Poornima Manco

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My rendezvous with God’s angels – Diya Sarkar

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It was just another boring Monday after an exciting weekend. My husband was at the office and my children at their respective hostels. I had nothing constructive to do as usual, except for supervising the daily household chores being done by my maid, when suddenly I came across  ‘Teach For Change’ on Facebook, an NGO engaged in teaching  underprivileged children. I had plenty of spare time and so I thought of killing some.

I was super excited to get out of the house for a couple hours regularly on a weekday, for a change. But nothing seemed to work in my favour. I complained about the weather, about the traditional dress which I chose to wear and yes, waking up early was not my cup of tea. Well, my list of my grudges never saw a full stop.

As my car approached the gates of the government school, I saw from the tinted glasses, tiny feet walking in a line on a not so smooth road; crossing crowded streets, holding hands, each one taking care of his or her partner.

Most of them, unlike our children, could not afford to hire a cab or for that matter, a bus. Most of their parents did not own vehicles. So, they needed to walk miles before they reached their school whether it was sunny, rainy, cloudy or otherwise. But they did not complain.

School shoes were an item of luxury for the majority. They came to school wearing slippers. Perhaps that was their only footwear for walking, running and playing. But they did not complain.

I reached their classroom and there wasn’t a single fan. It was a hot summer afternoon. They were sweating, yet they wore a beautiful smile. They were still not complaining.

They were thirsty and their bottles were empty. Water was rare and precious for them. They had days and specific timings when the water supply came through the taps at their homes. So, after taking my permission, they went, one at a time, to the water cooler at the school, to fill up their bottles. They seemed happy and they weren’t complaining.

I can never forget the first time I stepped into their classroom. They were holding my hands and hugging me. They wanted a secure future, a smooth life, water running through their taps, a good pair of shoes, nutritious food and somehow, they found hope in me. Their eyes were twinkling with curiosity. There was an urge to learn something new, something that would iron out those wrinkles from their road to success. At such a tender age, they had already seen enough … poverty, malnourishment, domestic abuse,  parents separated, being orphaned, beatings on a regular basis, child labour… you name it and they had experienced it.

The bell rang and my class was over. It was their lunchtime. In fact, they came to school for that midday meal. Many of them were hungry since the morning. Still, no complaints. Instead, to my surprise, there were so eager to help me to arrange my things, carry my bag, open the door for me and so on. They were all excited to know more about me and my next visit to their school. As I climbed down the stairs, they joined me. They were waving at me when I walked out of the school gate. “Bye Didi (that is how we refer to an elder sister in India) are you coming tomorrow?” was still ringing in my ears.

No amount of shopping, fine dining, catching up with friends or even holidaying had ever given me the pure joy and happiness that was offered by these God’s Angels.

The bitter experiences, harshness, difficulties, insecurities which life had in store for them had failed to erase the twinkle from their eyes, the smile from their lips or the love from their hearts. Not even their hungry stomachs or the uneven ground on which they were standing upon, could stop them from waving and smiling at me.

Days have turned into months and I am, once again, getting ready to go to school. I’m all excited to teach my students so that I can empower them with education, so that they are not at the mercy of someone, so that they don’t have to use secondhand stuff given to their elders by households like yours and mine. And yes, the weather or that traditional dress don’t bother me anymore. My list of grudges have also reduced considerably. There is something bigger than these irrelevant complaints of mine. The trust which they have invested in me, without an iota of doubt, which, in turn, has brought about the most precious bonding with these little souls. Alongside I have also learnt some valuable lessons for life – to remain humble and evolving.

God bless them, God’s Angels in disguise.

Diya pic 2

Hello, this is Diya Sarkar from Delhi, India. I presently reside in Hyderabad, city of pearls, Nizams and biryanis.

After completing my Masters in Journalism and Communication, I worked as a freelancer at ‘The Indian Express’, an Indian news media publishing company. 

I am married with twins, a son and a daughter, who share their birthday with their father, who is also a twin. I have been a part time teacher in a couple of schools… in fact, a teacher to my children, both at school and at home. Now, I love teaching underprivileged children at a Government school. There is so much to learn from each one of them.

