Musings II

It's like beating against a wall, a wall that refuses to yield...like being stuck behind bars without any hope of being set free. The sole spectators of the ordeal are the steel gray bars and the black stone slabs, with only time for company...a cruel companion, and yet the only one to turn to!

H's a good man, good at heart, easy natured and easy going...and that's the problem. He doesn't understand me, never did. He's a simple creature, planes apart from a complex and twisted character like me...a character who needs to be loved and be shown that love at all times, something that he has never understood, never did. He has plain physical features, which I don't mind, but a plain personality too, which I do mind. He doesn't strive to rise above mediocrity and consequently, doesn't inspire me, or even force me, to be a better woman.
But that's not the whole problem.
There's someone else. Not a kept man, or someone to be having a cheap affair with. Rather, he was there in my life nearly from when this miserable show began. His shadow has loomed over my life virtually eternally. Even when I lost contact for a good two decades, he was never far from my mind. And you just can't stop loving someone just because you have met someone else, can you? But he didn't understand that. He didn't want to come in between, didn't want to become the gigolo, he said....and vanished as if had never come back at all. Said it hurt him to see me with someone else. Never saw my pain of my life without any part of him in it...none at all.
He was my every thing, even a soul mate. He understood me inside out, knew how to turn my keys. He fussed over me like a father, corresponded like a friend and loved me like I belonged to him only and he to me. Not surprising considering we were like two peas in a pod, loners stretching the phrase 'birds of the same feather...' to its limit. For the first time in my life, he made me feel wanted!
But now he's like a ghost...with only memories for me to live on by.
I yearn for him, I cry for him. I try and try, to no avail....to the point where I feel like dying every day, or feel dead already. I get random thoughts of stepping in front of an approaching bus, of diving head first from the terrace...anything to put me out of my misery, much like a horse that will never run again. A small hope flickers within me, that someday she will choose to return...but the oil for that lamp is running out...slowly but surely.

Musings- I

It’s a small, small word made up of just four alphabets. It’s not a tongue twister at all. It cuts across age, across races, across sex, across money (or lack of money)! It’s the one thing that keeps us going, regardless of who we are, and yes, it’s one of the few things that is universal and true for all. So what is it?

Ans: I don’t know what you may have drummed up in your head upon reading ‘It’s a small, small word made up of just four alphabets’, but I really hope that HOPE is one of them!

Hope, it keeps us going at all times. In hope of a better future, in hope of true love, in hope of someday buying that pretty dress you saw on the mannequin while hanging out in the mall. I mean everyone hopes for something, right? What would you be without hope? Ever woken up one morning and decided that there’s nothing to hope for today? Or for the foreseeable future? Or there’s no hope for anything at all? I may not personally know any such people, but I am pretty well sure that people who decide one day to end their lives do decide that there’s no hope for them…and hence no reason for continuing their existence. Quite simply, hope is the fuel to your engine. No fuel, you might as well retire your car and leave it gathering dust in your garage or in the junkyard.

It’s like the sunshine peeking through at the end of a soddy, miserable prolonged downpour, like the first sounds of the birds or the first blooming of a flower after a long, arduous winter. It’s what keeps a soldier going in the middle of a battle, a battle he knows is near-impossible to win, but has to be won….not for the sake of his general, but for the sake of the lovely young lass who waits for him back in his village and who keeps praying for his return every single day. It’s what keeps an old woman going, that even though her son has dropped her off at an old-age home, he will return for her someday and take care of her for the rest of her days. It’s what keeps a young child going at an adoption centre, the hope that he or she might get lucky and be selected by a great family…even though kids who have come in earlier and after have got picked up. It’s what keeps a fellow going, the hope that he might get reunited someday with his childhood sweetheart, even though he cannot find her….no matter how much he has tried. It’s what keeps an investment banker going, even though he has made tons of money, both for himself and for his wealthy clients… the hope of more money! It’s what keeps a mother going, even with years of abuse and tirade suffered at the hands of the employers who keep her to clean…the hope that her child will grow up to be someone who doesn’t have to do the same things she did to raise a family.

A famous Greek philosopher once proved that darkness is simply the absence of light. Similarly, euthanasia, for lack of a better word, is simply the absence of hope. That’s the day you decide that you cannot, under any circumstances, cross the finish line.

A tiny word with a powerful punch. Don’t stop.

P.S.: Try searching for lyrics of a song, ‘Don’t stop believing’ by Journey.
P.P.S.: "I think a man only needs one thing in life. He just needs someone to love. If you can't give him that, then give him something to hope for. And if you can't give him that, just give him something to do."-Flight of the Phoenix (2004)

In a land far far away........

