Dubious Moves

On Seeing An Unexpected Online Presence

2011-03-07T21:10:00.008+05:30

Much have I dreamt in the days of old,

And many goodly poems and stories written;

Now by absence of a muse sorely smitten

with unspun dreams and stories untold.

Sometimes my wide expanse I’d behold

and rue the lost emotion that ruled my demesne;

Yet did I continue in vegetation serene

until by some chance did her glimpse unfold.

Then felt I like some astrologer wise

When Ophiuchius swims into his ken;

Or like stout housewife when with eagle eyes

she star'd at new series— and then

I look'd in the mirror with wild surmise —

He still lives, that gent within.

Rusty, but still. Also, profound apologies.

Several Hours and Umpteen Days

2009-05-17T07:09:00.009+05:30

The screech of tyres, the growing knot of people in the middle of the road, drew his attention away from the dappled gold in the green tapestry of trees lining the road. His colleague, till then gabbling inanities about the weekend, went slack-jawed and pasty in shock. He told the driver to carry on to the office and return, and got down in the middle of the slowing traffic.

It was a young man. Somebody had removed the helmet that was now superfluous, and his face had nothing but a faint surprise in the arch of his brows. The eyes were closed, the breath shallow. Around the knot, the Monday morning traffic eddied and then continued. The 2-3 people who'd stopped were trying to lift him, somebody opening a waterbottle, looking for somebody to take action.

He flagged a rick down by the expedient of catching a bar as it slowed, and refusing to let go. He flashed a couple of hundreds at the driver, who kept looking terrified and mumbling refusals. He lifted the young man : surprisingly light. He did not know if he still breathed, and didn't care to check. He awkwardly entered the rick, and told him to head for the hospital at the end of the road. The auto weaved nervously in and out of traffic, the driver touching the framed goddess on the dash every now and then. Five minutes, and they were at the hospital.

He lifted the man gently, walked in, with a sense of relief, laid him on a stretcher in the hallway. People rushed, and thankfully, they began to wheel him without any delay. He fished in the jeans and brought out the usual flotsam of existence : a plastic comb, a licence, a balled up kerchief, a wallet and thankfully, a mobile. New message, it said, and he pressed the button. A smutty SMS opened up, inane jokes meant to cheer up a Monday. He dialled the number, and a voice asked him if he was late. Listen, he said. Main hospital se bol rahaa hoon. Your friend is hurt, badly. Come here immediately, and tell his family. Even to himself, his voice sounded unfeeling. I'm his brother, the voice on the other side quavered. Whatever, get here, he said and cut the connection before realising he hadn't said where. He handed over the phone to the receptionist as it rang again, and she started explaining addresses and locations. She looked at him questioningly, and he pointed to where the stretcher had been. I brought him, he said, give the phone to whoever comes. And he handed over the remainder items. She pulled a pad and began writing down the details. He gave name, showed ID, wrote his address, and came out.

The rick was still there, and the driver shambled over mumbling. "Bura na manna bhaisaab, subah ka waqt hai, problem mein nahiin phas sakta tha". He nodded, weary in soul. "Bach jaayega ? " He shrugged. He sat in the rick, and the driver, sensing his mood, silently retraced their path. His car awaited him, and he went back to change the dress now specked with blood.

That evening was one of their companionable silences punctuated by his occasional monologues and her rare replies. He was reflecting on his last translation of Faiz and the one commencing. He startled himself when he suddenly said " Don't say goodbye, OK ? Just leave when you decide to".

"Mmmmm ?"

He sighed. "No goodbyes", he said. Then realized that she didn't get the context. He started to explain, and trailed off, knowing the futility. "Just this. No goodbyes. Just say going, if you can, and go. Or just go."

"So you have been thinking about my leaving".

He smiled then; it suddenly struck him as amusing in a way. "Since the day I first spoke to you", he said.

"Why? “

“Too short a date”, he murmured, but to himself. He felt suddenly tired. I’m sorry, he said. It’s been a long day.

“And what will you do when I go?”

He shrugged. Hope is the blanket one pulls over tighter in the far reaches of the night, while the heart knows the silence masks the pain that creeps in soft-footed.

“Inko sholon ke rajaz apna pataa toh denge

Khair, hum tak woh na pahunchein bhi, sadaa toh denge

Duur kitni hai subah, bataa toh denge”

“Mmmm. Translate.”

I shall remain unFaized, he was about to say, but checked himself. She was liable to explode at his puns when angry.

“We shall send burning verse to tell them of us

Even if they never come, at least they will call out to us.

At least they’ll tell us how far the morning is”.

Much later, when revisited this favourite of Faiz’s, he realized the problem, the reason that he was unable to let go. He was seeking a defining moment, a goodbye.

Relationships, unlike rambling poems, do not necessarily end in killer lines.

Slaying Them Softly

2009-04-21T21:56:00.004+05:30

Everywhere, it stares out at you.

Earlier, I reacted in different ways. For the longest while, I would avoid any contact in that sphere, and if chance did throw me in harm's way, I would fidget and keep away from eye contact. If forced to make conversation, I would be as brief and polite as possible.

There was a brief spell of devil may care rudeness, when I decided to make others pay for my awkwardness by being a prig, by pushing them into zones of discomfort.

I am clean and reasonably groomed. My clothes are ironed, even if I mix and match according to what the dhobi has deigned to deliver lately rather than appropriate schemes of colour or pattern. My shoes are mostly shined, unless you have caught me at the end of an impromptu long walk. Or if I'm planning on ending the meeting with one, in which case I'll wear walking shoes a bit worse for the wear. I can speak a decent line or two in English without obvious mistakes. I even watch a movie or two in English now and then, and can discuss with some substance books and music.

But I am never comfortable with representatives of what I call the Manicured Life. The one that jumps at you out of every serial, ad, magazine. Pastel shades, immaculate houses, perfectly white teeth, nattily casual men with superbly coiffed women. The men are not necessarily handsome, merely shiny and rich. The women who are not beautiful make do with being sexy. If they were merely confined to the ads, one could glance away. But when I meet them in real life, all the minor details start kicking in.

For example, the casual elegance with which they handle the lower classes : drivers, waiters, and such. None of my easy familiarity that so often embarasses. Nor the rigid hauteur which is caricatured in movies. Just that masterful dash of geniality that garnishes the evident command.

I'm now older, if not wiser, and mostly, I do not have issues with The Manicured Life. My own polishing has been more in the nature of a grind, and that leaves its mark. I know that remnants of my awkwardness will always ensure, for example, that I fidget. Past practice will change the usually modulated tone into a harsh desi twang when I speak. I will always end up wearing the shirt just a little bit crumpled, the tie a tad askew.

Ah well.They live as they should, and I live as I can, and who's to say which of us is living as we want, says I.

I recently read a lady who had been Photoshopped by a popular woman's mag into a fairer, slimmer avatar, while profiling her as a "woman of substance" (which she most emphatically is, I might add). She wrote about how the media is foisting the illusion of a generic plastic beauty across a diversity of cultures and what it does to a generation of youngsters trying to conform to it. I nodded, reminded of my own angst at not fitting into the shiny lives of people that I thought were "cool". And then, in the course of a restless wandering of a sleepless night, I chanced upon an article in the Guardian, and clicked the youtube link simultaneously. The piece is laced with enjoyable invective against Simon Cowell ("buffed to the sheen of an ornamental pebble") and Amanda Holden ("a woman most notable for playing a psychotic hairdresser" and a "flat-packed, hair-ironed, over-plucked monstrous fool" : ) ).

But it was the video that got me. You've sung "Cry Me A River", and "Killing Me Softly", friend. And that is enough to make most of us who go for the mush keel over. But when you hit the high notes so effortlessly in a song that was written for a posterchild of misfortune in one of the strongest emotional dramas ever, I stood up and cheered.

Perhaps some of your miracle was manufactured. Perhaps they'll lift you and may eventually trash you. They'll make you over or keep you as an icon of their tolerance. The future is unknown, Susan Boyle : but today, from a member of the League for Extras and Ordinary Gentlemen, a salute.

Up Close and Impersonate

2009-04-11T16:56:00.010+05:30

(From the archives, or rather, a temporarily loaned USB drive : )).

I had a momentary qualm, pausing outside the door. Then I shrugged and went in. The room’s cheery décor, more suited to a bright summer morning than the slate grey winter sky that was framed by the enamel windows, did little to quell the twinges inside. She was solicitous, speaking easily, while I was slightly awkward. It had been a while, after all.

She gestured vaguely. I loosened my tie and went to lie down while she adjusted herself. I looked up at her sitting by me, into those eyes, and she smiled a bit sadly. “You could have come earlier, even last year”, she said, cupping my chin in her hands. I didn’t reply. She ran a loose hand over my forehead, asking me when I’d shifted jobs, and I realized she was trying to put me at ease. I consciously relaxed then, willing away the tension, feeling the tightness in the back give way as the muscles uncoiled. She bent her face to me, and I could see the thin spots of red on her cheeks. The cold, I thought, or perhaps just that touch of rouge. She was almost tender as she lifted my face toward her. As I shut my eyes, I could smell the citrus on her breath, and thought that I much preferred the carbolic acid smell of disinfectant that was more common in clinics.

One has none of the usual fears of dentistry. In my experience, they are the people one goes to on a yearly basis and talk politely of how long it has been and don’t you wish we’d meet oftener. Some talk of parietal cavities and whatnots may cause an eyebrow to rise considering the mixed company, but these are modern times after all. This particular visit, however, coming after a while and in the thick of the winter, has left me shaken. The first week after the procedure was blinding pain, and it was after the second sitting that I realized she had been lying when she said that things were going to get better. The alternative, of course, was to pop a painkiller or two. Painkillers have the effect of dropping me down dead until woken up by pain a couple of hours later. Since they expect me to be awake, if not contribute, at the job, one rather avoids the drooping gently bit. Which means 10 hours of pure agony the whole long day. In addition to idiot colleagues asking me if I’ve brushed up on a file or two. Hahaha, in case I didn’t get it, brush, file, hahaha. Even the boss, asking me if I was able to work through and telling me to take it easy. “Don’t bite off more than you can chew, hehehehheh”, he says, exploding in his own mirth like a demented Sidhu.

In other news, have been speaking in tongues. Not really, in other voices, in an attempt to find my own. The success of the originals has been mostly in their inimitable style. But one tries. Thank you, originals, for the inspiration. Here are the results (1,2,3). (I recommend saving the links before viewing them so you can zoom and scroll easily).

(Update : Added below as some issue@links).

A Tale of Two Cities

2009-02-14T11:37:00.003+05:30

The ice cubes in the glass rattled as he drained the last of the clear liquid with a grimace. I politely raised my own glass as he stood up, though it just contained water. "Vodka, life", he said, and smiled as he left. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation", I said automatically to his back. Another flight took off from the airport nearby, the gleaming metal tube with brightly lit window slits booming unnervingly close. And suddenly the sentence and the noise took me back a long time ago.

It was in a coffee shop in that city near the airport, bright lights and Paul Mauriat playing unobtrusively to the gentle clink of silver on china. We both knew that goodbyes were impending, and that what we'd shared was but a piece of time stolen from our respective worlds. Goodbyes should be brief, you said, and we both smiled at the reference. As always when under stress, I hummed softly. "I'm the truth you'll never know, I'm the place you'll never go". You joined in, "I'm the song you'll never hear, I'm the course you'll never steer". A few of the sparse 3 AM crowd looked incuriously at the two of us, and you smiled "But I thought you were more of a vodka man". I grinned. "Votka, the unvoiced k at the end modifies the pronunciation".

That was the city where I once enveloped you in my arms. This is the city where I open my arms wide and wider, wider to encompass your presence in my world.

That was the city where we walked on the roads late at night, laughing as we tried to hold hands and yet jump across the puddles. This is the city where I walk into potholes uncaring, lost in your thoughts.

That was the city where the roar of the early morning locals and the newspaper vans belted out an aubade before the sun's accusing rays sought proof of our hidden tryst. This is the city where the moon casts merciful shadows on the emptiness everywhere.

That was the city where I once sang to you dreadfully out of tune, and this is the city where music brings you to life.

That was the city where you once spoke at such length that you complained your throat was sore. This is the city where your silence is the subtext of every conversation I hold.

That was the city where your gossamer fingers once soothed me. This is the city where the liquid caress of your memory startles me as I drift into sleep.

That was the city where I once traced songs of love across your back. This is the city where I paint landscapes of my solitude in the inky blackness of the night.

That was the city where hope once fluttered like a page in the breeze settling down. This is the city where I crumple pages full of writing.

That was the city where we were lovers.

This is the city where I fell in love.

One city a figment of imagination that has never quite faded, and the other a reality that has never completely dawned.

Even These Least

2009-01-08T12:08:00.008+05:30

(Note : Normal programming resumes soon. Really, I mean, Hopefully).

The past few weeks have been about conversations about helping, about parents and about the usual bleeding heart stuff.

A brief background. The details are unimportant. Still. An old lady, probably about 65, relatively kempt, carrying about 10 + in cash, enough for her to get mugged. Leaving out details of how I came across her, I realised she was disoriented and unfit to take care of herself, shivering in the cold and rambling. I took her to a nearby place, put in some food into her and probed a bit more. She had medical papers identifying her as a patient for some heart/BP whatever problems and as a depressive. One doc had noted a tendency to skip medication. She is now in a hotel in Delhi, running out of money. My efforts for her were mostly ineffectual. Thankfully, somebody far more effective and formidably networked has taken charge, and while a solution is not in sight, at least people are doing their best. A son, a businessman in a relatively affluent portion of Delhi has shown no interest. The daughter is abroad, and is aware of the situation. Efforts are in hand to make her help.

The lady, like most old ladies, can easily get on your nerves. She is clinically depressed and launches into long rambling tales about her life :how sweet a person her daughter is , her evil son. She has no one to talk to and hence any audience is welcome. Her kids (daughter, as son is not contactable) claim that she has been a patient very many years, is obstinate, has in fact driven her husband to suicide, is an alcoholic ... and doesn't deserve their help.

I'll not get into a debate about how much (or not) we are to put in towards parents. I'll only paraphrase one of the most balanced,equable (and happy:)) persons I know:-

"I will not compromise the person I am to give them their happiness...'cause there are so many ways to keep them happy. Don't focus on 'how much they have done' to do what you have to do. If you tot up that balance sheet, and it is in your favour, you feel like crap, and if it is in theirs, you end up feeling a righteous saint and wearing a halo. They don't owe you anything, they did the best they could. You don't owe them anything better, you just do the best you can."

It is the portion about "not deserving" that really stabs at me. In my lights, you don't help somebody because they "deserve it". You help because you can. Judging the recipient is an injury to the spirit of giving. I only glance occasionally at Heather's blog, but I was impressed by this post both for the story and for the detailed discussion that follows in the comments.

So this gent rings up, downcast. He was asked for a voluntary project (having undertaken such before), for a most deserving cause. He is already stressed, these are bad times, but hell, how can I refuse ... I replied on the same lines : You don't owe anything, just do the best you can. Just as you don't bother if they "deserve it", don't flagellate yourself for not doing as much as they need. You'll end up merely hurting yourself, or worse, resenting them and a bad example for someone else who might be tempted to help.

I'm not a bleeding heart, by a long shot. I could blame time and space and life, or perhaps it never was in me. I really don't know. Moral triage is something every person carries out on a daily basis, navigating through the million abrasions of the daily grind. Constrained by my own needs, I can and do walk off from situations and places without necessarily feeling heart-broken. What is amazing, however, is that there always seems to be somebody who cares.

"Magar vishwaas ko apne bachaaye kaun baitha hai ?

Andheri raat mein deepak jalaaye kaun baitha hai ?

But who is this who has kept his faith alive? / Who has lit a lamp in this dark night ?

These are cold, cold times, dear heart. Maybe they are merely lamps, giving a feeble light; maybe they aren't able to warm anything except a few hearts. But I see plenty of people around me doing the most unlikely things. The alpha-Punjabi, super-cynical gent in the office who carries strips of biscuit packs in his car, handing them out at the lights to the people who walk up. Even more unbelievable, his daughter who was once in the car and said namaste to them . The middle-class lady wrapped up in a shawl at Sector 8 RK Puram market the other day, buying a plate of steaming hot momos, depositing it in front of the shivering wretch on the roadside and walking off without a word. People who, on a larger scale, are trying to do something, anything that will make at least one more person happy, one more person safe. People like Anuradha Bakshi and Bessie Mathew. I wouldn't know just how they became this way. Perhaps what the king says in The Glass Palace is true ... that there is a life force that takes over.

"... Karuna -One of the Buddha's words, Pali for compassion, for the immanence of all living things in each other, the attraction of life for its likeness. A time will come, he told the girls, when you too discover what this word karuna means, and from that moment on your lives will never again be the same".

It's Hip to be Hypocritical

2008-12-02T22:58:00.006+05:30

Travelling around the country gives you a window into disparate viewpoints. Train journeys were the best: they afforded the opportunity to get into the viewpoints over an extended period. While flights are inherently much more snobbish, random snatches of conversation between fellow travelers are still very interesting, since the babudom mostly pretty much insulates me from overtly political viewpoints.

And here, lads and lasses, intellectuals and pack-asses, is mine own struck-by- the-blindingly-obvious conclusion : there ain’t nothing like a good disaster for us to come slavering to the carrion. So this post merely details what was left unsaid by this good babu to the people of Bharat that is India, over the past week or so.

#1 These bastid terrorists! Killing innocents! Targeting foreigners!

“… eight tracksuit-clad Black September members carrying duffel bags loaded with AK-47 assault rifles, Tokarev pistols, and grenades scaled a two-meter chain-link fence”.

26 years ago.

No, we called them freedom fighters then, they were not targeting us. What was that about sowing a wind ?

#2 Everything about the Pakis rings false. Even their denials are so wishy-washy.

“… when he first heard of these events, the official spokesman of the Ministry for External Affairs said: "The act resulting in this tragedy was senseless and condemnable. It remains so, whatever the disappointments and frustration leading to it. There is no justification for dragging terrorism into the arena of sports. India's support for the Arab cause is well known, as we believe that justice is on their side.”

#3 I bet “they” bloody enjoy it inwardly, regardless of what you hear about them criticizing it in public.

“"Bajrangi: It was a huge pit… You could enter it from one side but you couldn't climb out at the other end… They were all there together…They started clinging to each other… Even while they were dying, they told each other, you die too, … so the number of deaths increased.… There were bodies everywhere… it was a sight to be seen, but it wasn't something to be filmed, in case it got into someone's hands… There was a video-wala there, some mediawala, we set him on fire too…"

Q:How do you feel after you have killed …

Bajrangi: Maza aata hai na, saheb [I enjoy it]… I came back after I killed them then, called up the home minister and went to sleep… I felt like Rana Pratap, that I had done something like Maharana Pratap…I'd heard stories about him, but that day I did what he did myself."

Before you go to town about virgin-dreaming brainwashed terrorists ...here is our home-grown article.

#4 Having the BJP in power/something draconian like POTA will automatically reduce the terrorism.

Like having a rabid dog loose might help in combating stray dog menace. Till he bites you, that is. Akshardham. Parliament House. Yawn. IC 814. In fact, to stretch things back, guess who was part of the ruling coalition when somebody exchanged terrorists for darling daughter Rubiya ? Right. As far as POTA goes, its like saying the death penalty reduces crime. It is actually worse, since the death penalty occasionally is used for criminals. POTA has the record of having only ever being misused. BTW, seen Modi’s record in preventing blasts in his state ?

#5 Goddam the media ! Politicos, insensitive bloody vultures! Empty bombast!

Err…Everybody has an agenda. Some like Modi were obvious. Some like the Bharti/Indian ad was underplayed, just right. Whereas this lady, with her howls of “ We won’t stand by. We will fight. Politicians get lost” etc merely made a lot of noise. What do you intend to do, ma’am ? I have so many snide remarks to make, I feel positively Gandhian at not making them. For the record, sir, I support you.