I am an avid traveller and have been on the move since my childhood, exploring different parts of the country, the cuisine, culture, landscape etc. In fact, unity in diversity is what defines India in one line. 

I like reading, writing, cooking, shopping for traditional items or garments, and also have an interest in interior decoration and flower arrangement. I am planning to blog in the near future too. Thank you. 😊

The ghost in the office – Shantanu Saha

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It was the year 2004, and I had set up my own bootstrapped venture, an Executive Search Firm. Our first office was in a fairly old bungalow in the heart of South Delhi.

I had leased the entire ground floor of this bungalow, spread over an area of 3000 sq. ft. with an additional front lawn and a back courtyard. Outside the house was an old Banyan tree adjacent to the main gate, with aerial pop roots hanging from the branches, giving an eerie look and feel to the whole house. The first floor with terrace had the landlord’s family: a husband, wife, child and his elderly mother.

The ground floor of the house that we occupied had three fairly large rooms with an attached bath in each. There was an even larger drawing and dining area. Doors of some of the washrooms, especially the one in front of the house, tended to make a creaking sound whenever the wind blew. In this place I occupied one room at the back of the house from where I used to work and I had a team of three girls: Raj, Swati & Rupa who would sit and work in the adjacent room. There was also an old chap Kartik who was the office help. His job was to manage the pantry, lay out the lunch, supervise the cleaner who would come once a day and open & close the office.

The business was doing well and all was hunky dory till a series of strange events happened. Initially these were minor things.  A couple of the girls complained that after lunch when they went back to their workstations, all the windows tabs in their computers they had kept open while searching for profiles on job sites, had been closed. Another girl complained that though she had switched off the light and fan switches in their room before coming to the dining hall for lunch, they had all been mysteriously switched on when they went back. I made light of all this and told them that they were getting absent minded. However, after a while, they got it into their heads that this was all down to a ghost. They were also convinced it was a female ghost who was not bothering me but only the girls, as everything happened to them and not to me. I refused to buy into this line of thought.

Then something even more mysterious happened. It was a bright sunny afternoon in the month of June, when one of my team members Swati was discussing something with me in my room. The doorbell rang. In those days we were recruiting for our own team and we used to call candidates over to the office for an interview. The candidate would be attended to by the office boy, given a job application form and after they filled that out, Kartik would bring the candidate’s resumé and form in to me. I would send one of the girls to do the first round of interviews and if they cleared that, I would meet the candidate.

I asked Swati if she could see who the candidate was, as although the drawing room was a little far off, there was a direct line of sight from the place where she was standing in my room. She described that the girl was looking away toward the French windows overlooking the lawn and was wearing high heels and a salwar kameez. She added that she looked smart enough, and that she would meet her once Kartik had got her to finish the formalities. We then went back to our discussion.

After 10 minutes, I suddenly reminded Swati that Kartik had not yet come in with the candidate’s form. She called out and Kartik came in from the back courtyard which had an entry from the room where the girls used to sit and work. We asked him what had happened and why he hadn’t brought in the girl’s form and resumé. He asked – which girl? Swati and I looked at each other. I asked Kartik had he not opened the door when the bell rang? He said he never heard the bell ring and that he was in the back courtyard anyway. We immediately went to the drawing room and there was no one there. I was stunned! I thought I had heard the bell ring and so had Swati. Besides, she had vividly described the girl. We did not know what to make of it.

However, when I discussed  this with Raj and Rupa separately, they speculated that since Swati had recently been through a bereavement and been quite distressed, that maybe she had hallucinated the episode. Although I was not fully convinced, I thought I had what could be the best explanation under the given circumstances.

A few days later, I was talking to the girls in the room where they used to work. All the girls at that time had Personal Computers on which they worked. To ensure an uninterrupted power supply in the event of a power failure, all PC’s had a Battery Backup Device attached to them. While talking to them I walked across to the window in the room where the curtains were a little out of place. I was adjusting the curtain when all of a sudden Swati’s PCs Battery Backup Device started beeping. She looked at me in alarm. I looked at the power plug to which the battery backup device was connected on the wall which was located just below the curtain and I noticed that the switch was off. I told her that maybe the switch had shut off when I was adjusting the curtain and there was nothing to be alarmed about.