......in a small village, there lived a little boy. This little boy didn't have many friends, and that is the truth. One day, while he was on his way back from school, but near his house, he saw something shiny on the ground. He dropped his bag and ran to the spot, and lo and behold! there was a shiny colourful jewel, and that is the truth. The boy was very happy and took the jewel home with him. He locked it up in a box in his room and the time he didn't spend at school( hating his teachers, his classmates were ok!), or at home bathing or sleeping or eating, he spent it with the jewel, for hours and hours and hours, and that is the truth.

One day a great flood came and washed away his village. The boy was away with his parents and thankfully nothing happened to them per se. But all their belongings, including the jewel, were washed away. The boy searched heaven and earth, but just couldn't find it, and that is the truth. He went to grow up in another town ( all boys do, don't they?) and went to another and then yet another town after that, and then another! He loved that town, it was not hot and yet not cold and it had eateries selling all kinds of food.

But then something happened....

He found his jewel ( yes...the same one he had lost years ago), but this time someone else had it, and that is the truth. The boy was happy(because he had found the jewel again) and sad(because it belonged to someone else now) at the same time. Then something in the boy changed. He decided never to let go of the jewel again. He befriended the other person (and stole the jewel every night the other person was asleep... caressed it longingly with love and affection... and put it back again every morning)

....And one day, he found the box locked from the inside, with the jewel in it! And that..... is the truth.

An Encounter in the bus

I knew her from a few years ago. Beautiful, smart, charming with oodles of self-confidence, she was as close as it got to a page three personality that this middle class boy could ever hope and want to know. The funny thing was, I had met her for the first time in where else……a bus!!!

I was returning from a late evening class, as always traveling by the only bus which would take me directly from my place of study to my place of roosting. And as always, since I was the only person from that area who would come all the way to study where I did, I traveled alone. Those journeys provided me with a good opportunity to read, and hence I would always take along a book to read.

That day, as usual, I was reading a book on my way back, glancing irritably at times at the passing scenario and wishing I would get back home fast. And then out of nowhere, a female’s voice announced its owner’s presence. She commented that that was an interesting book that I was reading. I looked up, just glad to have someone to talk to and saw her for the first time. She was smiling in a teasing manner, as if to mock me and tell me that I didn’t look the kind whom she would imagine reading that genre of books.

Pleasantries were exchanged, acquaintances were made. She stayed nearby, going to the same place where I studied. The place fell on her way to commuting to her place of work, and hence it seemed logical enough that she should choose that centre, I thought to myself. And so began my journey with her.

She had it all. Her smile, her curvy lips, her twinkling eyes, her body, its movements, all depicted the grace, the sensuality, and the mystery that she seemed to possess. For me she was a real-life Madonna, the ultimate prize. I wasn’t in love with her, but was very close to it. I was smitten by her personality, not knowing anyone who would come close to that blend of beauty and brains.

In fact over the course of my correspondence with her, it was she who declared that I had the necessary tools to write. I should be considering writing pieces and getting them published somewhere, anywhere, or at least trying to, as long as the idea wasn’t my own, she said. It was again she who pushed me on when I was seemingly down, stating that I should never let got of my dreams, with cases of famous personalities to prove her point. All this and more made me feel like I had got to know her better, try to decipher the personality that she possessed.

But the more I tried to come close to her, the more she seemed to push me away. She seemed quite content to interact with me virtually, through instant messengers and voice calls through the internet of kinds, but would always shirk at the suggestion of meeting up with me in person. It was as if my mental presence was enough for her, without the need for me to be there in front of her. The same girl who would chat like the best of pals over the internet would behave like a plague-avoider, if asked to meet up, citing reasons of all kinds, genuine as they may be.

For someone who said I knew exactly the shade of blue she was imagining, she never let on if she knew the same shade as I was thinking. I would always quarrel, differing over the ways we went about in this relationship. I think I was more frustrated at my inability to make any headway with her, than at her. At every flash point I would grow angry, citing that case and then break off contact. She would silently comply, and then contact abruptly after a period, as if nothing in between was amiss. And I would hope things would be better than before, and we would continuing being friends, if you could call us that.

It’s funny how life can be analogous to engineering applications. A sine wave, that’s what it was comparable to, periods of ecstasy, followed by periods of anger and frustration. But a sine wave has to end some where, and this was no exception.