BTW, all those howls about the Taj … a driver in Mumbai summed it up best. “saala koi bhi CST mein marne waalon ko nahiin poocha. Local party thi toh kya ? unka khoon khoon, hamara khoon coca-cola ?”

#6 Hell. If only this was phoren, it wouldn’t have happened.

Be clear. Your reactions will get better. Your intelligence will need to get a lot, lot, better. There ain’t any way this could have been prevented by policing, however. Read what every security expert the world over says.

#7 This is a national shame. It’s the single biggest thing to have ever hit India.

Uhuh. It is the most publicized, maybe. Single biggest shame ? Check these out, as easily googled.

# “My appeals to the policemen who were standing nearby and watching only resulted in further beating. At one point the nun slipped away to plead with the police for help but she was dragged back by the mob and her blouse torn,” he said. The nun was gang raped in a nearby building, and he was doused with kerosene by the mob, which threatened to set him on fire.”

# “With cans of petrol they went round the localities and systematically set fire to Sikh houses, shops and gurudwaras. We were told by the local eye witnesses in all the area we visited, that well know Congress (I) leaders and workers (their names are to be found in Annexure-I) led and directed the arsonists and that local cadres of the Congress (I) identified the Sikh houses and shops. “

# The taxi drivers say they are being targeted for being northerners.

“We have to ply taxis and get the beatings to fill our stomachs,” says taxi driver Ashok Kumar. Another taxi driver, Anil Kumar, adds, “We haven't come 1500 km to fight with anyone.”

Apart from 100 other such instances.

Seller V, people. The good thing is, that though IPL and such like will get cancelled, there is always Bigg Bossss 2 or something to divert us. Scusez while I head for the remote.

Lone Star

2008-08-26T22:23:00.002+05:30

Serendipity. A lovely word, with a beautiful etymological background to it. Perhaps it is but natural that serendipity led me to her blog. A chance set of remarks on a now forgotten site introduced me to her, and I must confess that I started with a negative attitude: I had been irked by something she’d said and not content with muttering to myself, wrote a frigid mail. She replied back with a puzzled civility, wondering why I had mailed.

By then I had skimmed her blog, and was impressed by both her easy erudition and range of topics. A series of exchanges later, we started talking, and it was then that I committed the first of a series of gaffes. We were discussing ethnic heritages and the importance of retaining an ethnic identity, even if chauvinism of a particular language was not acceptable. I asserted that I was diligently assimilating my Telugu roots. I asked her about her background, and was secretly pleased to see that she was a non-resident Telugu like myself. She casually tossed off a series of Telugu literature-based allusions, all of which I was blissfully ignorant of. She casually mentioned her father, and I ignored it as I blathered on about how she must be out of touch with her roots etc. Upon which she asked, not without some amusement, just exactly how much of my cultural enthusiasm translated into actual intelligence. Thankfully, a sixth sense told me to blurt out the exact truth: i.e, that all I didn’t know about the subject would fill several libraries. She laughingly said that she’d suspected as much, when I showed no reaction at the mention of her father, who was one of the foremost literary figures of the century.

That exchange also set the pattern of many of our talks : I would blunder into a new area of inexpertise with total enthusiasm, and she would benevolently let me go on making a fool of myself almost till the very end and then step in with a smile. I remember telling her in sepulchral tones about how difficult it was to write : oh, not her little asides, but serious writing, and the travails of a professional author. She was full of respectful noises. It was not long before I discovered that she’d published her first book of poems at 18. In her typical self-deprecatory fashion, she pooh-poohed any praise of her writing, but she sent translations of her Telugu poems, and I discovered first hand just how complex her thought processes were. I bragged about a poem I’d written with a crossword clue embedded in it, only to discover that eminent crossword setters were amongst her acquaintances, and that she routinely solved Guardian prize crosswords that I could only shake my head at.

I sent her long mails of ideas about writing and demanded that she read my entire blog, from the first post onward, and send me detailed comments (by which I meant praise). She lavished praise, and while her criticism was unerring, it was also gentle and coddled in enough warmth for it not to hurt. I continually badgered her about every conceivable topic in music and literature, and she never tired of answering me.

Over a year, she stuck by me while I swung between periods of dark depression, utter inebriation, wild elation and sheer cussedness. I demanded that she like all my friends and she assented. I informed her that I detested all of hers and she would dutifully agree that I showed excellent taste. I would type in ten lines to each of hers ignoring her interruptions, and then blame her for not responding enough. Always tolerant, she would only send me more mails about her day and her ideas. I would cascade puns, each increasingly wilder, till she would cringe and beg me to stop. I would make increasingly extravagant statements, sometimes sexist, sometimes just plain stupid, to prod her out of her prim manner and make it increasingly difficult for her to maintain her cool. Finally, just as she began to declaim in acerbic tones her opinion of my faculties, I would stop her in mid-spate and tell her I was only joking. She would splutter and swear that she would never talk to me again.

She never stopped.

I demanded attention and received huge doses of affection.

She insisted that I play Scrabble, a game I’d never played before. But it isn’t rocket science, exactly, I sneered at her. She proceeded to …no, really, this hurts, but she whipped me for the first 50 odd games that we played. We’d start a new game every time one finished, and despite my best efforts, I just could not seem to win. I was winning games with assorted strangers, even those with high ratings, but it seemed I just couldn’t beat her. There were games I’d coast along, inwardly telling myself that this was IT, and then she’d come out with a bingo when no tiles were left, leaving me cursing on the sidelines of a new game. The first game I beat her was when a mutual friend interceded to tell her that continually losing like this was sapping my self-esteem. She promptly lost a game, and chided me for browbeating a woman in this manner. Look, I said. Either I won, in which case it is a bit of a boost to the old ego, or you liked me enough to make me look good and win. In which case it is a MAJOR boost to the old ego. Any which way, I was a winner, chivalry be damned. To the end, I never knew if the 2-3 wins amongst the scores of games we played were gifts from her to pep me up when I was unusually subdued or whether I actually bested her.

You are now preparing for a last journey alone, my friend. You have far too many things unfinished, amongst them teaching me the Telugu heritage I now may never learn, teaching me music, teaching me about crosswords, and singing the song you translated for me. No, you never promised me any of those things, but on the other hand I’ve always made promises on your behalf and you’ve never let me down. I should be sad at your leaving, but as usual I am grumpy at goodbyes. Don’t be stupid, I seem to hear you remark. This idiot, however, always had the sense to know how lucky he was to come across you and thank you for it.

Once when it seemed I must cut off all contact for a while, I quoted lines that appeared to explain why we, random strangers who never once met, shared such a deep and instinctive bond. You not only found one of my favourite poems, but replied with lines from them that were much more apt. I repeat them today, my belief in them multiplied manifold :-

"Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,
In our light we scattered lie;
All is thus but starlight here."

With respect, warmth and lots of love, Lalita. Always a star.

How Will He Know

2008-07-13T10:32:00.002+05:30

“Blaupunkt”, I said, as she braked at the light, and she looked at me quizzically.

We both were in different wings of the same organisation. Passing acquaintances, casual hellos exchanged in corridors and an occasional conversation about inanities when we happened to meet over a cup of tea.

Then I went to another place on deputation for three months, and she came there a week later on transfer. Thrown together in a new place, we interacted more, though our official circles still did not intersect. I was relatively better off, having many old friends there, and I could introduce her to them.

We hit it off well: it was gratifying to have a pretty girl several years younger laugh at my jokes, and I enjoyed her company well enough. She was grateful at having somebody to break the ice in a new place, and for company walking up and down the hills.

We really started talking on those long walks. About the different paths our lives had taken. I told her about my worlds of books and music, she told me about how she had always marched in determined fashion through life. She tut-tutted about my haphazard method of letting life swirl around me, and I smiled (only, inwardly, though) about her earnest plans.

“Navi Mumbai, maybe, or Pune”, she said. “I don’t like Mohali”. We were talking one day about where one would settle after a lifetime spent shunting around according to the caprices of faceless puppeteers. “I’d like an independent house, even if it is very small, rather than a flat. I want a garden, and a swing for the kids”. I asked her if she had the colour scheme mapped out, and she seriously considered the question before seeing the smile in my eyes. “One has to plan”, she said crossly. I went ahead on the path, and looked out over the Ghats. “Door gagan ki chaaon mein”, I said. Or to quote another song, Somewhere, out there …. She again bemoaned my lack of definite plans, what she (adding with due respect) called my woolly-headedness.

We sat down, legs dangling over the edge. Life happens, I told her. And all your piety nor wit , etc etc. So it’s best to roll with the punches during the spats and dance when the music is on. No plans to encumber me, I said. I’m flexible. Throw a situation at me and I’ll face it. Or duck it, I’m no hero. I’m no fatalist, I said. But thinking about the future is not about making a map, but about packing your rucksack with wit and brains and a sense of humour, not to mention a healthy resistance to disappointment. Look at the present, see your needs and if they can be satisfied, hey, you’re happy for now.

Not at all, she said. And spouted the usual self-help book phrases about self-determination. Tcha, and I suppose you’ve got it all pat, I said. Two kids, and a house in Navi Mumbai, and you can come for lunch if you behave yourself, she rattled off. Don’t forget the swing, I said, and be sure that you have fresh lime for the vodka. Since you are all for the planned life, I said. She made a face, and we got up to return. She whipped out a snap. This is the gent I’m going to marry, she said. “Does he know yet ?”, I asked, and she smiled. “He will”.

That was one of the last times we went for a walk together; my spell there soon ended and I went on. We didn’t keep in touch, except for a sporadic (and unanswered) New Year e-mail or a Diwali one. Mutual acquaintances gave news about one to the other. She’d been through some very tough times, for a while her world seemed to collapse about her ;I arranged my life in a not-so-haphazard manner.

When I met her here, after the better part of a decade, she was reserved, and I was tentative, coming to a strange place in a state of flux. She was giving me a lift to the office, making small talk about the landmarks enroute. I pointed out where a kindly soul had taken me out to dinner the previous evening. So tell me about life, she said, suddenly. So yours worked out after all, I said. Even if the gent took some time. What do you want now, she asked, and I mused over the question in silence.

“Blaupunkt”, I said, and she looked at me. “ When I went out last evening, the guy received a call on his mobile, only it wasn’t on his mobile. His car stereo was Bluetoothed to the phone, and it cut off the FM and cut in the phone call, he spoke as he drove and then the radio resumed. I thought it was pretty neat. I want that car stereo and that phone”. She laughed then, and it was a signal of return to the old companionability. It’s probably Mohali now, she said. And probably only one kid, but soon.

I kept a straight face and asked, “Does he know ?”
“He will”, she smiled, and put the car into gear as the light changed.

As Beer As It Gets

2008-07-13T10:17:00.006+05:30

In Stephen King's rites of passage novella "The Body", there is a part where one of the kids asks the others if it is right to be having fun when they are trekking to see a dead body. The others agree, but then the fun part takes over again.

I didn't want to laugh too much when I saw this either, considering that it IS,after all,a murder that is the news. But listen to the 2nd witness (there is a spelling mistake there, methinks) talk : no WAY you can be serious about that.

And then read this, to find out various versions of what she said.

(Somebody has just managed an Internet connection, and has WAY too much time on his hands ! )

Welcome home to myself : )

Darkness On The Edge of Town

2008-07-06T13:41:00.003+05:30

He sat easily on the edges of the group, letting the standard shop-talk flow about him. The sweat on the tracksuit chilling in the evening breeze began to feel clammy on the still hot flesh. He idly noted random muscles in the shoulders and calves twitching as the weariness of the day gradually unwound. A plane went by overhead, impossibly low, and he followed its reflection in the pool, dark metal body undulating in the gentle ripples.

“Orange juice ?” cackled one of the guys. “Hey, what plans for the weekend, man ?”

The weekend, he thought. He heard the muted strains of the music and recognized the lines. Plans for what, he wanted to ask. For the weekend is the houri with dancing eyes and painted lips displayed fleetingly with a swish of diaphanous veils and you unwillingly follow the beckoning finger

(Why does the sun go on shining)

And you know why there are birthdays and that some eyes crinkle when they smile and how people come to believe in miracles and that some things are said without having to put them into words and what the blue in the sky stands for

(Why does the sea rush to shore)

And then there are promises of the future and the joys of the present and you are carried along the swirling edges of the whirlpool, faster and faster

(Why do the birds go on singin)

Till you are sucked into the abyss where all dreams fade to black , where the frenzied channels lapse into the tired re-runs and you are lying with the malignant rictus of that hag, Sunday afternoon, leering at you and you know why all love stories end in the past tense and that even magic has a sell by date and why you clutch at the haft of the knife that is embedded in your heart and the truest things are hardest to tell and that if it had not been for religion and alcohol and the cicatrices of lingering relationships, oblivion would have descended on the world a long while ago

(Why do the stars glow above).

And he feels the madness building up and that curtain of blackness drop just behind his eyelids, the stage where you crook a finger and ask him to bring over a double, then two, threefourfive and then …

(Don’t they know, it’s the end of the world)

He blinks a little uncertainly, like a man emerging into sudden sunshine, and says “Weekend ? Nothing, bro. Just catch up on some sleep, I thought”.

With Or Without Use

2007-12-30T22:19:00.000+05:30

People don’t die, unfortunately, when the hope dies within them.

You can hear each beat inside the emaciated ribcage of the beggar child at the traffic signal asking if this window is going to roll down, feel the missed beat as the driver looks away or mutters a curse. It starts with this extreme sensitiveness to the daily parade of hopes and fears. Living with each nerve ending exposed, you are keen to each nuance of every person you come across. Someone doesn’t acnowledge you, you feel it as a stab to the heart. You see clearly the meanness in the actions of those you supposed to be fair, and you feel soiled by their perfidy. You see clearly the pettiness that results from the fear in the other man, and you are not enraged, but merely saddened by the degradation of the soul. You hear a tinge in someone’s voice, you read between the lines in a conversation, and it clenches the heart in a cold grip that chills every vestige of warmth. Your own troubles begin to assume a disproportionate importance as auguries of a bigger fate, strands of a faded tapestry of dreams. And then, somewhere, the last flame of hope is exuitnguished, and there is almost a relief , a welcoming of the cold after the heat of despairing batle, of the darkness that envelops.

The coldness causes a detachment, a stepping out of the self. One then stands apart, watching the self flail in futility at nebulous windmills. The troubles pile up, but the detachment also causes them to shrink in significance, just another set of broken threads as hurtful and as remote as others. Shorn of an identity as a person, you stand as an observer, watching the self flounder along further and further into trouble.

Of course, one doesn’t sink in lassitude. As the outside world screams at your doorstep, one seeks to drown out those voices in frenetic activity. Hundreds of mindless computer games. Scrabble. Reading random books. With the inner core lost, you seek to validate your existence, your importance by convoluted logic : by hurting people who matter. I can hurt them, so I must be. By grabbing, by crossing lines. They give in, so I must matter. The detached self watches as you degrade yourself, noting with passing interest the bridges that are being burnt.

As you watch, personal life and work both develop scenarios where the point of no return is imminent. Without any particular interest, you wonder what would happen if the self was allowed to continue its pointless way to perdition. An impersonal interest with which one sees the bright red lines blossom on your hands, the distanced yet enthralled attention that you pay to the slow numbness as oxygen deprivation begins when you settle at the bottom of the pool. And always there is that idea, that small voice, that impels you to see it through to the end this time. To let it all go, to seek possibly an oblivion that attracts more than any picturebook heaven would.

And then, almost reluctantly, one is drawn back into the vortex of the turmoil. Suddenly you are back in yourself, and there is no time for regret or remonstrance. And all else is forgotten as one concentrates on retrieving situations, on stepping back from the brink, on chipping away industriously at the masses of big and small issues that have piled up.

And then the confining walls have been razed to the foundations, and there is only the small voice asking if it would have been better to let all end this time, assuring that next time, one would slide on, one would let go, next time …

Walking away with the crisis resolved for the nonce, there is a sign that lifts your heart. You press on in wet sand in the gathering twilight. And now the moon is out, the sands are an expanse of powdery silver, and the waves that hit the rocks dissolve into shards of glass that abrade the last detritus of depression away. A slow joy awakens at the beauty of the world that has people who do care , a spark that re-ignites.

People don’t die, fortunately, when the hope dies within them.

The strands in your eyes

2007-10-15T03:00:00.000+05:30

Your number on the phone stares back at me. Should I call ? Will you be there ?

What did we talk about, in those meandering conversations ? Remniscences of the past, details of the present. Sharing vignettes of a life even as it ebbed and flowed by us, converstations that stretched. Till the nitty-gritties of a life were but interregnums in the connect, to be given short shrift while we sought to pick up the threads from where we’d left off. I could never run out of topics, not while your stories remained untold. Not while I found pleasure in the most mundane of your details, in marvelling at the way you navigated what seemed vicious shoals.

I now recollect that I once thought of the patterns of dappled sunlight on a wooden floor while we talked. Of someone practicing scales that seemed to fall in glistening pieces on the floor, melting in the warmth of an afternoon sun filtered through flower-patterned curtains. The sound of your voice is an abiding memory, but of the mist that covered the peaks in the early morning rather than the details of the landscape down below, for I recollect your voice without quite remembering what it was you said.

I start with surprise, and then realize that a desperate mind is trying to tell a heart the soothing lie that a random voice is yours. I see arms in the familiar gesture of smoothing back your hair, and I wonder if that tendril is still as obstinate as ever. I once went through a phase where you filled every crevice in the consciousness that was not already occupied by the debris of existence. Now is the time for you to visit, for I have split myself asunder, creating a palace of solitude for you, with a hut of the remnants being reserved for the bits and pieces of the daily grind.

You have no idea, you often said, and though I protested, it was true. For my writings were but the treasures of a beachcomber wandering where waves of your voice carried magical pieces of flotsam onto the shores of my heart, and now he waits in vain for the tide to roll in again. And in the meantime, he is loth to move on to another shore, for he carries with him the burden of unsaid words that the tide was to sweep away.

For there are so many of them, the unsaid words. I have yet to tell you of the tiff with the younger one, and the gaffe I committed with a well-meaning acquaintance. There is the story which you must listen to with sympathy, for I am too afflicted to be proud. Another which I know that I will rue telling you, for you will laugh. But with the tinkle in your voice that will make me see the silly side of it too, and so it will be alright. This one I know I must not tell you, for you will belabour me with it for a long time to come,but I will . The dream I had of sitting next to you in a car in the road adjoining the runway, of sipping lukewarm wine in waist-high grass while around us the planes soared, and the moonlight fell about us in casacading sheets of remonstrance, awaits your chiding for being absurd.

I had nothing but the mundane to offer you, and yet the lightness of spirit that came with the shedding of words was great. Now the words tumble out faster than I can stuff them back, and yet the tide does not come.

I now sit and type incoherent words that lack the uniting strands of your thoughts. And the screen reflects a pallid light on my countenance, for it is in these early hours that I have spoken most to you. The morning will soon come, and I shall sit in the hovel and attempt to arrange the odds and ends of an existence, a sentinel to that empty cavernous edifice of the heart that awaits your arrival.

Your number on the phone stares back at me. I call, and you aren’t there. Perhaps you never were.

Small Mercies

2007-09-20T12:05:00.000+05:30

It's a Wonderful Life

2007-08-18T23:28:00.001+05:30

The air conditioner shut itself off with a rattle. From across the tinted glass of the cabin came the distant but unmistakable hush of the surf. The PA’s fan next door emitted its periodic whine of an awry bearing, and I willed myself to concentrate on it, anything to visibly shut myself off from the woman trying to compose herself on the other side of the table. Gradually her sobs died out, and I looked at her again.