That night I was at home when at around 10 pm Swati called and her first question was – ‘Sir, what’s the backup time of the Battery Backup Device?’ At that instant, a shiver ran through me as I realised that the device had, at the very least, a 15 minute backup. It was fairly new, so its in-built alarm would not beep unless it ran out of power. If  by my moving the curtain I had inadvertently switched off the main switch from which the device was drawing power, the beeping sound could not possibly have started that soon. Swati had been working on her machine all morning, and the power backup device had beeped only when I was in the room that afternoon. Both of us realised that no logical explanations were working. She insisted I speak to the landlords about any unnatural deaths in the house.

I briefed the landlord the next day and he said he had no clue why these things were happening. He said that only his father had passed away in this house but, there was no reason why he would be spooking us. It was then that Rupa in my team disclosed some more details about the area where this house was located.

Apparently, just across the road from our house was a 5 star hotel that had been built adjacent to an old graveyard that had been there for centuries. She had worked in that hotel for a short while before she joined our firm. She said that many guests and staff in that hotel had reported hearing eerie screams on the upper floors quite frequently during the night. It had come to such a stage that hotel staff had refused to go to the upper floors late in the night. She also pointed out the Banyan tree outside our office. Banyan trees in India are associated with the God Yama, or the God of Death. The tree is often planted outside villages in India near crematoriums. It is believed to be the abode of ghosts.

Upon hearing all of this, my entire team and I decided that it would be difficult to work from there any more. We frantically searched for an alternate location and within a week shifted out.

I do not know whether the house was truly haunted or not, but our experience there was spooky enough that even now, reminiscing about these incidents sends chills down my spine.

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Shantanu resides in New Delhi, India and holds a bachelor’s degree in Economics as well as a Master’s degree in Business Administration.

He had a successful Corporate Stint in the Human Resources Function and became a Head  of HR at the age of 25 in a Manufacturing Multinational. He worked in various sectors subsequently as a Head HR, before setting up his own Executive Search Firm in 2004 that now has a presence in multiple cities across India. He is also a guest judge and speaker in various management forums & institutes in India.

He lost his father at the age of ten to a genetic disease that later affected him and his sister as well. He had multiple surgeries and a near death experience and survived to tell the tale both literally and figuratively. He wrote a book on how he overcame the disease describing his whole experience and the same is available on Amazon globally. He unfortunately lost his sister to the disease too.

He is a workaholic, likes traveling, is an amateur photographer, likes reading & writing occasionally, is an exercise freak and also has interests in the areas of Science, Arts and Politics.

He can be reached on :-

Twitter : @ShantanuSaha1

Instagram : @shantanusaha1

Linkedin : https://www.linkedin.com/in/shantanusaha/

His book – “Fight for Life: My Journey from a Fatal Disease to Good Health” is now available for Kindle on Amazon. The Paper back is also available in some countries.

The link for India is: http://www.amazon.in/dp/B014YFEFES

The link for US is: http://amzn.com/B014YFEFES

The link for UK is: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B014YFEFES

Guest blog month

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I find people endlessly fascinating. Perhaps, that is why my stories centre around people, their motivations and compulsions. However, one does not always need fiction to experience alternate realities. Another person’s life: his journey, her passion, his hobbies, her escape, are all equally intriguing and provide enough fodder for the imagination.

In the spirit of that sentiment, I once again give my blog over to some very engaging people and their stories. The next few weeks will hopefully bring you some interesting insights into what constitutes an alternate lifestyle, being true to oneself and one’s passions, and how sometimes, the only journey one needs to undertake is the one that reconnects you to yourself.

As a blogger, I am always happy to be approached to showcase another person’s work. If you are a blogger who would like a slightly different audience for a change, or if you just like penning random musings, or if you feel strongly about something and need a platform to voice those thoughts, feel free to reach out to me with a sample of your writing, and maybe I could include you in future guest blog months. Comment below with your details and I will get back to you.