Towards the end I kept mulling over the possibility of removing her from my life forever, knowing fully well that she would never be what I wanted her to be. I wanted to escape, to take the easy way out, but didn’t do that all through my pondering period. I knew, I was afraid of her not being there in my life.

And then I knew that I had loved her all this while, loved her for who she was and what she did. And that cheesy phrase kept playing in my head, if you love someone, set them free, if they love you, they will come back. The last flash point happened when I came back home. I had given her every indication that I was back, hoping this time she would contact me on her own. And when that never happened, I knew what I had to do. My time with her was up, and it was time to say good bye. She would not come back.

This is how I corresponded with her last about a year and some months ago. I didn’t want to go through the ritual of being tempted to make one last contact with her, hoping to give it one last try. I deleted her contact numbers, her mailing address, knowing well that she wouldn’t contact me on her own this time, hoping that she would at the same time.

I was returning home from work, being settled back in this city, after a brief period of living in another megapolis. By coincidence my office was in the same area where she used to work and hence I was traveling on the same route. As the surrounding lumbered by, I recalled past memories of the life that was earlier. And then I saw her, sitting a few seats ahead, with her back towards me.

I looked in front of me at her. She was speaking on her mobile, laughing gaily in between. I couldn’t hear her, but could make out her merriness by the way she tossed her head behind, as if without a care in the world. My life with her flashed by, igniting the same emotions in me, as they had before. I got up, replaying in my head as to what I would do next. I could just imagine her surprise on seeing me as I would tap her on her shoulder from behind and she would turn to see the tap’s source. I would smile to her and tell her that she looked good; she would laugh and tell me I looked terrible as usual, as if continuing to tease me like before. I would then muster up some courage and ask her face-to-face if we could work things out, and she would nod in a purposeful manner, saying that it was always I who had broken off contact. I got up, staring intently at her as I pressed through the bodies that stood in between her and me.

…And I just walked by and got down from the bus. The bus lurched forward, with her in it. She, her mobile phone, and the person on the other end…..

In your face

Female friends of mine often complain how difficult is it traveling by buses and local trains without being touched inappropriately, intentionally (men are such lecherous b*****ds, one said) or unintentionally (family planning problems, tut tut, hence lack of space, the same one sympathised later), by the patriarchal majority who seem to be everywhere. Everywhere, that is save up above. Thankfully they haven’t yet devised seating or standing arrangements where you can gaze up and look directly at the posteriors of fellow human beings! Ahh, imagine the sight!!!

What the so called weaker section of society fails to take into account is the agony experienced by the other section which has absolutely no intention of getting anywhere near their fellow men’s rears and are yet subjected to this near inhuman experience. This article is dedicated to all those men who have to undergo the traumatic experience of getting their torso touched by another man’s private parts, the ugly sight of another man scratching away to glory, or even the common sight of one happily relieving himself, oblivious to the entire world!

B.E.S.T. (A Mumbai public transport company) conductors are very courteous when it comes to the ladies. It’s with the men that their bonding is a little alarming. A B.E.S.T. conductor would go out of his way to make space for the ladies. With the men, well just because you are a fellow man, it is quite all right to stick his rear against your shoulder, and sometimes right in front of your face!!!

Any attempt to push the invading bum (no puns intended) out of your own space is met with an equally resistive force which has absolutely no intention of moving itself away from the comfortable position that it has forcibly pushed its way into. No, no, no, any attempts to do so are met with irritated glares which prompt you to rethink if the act of detaching yourself from fellow males is legal in this country.

Moving away from the physical aspects, what is it with certain people? Why can’t they start a conversation, with someone they are getting acquainted, without asking salary details or about the love life? So went a conversation with someone I had just come to know:

Someone: So, where are you from?

Me: From Mumbai.

Someone: Hmm, been there long?

Me: About 16 years.

(period of awkward silence)

Someone: So…you got a girlfriend???

Me: (Uggh, what!!!! I just got acquainted with you!!!!) No, not right now.

(period of awkward silence again!!!!)

Someone and me (together): I guess it’s time to go …(and both leave with obvious relief on their faces).

Another conversation went with someone (someone else this time) asking whether I had worked, and when I had replied in the affirmative, he ‘had’ to ask how much did I earn? Some people do find it quite innocuous to ask such questions, me, I find it quite puzzling as to why, in the darn heaven’s name, would people poke their nose, mouth, hands (you get the picture) into other people’s lives, people who aren’t an integral part of their lives? It’s called ‘social bonding’, I got told.

As the title suggests, I have decided to follow the same principle myself. I am being up front about comments on this article. If you like this piece, nothing like it. If not, then pal, ‘In Your Face’,as you would make out from my pic staring into your face!!!!