“He’s not a bad man, actually”, she said. “He never used to blow up his money on liquor or beat me up, at least not as often as some of his mates in the quarters”. I nodded, trying to reconcile her defence of the man with the stark reality of the three laminated cards lying on the table. Three cards, different names, the same photograph, of the woman in front of me. Blood donor cards, since one card could not be used more often than once in 15 days. Or rather, the cards she used to sell her blood.

“He just left. We are still in the town quarters, and he has rented a house in the village here”, she said. The girls’ college was paid for, she said. But the milkman and the bus tickets and the gas and the vegetables and the rice was now so costly, and she therefore decided to sell blood… she almost sobbed again, then contained herself with an effort. “Life saar, we have to do something no”. And now the woman was falling ill, she was afraid that she could no longer sell enough blood to support two daughters and herself any longer. She had heard the saab could speak the language, and so …

I called for the driver, and told him tersely to put some food into her and drop her back to the bus stand for the city, a 2 km walk that she had undertaken, alternately ranting and crying her way through the occasional guards and officials who attempted to stop her. He came back to report that she had packed the lunch he bought her, presumably to carry back to the girls.
________________________________________________________________

“Fireman, leading hand, means a pay of around 5 thousand”, he said, chewing his paan with some relish. “But these people, saar knows… they take all sorts of loans, and end up with just around enough to survive. Do not involve, saar, all worthless people. Must have found somebody to live with in the village, the dog. The tribal bitches out here will fuck for a handful of rice.” Given my unfamiliarity with the worker-related issues, I had asked around, and the local union rep had paid a visit. I asked him a few questions, and he categorically squashed my plans. “Cannot attach pay saar”, he said, shaking his head vigorously. “Need court order, and for that file petition. Too long”. He rose, and motioning me to wait, went outside. A noisy expectoration of spittle hit the flowerpot, and he came back picking his teeth with a matchstick. The break seemed to have made up his mind. He leaned close, and I could smell the sickly sweetness of the paan on his breath. “One way, saar. If you say so, I’ll arrange for small accident. A hand or leg fracture, only, nothing serious permanent type. Disability pay, goes straight to family, saar”. He leaned back with a complacent look. I stuttered and then shouted. “Don’t misunderstand me saar. It is not something we do every time. Generally we don’t interfere. And then mostly the threat works. But this chap… once in two three years a case comes where we have to do something saar. Life, saar, all sorts of things required. And then saar has taken a personal interest in the matter, I’ll have to take care of the bastard no ? ”
I escorted him with reassurances that I would definitely ask for his help and took a promise that he would not proceed till I asked.

___________________________________________________________________

I stopped at the panshop and bought a pack of cigarettes. Driving on, I stopped at the beach. It was a fine night, and I took off my shoes. Walking alone on the beach in the darkness produces its own peace, and I dangled my shoes in one hand and the bottle in another. I flopped down, opened the bottle, and pouring some into the plastic glass, took a swig. A shadow came behind, and I was mildly resentful of this intrusion. The man neared and I recognized him. He came and stood, and I gestured to him to sit down. He grinned, and sat down. I gestured again, and with a wide grin, he poured a healthy tot for himself into another glass, and gulped it down neat, clearing his throat with an ahhhh as the liquid seared its way.

“Did she tell you about the girls ?” , he asked, looking at the sea, not me.
“Mmm. She said the college is paid for”.
“Three loans, the third that whoreson Somaraju gave at three and half rupees”, he said.
“Three and a half ? Why did you take it, you idiot ?” Three and a half rupees per hundred per month … payable monthly, equivalent approx to 40 % p.a. The loan sharks charged ruinous rates of interest, and conversely, asked for no credit rating or documentation except a blank stamp paper.

“You should’ve asked her. One is in third year, BSc Computers. The other is in second year of Commerce”.
“You bastard. In a year, she’ll earn in a month what you make annually, and you’ll be begging for a few coins at her feet”.

“I may, and I may not”. Then he turned and faced me. “I get 1400 a month, after all the loans. The bus season ticket from there to here works out to almost 400. Then comes the electricity and the meals and the kids’ season tickets and …” He opened his palms and gestured.

“So you left. That’s a solution ?”
He shrugged. “A man can take so much. I left. Maybe they’ll make it through this year, till the elder gets a job. Maybe they’ll not. Now I pay 500 for the rent here. And I live off the remainder. At least I don’t have to face them daily.”

“And your wife ? Daughters ?” Then I finally spoke of what had been a red hot knife in my heart for the past three days. “She’s selling blood, you bastard. You fucked around with her and produced two kids and now she is selling blood to live.” In my anger, I leaned into him, gripping his collar, and flecks of spit landed on his face as I shouted.

He shrugged away, and then casually cleaned his face. “I couldn’t live there. I left and wiped them off from my head. Everybody survives”, he said. “And then, they are women, they’ll do something. Life saar, everyone has to live.”

________________________________________________________________________

And what a wonderful gift Life must be, that we each succumb to so many slights and indignities in order to live.

Wish You Were Here

2007-06-03T13:27:00.000+05:30

The fading light tells of dusk that draws near;
bringing to the midst of banter a numbing chill.
But nothing matters, since you're still here.

Through riotous times of sunshine and good cheer
a soft voice hums a dirge that mirth cannot still
telling us "the time, it inevitably draws near."

We laugh louder, and pretend we cannot hear,
fearing the effort will consume us against our will.
But your presence bringing joy anew, is still here.

Every day we find something that we hold dear,
a peace that renews, a hope that seeks to fill;
But all under the shadow still drawing near.

We have watched the bubbles in the glass disappear
bemoaning cups that slipped, as they sometimes will.
Forgetting your intoxicating laughter was still here.

Tis far too late that we've learnt this lesson, I fear;
only the wine drunk matters, not the tears you spill.
Now I know as the time for final goodbyes draws near,
Life, I sometimes missed you while you were still here.

_____________________________________________________

An aubade, though I find the idea has been implemented before.

And All The Poems I Never Wrote

2006-12-04T19:47:00.000+05:30

All the doubts I never bared
All the fears I never shared
All the works I’d never quote
And all the poems I never wrote.

All the stories that remain untold.
The narrative that is yet to unfold.
Your past and present, all that is hidden.
A half-portrait Serendipity drew unbidden.

Wondrous threads of conversations, this tapestry of our making;
from the start, we only wove this tableau of inevitable parting.

Pawn To King 4

2006-11-23T22:20:00.000+05:30

It all started with a scrap heap. It used to be in front of the office, on both sides of the path that was the entrance. Repeated attempts at clearing it were to no avail. The more I got the area cleared, the more junk used to get dumped there by assorted passers-by.

Then one day we had an idea. Through a concerted effort, got the area levelled; mud that was being excavated from a nearby area was dumped into the place. A few workers who still retained rudiments of their childhoods, spent in labouring away in orchards, scrounged around and came with saplings. We made a garden.

And you cannot dump garbage in a garden.

It is now around 10-12 months since the garden was planted. The garden is more lush than beautiful, more a labour of love than landscaped. The workers show it off to everybody: remember there used to be a garbage heap here ? I planted that, look ! Their enthusiasm has meant of course, that it is dreadfully haphazard. Except for one pathway of grass that was my own and hence inviolate, there is a riotous profusion of flowers everywhere. One of my favourite areas in the whole place, it is where I used to come to when some imbecile or the other had driven me mad. And when I had to receive calls on my phone, since the building had poor reception.

We’d cleared the area on the other side too, and the requisite paperwork done, had a cemented patch that we used as a parking lot. A rail made of discarded scrap, brightly painted over, made a festive fence for the parking lot on one side and the garden on the other.

Last morning, as I stepped out of the office heading for a meeting, I saw an officious-looking man with a few welders, cutting away at the paring lot fence. With a few crisp words about his ancestry, relations with the female members of his family and such like, I summarily told him to get the hell out. He scuttled off, and I went for the meeting.

When I came back, all hell had broken loose. A Big Name was there at the parking lot, questioning my subordinates as to who the hell was stopping Law And Order from doing its Duty. I went across and shooed away the minions. Instantly I saw there was trouble. Did we cringe ? Did we grovel ?

You bet we did. We ‘umbly submitted and respectfully put for consideration. We gave weaselling grins and spoke in wheedling tones. Big Name, sadly, did not agree. This is a Public Place, he said. And you cannot put a fence in a Public Place. I did enough to make Uriah Heep sound a churlish rebel, but to no avail. The fence went. For a moment, I considered letting it go, then decided that we would revert to type. I told Big Name that yes, I was mistaken. This was a scrap yard, I said. And it was Public Place. Under Big Names. And basically, Big Names dealt with garbage dumps. With them and their misbegotten whelps in charge, no wonder anybody who made a garden, or a parking lot, was making a Big Mistake. Big Name was unfazed. He gave me a considering look, and informed me, with just that tinge of satisfaction, that the garden fence would go next. Public Places, tsk tsk.

We were just mulling it over this morning, regretting the outburst, when a phone came. Another Big Name wanted to speak to us. His deputy was leaving. We had been picked for the job. Could I join yesterday? And yes, welcome and looking forward to meeting you. Bye.

The whole day was spent fending off congratulatory phone calls. As the sun set, I walked down, gesturing to the gent behind, who, as was custom, followed with a cuppa.

I saw the garden, and the fencing, now torn down. Soon this would be a Public Place again. I thought of my new job. Like a dog thrown a bone, I was expected to scarper with joy on the news. And I heard Boss To Be, with an undertone that asked why I was not.

Because we forgot we were a pawn, you see. Pawns are shifted, not asked choices. Pawns should not make gardens. Pawns should be eternally grateful, just dreaming of surviving the next move ahead, serving their Kings till they reach the last square, where, Glory Be, they might become a Piece. A Queen, even. (Because they would be impotent enough by then).

Hehhhhhhhhhh.

Non illegitimis carborundum, dear heart.

Occasionally planned series : Noveau Rasa

2006-11-12T05:14:00.000+05:30

1. Maudlin

We have often been accused of being maudlin. And the word accused is precisely what one has always sought to refute, for its derogatory undertones.

The accusatory view: Maudlin is the two bit hoe you take because you cannot afford the emotional upheavals that come with that supposed Empress of emotion, Grief. Maudlin is the calorie-free saccharine substitute for depth of feeling and the mocktail with which you salute the grand gesture.

Not so.

Glorious peaks of emotion are scaled by vivid images on bright screens. They can afford to do so because their life rewinds after 3 hours; plus, it's so much better with background music. Us mortals sit in darkened halls, rapt in attention. Then when the lights come on, all of us get up, the gorment servant to the rickshaw puller, and head home, emotions purged in vicarious satisfaction. Their struggles are not heroic; their hopes and fears do not add up to tragedy; their loves and losses, their grind and the occasional success are all merely commonplace.

Which is why they require songs of lost love, tales of courtesans with hearts of gold, stories of rich girl falling for poor boy, and such like. To clothe themselves in the fantastic, to keep out the insistent drone of reality from overwhelming them.

Maudlin is the arrack made of battery acid and drainwater that the labourer takes to remember that he is alive and forget that he would be better off dead. It is the Mills n Boon that the college girl presses to her chest to ward off the sweaty bastard trying to cop a feel in the bus, the song of love that the maid hums as she removes the debris of last night's dinner from the table and the sequence filmed in Switzerland on chiffon wrapped heroines that the garbage truck man dreams of to keep the stench out of his head.

Maudlin, dear heart, is the armour that is given to stop us from stabbing ourselves dead.

In search

2006-11-12T05:12:00.000+05:30

The late afternoon sun came in bits and pieces through the faded blue of the soft drink vinyl hoarding that served as a curtain. Outside, in the din that accompanied the evening throng of people making their way home, a bus honked tiresomely.

He reached down for her nipple, running his tongue over the hard tip of her areola before lifting his head to look at her. He half-raised himself, one hand pawing her breast, the other gripping the edge of the cot for support, thrusting rhythmically. The soft sheen of sweat on her body gave her a golden hue. She saw him looking at her through half closed lids, and moaned. Her false encouragements and the practiced wetness suddenly irritated him. Even as he thrust harder, he felt himself losing interest, and suddenly stood up. Grabbing hold of a fistful of hair, he pulled her to him and pushed himself in her mouth. She half-gasped at the suddenness, and then she had swung her legs off the bed and was making wet noises as he jammed her to his body. As suddenly, he turned her around and she was face down, on the bed again. He began licking her body, starting from the ridge between her shoulder blades, following the curve of the spine till it reached the cleft with its soft roundness at the bottom. He moved up again, easing his body over her, heavy, pressing insistently into her, still licking as he came to the nape of her neck, brushing aside her hair, soft tickles with his tongue. Even as she struggled to mould herself beneath him, he reached down, and spreading those mounds of firm softness apart, drove into her. She cried aloud at the violation, but he had her pinned down, one hand still on the cot for purchase, the other on her shoulders, pressing her down with his full weight, her whimpers muffled through the lumpy cotton mattress he ground her into. She clenched involuntarily as he gave a mighty shove, the roughness chafing him, hurting her, but she couldn’t move. He ground himself into her, welcoming the burning friction as he swivelled his hips in and out of her. He saw her in profile then, the black hair a cascading curtain behind which she cried. And then he saw nothing, the feeling starting as a velvety caress around his balls, tightening, and then progressively becoming aflame. He grunted as the flame moved upward, a hotness that seared through his bruising prick till it was a bloody release. Finally losing control, coming in spurts, half inside her, half spattering her ass that quivered involuntarily, till he ended in a dribble over her back.

He gave a deep sigh, rose and went into the bathroom, washing himself in the washbasin. He came out lighting a cigarette, and looked at her, still face down, still whimpering. He pulled on his trousers, and as he was zipping up, looked at the crumpled notes on the stool next to the bed. Reaching down into his pocket, he pulled out a couple more, and placed them there before walking out of the door.

Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes

2006-11-12T05:08:00.000+05:30

“Enduke, pichchi, he is so paapam no ?”

There was a laugh in Gowri’s voice. Lakshmi snorted. “If that much sorry, you go and talk to him”, she said. “I could murder him so easily”.

“But what did he do ? And I’ll have just one more gulab jamun. I tell you, my diet goes to hell each time I come over to your place”. Vijaysri aka Visiri, talking with her mouth full in the precise fashion she so discouraged in her kids.

“See, he asked to come on cam no ? And you have sent him pics before, so what big deal ? He did not ask for something crass, no ? Poor man, edho koncham diet cheyya oddu annadu. And you blocked him out for it.” Gowri, heaping another hot mound of rice.

“ See, I sent him pics before no ? And now I come on cam. 32 pounds, I tell you, that haircut. 32 freaking pounds, maa oorlo saloon itself you can buy with that money. Does he notice ? Does he say, hi, nice haircut ? Or even you look different today ? No, he just goes ummm and hmmm, says brb and disappears. Vedhava what went to do god knows, comes back and then says I don’t look fat. Men, I tell you!”

In Whino Veritas

2006-11-12T05:06:00.000+05:30

One cannot hope to join the elite list of bloggers, one notices, till one has written about the dreaded “writer’s block”. (All snide remarks about the remainder qualifications for being an elite blogger may be dispensed with for the nonce, please).

I thought, therefore, that we would write something suitably grave and vague. Indicating how words, wisps of insubstantial clouds languorously drifting away, now seem to be eluding one’s grasp. How language, till yesterday a slave begging for attention, seems to have turned a coquette, dancing away with laughing promises from the arms that reach out to her.

Errr. Anyway.

There was a time when misplaced pretensions to kindheartedness nearly led to an unplanned abbreviation of the allotted span. That thrilling account, complete with spine-chilling details of our intrepid ...anyway. As I was saying, we decided that what was required was a blogworthy incident. And having thus resolved, (mentally adjusting that banner with the strange device, Excelsior! (having also checked that it came with the exclamation mark)) (and having checked that our brackets match) we set out to Carpe inspiration. (Actually, to work, in the hope that there would be more of “important” meetings and less of actual-by-god crisis managing that has plagued us for the last 4-6 weeks).

Oh well. In the lift, one noticed suddenly that the fly was undone. These things happen sometimes. Did we say we were intrepid ? Add to that, suave. A mere shift of the laptop to ensure that this discovery was ours alone. The liftman was picking his teeth with a match displaying the intentness of a Leakey with a skull. Not noticed. The schoolteacher who stays 2 floors above caught our eye. She gave a bright smile. ( The bright smile teachers always give). (Before they ask all those who have not finished homework to stand up on the bench). But not the look of somebody figuring out if you are the kind of perv who flashes at women in lifts. Maybe an Incident would’ve been blogworthy, but nix non nada nothing. Maybe it was for the better.

Had a flat coming back after another exhausting day. Got out of the car, and signaled for a taxidriver from the stand nearby to come and fix the spare. In Shantaram, the hero gets all kinds of heartwarming dialogues about how India is about the heart, don’t you know, from a taxi driver. This guy merely asked for 20 bucks, grimly assented when I bummed a ciggie off him, and completed his work in silence. No dialock, no block. Rather, blog.

Sigh.

Eat, drink, sleep, work. The hundred banalities of a nondescript existence. Where is Life when you want to describe it ?

The Final Frontier

2006-09-17T10:14:00.000+05:30

When you go beyond the usual inanities of superficial conversations, you end up giving of yourself. To let go of a part of yourself, to place a piece of you in somebody else’s hands, is an admission of trust. Of surrender, if you will. And an entrée into the mind; that from now on, the other can make you happy. And have the capability to cause grief.

Of course there is a remedy. (Isn’t there, always ?)

You can cut off the part. Without the invisible, yet umbilical link of your attention, all that will remain of it is a shrivelled, desiccated memento that some will junk and others will keep in old diaries like pressed flowers, in the bottom of trunks below old sarees, forgotten jackets and books once read.

And you can forget about that chunk of you, removing forever its capacity to grieve you, hurt you. And the price to pay for that is an emptiness inside.

There are boundaries of refusal and whispers of love. And when they are broken, there emerges a yawning distance in the relationship.

The boundaries of refusal are those that limit our affections to what is possible, what is appropriate, what is real. And beyond that are the whispers of love; that promise more, that promise freedom, that promise joy. That make the relationship endure despite the refusals.

The mistake made once too often is to let people in beyond that boundary. Or go into places one shouldn’t. For once inside, the inability to fit in with the other facets of life creates a discordance, a conflict. And grief.

And a distance then ensues.

Learning not to enter other’s boundaries is the easy part. A kindly Providence that has blessed with a bland exterior , with a little help from the self in being remote, can easily ensure nobody is knocking at own gates. The mistake that has endured is the straining to hear the whispers of affection beyond the keening threnodies of the daily grind. Of imagining them from quarters unknown, and searching for their source.

Which is why when I give you a part of me, it is with a catch. Much joy may you give me; but I will not be offended by you. Or hurt.

Ever.

And those sneering in the head, those who talk of ersatz affections, can hear their voices resound in the emptiness inside.

Cognitive Dissonance

2006-08-27T21:24:00.000+05:30

I searched for an avenue of escape, even for 5 minutes. I touched the pack in the pocket of the kurta, checked that the all important light was there too. Nodding and smiling politely to the assorted people prattling about the weather and the arrangements, I gently sneaked off to a corner and yes … there was a cubby hole behind the stage. I went into the room, and found it was a sort of office. Went behind a cupboard, and there was a window. Fished the pack out, and lit up.

One of those weddings one is expected to attend. The girl was a daughter of one of the workers. “Well settled”, said the proud father. I had done the usual namaskaars and the congratulations, and posed for the obligatory photograph. The blinding, hot light of the video was irritating, but the usual gift and bouquet were duly handed over and accepted with the forced, tired smile that the groom and girl usually sport on these occasions.

I puffed in sheer relief, and wondered how soon I could go for the buffet and make a dignified exit. Suddenly, from the other side of the cupboard, I heard a shuffle. Someone else in the room, probably making a call or something, I thought. Then came the unmistakable sound of a match being struck. I waited a moment or so, and came out from behind the cupboard ; face to face with the girl.

