presented to me by a very special friend, with a gift note that read  "Though the scent of this potpourri may fade in a few months, the fragrance of our friendship will stay forever..."  The citrusy smell of this gift reminded me of the sweet and tangy moments in our priceless friendship, and it has almost become a habit now to have potpourri around the house.

  • Mysore Sandal soap---
    this soap takes me for a joy ride into 'Nostalgia' town. I recall my class teacher Mrs Sawant, who would come to school early morning, dressed in a crisp saree, with her hair held up neatly in a bun. We, students of class fifth, could not ignore the fresh scent of sandal wood that lingered as she walked into the classroom. Her polite mannerisms, her style of dressing, her grace, her elan was so much an inspiration to us all, that every student in fifth grade picked up a trait or two to mimic from her, for that academic year. I had decided to pick up the fragrance.
  • Incense sticks----
    The sweet smell of incense spreads a feeling of holiness and purity all around.The first thing that comes to my mind with this fragrance, is Ganesh Chaturthi.This incense remains an important part of the daily puja ritual.  The aspect of the ritual is called  'dhupa'  and involves the offering of incense before the deity, as a token of respect.
  • Hot samosas and Garam Chai---Every time I smell the aroma of hot tea and piping samosas wafting from the kitchen,  my mind races back to those college days...and good old Sakharam.
    When it came to samosas and chai, nobody could beat him. Sakharam would open his stall, be it rain cold or storm and cater to his huge fan following of college goers. During the monsoons, we would attend lectures according to his timings---most of the times, we would be found loafing around his stall, with those mouthwatering triangular pockets of magic teasing our taste buds as we devoured them one after the other. They were mini sized samosas packed with flavor and taste, and still remain the hot topic for every reunion. When asked for the recipe, Sakharam would simply smile and say "love". Even after various home made attempts, no body has been able to crack it till this day. All we can come up with are cheap imitates that remind us of the one flavour that has still not left our taste buds or our hearts---love, he had said!
When we think of it, isn't it weird? There are so many fragrances to choose from..But somehow the ones that make the deepest impact on us  are the ones that are consciously or subconsciously linked to some memory distant or remote, that surfaces every time we encounter the trigger factor.

 
 “Smell is important. It reminds a person of all the things he's been through; it is a sheath of memories and security.” 

It is still raining but the day is almost nearing its end. Still, a feeling of complete satisfaction occupies my mind. It feels like I've time traveled to my favorite places and returned feeling accomplished and totally at peace. Perhaps that is how I should spend my Sunday's now, instead of moping over the upcoming Monday. Delving into the past is not always a bad thing. Nostalgia has its own magical quality...somewhat akin to the Kasturi Mrig. Like the musk deer, nostalgia also emanates the sweet smelling fragrances of our memories, that can give any commercial perfumery a run for its memory. Thus is the addictive nature of its scent. Just like the 'Kasturi' is known for its medicinal properties, our memories can be healing too, when viewed with the right perspective and the correct outlook.
Last but not the least,  we should always remember that the musk of captive deer is held to be inferior in quality to that of wild ones. So lets let our memories run wild and free and watch them return to us, making new memories in the process. Holding them captive within the confines of our mind, within the nooks and crannies of our heart, will only restrict them.

Let's travel through time and enjoy the sweet fragrance of what once was, and what will forever stay...our most cherished moments...
Let's wake up and smell the coffee magic...

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This post has been written for Ambi Pur's 'Smelly Air to Smiley Air' Contest in association with Indiblogger.
 If you are an Indivine user and you like what you read, you can vote for me here.

August 12, 2013

Cryptic Thoughts #37

The night had always been a loyal friend, the burning sun, simply an acquaintance. But sometimes, all it takes, is a ray of light at the break of dawn, to change the whole situation over.


 If you want to know how an impression changes, add a drop of ink to a bowl of water...

August 09, 2013

The start to something right...

Amongst all the lessons we learn in life, the ones which have the deepest impact are those we learned as children.
Childhood, the most memorable time of our lives, the age we all yearn to go back to, the stage that tantalizes us, tempts us, eludes us and evades us time and again, making us reminisce about those wonder years of innocent glory.
I often drift away in nostalgia to time travel back into that wonderful period of my life. Life was so simple back then…so untainted…so pure…so innocent. There were hardly any grays to perceive, no difficult choices to choose from, no complicated issues to handle.
There were little joys, small victories, unadulterated pleasures and selfless emotions. Of course, we'd had our own dilemmas even back then---temper tantrums over who got the biggest toffees, competitive jealousy over who would score more in math,  childish pride over who got the best birthday gift, et al, but nothing that lasted long enough to flaw relations. In hindsight, these ‘insignificant’ childhood experiences, albeit slipped away silently, taught us the most important lessons of our life and carved us into the people we have turned out to be today.
Speaking of which, one incident comes to mind, knocking persistently at the back door of the museum of my precious memories.  I must have been around twelve then. My parents, my sister and me, had been invited by the CEO of the company where my dad worked, to a lavish party to celebrate the launch of a new project. It was an important event…a rising opportunity at both personal and professional levels. I was to be on my best behavior, and mind my manners. The burden of a huge pre-party sermon from mom, that  included instructions to smile politely at the hosts, not meddle with any of the lavish upholstery, eat with impeccable manners, saying thank-you’s and after-you’s and not get into any kind of trouble, weighed me down. Being under the watchful eye of my older sibling, made me feel like some well trained circus animal, causing me to be utterly bored and itching for action. It was late. I was sleepy and everyone else was having a pretty good time.  The hostess, Mrs Kamath, was a glamorous lady with yellow teeth,  and wore a string of perfectly white pearls, causing me to giggle at the ironical contrast. She was exchanging pleasantries with everyone and was now animatedly engaged in a friendly conversation with my mother. Her husband was talking to my dad, a serious undertone in his voice, an aura of seniority that I recognised as strictly business. My sister was keenly listening to Mrs Kamath's banter while I was struggling to pry my eyes open in a desperate attempt to stay awake. So, I looked around.

