Whenever I begin a new book, I do a strange thing. Just when I am in the first few pages, I read the last line of the book.
No I am not a restless soul, without any patience. For me, the ending is very important. Because I think that’s where the idea germinates. Every good story and every good book, I think, had begun with an end. The author/writer then writes it backwards.
May be that’s why you can never write autobiographies at the age of 30 or 40 or 50, because you would not know the end.
And I think that’s how life is. Everything begins with an end.
A relationship begins with an end of loneliness or with an end of another bad relationship, winning begins with the end of losing, smiles begin with the end of tears and so on.
And we are always looking for endings. We want a relationship to end in marriage, a war to end in peace, an old year to end in a new-year bash, a week to end in a weekend, a tiresome day to end in a good nights’ sleep.
You want to live life to the fullest because you know; this life will one day come to an end. For that excitement, you start enjoying your life, you start living.
It all begins with the end.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Profound???
I am writing this because I have nothing else to write.
Someone told me that my thoughts are profound.
I opened MS word as soon as I could access my computer, typed “Profound”, right clicked on it to get as many meanings as possible.
Profound – Deep, thoughtful, reflective, philosophical, weighty, insightful… (Haven’t even changed the order)
I don’t know. I haven’t seen life. I don’t understand emotions. I don’t understand situations. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I only feel. Because I can only feel. I am very superficial (coincidentally that’s an antonym for profound). I am very shallow. If I see love, I feel it. If I see anguish, I feel it. I am just a simple human being. Full of contradictions and full of adversities.
Situations are always mightier than actions, words, emotions, thoughts, feelings…everything. So how much ever I try I can never put situations into words.
So, I am not profound. I am not deep. I am shallow. I just let situations pass through me.
Someone told me that my thoughts are profound.
I opened MS word as soon as I could access my computer, typed “Profound”, right clicked on it to get as many meanings as possible.
Profound – Deep, thoughtful, reflective, philosophical, weighty, insightful… (Haven’t even changed the order)
I don’t know. I haven’t seen life. I don’t understand emotions. I don’t understand situations. I don’t know what’s right or wrong. I only feel. Because I can only feel. I am very superficial (coincidentally that’s an antonym for profound). I am very shallow. If I see love, I feel it. If I see anguish, I feel it. I am just a simple human being. Full of contradictions and full of adversities.
Situations are always mightier than actions, words, emotions, thoughts, feelings…everything. So how much ever I try I can never put situations into words.
So, I am not profound. I am not deep. I am shallow. I just let situations pass through me.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Yes, I am wrong
After reading the post “I am wrong”, someone had this discussion with me.
“Do you feel better after writing this?”
I said, “Writing always makes me feel better”. Thinking about the question and questioning it I asked, “Do you feel better after reading it?”
“Why should I feel anything?” was the defensive reply.
When you feel sorry, you feel that you are wrong. And when you feel you are wrong, you feel very uneasy. It’s a feeling that no words can describe. You can never put god-made feelings in man-made words.
The question never came as a surprise to me. The ‘I am wrong’ process was a realization process. And realization is always questioned. Realization is acceptance, and acceptance invites criticism. People form opinions. They live in them. You are supposed to live in this life, not in opinions. Everything in life moves on. When you stick on to an opinion, then your life moves with it, collecting dust on the way, dust of judgments, more opinions, dust of the man-made illusion of right and wrong, dust of hatred.
You find joy in someone else’s realization. You find immense joy in the fact that this person has made so many mistakes. You laugh at him.
I am happy I can make people laugh. If I ever brought tears to their eyes, I am making up by this smile on their face.
Yes, I am wrong.
“Do you feel better after writing this?”
I said, “Writing always makes me feel better”. Thinking about the question and questioning it I asked, “Do you feel better after reading it?”
“Why should I feel anything?” was the defensive reply.
When you feel sorry, you feel that you are wrong. And when you feel you are wrong, you feel very uneasy. It’s a feeling that no words can describe. You can never put god-made feelings in man-made words.
The question never came as a surprise to me. The ‘I am wrong’ process was a realization process. And realization is always questioned. Realization is acceptance, and acceptance invites criticism. People form opinions. They live in them. You are supposed to live in this life, not in opinions. Everything in life moves on. When you stick on to an opinion, then your life moves with it, collecting dust on the way, dust of judgments, more opinions, dust of the man-made illusion of right and wrong, dust of hatred.
You find joy in someone else’s realization. You find immense joy in the fact that this person has made so many mistakes. You laugh at him.
I am happy I can make people laugh. If I ever brought tears to their eyes, I am making up by this smile on their face.
Yes, I am wrong.
Just inches
She could feel the early morning breeze, blowing from the window, caressing the soft skin of her back. She was still very sleepy. Her eyelids refused to move. She wanted to get up and draw the curtains over the window, but the sleep running through her veins and nerves was drugging her.
She drew the white sheet over her naked body, gathered herself up and managed to leave the warmth of the bed and moved towards the window. The sleep was anaesthetic. She barely managed to draw the curtains, returned to the bed and threw herself lazily in its warmth. Her mind was at peace. No thoughts. No illusions. No memories.
The white sheet still hugging her body, she turned her back to the window again. Just when she was drifting into the realms of sleep… she felt him. His hand was making love to her back. The soft skin on her back already felt sedated by the touch. The finger tracing her spine, up and down, again and again, made her heart race. She wanted to turn and face him, but she was afraid, afraid that the sedation would end. She felt the soft roughness of his palms now. The palm covered a larger area on her back than his finger… she could feel the restlessness in his hands. She could feel his pulse racing. She wanted to get seduced. She was getting seduced. The sleepiness was beginning to mingle with the seduction. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body… all over her skin. She realized she was breathing faster. Reluctantly she moved an inch away from him and it all stopped… for an eternity. She waited. She wanted to feel his hand… his warmth. It didn’t happen. She felt empty. She repented moving away. From the love… the seduction… the sedation. The sleep in her eyes was getting moist. She wanted to cry. She wanted to correct her mistake. To undo her faults. To change her past. She wanted to turn and hug him and say sorry to him. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. She cried.
She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried.
When you are too close to love, you are scared. You know it’s going to end. You know you don’t deserve to be blessed. With love. You start believing in the fact that you cannot be happy so much that it starts happening. Because, you make it happen. You pull yourself away from it so that it becomes easier for you to handle its end. Because you believe it’s going to end.
All your life you were scared you would never find true love, when you find it, you are too scared it would end. You never change. You remain insecure.
Our belief in the bad is stronger than our faith in the good. And strong emotions always win. It would end. It will end. It’s going to end. It’s ending. It’d ended. It ends.
She looked for him restlessly, guiltily; lovingly… she didn’t find him. She wanted one more chance, to express her love, to cry in his arms, to hug him and say sorry. She wanted to tell him she was just inches away from him. Just inches.
She drew the white sheet over her naked body, gathered herself up and managed to leave the warmth of the bed and moved towards the window. The sleep was anaesthetic. She barely managed to draw the curtains, returned to the bed and threw herself lazily in its warmth. Her mind was at peace. No thoughts. No illusions. No memories.