She still wore the heavy silk saree, and for a moment, her features tightened in pure shock. I looked at her hand, with the cigarette just lit, and at her panicked face, and smiled. Careful, I said gently. You’ll burn a hole in that saree. The incongruity of the situation struck her then, and she smiled helplessly. I don’t smoke that much, she said, holding the stick away from her saree carefully. I’m sure, I said. How are things ?

She smiled. “New Jersey”, she said. “I am a biochemist”. I said nothing, just looked at her hair, bolstered with an ornate scaffolding of bamboo sticks on which was laid a tapestry of flowers. She laughed and laid it carefully on a table. “God, this thing weighs a ton. It’ll pull my head off ”, she said, flicking the ash into the rolled up paper cone I was using. “This…” I said. “Faking it”, she said, with a glint in her eye. I laughed.

“It’s just a week, then we are off again”. “The gent…” I ventured. “Online matrimonial, properly arranged and all”, she smiled. “But he’s cool, we have spoken and mailed each other, he’s in the US too”.

The music outside changed, indicating the next step in the sequence was about to begin. “I must go”, she said. I handed her a breath mint and she smiled. “Biochemist and aadapadachu, believe it. Thanks”, she said. Out of the blue, I heard myself saying “ I blog, believe it”. Her eyes widened, then twinkled. I do, she said, and scurried off.

I made the usual farewell noises, and pressed my host to go ahead with looking after the ceremonies. Waved to the groom, poor harassed soul, and looked at the stage. She was demurely sitting in a wicker basket, being handed over to her new family. There was a flash of the girl I’d met in her eyes, and then she nodded a goodbye.

Every Day Is A Whining Road

2006-08-26T18:15:00.000+05:30

Meeting. Long. So we do what we always do : free-associate.

Sometimes you're better off dead
There's gun in your hand and it's pointing at your head
You think you're mad, too unstable
Kicking in chairs and knocking down tables
In a restaurant in a West End town
….
Too many shadows, whispering voices
Faces on posters, too many choices
If, when, why, what?
How much have you got?
.....

West End Girls
__________________
Saw your picture on a poster in a café out in Phoenix
Guess you’re still the sweetheart of the rodeo
As for me and little Casey, we still make the circuit
In a one horse trailer and a mobile home
And she still asks about you all the time
And I guess we never even cross your mind

But, Oh sometimes I think about you...
____________________________
mmmmm

and in the whisper, a plea.

A solitary flame.... but this lady would prefer even that to what she feels.

But ....

And when drowning in passion ...

Mere Sanam .....

In my name...

Flee this sadness then ...

Yesudas singing about the one irretrievable mistake ...

Of course. Happier times lie ahead ...

Songs of happiness ? Mmmmm. He had a different opinion.

Song sung blue
Weeping like a willow
Song sung blue
Sleeping on my pillow

Funny thing, but you can sing it with a cry in your voice
And before you know it, start to feeling good
You simply got no choice

But singing it is not so easy. One has grown used to keeping things to oneself ...

Which is why one doesn't allow the heart to address itself much ...

But these people who met with such passion ... it dims. And that is something difficult to come to terms with.

Sometimes late at night you'll still call me
Just before you close your eyes to sleep
You make me vow to try and stop by sometime
Baby that's a promise I can't keep.

Promises have to be kept, however. Especially if the entreaties are as beguiling as this.

Will have to respond ... provided, of course, that one is called for. Maybe you too, are waiting for an opportunity, just as the other is waiting for that call ...

And this person, who is so awaited, permeating every crevice of the mind ...

Hehhhh. These chains of the mind ...

Ohh yes, the meeting's over, and things are getting be'er 'n be'er.

: )

Laters, people.

I've been swimming in a sea of anarchy
I've been living on coffee and nicotine
I've been wondering if all the things I've seen
Were ever real, were ever really happening

Vignettes of home

2006-08-15T00:27:00.000+05:30

(A ramble in many parts. Prelude, and then here earlier).

That bridge near Tonk Phatak, where in the winter little children blew out small puffs of vapour, like dialogue balloons in comic strips. And ran behind the overladen tempos groaning up the bridge, pulling out radishes, fresh, pungent.

That last row of books in that dusty basement library, next to the Woodlands, where much coveted membership was restricted only to the school holidays. And where one hot summer holiday, we finished all the Macleans, one after the other.

The house near the District Library in Dwarka Nagar. Where the eldest embarrassed all of us by giving directions like “You know the Oasis Bar ? Ok, it’s second house on the second left from there”, where the more staid landmark would have been Diamond Park. But then, she was always that way.

And the cinema street in that beautiful city, named after that stone theatre in the middle. Where once, in order to celebrate the first time away from parents ever, Wild Geese II, followed by Silkwood. And just for the heck of it, a Kannada movie immediately after. Though one came out feeling slightly green after that. So that every time that place is revisited, we think of Meryl Streep asking if one was huchcha.

Salisbury Park, Gidney Park, old world cantonments, pretty girls in Deccan, Aurora Towers and Ten Downing Street and LB Road, all subsumed in memories so bitter that the abiding memory still remains of the final stretch of nearly vertical slope on that famous fort. Where burning muscles asked if there was any point in going through all this, before the bliss of cold coffee on top regenerated both rebellious thoughts and limbs.

God’s own country, where the evening run ended in a steaming cup of Horlicks on a bench near Priyadarshini park, ostensibly watching the mammoth tankers leave the channel, but actually waiting for that particular girl who worked at the Taj to catch the evening ferry back home. To see her stop at the same bench everyday, make pretence of having a breather, whereas what she actually did was to swap her dainty heels for sensible flats slipped out from her bag.

That stretch of the Western Ghats, where once a daily run consisted of going up the whimsically named hill, and sitting in solitary peace on the edge of nothingness. Till a blue coloured Udayan Express chugged its way out a tunnel in the hill, an oddly coloured rabbit, pregnant with sweaty hawkers selling 100 year calendars, pocket diaries with a goddess on one front cover and Madhuri Dixit on the back, and key chains.

That beautiful stepped path, a relic of colonial times, starting ahead of Nayantara Sehgal’s house below. And going on through achingly beautiful stretches of moss covered stone. And just before Jharipani was it, that moss covered stretch ending in a turn, where a sudden gap in the trees showed the Bahai temple below.

That computer lab in the slave camp turned educational institution. Where we worked and played and sometimes did both, obscure programs for gridding irregular objects interspersed with shooting monsters that oozed green, gelatinous slime before vaporizing when shot with the BFG.

That lonely stretch of the marshes in the arid, baking land, the stench of the salt pans, though the delicate pink of the flamingos that come there will now forever be associated with the bloodletting that effectively erased all traces of the spectacled man who once came from those parts.

And the allegedly Maximum City. Hideously, graspingly wannabe and wretched, like an aged crone wearing rouge. Over the years, I have grown to understand some of its compulsions, some its drives, maybe even reconciled to them. Affection ? We’ll pass.

To the homeless, every place is truly home. Shorn of a place to identify ourselves with, we call ourselves Indian.

Happy birthday, home.

Yeh Tera Ghar, Yeh Mera Ghar

2006-08-12T18:14:00.000+05:30

What is home, actually ?

The standard reply, of course, is that it where the heart is. Is it really so ? And that heart, it is transferable? You put it into a family, a friend, and it is packed and ready to go? And what happened to the home in this place ? Is it the same home that you carry?

We are all pragmatists, by physical constraints if not by choice. We may yodel out songs to the contrary, but we do not step off balconies believing we can fly, or touch the sky. That being so, a perennial search for comfort, physical and mental, means that we can make a home almost anywhere.

Almost, of course, being a big word. For example, almost everyone, from sweatshop programmer to behind –the-scenes wheeler-dealer, probably made a good living and more out of, say, Paveway. Except of course, that “almost” left out the wailing mothers and crippled children in a desolate country. Who cried not at the loss of the dead, but at the reality that the dead were probably better off.

But we digress. So almost any place can be home. And thinking over it, more than one place can be home. All the places that were home remain so. In the mind, as reality makes us stay near one home at a time. Several of those homes now only remain in the mind, because the places have re-invented themselves, and who knows, are now in the processes of becoming home to different people now.

Mere comfortable eating-sleeping places like hotel rooms cannot become home. Because their very easy adherence to your demands ensures that neither do they leave an impression on you and nor do you stamp your persona on them. In the end, home is the place where you make your own, which leaves an imprint on your persona.

Which of course, deviates from another common notion of home: as being a place that claims you. That accepts you, where you return to. In more fanciful days, one scribbled “Home is where there is a soul/ silently grieving with a me shaped hole”. But that was mere rhyming indulgence. Because people who claim to have me-shaped holes do so with a slightly discomfited air, as if abashed at the implicit admission that life goes on. That the holes are now stopped with the essential inanities of living, with TV serials about illicit affairs of bejewelled socialites.

(to be continued...)

The Lull in the Storm

2006-08-06T21:46:00.000+05:30

It's been stormy outside. And yet we have the peaceful, easy feeling.

Went on the hill to find Nature imitating bad angst-ridden prose, seeking the twisted satisfaction of self-mutilation. Trees had huge branches ripped off;some of the younger trees themselves were uprooted. The wind keened continually, but like the dessicated paroxysms of the hurt-too-often, the rain came only in short bursts.

It is a day to sit and revel in the shrouded silence around us; a day to be spent listening to disembodied voices on the phone, till the phone ran out of juice. No charger meant that the silence took hold again, enveloping.

So one listens to Mahendra Kapoor singing

Aaj puraanii raahon se, koi mujhe aawaaz na de

dard mein doobe geet na de, gham ka sisakta saaz na de

And who are we to disobey such a clarion call ?

So we cut short the couple of poems that were germinating in the head, and instead are content with a lazy set of lines ....

Separate Lives

2006-07-29T07:00:00.000+05:30

One life (ordained at birth)
given short shrift; generic.
Like a million others on earth.

One life (by work ordained)
Different only from the old one
In the details by which constrained.

One life (fonts on screens, yours, mine)
Validated by Sitemeter, comments, readers.
With rants, raves, (often a whine).
Unconstrained, hence favoured with an extra line.

Revisited

2006-07-23T06:43:00.000+05:30

He stopped at the entrance, an unpretentious brownstone. They had to be discreet, he thought, what with attacks on the TimeTravel clinics bringing back memories of the attacks on the cloning research institutes of yore. A drunk lounged at the entrance. He dropped a coin into his tin, and the drunk’s words followed him:

“Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know
Through the world we safely go”

Loser, he thought. Went in, registered at the reception. Signed forms that stated he had read reams of small print. Listened as the flight stewardess went through the motions. “ You shall arrive at the time you were prescribed”, she droned. “Please remember that you shall arrive with no knowledge of the future. Your first knowledge of this trip will be when you have the opportunity to choose it again. This is mandated by the present laws. Have a pleasant life as you redraw it and do visit us again”. She smiled and he savagely thought “Not if I can help it, idiot”. He had taken a lot of care in choosing the precise point of time he wanted to go back to. Old enough for maturity and young enough to have a lot of potential mistakes ahead of him. Some of the choices were still not so clear to him, of course. But others? Oh, the others. The friend who went out of touch. The criminal hesitation in telling her. The utterly needless outburst that wrote off his career. Oh, there were a lot of things he’d redo totally.

He felt the snap of the restraints as they clamped him into the chair. The descending darkness, and then oblivion.

He stopped at the entrance, an unpretentious brownstone. They had to be discreet, he thought, what with attacks on the TimeTravel clinics bringing back memories of the attacks on the cloning research institutes of yore. A drunk lounged at the entrance. He dropped a coin into his tin… and déjà vu struck him. Had he really repeated every single step? The drunk cackled “Here’s a free one for you, pal”:

“With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And thereof the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.”

Mechanically, he dropped a coin into the box and tried to grasp what he’d just heard. Even as he turned away and began slowly to retrace his steps, the drunk’s words arrested him:-

“Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.”

And suddenly, he was smiling, then laughing aloud as he walked away.

Sacrifice

2006-07-16T13:03:00.000+05:30

The man wiped his forehead and looked at the mountain in the distance. The heat was sapping. He was secretly surprised at his own lack of internal conflict. Did it in some way reflect upon his own humanity ?

The man wiped his forehead, and saw the milling crowds, the evening rush. The heat was sapping. He was secretly surprised at his own lack of internal conflict. Did it in some way reflect upon his own humanity? Then the anticipation of atavistic satiety of bloodlust came upon him, and he joined in.

He looked at his son, the promised one. At the embodiment of hopes and dreams; some the child’s, some his mothers, some his own. And knew that one sweep of his arm would bring it all to an end. And found that predominantly, his emotion was one of righteous pride, that he had been tested and not found wanting.

He looked at the children rushing, the crowd both uncaring and roughly pushing them into the safety of the jammed interior from the footboard. The first class compartment had its share of the fresh-faced junior executives, trying to retain a composed demeanour amongst the rush trying to ensure their shirts were not creased too much. And found that predominantly, his emotion was one of righteous pride, that he had been tested and not found wanting.

…

The waiting was over. He lifted his hand, and in a fell swoop, scythed through the air, ready for that spurt of blood from the throat that would paint him in shades of the Believer forever … when an angel’s hand stopped him.

The waiting was over. He had placed the bag in the first class compartment, and his watch told him the synchronised moment was at hand. He lifted his hand, and taking out a mobile, punched the numbers of the mobile that was in the bag, that had been modified to act as a remote detonator.

Then and now.

Which is why I say to these people, get yourself a reality check. Every religion asks for sacrifice. You can argue all you want about the Knight of Infinite Resignation being a precursor to the Knight of Faith : in reality, there is no angel to ensure a happy ending.

And while at it, spare us your jingoistic “kill all the bastards” tirades. If your sole solace lies in drumming up “us versus them” patriotic fervour, you have lost already. For “ Kill all the bastards” is what the other side is advocating anyway.

Repeat, slowly after me : There is *no* big picture. There is *no* fucking Man/Woman/Thing Up Above, *no* fucking idea that is worth one bloody corpse consisting of assorted body parts wrapped in a tarpaulin in a municipal morgue.

That includes all of *our* ideas as well as *theirs*.

Remission

2006-07-10T23:11:00.000+05:30

Of course there are moments of blinding clarity. When you see, with great precision, exactly what is happening. But they are few, and thankfully, despite their grasping, it is easy to let them go. Not throw them out, of course. For there is nothing forceful about the process.

You just have to relax, face the fact that the large eyes in the pinched face are yours, that the collection of unrinsed bottles coupled with a single glass means that you have been drinking alone, again.

This Man Won't Watch The World Cup

2006-07-08T23:00:00.000+05:30

The cousins had been chattering through the night, following coverage of the previous day’s incidents on TV. His English wasn’t quite as good yet, but he got the gist. It was Friday, and he was a bit late in waking up. He rushed through his showering and dressing. No time to shave, could do that later. He had to go and install that fire detector. He wondered if he should call Avi, and decided that it would be better if he called en route. At least he could say he was on his way. He hoped yesterday’s incidents would not delay him.

He was reasonably at home in this country. Since he was a kid, he had been determined that he would climb his way out of the slums. Not by football, as so many of his mates dreamed. He used to love the game, like them, but he knew that not everybody would be a Ronaldo to rise from the slums through football. He ground his way through a diploma, and landed up here following cousins with similar dreams. He sent money back home. He knew the parents needed it, though he sometimes was angry as what he saw as their grasping. They knew little of his life; how he was technically an illegal immigrant, how he had to scrape and save. He went to Church regularly. An occasional blowout at a pub was all he allowed himself, and even the football he restricted to watching on TV. Three years, he told himself. Three years, and he would have enough to go back on a holiday, with some money. And who knew ? If he could, he would buy that ranch and settle there.

He caught the bus at Tulse Hill, and got down at Brixton. The station was closed, damn. Probably yesterday’s result. He hopped onto the bus again, and got down at Stockwell. He stopped momentarily to pick up a free newspaper, and heard the train. Running easily, he used his Oyster Card to pass through the turnstile, and boarded the train. He sat down, and began to open the sports page. He had to practice his English.

The man at the left suddenly was yelling, and holding his arms. Oh my god, it’s a white gang, he thought. Even as he attempted to rise, he was thrown on the floor, and he tried to twist. His face was being ground into the floor. He heard a shout : Police. Polizei, he thought. Safe. But what if they asked his papers ? And ohh FUCK, Avi was going to howl him out for being late on the job.

The first bullet shocked him. He felt the blinding pain and the wetness in his shoulder. In the split second before the remaining six started their journey into his head, it flashed in his head, “But I thought I BELONG here".

_________________________________________

Material from here, here and here.

The Fight Club

2006-07-01T21:07:00.000+05:30

The scene unfolds, as it has done several times before, in disjointed, disconnected pieces. The fluster of checking tickets, of checking that the train is on time, of howling at the driver who has elected to push off for a cuppa at this time: it is almost welcome. There have been the usual spats over the last weeks. As a family, we are rarely shy of pronouncing our judgements, usually disapproving, over each other’s lives. But the fights have lacked the passion of old; the fighting and the making up compressed into too short a timeframe. Thank god for the kids, says the youngest in a moment of candour. They fight much more freely, and make up much more easily, than us. The spouses stand a tad apart, not used in their families to anything apart from conventional handshakes and some tears during goodbyes.

So we fill in the awkward moments with terse comments. Eat your pickle with curd, I tell the eldest. Better still, forgo it. And I tell the second to smile more in photographs. It helps hide the double chin. The eldest gives me quite a painful knock on the head: her habit of reacting with visceral violence towards any discomfort hasn’t left her in all these years. The second says stupididiotretard without either a pause or rancour. The youngest, as usual, looks defocused and vague. Mail me those songs, she says. And do you have a book for the journey ? I like salt and pepper, by the way. But you are losing hair faster than you are greying. Maybe you should try henna.

We each have lives that are so far removed from each other that we do not even peripherally impinge on the others’ consciousness. Sometimes, it is easy to tell oneself that it is only the mother and the grandmother who actually retain those bonds. For the rest, objectively, we are a disparate lot who happened to spend a childhood together. It is easy, and one tells oneself, it is true. Except for moments like these, when suddenly the second sniffles and we all look askance at this aberration.

The straying driver is back, and we are all loaded up and ready to roll. A last round of handshakes amongst the spouses, and we are off. The youngest comes hesitantly forward, and we hug. For just that moment, she holds on instead of letting go, and I do not disengage either. Go, orders the eldest with some roughness, and reaches out for her with a protective, if heavy, hand.

Thank God it is getting over, mother says loudly to one of the menfolk. Look at their ages, and they still fight with each other everyday. I look at them, and like a camera shutter in slow motion, the driver rolls up the tinted glass with a whir. The image blurs, and then disappears as he drives on.

Idol Musings

2006-06-29T23:39:00.000+05:30

He was consumed, lost. Permeating every part of him, saturating every facet of his persona, ruling mind and body and consciousness, it was a feeling that brooked no caution, which heeded no voices of a sanity he had never placed much value on. Beyond the insecurities and the needs to want and need and be wanted and needed, lay the opportunity to just feel and revel in richness of emotion. A splendour that rendered labels like happy or sad irrelevant. The days began at unusual hours; they ended at unearthly ones. And still he grudged those hours that were given as a tithe to death, sleep that only served to wipe clean the canvas in his head of the vivid landscapes that he had been drawing.

Of course it was doomed from the start. His very intensity, which he claimed was a talisman, was more likely an attempt to live every last moment of what he subconsciously knew was an ephemeral experience. His proclaimed madness was no protection from the inevitable. For there are no protections from the shackles of life. Not even the dulcet tones of Goddesses can drown out the cacophony without. Not even a Goddess’ beguiling tresses can prolong the night; prevent the harsh rays of daylight from dessicating the soul.