I truly believe that the writing community needs to be supportive and nurturing of one another. Our stories may be universal, but our experiences are deeply personal. In sharing them with our readers we attempt to create a bridge of understanding. However, in sharing them amongst ourselves and on our multiple and varied platforms, we start to understand the nuances and subtleties of that which is removed from our own actuality. In our myriad life realities, there is above all, a desire to understand and be understood.

I hope that the stories and articles that follow will take you on their unique journeys and you will come away with a renewed understanding and empathy for your fellow being.

 

Why reviews matter & what’s stopping you?

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Ok, hands up… this is the first time I’m blogging from the WordPress app on my phone and from a sick bed. I am, currently, feeling extremely sorry for myself. I have been sick for five days and the luxury of lying in bed and binge watching ‘Homeland’ has lost its allure. So, I’ve taken to trawling through reviews of my second book… except there aren’t that many to trawl through.

Is it the law of diminishing returns? Or, can most readers simply not be arsed to put in a review? I’ll come to the third possibility later.

Firstly, please understand, to an Indie writer your reviews are IMPORTANT. You know why? Because, even if you say, “hey, I didn’t really care for this book”, it’s showing that YOU, a real, live person picked up the book and read it. It’s life affirming stuff for someone who has beavered over it for the better part of a year!

Secondly, no one is judging your review. No one is checking your grammar, syntax and flow. You’re not writing the novel, you’re just reviewing it. So, if it’s fear of your own command over the language that’s putting you off, don’t let it. You are helping multiple other readers see what they may or may not like about a particular book.

The third possibility is that you have really, REALLY hated the book. You’ve read a story or two and decided that this book really isn’t for you. In that case, there isn’t much point appealing to you. We are clearly a mismatch in terms of writer and reader, and I wish you well in your reading journey with other, more compatible writers. 😊

Finally, an important lesson I’ve learnt in my Indie journey is that Amazon really doesn’t want friends and family reviewing books. So, my apologies to those of you who took the time to read and review the book, only to find it taken down by the great Zon. Please don’t forget, you can still post that review on Goodreads with no such repercussions.

For the people who have written to me or told me in person how much they loved the second book, please do pass the word on. AND get others to review the book. People who I don’t know and people who will not give me a favourable review because of my extremely charming personality.😉

Right, that’s it for now folks! The sick bed blogging has its benefits but I don’t think I’ll be making it a regular feature anytime soon.

For your copy visit:

getbook.at/Damage

A story of many strands – Becca Robbins

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I have always had a deep passion for crafts. One of the first skills I learned, at the age of seven or eight, was knitting.

I love everything about knitting: that physical frisson of excitement felt on just seeing a selection of new yarns, sensing the creative potential they conceal; its hypnotic rhythm, the click of busy needles, that magical manipulation of a length of fibre into something tangible to be shared (sometimes not! 😆), the wonder when I stop to look at my progress in a project and the Joy in its completion, knowing that the whole is dependent on each and every stitch, that one stitch cannot exist without its “neighbours” and that together they are a beautiful collaboration to be enjoyed and to be loved ❤️ So the cycle begins again …

In July I visited a local yarn festival, Fibre East. From the moment I arrived and made my way to the entrance, excitement was already building as groups of visitors chatted to one another along the way. I chuckled to overhear someone say, in the context of a discussion about being interrupted as she worked on a project, “Back off! I’m knitting!”. Peals of laughter ensued amongst her companions. So the joyful tone was set for what was to be a glorious day bathed in sunshine, immersed in an endless sea of colour and texture, temptation dangling before me like a fisherman’s bait … and I was hungry!

I had recently enrolled for an international wool and yarn online seminar featuring ten of the hottest knitted fibres designers from around the globe. We patiently, and with mounting anticipation, awaited the release for sale of exclusive, hand-dyed skeins produced especially for the two week event and a rush to buy them was the main topic of conversation online. On the day the first release of these Knit Stars yarns became available I was fortunate to be at home when the email was sent. I went straight to the online store and even went so far as to pick out a couple of skeins I liked. For a number of reasons I decided to restrain myself and not dive in. Later that day, I had another look but decided not to buy. I opted to follow my habitual mantra, “Dare to be different” and put my trust in the hands of the yarn angels to bring me what I would need.