The white sheet still hugging her body, she turned her back to the window again. Just when she was drifting into the realms of sleep… she felt him. His hand was making love to her back. The soft skin on her back already felt sedated by the touch. The finger tracing her spine, up and down, again and again, made her heart race. She wanted to turn and face him, but she was afraid, afraid that the sedation would end. She felt the soft roughness of his palms now. The palm covered a larger area on her back than his finger… she could feel the restlessness in his hands. She could feel his pulse racing. She wanted to get seduced. She was getting seduced. The sleepiness was beginning to mingle with the seduction. She wanted to feel his hands all over her body… all over her skin. She realized she was breathing faster. Reluctantly she moved an inch away from him and it all stopped… for an eternity. She waited. She wanted to feel his hand… his warmth. It didn’t happen. She felt empty. She repented moving away. From the love… the seduction… the sedation. The sleep in her eyes was getting moist. She wanted to cry. She wanted to correct her mistake. To undo her faults. To change her past. She wanted to turn and hug him and say sorry to him. She wanted to feel his lips against hers. She cried.
She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried. She cried.
When you are too close to love, you are scared. You know it’s going to end. You know you don’t deserve to be blessed. With love. You start believing in the fact that you cannot be happy so much that it starts happening. Because, you make it happen. You pull yourself away from it so that it becomes easier for you to handle its end. Because you believe it’s going to end.
All your life you were scared you would never find true love, when you find it, you are too scared it would end. You never change. You remain insecure.
Our belief in the bad is stronger than our faith in the good. And strong emotions always win. It would end. It will end. It’s going to end. It’s ending. It’d ended. It ends.
She looked for him restlessly, guiltily; lovingly… she didn’t find him. She wanted one more chance, to express her love, to cry in his arms, to hug him and say sorry. She wanted to tell him she was just inches away from him. Just inches.
Monday, March 26, 2007
I am wrong
I am wrong.
I am not a nice guy.
All my life I played the role of a role model brilliantly. This is what my parents think. I think they are wrong.
They think I set an example for everyone in the family. I think they are wrong. They think I don’t lie. I think they are wrong. They think I am brave. I think they are wrong. They think I am strong and I don’t cry. I think they are wrong. But it’s not completely their fault. Everyone has illusions.
Everyone wants to be a role model. Everyone wants to set examples. Everyone wants to be truthful.
Personally, I don’t believe in right or wrong, truth or lie, good or bad. I think the situations are far bigger than these notions.
Still I believe I am wrong. I have hurt people. I have cheated myself. I have bent my beliefs. I have made people who love me, cry. I have lied. I have tried to be someone I wanted to be. I am weak. I cry. I lose.
I always want people to believe that I am a nice guy. Loving, caring, emotional, helpful… I am not. I am a simple human being. As complex as anyone.
I want people to believe that I am socially responsible, that I help people without any expectation or a selfish motive… that I love unconditionally… that I am clean… that I am actually right.
But I am wrong.
I am not a nice guy.
All my life I played the role of a role model brilliantly. This is what my parents think. I think they are wrong.
They think I set an example for everyone in the family. I think they are wrong. They think I don’t lie. I think they are wrong. They think I am brave. I think they are wrong. They think I am strong and I don’t cry. I think they are wrong. But it’s not completely their fault. Everyone has illusions.
Everyone wants to be a role model. Everyone wants to set examples. Everyone wants to be truthful.
Personally, I don’t believe in right or wrong, truth or lie, good or bad. I think the situations are far bigger than these notions.
Still I believe I am wrong. I have hurt people. I have cheated myself. I have bent my beliefs. I have made people who love me, cry. I have lied. I have tried to be someone I wanted to be. I am weak. I cry. I lose.
I always want people to believe that I am a nice guy. Loving, caring, emotional, helpful… I am not. I am a simple human being. As complex as anyone.
I want people to believe that I am socially responsible, that I help people without any expectation or a selfish motive… that I love unconditionally… that I am clean… that I am actually right.
But I am wrong.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Thoughtless
I was locked in a small room, crowded with people - Men, women, and children. A small room, of about 60sft, stuffed with about 50 people in it.
There was a man wearing a torn shirt with a stained pair of trousers, a woman wearing a tattered sari, a small kid with his shoe-polishing kit and with shoe-polish all over his body, and a lot of shoe-sole prints on his white-turned-yellow shirt, a little girl, just wearing a small ‘chaddi’ and a stained smile…
I could feel their bodies, pressing against mine. Everyone in the room, gasping for breath… as there was only limited air to be inhaled and everyone wanted their share. I was inhaling the air exhaled by the man standing right in front of me. Borrowed living.
I was beginning to feel suffocated and wanted to rush to the door and open it. Pursuing my game plan I began to move towards the door, slowly, pushing everyone I could, squeezing through everyone I couldn’t.
Something changed. As I tried to walk towards the door, I felt nothing. No bodies, no exhaled carbon dioxide… nothing. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I could still see everyone, wearing the same clothes and the same attitude and the same expression. But my movement was not restricted by their presence. Their bodies were not occupying any space. Perplexed and lost, I had finally managed to reach the door. But alas, it didn’t have a knob or a latch.
I was shattered. I thought each one of them would be smiling at my futile attempt, but I was wrong. They were all staring at me in the same expressionless manner. But just when I was beginning to feel choked, I realized, there was no door… I just had to walk away from the human cluster. And that’s what I did, walked through the door, looking back at all of them, feeling free and isolated.
The feeling of suffocation had left me and I could breathe; and feel and enjoy the freedom. But it didn’t last too long. As I turned my face away from them I saw someone standing right in front of me, dressed in black, smiling at me. It wasn’t a stained smile. It was clean, healthy and humane.
As I moved through him, I realized they were all human beings. They weren’t my thoughts. I was their thought. They existed. I didn’t.
I was just a thought.
There was a man wearing a torn shirt with a stained pair of trousers, a woman wearing a tattered sari, a small kid with his shoe-polishing kit and with shoe-polish all over his body, and a lot of shoe-sole prints on his white-turned-yellow shirt, a little girl, just wearing a small ‘chaddi’ and a stained smile…
I could feel their bodies, pressing against mine. Everyone in the room, gasping for breath… as there was only limited air to be inhaled and everyone wanted their share. I was inhaling the air exhaled by the man standing right in front of me. Borrowed living.
I was beginning to feel suffocated and wanted to rush to the door and open it. Pursuing my game plan I began to move towards the door, slowly, pushing everyone I could, squeezing through everyone I couldn’t.
Something changed. As I tried to walk towards the door, I felt nothing. No bodies, no exhaled carbon dioxide… nothing. I closed my eyes and opened them again. I could still see everyone, wearing the same clothes and the same attitude and the same expression. But my movement was not restricted by their presence. Their bodies were not occupying any space. Perplexed and lost, I had finally managed to reach the door. But alas, it didn’t have a knob or a latch.