And his faith in Goddesses was shaken, even destroyed by this. He had thrown his lot in with the all encompassing, donned armour against the mundane, found something that was beyond the purview of the ordinary. But Reality, that ugly beast, with its fetid breath of the daily trials, sank its fangs into him. And now, he is not just bereft of his erstwhile Goddess; he is bereft of the hope that one exists, that there is an escape from the pressing inanities that constitute an existence, that there are Goddesses who will not betray.

Which is why he ignores the proffered glass with its dancing lights, and says “Uhhh, I think I’ll have fruit juice”.

CultureShock

2006-06-17T23:57:00.000+05:30

We are on holiday with the family, in one of the more hoity toity residential complexes in Bangalore. After I gently pointed out during a shopping trip that custom-made dresses from Abdul the tentmaker would suit certain girths more, I have been relegated to babysitting the kids : 6 girls and a boy ranging from 4-10. So this morning, after the Mall Marauders had left, we sat down to read a novel, but were continually interrupted by brawls in the brat pack. As usual, there were the “this a 3 person game but there are 5 to play” and the “I want to be first to do ****** what ever game” issues, with shifting loyalties and factions that would put Bhajan Lal to shame. Look here lads and ladies, says I. We are NOT getting into this, so kindly resolve or perish, since we shall lock away everything in nature of a toy or a game. (The BratPack treats me with digital logic : disdain generally and utter fear when we stop snarling and talk in honeyed tones).

Upon which we came upon a ritual that really, really grated. This consisted of the affected personnel standing around and reciting a word for each person something that went like this

“My Mommy asked me to choose the very best person here and you are not it.”

The “it” , of course , based on context, could be the winner (first to play with toy) or the loser (out of the game). We stuck through two rounds of this, and then proposed a desi substitute. This was welcomed with extreme enthusiasm : so much so that the selection process was voted more attractive than the toys and games.

The victorious army rang up to say that they were returning for lunch, so we took the brat pack to meet them below. As we were waiting for the lift, the familiar squabble over who would press the lift buttons began. Before I could slink away, the Brat pack began the desi selection process I had taught them , with the most phoren of accents.

(known translations appended : any Tams reading may want to contribute more insights).

Biscuit biscuit (start)

Enna biscuit ? (what biscuit ?)

Jaam biscuit (Jam biscuit.)

Enna Jaam ? (what jam ?)

Ko Jaam (No idea.)

Enna ko ? (what ko ?)

Tea ko (No idea.)

Enna tea ? (what tea)

Rotti (Rotti== Tam roti==bread. Pun)

(as opposed to borota==paratha)

Enna rotti (What rotti, what bread)

Bun rotti (Hot cross buns, anyone ?)

Enna bun ? (What bun ?)

Ribbon (Rib-bun pun, geddit ?)

Enna Ribbon ? (What ribbon)

Pachai ribbon (Green ribbon)

Enna pachai ? (Which green ?)

Ma pachchai (Ma green ?, but actually parrot green)

Enna ma ? (What ma ?)

Upma (Wokkay, not MY idea of a pun, but…)

Enna uppu ? (What salt ?)

Ration uppu (Salt was once sold in ration shops ? No idea)

Enna ration ? (what ration ?)

Pie ration (Pie : Cloth bag, gen with grocer’s names and pictures of deities on it. Bag ration :- sugar, rice etc as opposed to tin ration that was oil, kerosene etc)

Enna pie ? (what Pie ?)

THOPPAI! (Thoppai : rude term for tummy. Accompanied by a poke in the guts to chosen one).

Family cringed. Assorted passers by clung to each other for support on hearing such low-class language spoken in these hallowed portals. Lift attendant looked ready to press alarm buttons.

Guess what ? I no longer have to baby sit. Not the brat pack, at least. I only have to sit with the driver during the shopping now. Oh well, except for a tendency to play “Jhalak Dikhlaaja” ad nauseam, the reading environment is good.

Bawi Remembered

2006-06-16T11:43:00.000+05:30

Went out at six (which is a time for the religious freaks to display their wares in say, Chennai, and the fitness freaks to display theirs in South Bombay) and called a cab. South Bombay was pretty much unaffected. That was my first warning that something was amiss. “Saare flight cancelled hai saab”, he said.” TV pe bola hai”. The hell with it, I thought. Let me reach the airport, and then we’d see. He took off, avoiding the Causeway. “Traffic jam hai akkha sheher mein”, he said. “ Kya baarish aayela hai saab, kal poora janta office me hi so gaya”. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation; I let him ramble on, tuned out. We seemed to make pretty good time, and I idly mused on how the roads were empty, bless the State for declaring a holiday. I returned to earth with a jerk: we’d been standing at the light for more than five minutes. “What happened?” I asked the driver. He shrugged and waved a hand out: the road ahead was jammed with bumper to bumper traffic. Oh well, I thought, we are almost at Bandra. Might as well catch a snooze. Woke up half an hour later, to find we hadn’t moved an inch. The cabbie was out of the car, calmly smoking. I stepped out. “We’ll reach by about 5”, he said. I didn’t get it, at first. Then it struck me. Five? “ Its only half past eight now!”, I said. “And just fifteen minutes to the airport from here!” He shrugged. See these cars, he said. They’ve been here since last evening. I muttered a foul imprecation or two. Paid him off, and dragged suitcase to the pavement. Slung the laptop around my neck and studied the situation. Linking Road, it seemed like. Looked around, saw the McDonalds sign. Pushing aside my intrinsic dislike of this symbol of crass American domination, I walked in. “ The place is shut”, the guy said. Give me a cup of coffee, I begged. “Where are you going?” he asked. “ Airport”, I said. He looked at me as if I were insane. “Don’t you know all the flights are cancelled? ”, he said. I was tired of people trying to stop me getting to the airport. “ A cup of coffee is all”, I said. “ And could you please give me a big plastic bag while you are at it?”. He seemed to start to say something, and then thought the better of it. He made some sign to a guy inside, and went in, presumably to get the bag. The guy inside brought a cup of coffee. (Twenty bucks for a insipid latte. I mean, these Yanks are thieves). Again, an unspoken communication between them. “ You’ll have to walk, you know”, he said. “ Yeah, I intend to”, I said. I had no intention of going back to South Bombay. If nothing else, maybe I could ogle at the airhostesses passing time between delayed flights. That’s when I saw her. She came out into the drizzle, and blinked at me. “ Sawhney”, she said. A high pitched chirp that instantly brought to mind Mrs Philips, my very first teacher. I looked around. She did mean me. “Sawhney, you going to the airport?” Bawi, I thought. Typical bawi lady, that indeterminate age after 40. Small built. Naturally querulous. High pitched voice. “Yes”, I said. “ Moddom is going to the airport too, sah”, muttered the guy. The other shuffled his feet. “So if you could help her too...”. I looked at her and cursed inwardly. Nursemaiding a crusty bawi lady through water and traffic for a couple of hours did not stand exactly at the top of my list of 10 things I always wished to do. “Here, give that to me”, she said, pointing to the laptop. “Thanks, it isn’t any trouble”, I said. She reached over and yanked it off my shoulders. I sighed and picked up my soft suitcase, thanking my stars that it was as light as it could’ve possibly been for a five day tripMaybe bawi would be a help, after all. Thank god for the meek, I told myself. And they don’t get meeker than bawi. “You can help with this”, she said, and I nearly keeled over. She had a gargantuan suitcase. I watched myself being handed over the suitcase by friend Shufflefeet with a sort of out of the body detachment. Mumbleface seemed to be solicitously enquiring whether bawi wanted some biscuits or a cup of tea to speed her on the way. I noticed that they didn’t waste any sympathy on me. The next thing I knew, I was lugging two suitcases through knee deep water, with bawi huffing and panting. Meek, I told myself. Meek. Think Tata. Meek, for god’s sake. Two heavy suitcases : my own seemed to grow in weight in a sort of sympathy with hers.

I looked at her . Petite. Generous sprinkling of the salt in the hair. She threw a sidelong glance at my inspection and seemed to decide that small talk was called for. “So, how old are you?” she asked. Old enough to know better, I thought. “Feeling tired, aunty?” I said, deftly sidestepping it. “Married”. It was a statement rather than a question. Silence. “Where are you going?” I told her. “Ohhh, madraasi??” she chirruped. I resisted the impulse to throw both the suitcases at her head. “No” I replied curtly. Then, not satisfied, “Not madraasi, bawi”. “Bawi?” she asked, raised eyebrow and all. “ Bawi, Parsi aunty”, I told her. There, that should shut her up. She seemed to consider a reply, then decided against it. . The damn roads were knee to thigh deep in water, and I couldn’t even put the accursed cases down to give my aching shoulders and arms a rest.

Miraculously, a solitary pan shop seemed to be open. I attempted to take a detour to the roadside. She seemed to divine my intentions almost instantly. “Where to?” she asked, in the precise tones that Mrs Philip used to such devastating effect all those years ago. I am no longer 5 years old, I wanted to say. Instead, I just raised two fingers to my lips. It was a complex manoeuvre that involved shifting of both suitcases to one hand for the moment. “No cigarettes”, she said, with a certainty that made me bristle. “Maybe you should try it too, bawi”, I told her. “Good for the system in the rain”. “My Fersi told me it’s bad especially in the rains”, she said. I trudged on, not having the energy for a contest of wills. I did not even want to ask who this Fersi was, and what appellation he answered to in the normal world. Nothing interested me except for the fact that the water level seemed to be rising. It was almost hip level for me, and the lady seemed to be having a bad time. Not that it dimmed her enthusiasm or curiosity, though. “ Know where we are going?” , she asked. I turned deliberately obtuse. “The airport, Bawi”, I said with obvious effort. “ No, sawhney, I was asking if you know the way” , she asked. No, I don’t, I wanted to tell her. I am just taking this route to see if I can drown you in a convenient street. “Yes”, I said, wanting to expend no superfluous energy. Ahead, some volunteers were distributing hot tea. We stepped up, and were handed blissfully steaming paper cups. I tossed mine off in a gulp and started drinking a second one, wishing like hell that I had a cigarette to go with it. She glared at me over her cup. “ Don’t take extra” she went, in loud voice that made me cringe as other commuters glanced my way. “So many poor people out here, coming from far far in the city”. None more than me, I wanted to say. Look at them, all THEY are doing is trudging back home after a day of being stranded. I, on the other hand, have a control freak with a loud voice and a heavy suitcase. The tea over, we started again. And so did she, in her singsong voice. “ So, tell me which route you are taking”. I sighed. “Look, we started from Linking road, right? So now here we go, we are heading into Santa Cruz, and we’ll now go on to Station Road. Cross on the over bridge to the east and hit the highway in a short while. Walk along that and we should be at the airport… do you know this portion of Bombay?” I asked. “No”, she replied with perfect equanimity, “just checking, that’s all”. I gave her a long steady look, but it didn’t faze her in the least.

She moved on to other pastures. “Know anybody in this part of the town?” , she asked. I was still smarting from her previous sally. “Mmm”. “ Who is it?” “ A girl, Bawi”, I said in a tone that brooked no further questions… or so I thought. “Is she pretty?” , she asked. I said nothing, just concentrating on shutting her insistent tones out. “And you married and all”, she said in accusatory tones. I turned, and found her watching me. “Bawi” I began. “ If you don’t watch the road, you are going to fall into a gutter as filthy as your mind”. “ Men”, she sniffed. “All the same”. “Your Fersi too?” , I asked maliciously. She pretended not to hear.

I decided two could play at this game. “Were you pretty, bawi?”, I asked. “ Hah, what do you know”, she said. But a quick glance told me she blushed. I wiped some more rain off my face with an awkward heave of my shoulders. I was beginning to enjoy this now. “That’s a nice dress you’re wearing, bawi”, I said. Sunflower prints on a pastel blue. I reflected on what a sight we’d make. A sprightly old lady and a sore, tired, middle-aged man. “You tired?” she asked, doing some sidestepping of her own. “ Bawi, I used to lift weights”, I told her. “And anyway, this is airline baggage, right? Can’t be more than 15 kgs. Mine is just twelve. I used to lift fifteen all the time.” “Mine is 17”, she said calmly. “ How can that be?” I spluttered. When I’d taken a borderline 14 plus once, they ran it twice just to be sure. “ I brought it on the way here too”, she said. “I just asked them nicely and they let me”. I’m sure they did, I thought. There’s a bunch of us born every minute. “ If it’s too heavy for you…” she said. “ No problem”, I rasped. I wondered what the penalty for killing chirrupy old ladies was. “Strong man you are”, she wheedled. I smiled, and regretted my outburst. “No problem, bawi”, I said, more kindly this time. After all, it wasn’t her fault . And what could I do, give her the suitcase to carry ?

We crossed the bridge and hit the highway. Or rather, went on the road towards the highway, to find the water almost reaching to my chest. There was no way I could get her across this. “Let’s go back, bawi”, I said. For the first time, she turned back silently, without a protest at the half kilometre back. We hit the overbridge again, and went into Santa Cruz station. I kept walking on, without an explanation. She gave me a few questioning looks, but decided I was too near breaking point to push. We reached the end of the platform and went on to the tracks. I started walking along the tracks. She followed, and started walking on the stony track. We went a couple of hundred yards, and she stumbled. I quickly reached out to steady her. Or rather, as quickly as a suitcase in either hand would allow. She leaned against me for a moment, and continued for just that fraction beyond the strictly necessary. In that moment, my heart went out to her. How difficult it must be for her, I thought. “Are you OK, aunty?” I asked her, with as much genuine concern as I could put into my voice. She straightened up immediately and I could almost hear her spine clicking into place. “Don’t you worry about your bawi”, she said, and despite the forced cheer, it heartened me. “Look, bawi”, I said. “We’ll get off the tracks”. She looked around at a loss, till I pointed out to her the minute openings in the bushes that lined the sides of the tracks. I set off for the nearest opening, went and stood at the opening. Showed her the path that ran down. She took it gratefully, both the downward slope and the firm ground instead of the gravel. We went through the tenements and onto the road again. The road was much better here, with almost no water except a slow current lapping around our ankles. Soon enough, we were just at the base of the climb to the airport. Her talk became more animated, but it no longer grated. I thought it over, and realized that the root cause of my irritation was her madraasi remark. Let it go, I thought. While the basic premise of unthinking (and wrong) branding rankled, I knew now that it did not contain the usual element of unstated bigotry. She’s a bawi lady, for god’s sake. How much would she know? Just then, we overtook a couple of leggy lasses, headway hampered as much by their baggage as their oh-so-dainty flipflops. Just my luck, I thought. I would’ve walked behind these legs all the way from Colaba, and here I am with a feisty bawi for company. Just after we crossed them, however, a car stopped, and a kind Samaritan leaned out and asked us to get in. Score one for the bawis, I told myself. When it comes to the sympathy stakes, leggy lasses don’t come near them in the charts. Just a couple of hundred meters upslope, and we pulled into the foyer. “My people will be here”, she said, even as we thanked the guy. I picked up the suitcases, and loaded it into a blessed trolley. It felt good to be pushing that load on wheels after the two and half hour trek in the rain. I looked up and saw her, peering into the milling chaos. Searching for “her people”, as she called them. Then they were upon her in a rush.

I felt vaguely disoriented. I felt a sort of dissonance between the sights and sounds around me and stared. A bunch of hearty Punjabis. “ Bibi, tussi mobile kitthe? “ one guy bellowed. Others howled in equally concerned Punjabi Hindi dialects. She seemed to be replying to all of them simultaneously. She’d started at six, and no, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, their going off to some holiday over the weekend was perfectly fine with her. She’d have met up with them at the airport in due course anyway. Yes, she’d caught a cab. No, the road was still jammed. Yes, the roads were horrible, waterlogged. No, she was fine, really fine. And she hadn’t left her luggage anywhere, there was a nice man who’d helped her. She turned, and suddenly stepped out of the group and walked up to me. There was a roguish glint in her eye. “Not bawi”, she said. “Just a mini size Punjaaban”. Even as I stood, she made as if to lift her massive suitcase out of the trolley, and the rest were on her. Laughing, their fears for her dissipated. Chiding her for trying to lift the suitcase. Thanking me profusely for helping her. The tallest asked me whether I’d join in with them. They were hauling her off a nearby hotel, he said. They’d already booked rooms and all. A warm bath and some food inside would revive her. “ Kitti chupchup si ho gayi hai”, he said. I smothered a laugh. The tallest looked concerned. You’re coughing, he said, sure you won’t join us? I refused politely, even as he laid a proprietary arm on me and led me to a side. He unscrewed a flask and pressed it into my hand. Have it , he said. I took a sip, thinking it would be some hot coffee or tea, and nearly gagged as a generous shot of whiskey nearly went in the wrong way. Just thanks, he said, smiling. He’d already “managed” at the hotel, wink wink. Some distance away, the group yelled at him. They were already piling into the car. “ Oye pappa, chetthi kariin”, howled out a cute little girl, must’ve been all of ten. “ Aayajiii”, he screamed back in return, forcing another searing sip into me. “ Fersi”, he explained, pointing to the girl. We both thanked each other effusively. Then, as he left, I asked him something. He gave me a searching look, and then replied. He then hurried up to the car, and got in, starting the engine and gunning it in.

As the car pulled away, she leant out, as I knew she would. She waved frantically. I waved back, feeling absurdly uplifted. I rolled over the words he’d said. G’bye, bawi. Ajj dil khush kar ditta.

The Final Refuge

2006-06-09T22:30:00.000+05:30

I fled from you into welcome oblivion's arms.
But dancing lights in glass, the clink of ice;
reminiscent of that very voice, those very eyes,
are fatal flaws imbued in this escape's charms.

In solitude, we are but shackled slaves of your grace.
So by loud company, in raucous crowds we sought
to banish you, to free ourselves from thought.
But we still see glimpses of you in every face.

The very air that I breathe isn't free
from disturbing traces of your omnipresence.
For your long distance conversations
flow in unseen channels around me.

Now, I come to this city that was once yours
Cobbled streets, shady avenues, haunts of old.
And recollecting for each a story that you told,
I roam with feverish tread, uncaring of hours.

I dip a toe in the lake, run my fingers through the sand;
embracing this place, for the rest of the world is taken.
It is the final refuge, a Brotherhood of the forsaken;
With this city you betrayed, I declare a kinship of the damned.

A Song

2006-06-07T21:12:00.000+05:30

A long time ago, I heard a song. To be honest, it was in a collection that I had been gifted … and I heard it, out of politeness, as a background to conversation. I heard as one hears elevator music: impinging on the ears without really registering in the mind. As the songs played and people talked, I dimly registered a song that was different from the others. Still continuing the civilities of normal discourse, I heard the song with some greater interest. And one particular idea in the lyrics struck me as being expressed in a rather unique fashion.

When the party ended, someone asked for (and got) the collection: it wasn’t in my normal-playing list anyway. As is sadly far too common, the collection changed hands and eventually I lost track of it. But over the years, at random times, I would remember that song. Occasionally, I would hunt frantically at music outlets in different cities for that collection, only to be disappointed.

I didn’t even remember the song; a vague recollection of the tune, and the theme of the song was all that remained. The collection itself went out of issue, and searching the song online was of course useless, since the lyrics were hazy. At odd points in time, from some unknown artesian pool, the idea would bubble up to the surface of consciousness, and I would think about it.

Songs and poetry and books : there is something about them that transcends their mere content. The most banal of songs, the tritest lines of poetry: they turn out to be pegs on which memories of times and places and people hang. And from the form and substance of those lines, the mind conjures up those associations every time you think of them. Even if subconsciously, so that one is sometimes embarrassed at a public reaction to what might appear nothing out of the ordinary to someone else.