Note: The author apologises about any derogatory remark that might have been made about anyone in particular during the making of this piece. Inconvenience is deeply regretted (but highly unavoidable)!!!

Mumbai Spirit (Or Lack Of It)

Till some time ago, for many foreigners, India was Mumbai. Perhaps more fittingly, Mumbai, known in these parts as the city that never sleeps, was India, being the resting nest of people from all across. Some called it the land of opportunities; others saw it as a milk cow. For long, before and after independence, Mumbai was the economic capital of India. Delhi was the administrative capital of India, Calcutta rose as the cultural capital, and Madras was in a different zone altogether, yet, Mumbai was where the money was. The influx of population from the backward states, i.e. U.P., Bihar and others into Delhi and Calcutta was due to geographical proximity....the same into Mumbai was due to social aspirations.

Mumbai was where you wanted to be, whether you were a wannabe film star, an aspiring entrepreneur hoping to make it big, or even someone wanting to save a few pennies and wanting to go back to your native place and setting up a shop, it didn’t matter! The city took all under its wings, and yet, more flocked to the city of dreams.

And slowly, the face of the city changed. Mumbai grew, both in stature and in size. Marshlands were reclaimed, forests cut down to size, land, cultivated or barren, used for housing purposes... in the name of progress. What was twenty years ago no longer was. What could be twenty years later couldn’t be imagined immediately. It would be, maybe in the nineteenth year, by someone sensing an opportunity!

Mumbai established itself as the flavour of the season, and it stayed there for decades to come. People came, stayed, prospered, and then called their relatives to share the spoils, who in turn did the same for their loved ones. And the chain continued. It became an all-devouring monster, eating nature around it as it grew.

And as the city became a monster, so did change the inhabitants of the city. Life became a nine to six grind, and maybe a six to nine as well. People didn’t know their neighbours and didn’t care. People got up early in the morning, just to get ready and reach their workplace in time. People spent most of the day with their office colleagues, probably more than they would have with their families. People, having left home at dawn, returned by the last local train. There was simply no time to give to your loved ones, the very ones for whom the Mumbaiite laboured all day. To put it briefly, people just wanted to make it big here, that’s all that mattered. It simply became a rat race!

Sociologists say that an new urban social phenomena is observed in Mumbai where social circles have been formed in the last local trains, where each knows which coach to sit in, knows the people sitting next to him or her. These people share gossip, their personal lives, their birthdays, their laughter and sometimes, even their grief. Something that was probably no longer possible with friends and family.

And then it happened. The city became a victim of its own success. Not only did it begin to outgrow itself, outsiders also noticed it as an important cog in the Indian economy. Some came in, sensing a golden opportunity to avail of cheap labour and to tap a huge market, thereby adding to the process of rapid consumption. Others came in sensing a golden opportunity themselves, that of large-scale destruction.

Mumbai has been a victim of large-scale terrorist attacks since 1992, with the most recent being bomb blasts in 2006. And like in the first instance, the resilient spirit of the Mumbaiite is saluted. But was it the resilient spirit or the lack of choice? Left to themselves, people might have stayed back home, in fear and in grief, mourning their loved ones and hoping that the remaining wouldn’t go the same way. But grief and fear doesn’t fill stomachs, work and hence going to work does.

Was it the resilient spirit or the ‘Chalta hai attitude’, the same attitude which he used as an excuse to ignore reality! And reality was that the city was going to the dogs long before terror struck. The city was choking on its own success. Infrastructure that was provided half century ago still catered to...any additions. And population had grown multi-fold in that same period! Basic amenities like roads, drinking water, electricity, to name a few, couldn’t be provided to everyone who formed the bloating population, simply because there was no anticipation of the same.

And even if there was any real progress, it was outweighed by the countless acts of corruption that were gnawing away at the roots of progress. Soon Mumbai became a haven for smugglers and other anti-social elements who saw an opportunity for themselves in this golden period. The local equivalent of the Italian ‘Mafiosi’ started running a parallel government, sometimes living off the disillusionment of the people at the government, sometimes using strong hand tactics! And the elected governors looked the other way; probably at the black money they unscrupulously took from these anti-socials! If this wasn’t the land of opportunities, then what was? Opportunities galore for everyone, the rulers, the common man and the man outside the system, no discriminations whatsoever towards anyone!