I was shattered. I thought each one of them would be smiling at my futile attempt, but I was wrong. They were all staring at me in the same expressionless manner. But just when I was beginning to feel choked, I realized, there was no door… I just had to walk away from the human cluster. And that’s what I did, walked through the door, looking back at all of them, feeling free and isolated.
The feeling of suffocation had left me and I could breathe; and feel and enjoy the freedom. But it didn’t last too long. As I turned my face away from them I saw someone standing right in front of me, dressed in black, smiling at me. It wasn’t a stained smile. It was clean, healthy and humane.
As I moved through him, I realized they were all human beings. They weren’t my thoughts. I was their thought. They existed. I didn’t.
I was just a thought.
Hissa
I hate the legal system in India. I would like to think that I am very informed and know what the other countries’ legal systems are like. I hate policemen. I think all they want is their ‘hissa’… their ‘share’
I have a PAN card, a license (that was taken by the actual 3-day long process, involving a driving-test) and I have a two-wheeler (with all of its necessary papers in place) and I always wear a helmet while driving.
But the other day something strange happened. At a crowded traffic signal, I was stopped by a cop (not a traffic-cop). Some ‘important people’ were going to pass by that road in some time. I stopped as I knew there wasn’t any harm. He asked for the bike papers which I showed it to him. He demanded a pollution-check document (which you update every 12 months). Luckily for me I even had that in place. But I don’t know what went wrong with me; I held it back and told the cop I didn’t have it.
‘200 rupaye ka fine bharna hoga’. He said heartlessly.
‘Itna paisa to nahi hai mere paas’. I replied, trying to read his expression.
‘To theek hai… (thinking) jo bhi hai de do… 40-50... receipt nahi milega par’
I took out my wallet and handed him a 50 rupee note… and a 100 rupee note and then another one… and said, ‘Receipt nahi chahiye…’
I could see he wanted to say ‘thank you’. As he pocketed the money, I moved away.
I hate policemen. I think all they want is their ‘hissa’… their ‘share’.
P.S: All salaries are as per Maharashtra state
Police constable – Rs.6k to 8k (Annual increment - Rs.75) (After about 15 years of service)
Senior constable – Rs.8.5k to 10k (Increment – Rs.100)
Police hawaldar – Rs.10.2k to 12k (Increment - Rs.100)
Police sub-inspector – Rs.15k – 16k (Increment - Rs.175)
And the salary that an average private sector employee (like me) draws after 3 years of service is as much as the Assistant Police commissioner’s; with an annual increment at least 20 times that of his annual increment.
I have a PAN card, a license (that was taken by the actual 3-day long process, involving a driving-test) and I have a two-wheeler (with all of its necessary papers in place) and I always wear a helmet while driving.
But the other day something strange happened. At a crowded traffic signal, I was stopped by a cop (not a traffic-cop). Some ‘important people’ were going to pass by that road in some time. I stopped as I knew there wasn’t any harm. He asked for the bike papers which I showed it to him. He demanded a pollution-check document (which you update every 12 months). Luckily for me I even had that in place. But I don’t know what went wrong with me; I held it back and told the cop I didn’t have it.
‘200 rupaye ka fine bharna hoga’. He said heartlessly.
‘Itna paisa to nahi hai mere paas’. I replied, trying to read his expression.
‘To theek hai… (thinking) jo bhi hai de do… 40-50... receipt nahi milega par’
I took out my wallet and handed him a 50 rupee note… and a 100 rupee note and then another one… and said, ‘Receipt nahi chahiye…’
I could see he wanted to say ‘thank you’. As he pocketed the money, I moved away.
I hate policemen. I think all they want is their ‘hissa’… their ‘share’.
P.S: All salaries are as per Maharashtra state
Police constable – Rs.6k to 8k (Annual increment - Rs.75) (After about 15 years of service)
Senior constable – Rs.8.5k to 10k (Increment – Rs.100)
Police hawaldar – Rs.10.2k to 12k (Increment - Rs.100)
Police sub-inspector – Rs.15k – 16k (Increment - Rs.175)
And the salary that an average private sector employee (like me) draws after 3 years of service is as much as the Assistant Police commissioner’s; with an annual increment at least 20 times that of his annual increment.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Marriage love
Her heart skipped a beat.
She’d been married to this man for the past 3 years.
It was an arranged marriage. A simple, sweet happy married life followed. Happiness has no definitions. She was a simple woman, had no major ambitions or dreams. She just wanted a peaceful and a problem-free married life, which she pretty much got.
Every year they celebrated their wedding anniversary by inviting their common friends over. He always praised her cooking and her caring nature in front of everyone. He was proud to have a wife like her. They were very compatible, liked the same cuisine, same movies, same songs, same holiday destinations and even the same colors.
They never argued or disagreed. Life was smooth. After 2 years of marriage, she gave birth to a beautiful daughter. That changed their lives. They kept awake for their little bundle of joy, to change her diapers, to feed her, to see her grow-up, every minute, every second.
She had never really loved her husband. Neither did he make an attempt to make her fall in love with him. He respected her and cared for her, but love never happened.
They took the baby for evening strolls, in parks, on the beach and every where else. The baby in the pram, they walked hand in hand like a love-struck couple. Gradually the small girl started muttering small words like ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’. She learnt to walk, fall and run. She became their world.
Then one day something happened. The kid was in her father’s arms while he was talking to an old friend who was passing by. He introduced the friend to his wife saying, ‘Meet my wife Anjali’.
Anjali muttered an indifferent ‘Hi’, indifferent because she had just discovered something very different about her husband and about her kid, about their relationship.
Anjali was looking at her daughter, like a child. Observing every minute detail, every minute movement of her hands, her little fingers, her soft skin, her cute lips, her sweet smile as and when, her small eyes… everything. The kid was studying her father’s face as intently as her mother was studying hers.
Her cute little fingers traced her father’s lips, eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows, ears, cheeks… she was smiling… she felt her father’s cheek on her little-pink palms, they raced across his face… she threw her arms around her father while the father hugged her back, amidst his conversation.
Anjali was trying to record each and every movement of this little moment that she saw, forever in her memory. A stray tear rolled down her cheek. For the first time she had felt love, although through her daughter’s heart. She felt complete. She smiled. The mixed emotion overwhelmed her.
When they were walking back, Anjali held her husband’s hand, like everyday. But today it was different, and her husband also felt something was different. He didn’t know what though. Their hands caressed passionately. He looked at her and smiled.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She’d been married to this man for the past 3 years.
It was an arranged marriage. A simple, sweet happy married life followed. Happiness has no definitions. She was a simple woman, had no major ambitions or dreams. She just wanted a peaceful and a problem-free married life, which she pretty much got.
Every year they celebrated their wedding anniversary by inviting their common friends over. He always praised her cooking and her caring nature in front of everyone. He was proud to have a wife like her. They were very compatible, liked the same cuisine, same movies, same songs, same holiday destinations and even the same colors.