Certainly Fibre Fest did not disappoint. There were dozens of independent dyers with their wares proudly on display, a veritable feast for the eyes of any yarn enthusiast. Knitters, weavers, spinners demonstrated their skills. The positive energy was palpable: there is just something about this craft that catches the imagination, a happiness, a Joy entangled inextricably in threads destined for handmade things of beauty.

I sat and marvelled at a demonstration of hand shearing by a gentleman from New Zealand and pondered the fact that I was one of the first to ever see the inside of the glistening, golden fleece as it tumbled onto the stage. I reflected on the journey this luscious fibre would now take as indeed had all of the yarns for sale in the nearby marquees. From raw material to finished product, each skein had a story to tell, so many and so varied were the indie dyers present.

I spent ages just looking at the wares, appreciating the efforts that had gone into making them all come into being, the hours spent devotedly teasing fleece or plant matter into irresistible yarns. Now those yarns awaited new hands that would, in turn, gently coax them towards their destiny.

When I had bought my ticket at the door I’d noticed a beautiful flower arrangement, a great big, yellow bath duck. I was told that it was to honour a much-loved, young exhibitor of previous years who had passed away very suddenly, very unexpectedly a few months ago. Eventually I made my way to the stand that had once been the pride of this same young designer. Her family and friends were there, bravely selling all remaining skeins and I knew then that any purchase I made that day would be from this, the last remaining Sparkleduck range.

I had an opportunity not only to buy something unique but to honour and indeed remember the young lady through whose hands these yarns had so lovingly passed. This moved me enormously at the time and even now, I feel my eyes prick with tears at the thought that never again would her heart leap at the first sight of the yarns as she tenderly created them. Never again would she rejoice in sending them on their soft and colourful way to bring happiness to so many.

With those yarns I purchased each stitch I loop around my needles will give me cause to reflect on so many emotions. Bereavement in my close family has taught me to lead a life filled with Joy, adventure and discovery. I hope also that these emotions will inspire me infinitely in my creative practice, that the ensuing shawls will prompt discussions to keep the designer’s legacy alive and who knows, maybe even spark in another, a new interest in that beautiful craft for which I have a deep affection.

After making my purchase I sat on the grass in the field, surrounded by huge molehills and had my lunch and a cup of tea. With precious cargo at my side, the subterranean mammals digging blissfully unaware beneath me and the sun shining warmly on my face I was thankful for life and all the opportunities and potential therein.

For me, art and crafts are a means of drawing together the complex strands of life, a way of expressing their meaning to me in a concrete form, that in turn makes room for the inevitable wave of inspiration that falls perpetually at my cerebral shore. It has a rhythm all its own that never ceases, never waits for “the right moment” to present itself. It is a blessing for which I am ever and always grateful. It is a veritable Möbius loop of mental twists and turns, like stitches around a needle (be careful you don’t drop one!) ❤️ So begins the artist’s cycle once more …

 

Becca in her own words:”Creativity is fundamental to who I am. I have been a Flight Attendant for almost 25 years but primarily I am an artist, and have been all my life. Bombarded with inspiration by all of my senses, I express those sensations most effectively through my art practice. This can take the form of digital photography, designing textiles and more recently in writing, which allows me to paint a vivid, detailed picture in ways that, for me, the spoken word cannot. Someone once asked me, “Art? What are you going to do with that?”. The truth is, I cannot imagine being without it .”

Guest Blog month

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In November, I am taking a back seat and letting some wonderfully creative people take over my blog for a change.

Writing is very much a collaborative effort. When I write something, it is based upon not just my own thought processes, but also what is fed into my mind through all that I read or watch or have discussions with other people about. Similarly, you as the reader, become a part of that collaboration by choosing to read my blog, commenting upon it, and sharing it with your extended circle.

Within my extended circle as well I have come across people who lead such rich and varied lives. I love reading their posts on social media. They are expressive, erudite and eloquent. I always come away with a fresh insight when I read what they write. And so, I have invited them to my chosen platform, and asked them to share a slice of their lives, be it in the form of an experience, an article or a poem.

I do hope you enjoy this smorgasbord, as much as I have enjoyed compiling it.