A note from Teddy's diary

They come. They hug. They go.

 

I sit there with my arms stretched out, my sophisticated demeanour being the only factor differentiating me from a scarecrow...a constant smile pasted on my face like static on a television screen.

 

I listen to them when they want to speak. I speak when they want to listen. I wipe their tears when they cry and laugh with them when they are happy. I allow them to have me around when they are alone and need company. I allow them to keep me aside when they have others to give them company.

 

They say I am adorable. They say I am sweet. They say I am their best friend. Am I? Really?

 

Or...am I just a Teddy Bear?

 

Do they know that deep inside all the sponge, there is a heart? ... a heart pretty much like theirs? Do they realize...

 

that I can 'feel' as much as they do?

 

that I want them to listen to me as much as I listen to them?

 

that I want to hug and be hugged not just when they feel like, but also when I feel like?

 

that I cannot switch roles between a Teddy and a Punching Bag as and when people want me to?

 

that just because my black buttony eyes do not shed tears, it does not mean that I don't need a shoulder once in a while?

 

that I too want to be able to express my feelings and emotions when I feel like, without being like a petrified investor constantly monitoring the volatility of their emotional stock exchange?

 

that affection is neither for charity nor on sale?

 

that I want them to be my best buddies in the truest sense?

 

Do they realize? ... Will they ever realize? ... I don't know.

 

However, what I do know is that... I don't want to be a Teddy Bear anymore.

My Dead Sea Scroll

I am publishing something I had written almost 5 years back. I knew it was there somewhere hidden in one of those old books I used to carry around while travelling. As I opened the book and turned the pale yellow pages, I found what I had been looking for, since a very long time. The peculiar smell of aging papyrus and the words on it, took me back to that day...when I began writing this in the second class compartment of a local train, sitting on the edge...the fourth seat.

This is why I decided to call this

'My Dead Sea Scroll'.

‘Tum hi ho maata; pita tum hi ho
Tum hi ho bandhu; sakha tum hi ho.
Jo khil sakena who phool hum hain…
Tumhare charanon ke dhool hum hain.
Daya ki drishty sada hi rakhna…
Tum hi ho bandhu; sakha tum hi ho.’

I heard an enchanting voice sing these words today. He was no saint or singer. He was a poor old blind man. The place was no shrine or stage…it was the crowded second class compartment of a local train. But his voice was indeed enchanting like that of a saint. His voice made that second class coach seem like a serene peaceful shrine. His voice echoed and made invisible divine bells ring.

It touched me deep in my heart. That voice had not originated from his vocal chords…it originated from the pain that accompanied him always, hiding in the deep trenches of his heart. Drops of tears swelled up in my eyes.

He reminded me of those millions who live a cursed life on this earth…those souls who never break free from the shackles of life. The ugly tentacles of poverty and sorrow clutch them like prisoners of hell. They are like those caged birds, who dream of freedom inspite of their wings being cut.

The irony is that, we who are blessed are not as happy as they are. They find happiness even in the midst of sorrow. They enjoy the little pleasures of life…be it a glass of tea by the roadside or playing in the puddles during monsoon.

We the blessed, do not take a few minutes of life to measure what we have and be thankful. We fail to realize that we are blessed. We always complain about the things that we don’t have. We are never contented. They are the prisoners of life and we are the prisoners of our minds. It is we who are truly blinded by the fog of greed that covers the landscape of our minds.

Today, when I see this man, I thank God for everything that I have. I wanted to help him, but I could do nothing except give him a rupee.

I remain silent. Silence is my prayer to God. The drops of tears in my eyes are my offerings to him. I pray to him to be there for the good. I pray to him to awaken those asleep. I pray to him to give me the strength to contribute whatever I can to make this marvelous world more beautiful.