They never argued or disagreed. Life was smooth. After 2 years of marriage, she gave birth to a beautiful daughter. That changed their lives. They kept awake for their little bundle of joy, to change her diapers, to feed her, to see her grow-up, every minute, every second.
She had never really loved her husband. Neither did he make an attempt to make her fall in love with him. He respected her and cared for her, but love never happened.
They took the baby for evening strolls, in parks, on the beach and every where else. The baby in the pram, they walked hand in hand like a love-struck couple. Gradually the small girl started muttering small words like ‘Ma’ and ‘Pa’. She learnt to walk, fall and run. She became their world.
Then one day something happened. The kid was in her father’s arms while he was talking to an old friend who was passing by. He introduced the friend to his wife saying, ‘Meet my wife Anjali’.
Anjali muttered an indifferent ‘Hi’, indifferent because she had just discovered something very different about her husband and about her kid, about their relationship.
Anjali was looking at her daughter, like a child. Observing every minute detail, every minute movement of her hands, her little fingers, her soft skin, her cute lips, her sweet smile as and when, her small eyes… everything. The kid was studying her father’s face as intently as her mother was studying hers.
Her cute little fingers traced her father’s lips, eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows, ears, cheeks… she was smiling… she felt her father’s cheek on her little-pink palms, they raced across his face… she threw her arms around her father while the father hugged her back, amidst his conversation.
Anjali was trying to record each and every movement of this little moment that she saw, forever in her memory. A stray tear rolled down her cheek. For the first time she had felt love, although through her daughter’s heart. She felt complete. She smiled. The mixed emotion overwhelmed her.
When they were walking back, Anjali held her husband’s hand, like everyday. But today it was different, and her husband also felt something was different. He didn’t know what though. Their hands caressed passionately. He looked at her and smiled.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Class apart
The train was slowly leaving the station while he was still running down the stairs as fast as he could. At the nick of the moment he managed to get one foot on board. And as the platform drifted away, he managed to make some place for himself inside the cabin, overhearing some words like ‘Abe first class hai’…
The train was crowded but there was enough space for Mushtaq’s feet. The man standing next to him was now looking at him disapprovingly. The glint of anger in his eyes made Mushtaq very uneasy. ‘Pata nahi kahan se first class mein chad jaate hain’ the angry bald man murmured to himself.
Mushtaq’s mind soon left the train’s first class cabin and moved faster than the fast train to reach his home. He was supposed to collect his passport today. Passport – the license needed to travel abroad. Away from this country. His country.
But he was soon pulled back to the present. The ticket checker had boarded the train, and he was just a couple of passengers away. The train was slowing down to halt at the next station. Just then another man, who was standing behind Mushtaq, whispered in his ears, ‘station aa gaya…chup chap utar kar agle dabbe mein chad ja… TC pakad lega to 200 rupaye ka fine to maarega…’
But before Mushtaq could react, the TC grabbed his hand and said. ‘Tere ko malum nahi hai ye first class ka dabba hai? Tum jaise logon ki wajah se humko bhi itni bheed mein train mein chadna padta hai… chal ab utar yahan aur bhagna mat…200 rupaye nikaal’
Without uttering a word, MUshtaq got down. As the train raced past after its hault, the TC said again, angrily, ‘Second class ka ticket hai ya wo bhi nahi hai?’
Mushtaq took out his wallet and showed it to him. The TC was startled at what he saw.
‘Tune andar kyun nahi bola tere paas first class ka pass hai?’
Mushtaq said innocently, ‘Baat pass ki nahi hai saab, shakal ki hai, Usse kaise badalta?’
Waise bhi aapne poocha nahi thha mujhse.’
Mushtaq boarded the next train to reach his home. To collect his passport and leave this country. His country.
The train was crowded but there was enough space for Mushtaq’s feet. The man standing next to him was now looking at him disapprovingly. The glint of anger in his eyes made Mushtaq very uneasy. ‘Pata nahi kahan se first class mein chad jaate hain’ the angry bald man murmured to himself.
Mushtaq’s mind soon left the train’s first class cabin and moved faster than the fast train to reach his home. He was supposed to collect his passport today. Passport – the license needed to travel abroad. Away from this country. His country.
But he was soon pulled back to the present. The ticket checker had boarded the train, and he was just a couple of passengers away. The train was slowing down to halt at the next station. Just then another man, who was standing behind Mushtaq, whispered in his ears, ‘station aa gaya…chup chap utar kar agle dabbe mein chad ja… TC pakad lega to 200 rupaye ka fine to maarega…’
But before Mushtaq could react, the TC grabbed his hand and said. ‘Tere ko malum nahi hai ye first class ka dabba hai? Tum jaise logon ki wajah se humko bhi itni bheed mein train mein chadna padta hai… chal ab utar yahan aur bhagna mat…200 rupaye nikaal’
Without uttering a word, MUshtaq got down. As the train raced past after its hault, the TC said again, angrily, ‘Second class ka ticket hai ya wo bhi nahi hai?’
Mushtaq took out his wallet and showed it to him. The TC was startled at what he saw.
‘Tune andar kyun nahi bola tere paas first class ka pass hai?’
Mushtaq said innocently, ‘Baat pass ki nahi hai saab, shakal ki hai, Usse kaise badalta?’
Waise bhi aapne poocha nahi thha mujhse.’
Mushtaq boarded the next train to reach his home. To collect his passport and leave this country. His country.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Vernal Equinox
It’s the vernal equinox today.
A morning ride in the crowded local train in Mumbai makes you impatient. It’s the source of an angst that builds, and stays with you through-out the day. And the next day, there’s another one.
You want to kill everyone. Anyone who stamps on your feet, anyone who robs you of your space (not that it exists anyway) and anyone who smiles. You don’t rule your mind. It rules you.
The speeding taxi facing you, the vegetable vendor challenging his lungs by challenging about the best prices, the over-weight old woman carrying a basket full of jhinga (stinky dried fish), the people trying to move ahead with the anxiousness of a new born, the school kids running at the pace of an athlete, the honking vehicles declaring their superiority… everything…you just want to become doubly strong and throw them out of your way, and your life.
The traffic cop, the politicians, the police, the legal system, the corrupt officials… you just want to kill them. Because you logically think it’s the best way to get rid of them, to clean the system, to become the emerging power in the world.
I think the vernal equinox is a state of mind. It’s the victory of the dark over the bright. Over the ever-winning day, it’s the victory of the underdog night.
For the Gen – Y, everyday is the day of the Vernal Equinox, when the dark feeling of ‘killing and solving’ looms over the bright and white feeling that you can actually make a difference by staying clean. By not contributing to the corruption, you can actually contribute towards the larger goal of a corruption–free India.
A race never means you have to defeat others. It means YOU have to win. A victory comes by winning, not defeating.
A morning ride in the crowded local train in Mumbai makes you impatient. It’s the source of an angst that builds, and stays with you through-out the day. And the next day, there’s another one.
You want to kill everyone. Anyone who stamps on your feet, anyone who robs you of your space (not that it exists anyway) and anyone who smiles. You don’t rule your mind. It rules you.