And the best part of it is when Serendipity lands us, as it did me recently, onto a lost link. My own knowledge of music is rather limited; but a passion for it makes me seek out people with far greater scope. I was discussing music with one such person, and suddenly the nothingness of a long distance conversation coalesced into notes that were so familiar that I was thrilled. Of course, at these times, one is careful to be politely thankful and say “Ohhh, this song, please do send”. For as said, what is a set of associations for one is probably just another piece of music for another.

I haven’t got the song yet. No matter, it will come . As someone said, we shall listen, and be thankful to whichever God was on shift at that time.

The Sudoku System

2006-06-03T16:33:00.000+05:30

He sat on the hard platform seat, and was struck by a sudden wave of indecisiveness. Almost unconsciously, he rummaged in his pockets and pulled out the day’s Sudoku clipping.

He scorned people who tossed coins for a decision. How could one ascribe to a random flip the decision to follow one’s gut feeling or otherwise ? He prided himself on the Sudoku system. He’d scan the whole puzzle quickly, and then make two guesses. Then work through the puzzle quick time, and if his guesses were wrong, the numbers wouldn’t match. That meant his instinct was wrong that day ; that his present intuition would lead to other decisions that eventually would engender conflict. Every decision in the end had to stand the test of others linked with it; he felt that the Sudoku system told him if his instinct was on the ball.

So he looked over the puzzle, and pencilled in two numbers. Started working on the puzzle, and had almost reached a conclusive stage when he suddenly smiled to himself. He did not need this Sudoku, he realized. He knew the answer already ... that this particular decision had no links forward that could possibly matter. He replaced the pencil, and crumpled the Sudoku and threw it away.

And as the 3-17 Fast to Borivili roared in, stood up, and walked off the platform.

Maximum Ceetee

2006-05-17T18:29:00.000+05:30

“Coffee, sir?”

“I prefer it strong and black”.

An early morning check-in and he still sounded groggy.
…
“Ummm, I thought I said no sugar too”.
….

“Mmmmm… Sir, can I ask you a question ?”

Raised eyebrow, quizzical.

“You asked for the black coffee, and then sent me back to get the sugarless stuff, so you could call me back twice, didn’t you?”

Dancing eyes, unsaid promises of deviltry. He beckoned her closer.

“Sweetheart , I wanted this particular concoction because it is the only thing that blends in colourwise, and masks the smell of, the rum I’m carrying in the hipflask without spoiling the taste.”

She was scandalised. “ Drinking is not permitted on national flights, Sir!”

Aaj kuch toh nasha, aap ki baat ka hai,
Aur thoda nasha, bheeni barsaat ka hai
Humme aap yunhi, sharaabi na kahiye
Yeh dil pe asar, toh mulaaqaat ka hai

He breathed, almost into her ear. To any of the other passengers, she was just a solicitous airhostess removing old newspapers from the bag in front. She shook her head, blushing, and left.

“Sir, SIR !”

He shook himself awake, and saw her terrified face inches away.

“We’re gonna crash! The weather is really bad and we’re losing control and the starboard engine just died and …”

He gave her an unhurried peck on the cheek.

“Mmmmm, if I’d known you were wearing this perfume, I wouldn’t have bothered with the alcohol, Angeleyes.”

He pushed her gently into the seat, and tucked the napkin with scrawled writing into her palm. He made his way into the cockpit. The sky outside was a maelstrom of inky clouds scudding along. He felt that familiar tightness in his temples. The solitary cold drop of sweat along the ridge of the back, each millimeter it moved tingling, making him more alive, more keenly aware of the shrieking dances of a million ghouls outside.

“Who?” The Captain twisted in his seat at this intrusion, and then a streak of lightning lit up the cockpit, and he half rose. The fresh faced kid next to him rose with pinched features, still pulling a brave face. “ Mister, this is out of bounds. Leave NOW”. Like the thin red line in the east that is the precursor to brilliant day, his voice had a dawn of hysteria.

The Captain gestured him into silence, the clutching of a drowning man at a lifebelt.

“Just like old times, Sonny ?”, he said. “Get in and lets us see if you have forgotten what I taught you about flying”. The Captain nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He eased into the still warm seat, and the Captain displaced the rookie at the co-pilot’s controls. He raised an eyebrow, and grimacing, the Captain rose, pulled a wet tissue from the bunch, and jammed it into the detector on the top. He smiled a bleak smile then, and lit up.

“Wassup?”

“ We know the problem; this hydraulic line is clogged and we dare not cut it. For one, we don’t have anything to patch it up with, and for the second, we cannot lose any more fluid. To top it all, the weather is terrible, zero visibility, buffeting winds”.

Outside, the thunder boomed, a heavenly tom-tom of drums calling the clouds to witness the punishment of these upstarts who dared the heavens.

He reached down to the thin rubber hose and yanking it off, knotted it above the clot. He turned to the rookie. “Go to the Cutesome who called me. Get her case”, he said. The rookie scurried and returned with the relief of contributing. He opened the case, and whistled as he upended it. Frilly wisps fell to the floor, with a compact, brushes and bottles of stuff. He picked up a bottle of varnish and a reel of floss. Pinching the rubber, he opened out the clogged portion and removed the block. “Tell Laura I love her”, he hummed, as he applied a sticky plaster to the cut, splinting it with a broken off plastic spoon. He dipped the floss in the varnish, and still wet, wound it around the splint. “Give it 30 seconds to harden”, he said.

“Now as far as the fluid loss is concerned...” He removed the hip flask and handed it to the Captain. “Never travel without emergency rations”, he said. The Captain poured into the tube, carefully. He undid the knot, plugged it in again and the system’s vein pulsed as it started functioning once more.

He stubbed out the cigarette, and the Captain recited the practiced litany of the landing checkoffs. “Not a dry eye in the house”, he sang, terribly off-key. The landing was tense but uneventful, and he nodded to the rookie as he stood up. “Sing like me, but fly like him”, he said, indicating the Captain, and then he was gone.

The airhostess looked at him wide-eyed. “I thought we were lost”, she said. “Never a doubt, lass”, he said. And he misquoted so smoothly that she took some time to realise it

The art of kissing isn't hard to master;
so many pretty things seem filled with the intent
to be missed, it's a question of who is faster.

He patted her cheek, and said “This city is the final refuge. Never a doubt that I would reach there”. He pointed to the crumpled paper she still kept in her hand. As he reached for his battered case from the rack, she unfurled it, and read the scrawled lines. Even as she looked up in dawning comprehension, he was leaving.

The tears stung her eyes as he walked away, and she furiously blinked through the mist as she called out.

“Sir ?”

He turned, already the puzzled generic nondescript, armoured in obscurity.

“ Namaskaar and thank you for flying Indian. We hope you will be with us again”.

“Don’t let them promise you a Rose Garden, Toothsome”, he winked, and then his visage shuttered as he turned to face the City.

___________________________________________________________________

Across barriers of decades, context and culture, the original to which we have paid this tribute has been a beacon of poignant humour. Read it.

Deja Vu Demitasse

2006-05-10T00:15:00.000+05:30

I had this GREAT idea for a story. It was about a man I would meet in hospital reception. He would look at the scar on my hand and say ‘I had an accident once’. And then he would get flustered, panicky even, and would open his jacket. It would have hundreds of those 4 x 6 cards, all neatly laminated, in pockets sewn into the lining. He would hunt feverishly, and fish out one. It looked like one of those speaker’s notes. He would read out details of his accident. I would watch him vaguely puzzled. Then he would sit back, satisfied. And hand me a card that said he had progressive short term memory loss. That is, he would begin a story, but lose the thread of conversation in between and fall silent. So he carried all his stories in 4x6 cards, so that as soon as he began, he could fish out a card.

He would look at my hand, and start 3 stories; the one that he finished, above. One he would get flustered and not be able to finish. One he would start and I would help search the card and finish.

Then he would explain with another card how he used to recollect long stories. And how his memory was progressively getting shorter. And how he had started getting these cards made to retain his memories.

And he would start saying thrice about his overriding fear as time passed on. And not be able to finish. And in the end, would be able to convey it.

‘How will I remember meeting you ?”

I bounced this idea off somebody really creative. Got back an answer that went roughly mmmmm…. Uhuh. Then was gently informed that this story has already been told.

Was musing over this for a couple of days, then I remembered where even this “mistaken originality” tale had been told.

Don’t ask me any details. A thousand others do jobs identical to mine. My hopes and fears are shared by millions more. These hankerings after attention, affection, exclusivity; these fears of saying too much and too little; these trite verses and bland comedies …

Generic, seared, like the brand on cattle, by unknown gods with unfeeling regularity.

Death, Where Is Thy Bling ?

2006-05-04T20:28:00.000+05:30

At some level, it must have been prevalent from the earliest days of society. What differentiated it was the organised plunging of a cross-section of the world into celebratory gloom.

Suitably solemn announcers gave glum updates on how assorted personalities around the world had declared themselves shattered by the loss. The female components looked haggardly made up, and with occasionally breaking voices, played the part of the brave bereaved beautifully. Street interviews with lisping children who bemoaned the loth of their Queen of Hearth allowed the announcers to compose themselves for the next round of anguish. Those on the spot, of course, were allowed the luxury of tearstained faces and shoddy makeup, as they updated on the earthshaking importance of the report lodged in the nearby police station, and talked in hushed tones of how the waiter at her last restaurant had noted her deliriously happy. When they managed to snag an actual Personage, like the driver of the truck that towed away her car, they took precedence over the regular shots of peripheral appendages: an old acquaintance, an ex-butler etc, who claimed exclusive kinship of the soul with the deceased. Of course, intrusive shots of kith and kin as they were hustled in and out of limousines were the topmost priority. Paternal chiefs in gruff and matter-of-fact tones explained how the entire might of the Police would be employed in debunking laughably absurd conspiracy theories. Vast sections of the media who had played up salacious details of her life now featured blowups of roadside shrines, with a poster, and flowers, teddy bears and teary-eyed passers-by.

The striking fact was of course, the globality of the phenomenon. Amongst her multifarious public appearances was to manage the incongruity of looking a brand ambassador for obscenely costly jewels and clothes while talking of issues that were far removed from her comprehension: mines and famines. Thus we had disfigured African waifs mourning her; bishops in Latin American countries held masses for her; several of the more outré religious sects held séances and wakes. Nearer home, three towns announced naming of streets in her name, and the chef of the 5-star she had stayed in during her last visit came on TV with never-revealed details about how she had tasted a spoon of Gajar Halwa and pronounced it sinfully rich. Artisans in Behala cut clippings ; it was obvious that the next Puja would see a demand for statues of her, along with the obligatory Ganguly. A massive success, this.

The satellite television in India has always hankered for a chance to similarly concoct a maelstrom of mush; they tried then, but the Big One has eluded them thus far. Now it is on again; but even a nation hungry for heroic tragedy cannot overlook the essential smallness of scale.

The J Word

2006-04-30T02:06:00.000+05:30

I can’t say that J word, can’t you see ?
But so many people you know!
So dreadfully commonplace, jealousy!

You lavish time and money on me
and so much of affection you show!
I can’t say that J word, can’t you see ?

“ I love this”, you said (not about me)
A “miss you” made another glow;
So dreadfully commonplace, jealousy!

I know that it is probably just LSE
You are suitably modest, though.
I can’t say that J word, can’t you see ?

Often we are rude, banal and petty
( and you are sometimes angry, we know)
So dreadfully commonplace, jealousy!

It sorely tries us to just let you free;
we want the “special one” to be.
I can’t say that J word, can’t you see ?
So dreadfully commonplace, jealousy!

_______________________________

A Villanelle, a rustic song. Though neither Wiki's example nor this all-time favourite can be said to be anything remotely so.

The Road Much Travelled

2006-04-28T19:44:00.000+05:30

The first time he had travelled this road, he did not know the way. And neither did he stop to ask for directions. One revelled in such randomness then. The joy of the engine’s roar, the smooth road, and the sunshine, they all reflected his mood. He did not know what lay ahead; he just knew he was going to love it.

He remembered those times the next time he went by this road. The tin-shed panshop by that turnoff. One waits sometimes, knowing it’s a matter of time. And sometimes, you wait because there is nothing else to do. But waiting is a decision in itself. It’s like baccarat, when you have a five in hand. Waiting is the third card, the one that can push you to that magic nine, or just tip you over the edge into certain loss. He waited here like that, rebelling against the safety of the five, the certainty of compromise. He waited, daring that third card, and it rained.

He disdained the panshop’s inadequate protection; he didn’t want to get wet by drops leaking through the tin roof. He’d much rather feel the sting of the water, suck on a sodden cigarette cupped in the hand. Then that went out, and he just sat there on the bike, face upturned to driving rain, eyes closed. The fact that the spirit was getting recharged allowed him to admit that he was tired. That was how she saw him as she walked past on the other side of the road without stopping, though he didn’t know that till later.

The next time they were on that road together. She pointed out the bus-stop where she would get down everyday, and said “Nothing Goes Right In”, pointing to the acronym of the government organisation there. “Not easily, not the first time, no”, he deadpanned, and her mouth formed an O as she chided him for being crass. “Need Another Seven Astronauts”, she then said, and they laughed, though both knew that they had heard it before. She hummed, randomly connecting; a habit he was to pick up from her. He used to love connecting the dots between her lines and the conversation. “Carrie”, she hummed, almost in an undertone, and he said “Final Countdown”, rather pleased with himself. She nodded, and then hummed more audibly

“ Things may change, my friend, … Carrie, Carrieeee

Maybe we’ll meet, again ….”

He taught her to say goodbye; a gift that he passed on, armour that he donated, leaving him awkward and bumbling at all farewells from that point onward.

He passed by that road again today. The car’s tinted glasses and noisy AC drowned out the outside world quite effectively. He listened to the jabber about electron beam cross-linking and how it made for better fire-resistance. Nodding to worries in squeaky tones about the loss of flexibility it entailed, he looked out, at this road he had never really learnt about. As the turnoff approached, he tensed; flattened his face against the glass, moved to the edge of the seat. Even the driver noticed, slowing the car tentatively. Cigarette, he gestured, motioning toward the panshop, and the car glided to a halt.

“Classic Milds”, he said. As he smoked, he saw the road anew, this time knowing it did not matter. Roads did not matter anymore, he was now driven by alien, sure hands towards known destinations.

Bachpan Ke Din

2006-04-17T21:15:00.000+05:30

Moving to a new neighbourhood was always a mixed joy. On one hand, there was the sheer pleasure of being rude at school to assorted teachers, in the joyous knowledge of no long term revenges being possible. On the other, the trials and tribulations of moving to a new neighbourhood were all too well known.

I remember that day; I had been unceremoniously booted out of home at 5 pm, with an injunction to “play and make friends”. Fuming over the beatific, but ignorant optimism of parents, I made my way to the park cautiously. This park did not offer any sylvan refuge where one could unobtrusively hole up with a book. And steal home unnoticed after a decent interval. No, the damn place had nothing but a few overgrown shrubs for cover. So one opened up the comic book, sat down on a stone bench, and waited.

After a couple of stray glances, a couple of representatives of the local lot walked over.

“Where from ?”

“_____ Street”. ( A smart alecky answer, considering it was unlikely that anyone except people on that street would come to that nondescript bit of Eden). They chewed on that one, and decided that newcomers were to be allowed some latitude.

“What’s your name ?”

“___”. This caused some hurried consultations in the local militia, and then they dispersed without further attempts at “making friendship”. I went back to the comic book, thinking that the natives, if not friendly, definitely seemed to be less wearisome than several others which an itinerant parent had exposed me to.

Not for long though. Even as his shadow fell across me, I knew that this was big trouble. I looked up. He had the overwhelming incomprehension of the dullard written all over him, along with the brute strength that often accompanies stupidity.

“They say your name is ____” , he said nodding towards the local reps. He wore his truculence as shield against a faster, better, shrewder world.

“Yes”, I said.

“Why ?”

This stumped me. Several answers surged with tidal speed towards the tip of my tongue, only to be beaten back by a wall of caution. I decided to cautiously probe.

“Errr, why not ?”

“Cos it’s my name”, he said. Uh-oh. I now grasped the unrest in the local population. They were asking themselves what they had done to deserve another of us. The simple difference, of course, being that he was around two times my size. In physical terms, I was like the free dispenser sold with the extra large toilet cleanser bottle.

“Errr, that’s good”. I tried an ingratiating smile.

“I am enough!”

No, you are way too much already, I wanted to say. Fatally, the caution that was my sole protection forsook me. Probably the Commando comic I was reading had something to do with it. Something I had read during the day sprang to the mind. I had wanted to show this trick off, and like a puppy wanting to show it can chase a ball across a busy road, I decided this was the opportune moment.

“ What is 75 x 75 ?”

“Huh?”

“5625”.

Now I was on a roll.

“75 75 za 5625, 85 85 za 7225, 95 95 za 9025, 105 105 za 11025, 115 115 za 13225, 125 125 za 15625”.

I paused, both out of breath and because my tables beyond that were a tad shaky.

He looked at me with shock, admiration and some respect. However, like coriander in the sambhar, these only floated in a thick broth of dislike.

“See ? They wanted somebody smarter”, I said.

Knowing that my logic was wrong, I had still advanced the argument in the hope that he would be too dumb to point out a flaw in it.

I was right, and I was wrong. He was too dumb to point out the flaws in reasoning that led to assumed superiority. However, he was also strong enough to pummel me into abject submission, which he proceeded to do. I picked out the confetti of the comic book, which he had shredded over me as a sort of a finale, and went home to report that the park was unwholesome and could I please accompany elder sisters to their athletic practice. A smart move, since they protested in shrill tones and hence I achieved my aim of sitting at home without being forced to indulge in any physical activity.

I have fond memories of that neighbourhood; I saw very less of it.

Wanted : The Unrest Uncure

2006-04-12T07:51:00.000+05:30

Tis April, and while we may moan about lilacs breeding, the fact remains that it is the month of that dreaded Annual Performance Review.

One of the things that make us wish to take up BFGs and chainsaws is this New Age Management Revolution. Generations of gorment awficers have come and gone with no decision greater than whether samosas are better with tea or do biscuits look more awficer-like being taken. "Keeping pace with the times" meant seasonal shifts from chai to nimbupaani and back to chai.

Sigh. Now higher echelons attend courses on Critical Chain Path Management and Motivational Leadership. And come back, spouting Chicken Soup for The Manager's Soul jargon. And we middling cogs in the machine have to reflect in our Annual Performance Reviews, this revised thought process. My own review/recommendation, in brief and precise terms, is like this :

" I produce garbage because I work in a junkyard. Possibly, it has become a junkyard because of such garbage being produced over the years. Which came first is a subject that requires external consultants, with power-dressed young women resembling Lara Flynn Boyle in The Practice (for those with a severe outlook) or those lushy legals in Ally McBeal (for me) ".

( That of course, is tailored to project the urbane image. Actual tastes run to Juhi Chawla in Duplicate and Sridevi in Laadla).

Musing on these and related issues, the intercom rang, and we noticed with much joy similarly stressed cog in machine's number on the ID. This virtuous gent (muchly loved n all), is slightly... ummm.. staid in outlook. Without actually giving him The Unrest Cure, we have never shirked our bounden duty in introducing some zing n zest in his life.

So we picked up phone, and the conversation (?) went somewhat like this :

High Pitched Squeal : "No, don't, don't DON'T!"

Guttural Tone(originally modelled on Teutonic tyrants of WW II, now adapted to sound Middle Eastern dagger in djellaba-ish) : " We haf means of geththing our way"

HPS : "We are innocent, for God's sake!"

GT : "Where would your Gods be without prayers ? Where would your saviours be without victims ?"

HPS : "We have done no wrong to you."

GT : " Your culture extols sacrifice. Our committment demands blood. Pliss not to take personally."

HPS : " Haalp!!"

GT (on phone): "Listen, unless you meet our organisational goal of houris, we shall kill him and send him to you in small packets, one KRA at a time."