 It was a huge house which my juvenile mind immediately intercepted as a mansion of mysteries waiting to be explored. Maybe it was the enthusiasm of unraveling some adventure in some corner of that palatial house, or perhaps it was just the sheer disinterest in listening to a bunch of grownup's, that I decided to go for a walk around the place. There were people all over the place, and amidst the noisy chatter, my voice was unheard. Not wasting any time to explain where I was going, I drifted away from the place where my parents were standing and merged with the crowd. It was a regal hall decorated with balloons and confetti. On one side, was a delectable banquet table laden with the choicest of dishes, while on the other, a huge marble stairway led to vast spacious rooms upstairs.A narrow passage from the hallway led into the kitchen. As I followed the wonderful aroma wafting from the area, I peeped in to see an old woman frying snacks in a vat of hot oil, intermittently wiping her forehead with the loose end of her crumpled sari.
She saw me peeping inside and smiled sweetly at me. She called me in and told me that she had a granddaughter my age. I did not say anything. Suddenly, she flinched, as if realising the discrepancy in our financial status. With lowered eyes, she then proceeded to ask me if there was anything I needed. I shook my head and hurried out of the kitchen, swish swishing my pretty pink dress from the furnace like environ.

The marble banisters were beckoning, but I had been strictly instructed to stay out of trouble and sliding down them would be quite a spectacle. So I refrained from humoring the idea.
Still, what lay beyond the polished white stairway enthralled me. A quick look wouldn't hurt anyone, I thought, and made my way up the stairs. There were exotic paintings encased in rich gold frame work adorning the walls along the banisters, but I stopped myself from touching anything. Finally on top of the staircase, I looked at the gathering below. 
"What a view!!!,"  I marveled at the sight.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar. I peeped inside.It was the grandest room I had ever seen. There was a majestic mirror with a lacquered royal blue trim, on the wall opposite the antique mahogany double sized canopy bed. I placed my hand on the pillow at the head end and had I to have touched clouds in my life time, I was sure it would have felt like a similar experience. There were big french windows adorned with floral lace curtains. You could see the entire city from that height, I thought. I wanted to see what it looked like. I was tempted to draw the curtains and experience a birds eye view of the whole city.
"How wonderful it will be..to have the whole world at my feet," my twelve year brain was delirious with enthusiasm.
Forgetting all instructions on formal etiquette and social decorum, I jumped in glee.I was just about to reach for the drawstrings of the closed curtains when I heard footsteps approaching.
My attention drifted, I turned. As I turned to see who it was my grasp slipped from the drawstring and dashed against something.
There was a loud crash. I ran and hid behind the door. A beautiful crystal vase lay smashed to pieces. I stood trembling behind the half open door, hoping I wouldn't get caught. The footsteps became louder. I peeped through the gap between the hinges to see who it was. Whoever it was had definitely heard the crash.
It was then that she entered the room. She failed to see me. She was too engrossed in panicking over the broken vase. From her panic stricken face, I gathered it must have been an expensive antique which she had been warned against touching, before. I slowly sneaked out from my position.My devil mind was at work. I had found someone to place the blame on. I would simply say that I followed the noise, and found this old lady sweeping the broken pieces. That was the only way to save me from all the trouble it would get me at home, and all the embarrassment it would get me amidst all these strangers.
"Nobody knows her," I thought,  "She works here.They wont say anything to her."