The speeding taxi facing you, the vegetable vendor challenging his lungs by challenging about the best prices, the over-weight old woman carrying a basket full of jhinga (stinky dried fish), the people trying to move ahead with the anxiousness of a new born, the school kids running at the pace of an athlete, the honking vehicles declaring their superiority… everything…you just want to become doubly strong and throw them out of your way, and your life.
The traffic cop, the politicians, the police, the legal system, the corrupt officials… you just want to kill them. Because you logically think it’s the best way to get rid of them, to clean the system, to become the emerging power in the world.
I think the vernal equinox is a state of mind. It’s the victory of the dark over the bright. Over the ever-winning day, it’s the victory of the underdog night.
For the Gen – Y, everyday is the day of the Vernal Equinox, when the dark feeling of ‘killing and solving’ looms over the bright and white feeling that you can actually make a difference by staying clean. By not contributing to the corruption, you can actually contribute towards the larger goal of a corruption–free India.
A race never means you have to defeat others. It means YOU have to win. A victory comes by winning, not defeating.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Life makes me cry, not death
What happens when people die? What happens when someone very close to you dies? You cry. At the loss. At the void that’s created in your everyday life.
You cry because things won’t be the same. Ever. You cry because you loved the person. You cry because you are a human being, who’s incomplete. The person, who has now left you, completed you, in some way or the other.
But no one lives forever, and we all know that. Do we cry because we are scared? Scared of our own end.
It’s a strange world. We all are incomplete and some other incomplete person completes us. When that person dies, we cry.
I don’t know if I would cry. I don’t know if my thoughts make any sense. I don’t care.
I think life is scarier than death, at least when you see people sleeping on the pavements and under the open sky. The thought that the 15 year old girl who sells flowers on a traffic signal, is a normal girl, who has her periods once in every 35 days, makes me cry.
Death makes you feel small. Fragile. When the moment of death comes, even the happy memories of the person, make you cry. And when you cry, you lose. You show that you are weak. But isn’t life mightier than death. Then why cry?
Life makes me cry, not death.
You cry because things won’t be the same. Ever. You cry because you loved the person. You cry because you are a human being, who’s incomplete. The person, who has now left you, completed you, in some way or the other.
But no one lives forever, and we all know that. Do we cry because we are scared? Scared of our own end.
It’s a strange world. We all are incomplete and some other incomplete person completes us. When that person dies, we cry.
I don’t know if I would cry. I don’t know if my thoughts make any sense. I don’t care.
I think life is scarier than death, at least when you see people sleeping on the pavements and under the open sky. The thought that the 15 year old girl who sells flowers on a traffic signal, is a normal girl, who has her periods once in every 35 days, makes me cry.
Death makes you feel small. Fragile. When the moment of death comes, even the happy memories of the person, make you cry. And when you cry, you lose. You show that you are weak. But isn’t life mightier than death. Then why cry?
Life makes me cry, not death.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
The death of the writer
The incidents and the names of the characters in this are purely fictional. Any resemblance to real life is coincidental. (Have to be politically correct you see)
Scene 2: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 11.20 AM
Reporter: This is the place where the writer was last seen (Imagine an open window at the 4th floor). His name was Eknath Dindoshi, nick named ‘Ekdin’. He was working for Radio Ga Ga for the last 10 months. But, suddenly last evening, after his day’s work was over and he leaped from this window and is battling for his life at a nearby hospital. He is 27 yrs old.
Flashback:
Scene 1: Eknath Dindoshi at his office.
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 5th March 2007
Time: 11.00 AM
For the past 10 months, Eknath Dindoshi, has been writing 14 scripts (on an average) per day. The scripts are for the ads that you hear on any radio station. Yes, 14.
“Wasn’t this supposed to go on air yesterday?” Oh hell…yes!!!
“Here is the print ad of the brand campaign attached. Dude I need this by this evening”. Wat?
“Why will this take so long? You just have to adapt the print ad into radio.” Ya right!
“Hey I gave you the brief last night… is the creative ready?” Served
“What is this yaar? You were supposed to give 2 options.” When?
Thus the name Eknath Dindoshi changed to Ekdin. Because the deadline for everything was always one day – Ek din. This nickname was ideated and conceptualized by Eknath himself, on one of those days when he used to think.
Today was 5th March. And he was supposed to deliver some ‘path-breaking’ creatives for a major telecom brand. He decided to give some thought to the entire campaign over a cup of hot chocolate.
1.45 PM:
The boss comes and says there’s an urgent promo script to be written, that will go on air as soon as it’s ready. The writer does his best and delivers it in 3 hrs flat. But alas, the time for the telecom brand meeting has come. (By the way, he was supposed to go for the meeting also. After all it was a “creative” meeting)
5 PM: Meeting with the client
It goes well and the client likes the essence of his ideas, but wants great scripts by tomorrow.
6 PM: Back in office
The boss comes and tells him to be at the ‘Advertising awards function’ tomorrow.
“We will definitely win some awards”.
The ground beneath Eknath’s feet began to move. He felt the jitters of the award function, like a school kid who fears his results. He decided he would not be able to handle the pressure. There was no way out.
7.30 PM:
He went to the open window, and with tears in his eyes, he leaped.
Scene 3: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 4 PM
Reporter: This is the update on the writers’ story from the hospital. The writer has died minutes ago. The police have registered a case of suicide. His name was Eknath Dindoshi and he had jumped from this window last night.
P.S: Needles to say, none of Eknath Dindoshi’s works were even nominated at the awards function. Because while the normal agency takes 14 days to write a script that’s worth nominating and Eknath uses 1 day to write 14 worthless ones.
P.S: The radio industry is booming. Records the highest ad spend last year.
Scene 2: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 11.20 AM
Reporter: This is the place where the writer was last seen (Imagine an open window at the 4th floor). His name was Eknath Dindoshi, nick named ‘Ekdin’. He was working for Radio Ga Ga for the last 10 months. But, suddenly last evening, after his day’s work was over and he leaped from this window and is battling for his life at a nearby hospital. He is 27 yrs old.
Flashback:
Scene 1: Eknath Dindoshi at his office.
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 5th March 2007
Time: 11.00 AM
For the past 10 months, Eknath Dindoshi, has been writing 14 scripts (on an average) per day. The scripts are for the ads that you hear on any radio station. Yes, 14.
“Wasn’t this supposed to go on air yesterday?” Oh hell…yes!!!
“Here is the print ad of the brand campaign attached. Dude I need this by this evening”. Wat?
“Why will this take so long? You just have to adapt the print ad into radio.” Ya right!
“Hey I gave you the brief last night… is the creative ready?” Served
“What is this yaar? You were supposed to give 2 options.” When?
Thus the name Eknath Dindoshi changed to Ekdin. Because the deadline for everything was always one day – Ek din. This nickname was ideated and conceptualized by Eknath himself, on one of those days when he used to think.