Upon which we realized that a gentle voice was going "errrmm" on the other side of the line.

Big Boss, as part of Management By Walking Around, had visited friend's office and was calling from there to fix up similar visit to my orifice.

Siggghhh.

Looks like April will be the cruellest month, indeed.

Resurrection

2006-04-07T23:40:00.001+05:30

Each word guarded, the tone neutral always;
And thus we walk ,with a tentative tread.
Counting small victories in banal days
reassuringly, to stolidity wed.

For it clutches at our insides, this dread
of falling prey to passion. On thin ice,
One mustn't listen to stray tunes in the head;
and dancing in gay abandon's unwise.

Remnants of the past remain in my eyes :
twinkling, chilled floes. For once we chose,
to look at stars, believe their warming lies.
In Numbness, Bliss; pain receded, as the heart froze.

Enemy Sunshine! Seeking to thaw, warm glow
We're done with all Stars , do you not know ?

_________________________________________

One poem that will do the rounds now, as it does every year at this time, is this.

The famous lines that cause this annual recall, are of course relatively well known :

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.

But someone somewhere brought out these lines, that are from the last section, to ponder over :

"The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract..."

We all think foolishness will not strike us. That we are armoured in practicality, experience, wisdom and luck. Which makes it all the worse when we do slip !

Preen moment : The format, as per this. ( Do not look too closely though :) )

Punjabber

2006-04-02T19:23:00.000+05:30

Corynna Corynna.

Heh.

Rattle and Hum

2006-03-25T13:39:00.000+05:30

The first sign that something was wrong was in the frenzied and raucous behaviour of the crows, swooping and rising. I slowed down and went to the stormwater drain on the side of the road, and saw the snake. Even as I watched, it struggled to raise itself over the smooth sides, and slipped back halfway.

A prominent bulge midway led to my initial guess that it was a baby python. It had probably swallowed something a bit too much, and its movements were sluggish. Or maybe it was just tired, after several such futile attempts.

I looked around, and almost absurdly, the area, overgrown with rough grasses and shrubs, did not seem to have a single tree nearby from which I could break off a branch. Feeling slightly foolish at my trepidation, I gingerly placed a hand on its tail. Furious hissing resulted, and I hastily backed off.

It’s a python, I told myself. The vast majority of the snakes in India, especially this part of the country, are harmless. The scales were not diamond shaped, which fact, I dimly recalled, was supposed to indicate it was not poisonous. Snakes do not have the ability to whip back over their length, so if one lifted the snake by its tail, it should be OK. Thus fortified, I tried to lift the snake again. Or rather, I managed to wrap my fingers around its tail and lift it an inch or so off the ground. If the hissing earlier was furious, the snake went into frenzy this time. Again, a hasty backpedal and communing with self resulted.

Look, you REALLY think you know enough about snakes, asked a voice. Well, it should be safe enough, don’t be a wuss, said another. Yeah, right, you know it should be safe enough, the point is that the snake may not, said another, and I never had found that joke funny earlier too. I am only trying to help, said a voice. Refer earlier reply, said the other. What do you intend, say here, snakie, snakie, nice snakie to convince it ? Run a bit ahead, you’ll get a branch, suggested one. Look at the crows, and the snake is already tired, said another. I filled in time by using the phone to snap a couple of pics, and the snake showed no signs of amiability with respect to the helpful bleeding heart human trying to help it out. Yeah, super, I thought, idiot, if only you had spent that energy in climbing.

One lovely fact is that our Bharat Varsh never lacks for rubbernecking crowds. 5.45 AM on a deserted hill road, with no soul in sight, when I stopped. 20 minutes later, the list included watchman from somewhere going back after night shift, a family out for Sunday morning walk, and three assorted tramps with no credible reason to be there. All of whom seemed to spring out of nowhere. Here, use my stick to kill it, urged watchman. I requested him in polite tones to put it where the sun did not shine, and he lapsed into aggrieved silence. The husband, thankfully, proclaimed in loud tones that there was nothing to be frightened of, this snake was non-poisonous. Son looked up with admiring eyes and wife clung for support to the intrepid hero, who maintained a safe distance from the drain. The tramps were discussing in avid tones about the possibility of cooking and whether it would be better to boil it or just turn it over a fire. I noticed their bravado too stopped of actually approaching the snake.

The sun was starting to come up, reminding me that I had a long way to go. Inspiration struck, and I asked the tramps to help me lift up a couple of stones. Their eagerness seemed to indicate approval of my supposed plan to crush the snake, but it was replaced by sullen silence when told to just lay them a couple of feet ahead of the snake. I prodded the lazy sonofawhatnot in the tail again. It hissed, and I said wearily, less of that, pal. Just move. Eventually it trundled onto the first stone, and then emboldened by the grip, climbed up and out.

The sun was really hot for the last 45 minutes of the walk back, and I cursed snake, bleeding heart, incipient summer, hill and world in general heartily.

A friend rang up a day before Holi. A common acquaintance had died, leaving behind 6-year old in hospital with a heart defect. One sympathised, with the detachment of distance and lack of contact, and gave useful tips on change of bank accounts and insurance. He rang again a couple of days back. Major paperwork had been completed, and accounts and insurance and pensions taken care of. The kid was now safe to travel. Parents had arrived and attempted to take care and needed care. One had been remedied, the other was being done. Tickets had been booked and hell he had a backlog of work. And he couldn’t believe it, one moment the man had been rummaging for money in wallet and the next moment he had keeled over dead, and a puddle of blood was on the floor. And things would never be the same and… Of course they won’t, I said. Go to the place and see, they would have placed a rack over the discoloured tiles and it will have strips of Frito-Lays wafers and shaving blades now 5 in one, newly introduced. No sanitary napkins, because in India PoP buys are mainly made by men. He paused, and asked in different tones, what PoP meant. Point of Purchase, I said neutrally.

Slapping, I believe, is not the recommended way to stop incipient hysteria, but it is effective. Err, yes, he said, got to go, lots of backlog. And hey, I’ll be in your town sometime next week. Zindagi, mere ghar aana, I said, and bring your own bottle. Heh, he said, better rush, and I’ll see you when.

And I looked at the phone, and the pictures of the snake. And wondered if helping with bank accounts and stormwater drains, all add up to subliminal obeisance to unacknowledged gods, urgent pleas to unknown ears. Or, like long distance affection, a desperate attempt to put together a puzzle in which one knows a piece is missing.

Morning Raaga

2006-03-23T07:28:00.000+05:30

I conform.

As I conform, I revel in the knowledge that I don’t have to, and haven’t in the past, but I now successfully conform. Because I have to rebel, and if you have to rebel, conformity is rebellion.

The sort of epiphany that springs fully formed, as one stands in early morning haze on the edge of cliff. And with the confidence of standing firm, just let one foot explore nothingness , and write with your toes indistinct letters to unknown people in the haze that drifts lazily from below.

Possibly. I wouldn’t know, just guessing.

For me, it came as I dangled feet in usual fashion, sitting on the balcony railing facing outward. And a sudden wind blew the newspaper open on the lap onto the face. So I jabbed a hole in it with a finger and continued smoking. Jet-Sahara marriage not made for the heavens heading for divorce even before saying I do, and Airtel of mmmuhhhhmmmm ta nen nyaanoo tune now heard on no mobile but every car reversing launching Easy Music downloads. Words about matters of such import envelop the face, but the newsprint is too near to distinguish good news from bad.

But not even the best of the Hindu’s efforts can make it anything near an acceptable filter for the morning cuppa, so we regretfully put the cup down, and pull the paper off, leaving soggy bits of paper (that are actually quite palatable) sticking to lips.

Thereby causing early morning marital discord in the family with balcony opposite where the wife had called out the remaining janata to look at earlier scene. The scorn of the still tousled boy was withering; the resignation on the husband’s face spoke of one who has been made to tag along for choosing matching blouse pieces. And the wife, cheated out of the joy of shared absurdity, making mental notes to embellish it (“drinking at 6 AM, what do you know”) when she told kaam waali bai, thus establishing social cachet over teesre ghar waali Sumitra, who had after all only inferred from observant watching that college ladki on another balcony only studied in fresh air for the duration of married uncle on opposite balcony doing morning exercises in gym vest with Chicago Bulls written on it.

Conformity, morning newspaper and cuppa, a breeze. Really.

"Kya Karen, Josh-e-Junoon ..."

2006-03-19T18:13:00.000+05:30

This was probably fated,
the variable being speed.
We see every such need
as just trivial once sated.

Needs that we don’t voice
and meet with some shame.
At implied mindframe
That led to this choice.

We were brazen, else rude
(fast to minimise
Windows thought unwise)
when life dared intrude.

With you, we were free.
Even pausing sessions
for enforced lessons
on trite poetry.

Reality, Life's curse
has now stepped in.
Ruthless in its win
sparing just this verse.

So those bunking morning runs, and stolen late nights, they are through;
Fare well ; when atavistic bloodlust strikes, I’ll always remember you.

Jericho and The Power of Noise

2006-03-09T19:41:00.000+05:30

Warning : Not normal programming. Cept of course, it follows the principle of using 12 words where one will do...

Several of the blogs I read have contributed to the Blank Noise Project on harassment of women.
Now, one has rarely been reticent when it comes to a good rant at something one disagrees with on some blog. In this case, however, I did not, because firstly, the overall objective was laudable, and criticism of the means would have been easily converted to criticism of the end. Plus, I really don't have issues with these bloggers, and I do know that sensitivities on the topic are heightened. So commenting, of course, would be the sort of dubious move one tends to avoid nowadays. However, a good rant IS in order, so here goes ,before lapse into spewing our usual quota of puns and sentimental tripe.

Firstly, about Blank Noise.

Blogging, obviously, is a sort of "letter to the world" and soapbox in the middle of everywhere activity. Now there are plenty of blogs that devote themselves to discussing topics of economics, politics and issues of much import. Several of them cross the line of projecting a point of view to taking a moral high ground. All to the good : since I strongly believe that mine is the only correct viewpoint on any issue, I always appreciate someone (however misguided :) ) who shows similar conviction. As long as it is clear, of course, that it is a point of view alone that is on display.

However, the strident tone of blogs that purportedly seek to sway opinion towards a cause puts me off no end. Some time ago, I was an avid reader of one of the desi blogosphere's gurus. Now this person, at that point of time, was holding forth in no-holds-barred tones about one of my pet rages, the Shiv Sena/VHP combine and communalism. As usual, the post elicited the usual flood of hate comments and retorts from sympathetic souls, assorted wannabes commenting in hopes of pushing some traffic their own way, etc. It attracted comments like qtpie_on_cam in a Yahoo chat room would attract view requests. Now, unlike Blank Noise, this blog makes no explicit claims to being a catalyst for social change ; the proselytising tone, is however, unmistakable. A faithful acolyte till then, the tone of some of the posts started to disturb me.

Finally, I said :
"But I wish you'd seriously sit and think how the liberalist extremism is also worsening the situation. OK, it's easy to get worked up over the bigots. But it also repels the fence sitters: many of whom are decent, honest ppl when they see venom on one side and frothing mouths on the other."

Upon which the reply from one other ardent supporter was
"..at such times, even fence-sitting amounts to taking a side ..."

Now this is the sort of thing that starts warning bells ringing in my head. At one point in my life, I wanted to be a politician . And as anybody with political sense will tell you, there isn't any point preaching to the converted. You want to win, talk to the fence-sitters.

I said
"here's a sample. Before you jump to it's defence, just show it to somebody out of context and listen to his/her reactions. Which is precisely what will happen to this quote.” From where I sit, it seems to me that the greatest threat to my country is this half-baked Hindutva. "God knows I froth at half baked Hindutva myself ( idiots whose sole aim is feed on the insecurity of the majority , yes, there is such a thing, trust me, to garner votes). But man, if you are looking to be a voice of sanity, you need to avoid injecting such stuff into an already overheated atmosphere. Call us timid, but when Ms A Roy ( more advances to her pen) gets into the act, most of the janata gets switched off. A few more unthinking lines like this and you will join the bandwagon- defeating the very energy that made you sit up in the first place. Again, look at Michael Moore. Despite his extremely well researched articles/books on Bush's perfidy, his maniacal zeal pushed him to a fringe, leaving the neocons centrestage."

Sure enough, the reply from the blogger was

"...you should take note of: the "take-it-easy" policy that was even the subject of a popular (Telugu?) film song some years ago...
...Let me be frank. From where I sit, I see this thing called Hindutva is the greatest threat to my country. Others may not see it that way, and that's fine with me. This is in the end a battle of ideas, and I make no apologies, nor want any favours, for expressing my ideas."

I think I already knew by then that this was an exercise in futility. But given the fact that I frankly thought that this was one of the bloggers widely read enough to make a difference, I decided to give it one last shot. I had (unwisely) likened his own fanaticism to those issuing fatwas .. and he had responded with derision. I wrote

"_The blogger_ : I am not asking you to dilute the strength of your convictions.What I am asking for is moderation in their expression, unless the goal is more to get off your chest than create a groundswell of opinion against bigotry. Let us see it as opening a closed door. You may knock and hope it opens. When it doesnt, you try to take a step back and launch a mighty kick at it to break the latch. When you let your skills at writing blend with force of ideas, you can create such an effect. When you let your frustration at what you see as the uncomprehending and passive attitude of the populace take over, it is akin to stabbing the door with a knife. Spectacular, maybe, but not really effective. As _one commenter_ says, it IS about mass communication and emphasis is on mass. You wish to display the strength of convictions in taking on the bigots: do you have it you to stop playing to the chatterati gallery and actually get into the hard work of moving people? As for the comment that your line isn't equivalent to generating hitlists: obviously it isnt. One is venom meant to kill and the other froth generated by righteous anger. If you think the means of combating those who scream hate through rabid articles is being vociferously loud, its your call. I would think attempting to build a chorus a better and more effective reply though. "

The exchange ended there ; a look at recent times to cull these comments assures me that there is no change in the blog's outlook.

In my opinion, Blank Noise and such other projects, at best, are the chatterati indulging in mutual backslapping and much self-congratulation. Hullo : all the people contributing, and the people reading, are already converts to the cause. At best, this is intellectual onanism of the most obvious kind. At worst, it is equivalent to my rant on a patient blogger's review of Rang De Basanti : that such movies are insidious, allowing people to outsource righteous rage into a 3 hour movie sponsored by MNCs, happy with nihilistic and unreal kill 'em all endings, so we can finish our popcorn and go home, equivalent to the patriot in us jerking off to centrefolds of glossy but essentially seedy magazines.

You want action, get out and get people on your side. The fence-sitters are there for a very good reason; there is bigotry on one side and self-satisfied smugness on the other. On an issue like abuse of women, there are no fence-sitters like above; however, there are plenty of people who are at a loss when they read unthinking, almost celebratory rhetoric.

Since space is limited, we shall deal with just two examples ...

One post claims that due to being raped, she now retaliates in the following manner:
"When I thought rape was about sex, I decided to de-sanctify and de-mystify sex completely. It meant sex with a certain randomness. ......In fact I lied to men to get them into bed. This is how I rape. I fuck with your emotions. I ruin your sexlife by telling you that yours in the shortest and that you are simply not hard enough. That you couldn't get me to come even if you powered your penis and fingers with AA batteries".
errrrr.... could I have your phone number ? And now that you admit that you "rape" men cos you got raped, it is of course perfectly OK if I continue the chain by raping women post a session with you ?

Another, much avidly read (and worth it too), states , inter-alia

(a) Every day, every hour in India is about being groped.
Hmmm. Now anything I say as a guy would be trashed by definition, so shall stop at saying I don't think so.

(b) (paraphrase) Since you haven't castrated a molester yet, you deserve to be branded along with him.
Hullo. That means every one of you who buys a pair of shoes for an obscene amount while people die in Darfur is an active cause of their death. cf my comment about being rabid and alienating people.

(c) Indian/Hindu mythology and "culture" leads to harassment. Free porn and the threat of lawsuits makes the Western world safe.

Hmmm. (We shall desist at quoting very obvious examples from other mythologies as sexist, if not more.) Then this movie's claims of being a true story were obviously false. So is this widely discussed issue. And Hollaback NYC of course, consists of people Photoshopping images of those they hate.

There are ways and means of making a difference. Even with just a blog-a-thon. ( Feel free to mail when in need of advice). But this is not it.

And when you want to make a difference with noise, please remember that this
(a) is essentially a myth.
(b) involved a concerted effort , not just trumpeteers.

Finally, a disclaimer : I haven't linked to the blogs I have quoted, as all this kin-I-link-to-you business is tiresome. Plus my issues are generic, and not to do with the specific bloggers concerned (who are all, I am sure, perfectly honourable).

Prelude

2006-02-28T11:25:00.000+05:30

Prelude

Maybe it didn’t start with his visit, maybe it started when I said to someone “You are different people”.

But it was his visit that brought out a lot of issues from subliminal depths to the forefront.

We played the initial moves of the argument like a familiar Ruy Lopez. The same oblique references amongst the pleasantries, the sudden cut to the chase. Man, but will I be glad when I out of here, he said. And of course, so will you. If you don’t know me by now, I said. I am Indian and this is my playground.

And he grabbed the mouse, and opened the Winamp playlist. “Read”, he spake. “I am listening, I know”, quoth I. He read aloud anyway.

Always on my mind : Willie Nelson
Always on my mind : Pet Shop Boys
Always on my mind (In My House remix): Pet Shop Boys
Meghame Meghame : Palaivana Solai
Kaatril Endhan Geetham : Johnny
Kabhi toh Khulke Baras : Chitra Singh
Manzil na de Charagh na de : Jagjit Singh.

Look at that, he said. Not one song in your native language. You are no son of the soil. (No, but we aren’t shop-soiled either, I interjected, but he ignored the pun). You spend obscene portions of your day screaming away at this. You aren’t a native of where you have a house, and you haven’t been to that house either except for holidays. Let us face it, essentially you are homeless. You claim you belong here? You and I, we are different people, he said.

And inwardly I winced at his throwing the same line I had used.

And I have been thinking this over. About the place we call home. And about being Indian. And about people being, well, different. During rushed journeys, during boring meetings, in midst of passing cutting remarks about the advisability of people’s ancestors having climbed down from the trees, while receiving dressing downs with an appropriately funereal air and downcast eyes. A parallel track, meandering in the head.

By the pricking of my thumbs, something rambling this way comes.

A Suitable Boy, only better looking

2006-02-22T13:55:00.000+05:30

Me :

“…
No Heavens have been devised
For those who carry their scourges inside
And not in some remote fastness on a chart
Hell is a landscape of the heart”

She : Lovely.

Me : Awwww, you spoil me so.

She : Not at all. Just what you deserve.

Me : A bit more spice sometimes maybe ? I don’t know, people seem to like it that way

She : mmm. No way. If you start adding spice, then the whole flavour sometimes changes.

Me : Everybody thinks all this is easy. Especially since one has been doing it for years. It’s not that way: you have to start fresh each time.

She : Not everybody understands. I never knew one with a taste like yours. Highly discerning and alive to every nuance. I wonder you ever get to study and work after all that.

Me : Not at all. If anything, I probably work better after something like this.

She : Sometimes I cannot really decide which of these is the absolute favourite.

Me : Ohhh, I love all of them equally. Ok, some of them a bit more. But I am not telling you.

She : Awww, you spoil me so.

Me : Not at all. Just what you deserve.

My favourite audience for my writing is my Grandma. She is convinced it takes enormous mental effort to sit and peck away at a keyboard. I recite my poetry to her, and as shown above, she is always most passionately appreciative. (The language doesn’t really matter). She is convinced that sooner or later the world will find out what she has always known and the genius-in-waiting will receive the fanfare and applause, not to mention fat publisher’s advances, that is his due.