So when terror struck, when it no longer became a problem up north and down south, and everywhere else but in Mumbai, but a problem that was facing the Mumbaiite in the face, the ‘Chalta hai’ attitude was again adopted. Some didn’t care; some couldn’t afford to care. Memory in India is short term and this was no exception. Outrage would be expressed, and the incidents would be soon forgotten, except perhaps by some. Some who’s loved ones prepared for life as usual on that ill fated day and were instead caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. For these, time would knock again, and again, and again, reminding them of the horrors of that day. For the others, life would go on, perhaps with a little apprehension, but not much more.

Sure, there has been a concern at the way the city was going to the dogs, but these people were always in a minority. Influential voices like those of Alayque Padmasee’s, Shabana Azmi’s etc. are raised, and then drowned by the countless voices of apathy and inattention. Unless people like you and me, the common Mumbaiite, join hands to form the movement that will try perpetually till the city becomes the Shanghai or the Singapore it aspires to be, the city will become like the freedom fighter, proud of the history, decaying in the present, unmindful of the future. Long live Mumbai, Mumbai is dead!

Hero Worship (Or Zero Worship???)

99% of us need heroes. Why? Because heroes inspire us, make us feel like achieving the impossible. Again why? Because following the cliché ’Nothing is perfect’, there must be someone out there who is secure in himself or herself. That someone has got no use for heroes, probably just admiration, nothing more.

Or what we do is really hero worship? Haven’t we been led to believe (from childhood maybe, if we were told bedtime stories) that a hero is one who does noble deeds, helps those in need of being helped, enables others to lead a better life? At least that’s what my grandmom did, narrating mythological folk tales and not so mythological freedom struggles.

So if you do agree with the above, then isn’t a soldier defending our country’s borders a hero? What about a social activist working for the uplifting of society (that is YOURS and MINE)? Isn’t a person fighting against corruption that gnaws away at our meager efforts in leading a better life, a hero? All that these people (and many others) have in common is that they are doing their job so that they (and YOU and me) might lead a better life.

Many of us admire the US of A and many don’t. But none of us can dispute the fact that the Americans value their lives. They practically howl even if one of their soldiers is killed in the line of duty. And this is because they know that they lead their very lives under a security blanket provided by these very soldiers. Here, our soldiers do the same job (possibly a more difficult one) and yet receive no appreciation from a majority of us. Maybe, because that same majority of us take life for granted. Have any of us ever given it a thought as to what will happen if these soldiers, these activists, these unnamed people stop doing their jobs? Or looking at it from a selfish point of view, what effect will it have on YOUR life?

Speaking of your life, what effect do eleven men on a field playing cricket or actors acting in a film have? Probably they make us feel better, being the sole representatives for us on a global scenario (even though cricket isn’t a global sport, played by a handful of countries) or elevating us to a fantasy platform, in the case of movies. If we do actually want to feel proud because of Indians winning on an international level, shouldn’t efforts be made to promote sports that a globally popular? The result could be efficient end products of a system rather than the occasional Bhutia, Paes, Sunita Rani, Gopichand to name a few.

Coming back to these eleven gentlemen playing cricket, what business to the fans have belittling the players and their performances? The players didn’t ask the public to raise them to the status of demigods, the fanatics did it themselves. As the South African cricketer Lance Klusener said after his country’s loss to Australia in the cricket world cup’99,”Nobody died”. For heaven’s sake, cricket isn’t life; it’s just a game. There are far more valuable things in life to cry about rather than cricket.

No one’s totally at fault and no one’s blameless. The common public is to be blamed for not realizing the more important chapters of life, for being hyperreactive (or childish) on silly things. The media, for its part, must accept that it portrays itself as just a manifestation of public views and opinions, knowing very well that the influence it holds can be channeled into a medium of path setting and beneficiary changes in the mindset of the common man.

I recall reading somewhere about members of the armed forces dying in the line of duty, yet the headlines are hogged by the triumph of the Indian team over the Englishmen in some cricket match. Put yourselves in the shoes of these martyrs and their families. How would you feel if your sacrifice to an important cause went unnoticed in favour of something that has no direct impact on our lives?

And lastly, let’s look at the educated section of this country, the so-called trendsetters, and the all knowers. The common man can be excused on the grounds of impoverishment and ignorance. What excuse does the middle and upper class segments of society have? Isn’t being in a better status than most make them the ideal path setters, the people who can make all the difference to a stagnating society?

Let’s be honest and admit that apart from ourselves, we don’t care. As long as we can rake all the moolah, we give a damn about our neighbours. Is that the way of leading lives, trying to go along with the rat race instead of trying to make our and out children’s future secure? All I have are questions. Can someone answer them?