Today was 5th March. And he was supposed to deliver some ‘path-breaking’ creatives for a major telecom brand. He decided to give some thought to the entire campaign over a cup of hot chocolate.
1.45 PM:
The boss comes and says there’s an urgent promo script to be written, that will go on air as soon as it’s ready. The writer does his best and delivers it in 3 hrs flat. But alas, the time for the telecom brand meeting has come. (By the way, he was supposed to go for the meeting also. After all it was a “creative” meeting)
5 PM: Meeting with the client
It goes well and the client likes the essence of his ideas, but wants great scripts by tomorrow.
6 PM: Back in office
The boss comes and tells him to be at the ‘Advertising awards function’ tomorrow.
“We will definitely win some awards”.
The ground beneath Eknath’s feet began to move. He felt the jitters of the award function, like a school kid who fears his results. He decided he would not be able to handle the pressure. There was no way out.
7.30 PM:
He went to the open window, and with tears in his eyes, he leaped.
Scene 3: Reporter at the scene of the crime
Location: Radio Ga Ga – Studio, 4th floor
Date: 6th March 2007
Time: 4 PM
Reporter: This is the update on the writers’ story from the hospital. The writer has died minutes ago. The police have registered a case of suicide. His name was Eknath Dindoshi and he had jumped from this window last night.
P.S: Needles to say, none of Eknath Dindoshi’s works were even nominated at the awards function. Because while the normal agency takes 14 days to write a script that’s worth nominating and Eknath uses 1 day to write 14 worthless ones.
P.S: The radio industry is booming. Records the highest ad spend last year.
Yada Yada hi dharmasya
The land where Bala saheb, Dawood Ibrahim and Harshad mehta were born.
Date: 05/05/06
Time: 6pm to 8pm
Category: Non-fiction
Note: The scene is set in mumbai. and all the names of the palces are real.
Location 1: Prabhadevi (A place in mumbai)
I walked out of my office a little early as I had to meet someone at Churchgate. The guy I was meeting was a DJ and he plays in weddings. A very urban trend of the very old tradition of ‘sangeet’. And well I was writing the script for the entire Shaadi skit. Wow.
No cab was ready to take me to Elphinstone station, from where I was taking a train to Churchgate. After trying my luck with at least ten selfish cab drivers, I finally asked the cab guy standing right next to me [whom I had asked already]. He said no one will go as there will be a lot of traffic on the fly over. Then he suggested, “Taxi ko haath dikhane ka, darwaaza kholne ka, bhaith jaane ka. Poochne ka nahi.” I decided to take his advice. For the first time. I reached Elphinstone station in 10 mins flat.
I have a seasons’ pass for the first class from Goregaon to Lower Parel [one station away from the Elphinstone st.]. I took a journey extension ticket from the counter for the second class. The man at the counter said smiling “Jaana bhi second class mein, aana bhi second class mein Lower Parel tak” I smiled and said yes again. I took his advice. Again.
As I reached the decided place the DJ was patiently waiting for me on his bike. On our ride to the ‘clients’ place he briefed me about ‘the right questions’. The main objective of the entire meeting was ‘to get a feel of the entire thing’ and ‘to know the likes and dislikes of the people of both the families’. The only message that I got from the entire meeting was this: People in business take the name of ‘Shri Harshad Mehta’ with far more pride than that of ‘Gandhi’. After a long chat, rather a lecture from him, we left and ‘I had gotten the complete feel’.
I took a Borivli Fast from the Churchgate station. Just to remind you that at the ‘prime time’ or the ‘rush hour’ I was in the second class compartment of a fast train going to Borivli. The train was quiet empty and I asked the man standing next to me whether the train would stop at Goregaon or not, as it was a fast train. I asked the question in Hindi and the man replied in English, “Yeah it stops. It become a slow train after Andheri”.
We struck a conversation. He asked me where I am from and what do I do and many more questions. He told me how Punjabi people, in weddings, hand out bottles of whisky at the entrance of the marriage hall. After a formal farewell, he got down at Dadar. Thank God.
The journey:
The compartment was jam packed. The most of the conversation happening around me was in Hindi, which was very pleasing to the ear.
One man: Bhai yeh Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na?
Answer: Nahi kaka Borivli hai.
The man standing next to me was already giggling.
The same question was repeated. This time it was tossed at me. I shot the same answer at him. Now the man standing next to me couldn’t stop himself. He asked the same man, “Uncle Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na ye”. The way this young chap was giggling, the uncle knew that he was being made fun of. After a little more fun and frolic the man got down at Andheri.
The fun:
3 men around me. One, a little middle aged, the other 2, the same funny guys who were making fun of the uncle. I was wearing a yellow kurta with some Sanskrit script scribbled over it. The written thing made no sense as the words were written in that way. I noticed that the middle aged guy was desperately trying to read it and make sense out of it. I told him, “Do saal se to main pehen raha hoon par padh nahi paya, to aap kaise padhoge?”
He replied, “Haan wahi koshish kar raha tha. Lagta hain Sanskrit hai.”
The 2 funny guys standing next me also joined in the conversation, “Hum bhi padhne ki koshish kiye lakin kuch nahi bhujaya”
I said in the proper slang, “Hume 2 saal mein nahi bhujaya to aapko kaise bhujayega?”
The man who was standing ahead of all of us said that he also tried to read it but couldn’t read it. He said “Ek baar ek madam ko bhi pehne dekhe thhe aisa hi kuch”. Wow, I thought, I am ‘metrosexual’.
I smiled at the innocence of the city. It’s the same city where Bala Saheb [the biggest politician India has ever seen], Dawood Ibrahim [the biggest gangster India has ever seen] and Harshad Mehta [the biggest scamster India has ever seen] were born and became famous. At the grass root level the innocence had never died. People were cramped in the compartment, but they knew how to have fun. They knew the importance of a smile. They didn’t know me, had never seen me ever before, but they were talking about my t-shirt. That’s Mumbai. I had seen both the sides in less than an hour. People who wanted to make their marriage a lifetime memory by getting the script done by ‘a professional’ and people who wanted to celebrate every moment like it was a marriage celebration.
After I got down at the Goregaon station with the entire ‘gang’, ‘I heard the middle aged man reciting behind my back ‘Yada yada hi dharmasya’. I turned and smiled at him.
As I walked away and got into the rickshaw, put my hand in the bag to check on my wallet. It was missing.
Date: 05/05/06
Time: 6pm to 8pm
Category: Non-fiction
Note: The scene is set in mumbai. and all the names of the palces are real.
Location 1: Prabhadevi (A place in mumbai)
I walked out of my office a little early as I had to meet someone at Churchgate. The guy I was meeting was a DJ and he plays in weddings. A very urban trend of the very old tradition of ‘sangeet’. And well I was writing the script for the entire Shaadi skit. Wow.
No cab was ready to take me to Elphinstone station, from where I was taking a train to Churchgate. After trying my luck with at least ten selfish cab drivers, I finally asked the cab guy standing right next to me [whom I had asked already]. He said no one will go as there will be a lot of traffic on the fly over. Then he suggested, “Taxi ko haath dikhane ka, darwaaza kholne ka, bhaith jaane ka. Poochne ka nahi.” I decided to take his advice. For the first time. I reached Elphinstone station in 10 mins flat.