With hands on my hips, I stood glowering over her and said, "You did it, didn't you? You broke the vase, I know." 
I was lying though my teeth, but only I knew it...and she...
She stared at me with surprise in her eyes. There was no one else in the room other than us. I stared back, my heart pacing.
"LIAR!!!" my insides screamed. I tried to ignore the voice that rose within me.
Just then the gorgeous Mrs Kamath entered into the room. What had been initiated as a 'touch up' visit to the powder room had transpired into this sudden discovery, and she was now clenching her pearl necklace tightly, staring furiously at the old woman besides me. She had not heard any of what I'd said but immediately assumed that the house help was the culprit behind the heinous destruction of priceless art.
"Memsaab, I was just cleaning the other room..I heard a noi..." the old woman mumbled nervously trying to explain it wasnt her fault. Unable to face the wrath in Mrs Kamath's eyes, she looked at me for help. I looked away.
Mrs Kamath continued, "Shut up you! Don't you dare say a word!! I should have known not to keep you at work. You irresponsible old hag. How many times have I warned you to be careful? Do you know how much this vase costs?" 
I was staring shell shocked at the woman with yellow teeth, as she continued to spill venom. My parents and a few other guests had now gathered in the room. But Mrs Kamath did not care. She continued to humiliate her maid, as if wealth had endowed her with the right to do so.
"How would you know?" she snorted, "You wretched people stay in the slums and cant bear to see others enjoying wealth."
Then one look at the guests and she said, "Who knows? You might be here to steal something.What else are you doing in the master bedroom when there is a party downstairs? Didn't I tell you to stay in the kitchen?"
The woman's eyes were now brimming with tears. She kept blinking the accusations away, hoping her Memsaab would stop. But Mrs Kamath was on a roll, and did not show any signs of stopping.
I looked around nervously. There were people I did not know. There were my parents. There was Mr and Mrs Kamath. But above all, there was this old woman was getting punished for something that was not even her fault, humiliated for something I'd done, accused of some mistake I'd committed.

I was faced with two choices now---I could be honest about the whole thing...accept my mistake, confess that it was me who had broken the vase, or I could let things lie the way they were, let the poor woman take the blame of what was rightfully part of my wrong doing.The former option would cause me much humiliation in front of strangers whom I did not even know, perhaps a good dressing down at home from my parents, embarrassment at the Kamath's, and possibly even the guilt of placing my dad's business relation with them at stake. However, the latter, albeit seemed the easy way out, somehow felt terribly wrong. In hindsight, had I chosen to stay mum that day, the episode that transpired would keep me awake every single night for the rest of my life. I would not be able to meet eyes with myself and even though nobody else would know about it, there would be a stranger in the mirror whom I would have to face every day and hang my head in shame.
The old woman's kind face in the kitchen flashed in front of me. Hadn't she thought of me as her own grandchild some time back? And here I was, being an insensitive monster, keeping a secret that could save her job and self respect. My respect for the woman only grew as I realised she was saying nothing against the harsh words that kept spilling from Mrs Kamath's loud mouth.
"Memsaab, I have not....d..done a...anything," she stammered, then bracing herself she continued, "But if you still think it is my mistake, I will leave your job."
I noticed her eyes stinging with tears. My respect for the woman had increased. She was still not saying anything against me---the actual culprit. I noticed her saree, frayed at the edges. She was poor. She needed the job. She was old, yet worked for a living. She did not want to compromise on her self respect. Mrs Kamath was still muttering. She was about to leave the room. It was now that I panicked.
"NO....Wait..She didn't do it," I cried. All eyes in the room flashed onto me. Mrs Kamath was glaring at me, a look of surprise in her eyes.
I ran towards my mother. Clutching her tightly I wailed, "It was not her mistake.She didn't break your costly china...." then trembling, I added amidst sobs, "I did..."
I then glanced shyly at the old woman and mumbled an apologetic 'Sorry' before hiding behind my mother again. The crowd dissipated. Mr and Mrs Kamath were embarassed at the spectacle and muttered a reluctant apology to the maid. The rest of the party continued with everyone pretending that the incident never happened. I stayed gloomy and prepared myself for the tirade that lay ahead at home. My only solace was that the woman for whom I had fought against myself, understood my feelings---a fact evident from the appreciative wave I received through the kitchen window, while I was getting into the backseat of our car, when it was time to go home.
My parents too were equally proud of my confession and much to my siblings disappointment, I even received a surprise gift for the bravery I'd shown that day.
"The path of honesty is always difficult. There will be many distractions that will tempt you away. Sometimes your mind will insist that it is not worth it. But always remember, listen to your heart. It will show you the way," my dad said.
It was true. My heart chose to stand by the woman's side. My heart chose to respect her humility, her perseverance, her loyalty. My heart preferred the path of honesty against the temptation of a well spun fabricated deceit. It taught me compassion for someone I did not even know, and yet formed a special bond with.
"I'm so glad you have learned your first lesson in integrity, on your own," my mother said and hugged me.
I didn't know what that word meant then. All I knew was that it made me feel happy...made me feel complete...made me feel like I belonged here, like I gave this world a small part of what I owed it. That moment made me feel like it was just the start...the start to something right.

Years later, I came to realise that these ethical dilemmas never really left me. I experienced similar choices time and again during my life in medical school. Even today, these choices still visit me from time to time, as a consultant doctor, as a private practitioner, as a friend, a daughter, a sister, but more importantly as a human being. But it is these values which have been ingrained in me from my childhood, that help me take the appropriate decisions. It is these that make me think and ponder. It is these that force me to reflect and introspect. They have become a part of me---character traits that constitute an inseparable part of my attitude towards life. Even today, they direct and guide. They taunt and haunt...and I constantly find myself trying to live up to the self expectations they have raised in me.

Even today, I still let my heart decide....because I know...
...I know my heart will always do the right thing...

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I am sharing my Do RIght Stories at BlogAdda.com in association with Tata Capital.