In the meantime, in order to fortify me for the rigours of fame, she is always cooking up a storm. Of course, her cooking is truly absolutely a dream. She satisfies my perennial need for acceptance and I always gush about her cooking, with only a reluctance to name a single favourite dish standing between us. So between us, we have a major mutual admiration society. Sometimes I think we both are talking about different themes, but in the end, it’s the happiness that counts.

Which is why, when she once found me reading an article featuring Vikram Seth at the launch of his book in Bangalore with veneration, she just sniffed “I think you look better than him”.

And those who husbanded the Golden grain ...

2006-02-18T08:20:00.000+05:30

Started drinking at seven.

Finished at five.

Run , took around 15 minutes more than the usual hour today. Quite creditable, considering.

Idly, Vada, Dosa, sambhar, mint chutney. Buttered croissants.

And yes, there is the Saturday afternoon beer Bacchanalia to watch out for.

And in the midst of concerned clucking, we slurred out further verses from the title of this post

"Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn I lean'd,
the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."

:)

A Livelier Iris Changes

2006-02-12T14:40:00.000+05:30

A gaggle of geese. A murder of crows. A pride of lions. A school of fish.

What would be the appropriate collective noun for a bunch of love poems ?
Why, of course, we would call it a wallow of poems.

And in keeping with the compilation spirit of all the records companies, here is a selection : mostly old favourites, one new.

The first is frightfully mushy, but quite appropriately captures our brand of sentimentality.

The second is actually one of my favourite themes: how memory reflects what might have been than what was.

The third is a translation of this song, that has a line oft-misquoted. Ready for a cynical viewpoint based on that out-of-context quote, I was surprised to find hope and optimism in the song. The nuances of language might have been slightly mangled, at least keeps to the spirit, if not the beauty, of the original.

And finally, a ghazal. Technically correct. And with the right amount of loss and ambiguity in it. Some awkwardness with the style and the language, but nevertheless I enjoyed it. Translation in the comments section.

_________________________________________
Forlorn Hope

The joy of solving " The sound of bluebottles in a small wood" (5)
of a delicate nuance of Ghalib understood
of reading about Fink Nottle in Market Snodsbury School
of spewing bad puns and playing the flippant fool
of singing doleful laments with lots of feeling, little tune
composing silly haiku parodies about the moon
of hopelessly mushy movies where love prevails
of banal,pointless, but " From Meeee!!" mails
of lifting spirits from despondency
of saying " Hush,but you still have me"
of wiping off tears yet unshed
and listening to reproofs left unsaid
of conversations spanning days
of wandering in a rosy haze

These were the bonds I devised
to shackle your soul to me
but others offer these, I realized
with more attractive intensity.

I plead "Joy is transient, but if I lend you my sorrow
will you stay here till tomorrow?"

_______________________________________________________________

Дο Свидания

I sip the morning brew,
scan the paper with sleepy eyes.
And suddenly, think of you;
are you sharing this sunrise?

Sometimes I wonder about your life
and how you spent all these years.
Did you play new roles as mother, wife?
Did you hoard some unshed tears ?

Have you approached middle age
plump, matronly, secure and serene?
Or have you ended up in my image;
not sad or happy, not even in-between?

The future of our shared dreams
is now the separate present.
Having pledged lives, how ironic it seems
that your thoughts occupy but a moment.

l want to learn about your life,
to tell you about the roads that I took.
And compare our joys and strife,
to fill the final pages of our book.

Not illusions of buried love
or stirrings of quiescent pain;
the urge to see you now
is just a desire to know you again.

_______________________________________________________

Beyond Love’s Beckoning

Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.

In my world, your light dispelled all gloom
Beside my longing for you, the world’s strife paled
I saw in your face, Spring , in eternal bloom
I sought a world outside your eyes, but failed.

I sought a world outside your eyes, but failed;
I thought the very Fates would bow as you pass.
But it was not so; ‘twas just what my hopes entailed
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.

Dark and terrible spells of untold ages,
in silk and satiny brocades wrap the carcasses;
of those , dusty and bloodied, earning the market’s wages;
my hapless gaze wanders: the mind, love bypasses.

Oh, but your Beauty remains.

Oh, though your beauty remains
There are sorrows beyond your love’s beckoning
Joyous release, outshining even union’s reckoning.

So,
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.

____________________________________________________

Ghazal

The Once Over

2006-02-07T14:23:00.000+05:30

Yet another curve in the road. I was breathing in ragged gasps now. The very air I dragged in desperate mouthfuls seared its way into the lungs. Sweat poured down in rivulets. Occasionally, one snaked its way down the forehead across the bridge of the nose, and I fancied I could smell a whiff of last night’s vodka.

Another roadside marker rose ahead. In an insane moment, I imagined it to be the headstone over the grave of some unknown unfortunate much like myself. I saw myself collapsing in a shapeless heap, hearing nothing but the throbbing of my temples as I passed into the hereafter. I tried to compose a fitting epitaph for myself. “Home is the hunter” seemed rather melodramatic. RIP seemed trite and commonplace. “Finally at Rest” seemed like an emphasis of the obvious. “Over the hill” sounded irreverent, something a slapstick undertaker would suggest. “Composed at last”! Yes, that was it. It satisfied the corporeal urge to pun and also suggested that the immortal soul had found a pastoral refuge. As it came up, I resisted the impulse to glance at it as long as I could, but it intruded itself into my consciousness as I passed it. 4, it said. A dull feeling of shock washed over me. 400 metres into the promised kilometre, and I was already thinking about whether the present bank balance would cover the funeral expenses. And the climb was getting steeper.

I fell back on the time-tested automaton approach. Blanked all thought from the mind except one. Hummed to myself a single snatch of song, over and over again. I first learnt of this method a decade and a half ago, and its efficacy never ceases to amaze me. “All you need”, I hoarsely told myself. “All you need is a little attention, all you need is a little affection”. “ All you need, all you need”… and my wheezing was accompanied by visions of that busty pin up, Sam Fox. “ All you need”, she mouthed, just a few steps ahead. “ All you need”, I rasped, and put another leaden step in front. A loose shoelace flapped. I ignored it and kept stumbling along, conscious that I could never start again if I stopped. The shoelace whipped itself across my ankle every step, a miniature Discipline. The markers kept passing by, agonisingly slowly. 600 crawled by. 800 stood aloof, disdaining my despairing glances at it.

As I neared the one kilometre mark, the familiar internal struggle began. “ Keep running”, said one voice, and the whole body seemed to shudder in protest. “Absolutely no way”, said the other. “ Maybe a break and then…” said the third. To make things more complicated, the slope started slowly, barely perceptibly, easing out. The much awaited milestone passed by, and I continued past it in a half hearted stumble. Look down at the road and concentrate. 200, 400 and then 600. The next curve, I told myself. The next curve would see me start walking. That’s how it actually happened.

I took the curve at no great speed, and once around, slowed down to a walking pace. Looked up and ahead, on the straight, I saw them. Husband, wife and kid. They were at the viewing gallery on the side. The kid was pointing out to some ship leaving the harbour. The husband looked on in disinterested manner. And she… she was looking right down the road, seeing me come round the curve, notice them, and start walking. She began to gather her flock. A short distance away, I started a half trot again, the minute or so of rest having had the effect to reducing the pounding of my heart to tolerable limits. When I passed them, they had just begun walking down.

The husband had that pugnacity of the chin that comes naturally to the short. His hunched shoulders and beefy arms spoke of the erstwhile weight training fiend, while the generous overhang of his midriff told a tale of too much of gin and too less of the tonic. He was boasting in a loud voice of how he had once swum across the channel on a bet. I could see her cringe as she felt my silent sneer at his overbearing crudity.

I gave her the standard once over. You know, the one that starts with a searching glance at the breasts. Moves on downward, picking up speed. A look at the legs, then a quick flick to look at the chest again before a momentary glance at the face. The billowing wind caught her T shirt and momentarily flattened it against her. A full breasted, generously hipped woman. The taut waist and the slim limbs told of the efforts put in to maintain herself.

Our eyes locked, and I saw immediately that this was a seasoned campaigner. She gave the supercilious glance that spoke more than a thousand words. The man paid no attention to my look. He was probably at that age when someone’s interest in the wife elicited more surprise than outrage. The son flushed. Just at the age when the facts of life had been discussed in furtive whispers with the boys at school. He gave me a glare that evinced a desire to push me off the side. I noticed he had a slight limp. Twisted his foot, probably, on the way up.

A dozen steps later came the two kilometre mark. I bent down and touched the stone. Brought the errant lace to heel. Rummaged in the attic in the head for a tune, and set off. Almost instantly, my lungs began to protest. Joined by my legs. These boots were made for walking, they chorused. Why are you running? Jog walk, I told myself. Jog till the second curve, then walk. Then jog and walk. We’ll have you home in no time. “Children behaaaave”, I mumbled. Let the succeeding lines go through in the head. Don’t ask me why, but whenever I need a marker for physical exertion, I always chance upon early 90s pinup girls. I thought about Tiffany and tried to ignore the irregular pounding in my head. And as I rounded the curve and began stopping, I exhaled “ I think we’re alone now”. Wiped some sweat away and looked up : to see that they were barely five paces away. The woman and the child only. She turned her head, gave a cool look that evinced no surprise at my deciding to start walking just then. The kid was nattering on about something. The husband was quite a way down already, lumbering at a good pace, even if ungainly. Mutthead, I thought. At that weight, running downslope was probably hammering at his knees rather than providing any decent exercise.

I walked a couple of paces behind them. Watched her back, where the Tee stuck in damp patches. Stray tendrils of hair that had escaped from the ponytail acted as ramps for droplets of sweat. I watched one such droplet slowly form, then roll down. It landed somewhere in the middle of the ridge of her back. Next curve, I told myself. The next curve is barely a twenty paces away. I’ll start running from there till the succeeding curve. In the meantime, I watched her legs. Nice legs, I mused. Just that hint of soft roundedness that betrays the not so strict adherence to diet. Or maybe it was age. She gave the back of the tee a tug. She’s thinking about me, I thought. She was right, but she had no reason to be worried. I inwardly smiled at the idea of walking up to her and telling her I approved of her derriere. The kid, suddenly conscious of her tension, looked back and saw me. Another look filled with loathing and disgust at men leering at my momma. Hang in there, kid, I thought. A matter of some years and you’ll be here. The curve approached and I bent down to give the laces a final tug.

Got up and took the curve at a stumbling run, to find the kid dragging his mom into a jog. He darted another furious glance at my temerity in running then. Buzz off, kid, I thought. I had no intention of stopping in order to let them pull away. They were ten or so paces away as I put my head down and started wheezing. “ I think we’re alone now”, I went. “ Doesn’t seem to be any one arouuunnndd”. I risked a glance upward to see the kid now limping badly. My humming seemed to intensify his desire to get his mother away. Aren’t doing that ankle any favours, kid, I thought. Ah well, the hypersensitivity of adolescence. I kept jogging at a slow pace, not wishing to jar my knees into injury. The gap remained more or less steady. As we reached the next curve, the situation seemed to worsen, with the kid’s mad need to open up a gap clashing with his injured ankle. They went around the curve, and our eyes met as just before she disappeared. She looked a tigress with a cub in pain. I stumbled to a walking pace at the curve.

There was another blind turn and the road wound its way down to the hill. As I took the turn, I noticed that they had started walking too. Probably the distance between us had quelled the kid’s rage. She turned and gave me a considering look. She knew I could’ve kept jogging behind them, I realized. I kept on walking. Not very far below, the man stood, rummaging in the car parked at the base.

I reached the base a couple of minutes after them. The man stood to a side, his belly heaving as he smoked a cigarette with obvious satisfaction. I heard him boasting of how he’d run up and down this hill, work out, and then go for a 50 lap swim. The boy was sipping some bright coloured energy supplement, paying minimal attention. He was feeling good at having pulled his mother away from the wolf’s clutches. He gave me a self satisfied smirk. Good on you, kid, I thought. And she stood, easily leaning on the front of the car.

She gave me the standard once over. You know, the one that starts at the legs. Noted my badly scuffed shoes and estimated the worth of the faded tracksuit. Finalized my bank balance from the T-Shirt. A quick look at the thickening waist and a flick upward at the unkempt hair. A long look at the face, then looked into my eyes. I met her glance passively.

Suddenly, her eyes softened and I could’ve sworn I saw a smile.

The road curved, and I went on.

Just another day in paradise

2006-01-30T13:32:00.000+05:30

The phone rang at 4.01 AM. I looked at the time, and I knew he had been suppressing the urge to call for some time now. “I have been trying to call you all of yesterday!”, he screeched. “Ummm, well, I was out of town”, I said. Because telling him I was out of my mind was not a move that would have been appreciated. He blubbered about problems and deadlines, and I soothed him down. He subsided slowly, the verbal torrents slowing into a trickle, relieved that the burden of responsibility was shifted. Koi aansoo mere daaman par giraake, boond ko moti banaana chahte ho, I mused to myself.

The second came as I stood on the hill overlooking the sea. Even the run up had not been as much a grind as it usually is. The usual huffing and puffing, but the mind remained clear. “Where are you ?” “Tell me”, I said, sidestepping the question. He blathered on, seeking reassurance much in the manner of the earlier gent. Again, calming words were spoken.

So came back and did the dishes. And boiled milk and made tea and tried to get a morning fix of the Net all together. (The milk boiled over, the tea was too strong, but yes, the dishes did get done). The third call came from Him-who-must-not-be-spoken-lightly-to, neutrally checking if one had an inkling of what lay ahead. Yes, I confirmed, he had called and yes, he too had called. I knew. And no, no problems. No, I would not get in trouble. And so on and so forth.

The mind is unhurried. Get to work. Today, even the truck driver overtaking perilously close by is excused. Oh well, he’s probably been driving all night, one mused in an all encompassing love.

One person came by, bearing sheets indicating meetings scheduled back to back. Came with a grim smile, and dropped agenda points with a flourish.

“Gulshan ki faqat, phoolon se nahin
Kaanton se bhi zeenat hoti hai
Jeene ki liye , is duniya mein
Gham ki bhi zaroorat hoti hai"

We drawled, with a beatific smile, and person scurried back bemused. The office knows it is a good sign when we sing old weepies.

The usual grumpyface came along next. 74 for 4, goddammit, he said. And wotta week lies ahead. And here, I hereby wash my hands off these files. We smiled and said, it’s a game, ducky. And of course we will cover for you. Go forth and multiply in good cheer. Remember this, he said. And don’t blame me later. So we sang

Yeh chaand beete zamaanon ka aaina hoga
bhatakte abr pe , chehra koi bana hoga
hatheliyon ki henna, yaad kuch dilaayegi.
Karoge yaad to, har baat yaad aayegi.

You been smoking something, he sniffed. And went away.

One has learnt to treasure the good days. When the sky is blue and the grass is green and the birds are chirping. Even if they aren’t. Because there will be others when the miasma of doubt and gloom will close in, and emptiness will be a heavy weight to bear.

And therefore, today, we will not shy away from talking today. And singing.

The Manicured Life

2006-01-21T13:57:00.000+05:30

It isn't just a hobby. It's a painstaking one. Attention to detail. Analysing the past, forecasting the future growth. Each lop planned, and then inspected for results. Carefully crafted to look natural, shaped to look untouched by hand. Bonsai.

A wild, fetid landscape of competing, unrestrained life. Towering trees, spreading brooding canopies that seek to smother, deny lifegiving sunlight. In the humid dampness below, wild creepers, deceptvely fragile. Twisting, sucking the very ichor of their supports, clinging, strangling. Wild grass, tenacious, meek, enduring. Mosses, soft, ubiquitious. The sweet cloying smell of the decay of those who lost the battle, covered with the squishy headstones of mushrooms. Weeds, noxious, plastic in brilliance. Proclaiming defiance at a world that considers them unwanted.

Which is why we each treat our passions differently, yours becoming a trophy to be admired in elegant drawing-rooms with colour-matched furnishings. Mine banished to a different planet, to be visited when this one lets go for a while.

So each can continue with the eatworkdrinkfucksleep routine that is life, as everyone else sees it.

Angsta Rap

2006-01-17T15:24:00.000+05:30

Someone liked Eminem.

Another reason I detest the gent. Plus I got a solid half n hour for the meeting to begin.

________________________________________

Aint no rhythm , and aint no rap
Knock off the wannabe brotha crap

You doan have to tell US about frustration, bud
In yer pimpmobile and flashy gear
We live in an age of fire n flood
And all enveloping fear

Anybody who thinks Eminem’s ornery n mean
Is just a victim of Sony’s hype machine
Yeah right, he doan wear a bowler hat
His sneakers are endorsed, be sure of THAT.

In the days of old, the rebel bit ,
was confined to the occasional fuck or shit.
They went wild over Sex Pistols n Clash
And then Public Enemy et al redefined brash

Oh, we been there and done it
far as rage against the machine goes
When it comes to selling movies n Tshirts
the carefully manufactured rebellion shows.

And Eminem, here’s a news flash
We’ve had it with yer “white trash”
Try bringin a ray o light in jaded lives, dude
Instead of ffing WWF attitude

You wanna thump your kid, do in your mom or sis
There’s a body part of mine you can kiss.
As for shock value : get this into yer head
Try flogging another horse, this one is DEAD.

Walk Like An Egyptian

2006-01-14T23:15:00.000+05:30

Thank God for the Egyptians. They have done what the Government has refused to do in a decisive manner : stopped the Clemenceau from carrying its deadly load of asbestos to the Alang ship-breaking yard.

The French, in a breath-taking display of brazenness, had declared that the ship did not fall under the purview of the Basel Convention on transportation of hazardous wastes, being a "warship". "Asked to explain the difference between asbestos contained in a suitcase and asbestos contained in the empty hull of a decommissioned warship, a clearly discomfited French Admiral refused to reply ..." . What even more amazingly cynical is the fact that the company that was contracted to clean up the ship prior transport has gone on record to state that ..."France never intended to undertake more than a superficial clean-up of visible toxic substances on board the Clemenceau and deliberately chose the cheapest option they could get away with..." and that "the Clemenceau contains as much as 500 tonnes of asbestos, a huge increase on the 45 to 50 tonnes that the French Government has admitted to. "

The Indian Government has kept mum even as Greenpeace has raised up a storm in France itself, and highlighted that the Greeks and the Turks have already refused the same ship due to decontamination hassles. The only hope, it seemed, was the Supreme Court Monitoring Committee on Hazardous Wastes, which recommended that the vessel be denied entry. Whether this would've actually translated into action on ground by the time the ship's final resting place became a fait accompli is a matter of conjecture.

As I said, thank God for the Egyptians.

But hey. Spare a thought for poor workers of companies like Shree Ram Scrap Vessels Pvt. Ltd, which has taken up the Clemenceau job. They depend on these jobs for a livelihood. Can a movement that wants to save the environment neglect the interests of these workers?

Greenpeace says

The Clemenceau may be one of the largest ships to be sent for scrap but every year a vast decrepit armada bearing a dangerous cargo of toxic substances, asbestos, PCBs and heavy metals, ends up in ship breaking yards in Bangladesh, India, China and Pakistan, where they are cut up in the crudest of fashions, taking a huge toll on human health and the local environment.

Life, it seems, is a choice between poverty and embracing death.

Polite Conversations

2006-01-14T14:27:00.000+05:30

Silence was our language.

The initial silences, tentative
with jabs of conversation.
The joys, surprisingly recursive;
Mutual pleasures, shared elation.

The amiable silences that we shared
musing over news, writing, a song,
or what bursts of confidence had bared.
Silences often lengthy, but never too long.

The bitter silence of fights,
and of mutual recrimination
Musing over imagined slights;
sudden, joyous reconciliation.

Silence was our language.

Our talk is now of weather and such topics, cursory;
We cannot reclaim the silence we chose.
The conversations now are detailed, desultory;
our love has been struck verbose.

Dubious Move

2006-01-14T14:15:00.000+05:30

The Game Commences.