I have a seasons’ pass for the first class from Goregaon to Lower Parel [one station away from the Elphinstone st.]. I took a journey extension ticket from the counter for the second class. The man at the counter said smiling “Jaana bhi second class mein, aana bhi second class mein Lower Parel tak” I smiled and said yes again. I took his advice. Again.
As I reached the decided place the DJ was patiently waiting for me on his bike. On our ride to the ‘clients’ place he briefed me about ‘the right questions’. The main objective of the entire meeting was ‘to get a feel of the entire thing’ and ‘to know the likes and dislikes of the people of both the families’. The only message that I got from the entire meeting was this: People in business take the name of ‘Shri Harshad Mehta’ with far more pride than that of ‘Gandhi’. After a long chat, rather a lecture from him, we left and ‘I had gotten the complete feel’.
I took a Borivli Fast from the Churchgate station. Just to remind you that at the ‘prime time’ or the ‘rush hour’ I was in the second class compartment of a fast train going to Borivli. The train was quiet empty and I asked the man standing next to me whether the train would stop at Goregaon or not, as it was a fast train. I asked the question in Hindi and the man replied in English, “Yeah it stops. It become a slow train after Andheri”.
We struck a conversation. He asked me where I am from and what do I do and many more questions. He told me how Punjabi people, in weddings, hand out bottles of whisky at the entrance of the marriage hall. After a formal farewell, he got down at Dadar. Thank God.
The journey:
The compartment was jam packed. The most of the conversation happening around me was in Hindi, which was very pleasing to the ear.
One man: Bhai yeh Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na?
Answer: Nahi kaka Borivli hai.
The man standing next to me was already giggling.
The same question was repeated. This time it was tossed at me. I shot the same answer at him. Now the man standing next to me couldn’t stop himself. He asked the same man, “Uncle Bhayandar ki gaadi hai na ye”. The way this young chap was giggling, the uncle knew that he was being made fun of. After a little more fun and frolic the man got down at Andheri.
The fun:
3 men around me. One, a little middle aged, the other 2, the same funny guys who were making fun of the uncle. I was wearing a yellow kurta with some Sanskrit script scribbled over it. The written thing made no sense as the words were written in that way. I noticed that the middle aged guy was desperately trying to read it and make sense out of it. I told him, “Do saal se to main pehen raha hoon par padh nahi paya, to aap kaise padhoge?”
He replied, “Haan wahi koshish kar raha tha. Lagta hain Sanskrit hai.”
The 2 funny guys standing next me also joined in the conversation, “Hum bhi padhne ki koshish kiye lakin kuch nahi bhujaya”
I said in the proper slang, “Hume 2 saal mein nahi bhujaya to aapko kaise bhujayega?”
The man who was standing ahead of all of us said that he also tried to read it but couldn’t read it. He said “Ek baar ek madam ko bhi pehne dekhe thhe aisa hi kuch”. Wow, I thought, I am ‘metrosexual’.
I smiled at the innocence of the city. It’s the same city where Bala Saheb [the biggest politician India has ever seen], Dawood Ibrahim [the biggest gangster India has ever seen] and Harshad Mehta [the biggest scamster India has ever seen] were born and became famous. At the grass root level the innocence had never died. People were cramped in the compartment, but they knew how to have fun. They knew the importance of a smile. They didn’t know me, had never seen me ever before, but they were talking about my t-shirt. That’s Mumbai. I had seen both the sides in less than an hour. People who wanted to make their marriage a lifetime memory by getting the script done by ‘a professional’ and people who wanted to celebrate every moment like it was a marriage celebration.
After I got down at the Goregaon station with the entire ‘gang’, ‘I heard the middle aged man reciting behind my back ‘Yada yada hi dharmasya’. I turned and smiled at him.
As I walked away and got into the rickshaw, put my hand in the bag to check on my wallet. It was missing.
A day in the life of India
“… A little corruption. A little bribery. I negotiate with the world 24/7. So why not an extra 5 minutes of sleep. He told himself and buried his head under the pillow. And so began another day in the life of an Indian…
His mobile phone alarm rang and he awoke with a new found energy, as if a spring were screwed into his spine, while he was asleep. His eyes wide open and alert. His mind sprung to life like a computer with a Pentium 5 processor. He was ready.
He is Mohammad Hasrat Sheikh, a short little man who stays in Mira road, in the suburbs of Mumbai. His rented house is just a 3 minute walk from the station. The station connects him to his work place in Churchgate, via the fastest known medium in the whole of India, the local train. The spine of Mumbai.
He preferred walking to the station every morning for precisely 2 reasons. One – no auto rickshaw took him there as it was not a lamba bhada and two - he had no other option. But today, the first auto rickshaw driver agreed to go take him to the station as he walked out of his house.
It’s a lucky day. Hasrat thought.
But it was that unlucky day when his first class pass for the local train expires. Meaning he had to stand in the queue to get it renewed and take all the third class treatment in his stride jus because no station has a clear mention that the queue for a first class pass renewal is separate. The board at the counter just read ‘Q1’ (with 1 in roman number) and needless to say no one got that. Everyone always thought Hasrat was not following the queue and shouted at him.
Hasrat was surprised to see there was no queue at the counter. There were only a couple of guys standing behind the sign Q2. As soon as Hasrat reached the counter he announced to both of them, “First class”. To his surprise both of them smiled and made way for him. Within minutes he was standing at platform no. 2 for his fast train.
It was indeed a lucky day.
9.24 – Hasrat couldn’t believe his eyes. The same old ‘Churchgate Fast’ came to a halt and was almost empty. The crowd at the station, rushed inside as usual but even Hasrat managed to get a seat. A window seat at that. Within minutes the train began to leave the station, and a strong January breeze hit Hasrat in the face. He was lost in mindless and senseless thoughts for some time and when he came back to reality, the display in the compartment’s LED read Goregaon. He took out the morning issue of the Times and read in silence.
Metro rail to start soon in Mumbai.
After all, electricity bills won’t jump.
Mumbai can become Shanghai.
The people around, were the same. The gang of 8 people who always got the window seats and played cards, the college kid with a bag sprung across his shoulders, the balding, over-weight man in a sweat stained shirt, fast asleep, standing…as usual. Everything was normal.
But the gang was not playing cards today, the kid’s bag seemed lighter, the balding man was wide awake and the sense of urgency and tension inside the compartment was a lot more eased than normal. The people were talking silently and the murmur seemed very pleasing to the ear. The breeze was friendly and caressing the faces of everyone it could. The stress seemed lost. The rhythmic sound of the train made music to the ears. The soft sound of paper against the breeze added to the melody.
Hasrat got down at the Churchgate station and started walking in sync with the crowd. The station seemed very clean. The subway footpath also seemed clean. Awaiting the dream to end, Hasrat asked the cab driver to take him to his office (which no cabbies agreed on a normal day). The cab driver smiled and said yes.
This time the alarm seemed louder. The spring in the spine did not seem to have worked. And the Pentium 5 processor seemed to have had a virus attack.
But Hasrat woke up with the hope in his eyes. A hope that brought a smile to his winter-dry lips.
It was a dream.
With the smile still refusing to fade from his face, Hasrat left from his house.
He walked towards the auto with the same hope and asked the driver to take him to the station. The driver smiled and said yes.
Hasrat sat in the auto, awaiting what will happen next and smiling at the sweet memory of his dream. He remembered what his mom always used to tell him as a kid.
The dreams come true. The morning dreams come true.
His mobile phone alarm rang and he awoke with a new found energy, as if a spring were screwed into his spine, while he was asleep. His eyes wide open and alert. His mind sprung to life like a computer with a Pentium 5 processor. He was ready.
He is Mohammad Hasrat Sheikh, a short little man who stays in Mira road, in the suburbs of Mumbai. His rented house is just a 3 minute walk from the station. The station connects him to his work place in Churchgate, via the fastest known medium in the whole of India, the local train. The spine of Mumbai.
He preferred walking to the station every morning for precisely 2 reasons. One – no auto rickshaw took him there as it was not a lamba bhada and two - he had no other option. But today, the first auto rickshaw driver agreed to go take him to the station as he walked out of his house.
It’s a lucky day. Hasrat thought.
But it was that unlucky day when his first class pass for the local train expires. Meaning he had to stand in the queue to get it renewed and take all the third class treatment in his stride jus because no station has a clear mention that the queue for a first class pass renewal is separate. The board at the counter just read ‘Q1’ (with 1 in roman number) and needless to say no one got that. Everyone always thought Hasrat was not following the queue and shouted at him.
Hasrat was surprised to see there was no queue at the counter. There were only a couple of guys standing behind the sign Q2. As soon as Hasrat reached the counter he announced to both of them, “First class”. To his surprise both of them smiled and made way for him. Within minutes he was standing at platform no. 2 for his fast train.
It was indeed a lucky day.
9.24 – Hasrat couldn’t believe his eyes. The same old ‘Churchgate Fast’ came to a halt and was almost empty. The crowd at the station, rushed inside as usual but even Hasrat managed to get a seat. A window seat at that. Within minutes the train began to leave the station, and a strong January breeze hit Hasrat in the face. He was lost in mindless and senseless thoughts for some time and when he came back to reality, the display in the compartment’s LED read Goregaon. He took out the morning issue of the Times and read in silence.
Metro rail to start soon in Mumbai.
After all, electricity bills won’t jump.
Mumbai can become Shanghai.
The people around, were the same. The gang of 8 people who always got the window seats and played cards, the college kid with a bag sprung across his shoulders, the balding, over-weight man in a sweat stained shirt, fast asleep, standing…as usual. Everything was normal.
But the gang was not playing cards today, the kid’s bag seemed lighter, the balding man was wide awake and the sense of urgency and tension inside the compartment was a lot more eased than normal. The people were talking silently and the murmur seemed very pleasing to the ear. The breeze was friendly and caressing the faces of everyone it could. The stress seemed lost. The rhythmic sound of the train made music to the ears. The soft sound of paper against the breeze added to the melody.
Hasrat got down at the Churchgate station and started walking in sync with the crowd. The station seemed very clean. The subway footpath also seemed clean. Awaiting the dream to end, Hasrat asked the cab driver to take him to his office (which no cabbies agreed on a normal day). The cab driver smiled and said yes.
This time the alarm seemed louder. The spring in the spine did not seem to have worked. And the Pentium 5 processor seemed to have had a virus attack.
But Hasrat woke up with the hope in his eyes. A hope that brought a smile to his winter-dry lips.
It was a dream.
With the smile still refusing to fade from his face, Hasrat left from his house.
He walked towards the auto with the same hope and asked the driver to take him to the station. The driver smiled and said yes.
Hasrat sat in the auto, awaiting what will happen next and smiling at the sweet memory of his dream. He remembered what his mom always used to tell him as a kid.
The dreams come true. The morning dreams come true.
Run
Today I will win.
It was his day today. He had to prove his worth. To himself.
He knew if he failed today he would never be able to win. He had done everything right. He was wearing the right kind of shoes, the right kind of socks and most importantly the right attitude. He knew he would win today.
The moment the whistle was sounded, he began, without wasting even a fraction of a second. He had a game plan. He had decided he would take on everybody running against him, one at a time. He would beat them one by one.
But alas…he was already beginning to lose. Everyone else seemed to be stronger and faster. He looked at the guy running on the adjacent lane with rage and disgust. The guy looked back withy pretty much the same feelings. But today was his day. He had to win.
With renewed energy and determination, he ran, faster and faster, towards the finish line. It was just inches away now. The noise of the crowd began to rise. They were all cheering for him. They always did that for the winner. Just before he took the leap towards the finish line, he looked behind… he had beaten all of them. He had won! Finally.
With a broad smile on his joyous face he lifted both his hands; to keep his suitcase on the ledge over the window seat of the 8.47 Churchgate fast and sat on his well deserved position. The Number 1 position.
It was his day today. He had to prove his worth. To himself.
He knew if he failed today he would never be able to win. He had done everything right. He was wearing the right kind of shoes, the right kind of socks and most importantly the right attitude. He knew he would win today.
The moment the whistle was sounded, he began, without wasting even a fraction of a second. He had a game plan. He had decided he would take on everybody running against him, one at a time. He would beat them one by one.
But alas…he was already beginning to lose. Everyone else seemed to be stronger and faster. He looked at the guy running on the adjacent lane with rage and disgust. The guy looked back withy pretty much the same feelings. But today was his day. He had to win.
With renewed energy and determination, he ran, faster and faster, towards the finish line. It was just inches away now. The noise of the crowd began to rise. They were all cheering for him. They always did that for the winner. Just before he took the leap towards the finish line, he looked behind… he had beaten all of them. He had won! Finally.
With a broad smile on his joyous face he lifted both his hands; to keep his suitcase on the ledge over the window seat of the 8.47 Churchgate fast and sat on his well deserved position. The Number 1 position.
It happens
6.32 AM
On a lazy Sunday morning of the December winter in the suburbs of Mumbai, I was on a morning walk, counting the leaves on the deserted road, feeling the winter chill in my eyes. It was a bright dawn. A white dawn. The gentle breeze was touching my skin, making it a little moist. The sun was trying to fight with the morning darkness with his sword rays. The birds were chirping. The breeze had set a rhythm. Everything was responding, reacting, enjoying. I heard the morning.
I heard a girl scream. A scream that shattered my ear drums.
The guy ripped apart every part of the clothing that she was wearing. Her mouth was stuffed with enough cotton. Her eyes were wide open and staring expressionlessly at all of them, one by one. She closed her eyes and felt more naked than ever. She could just feel the weights shifting from her body for the next hour or so and an immense pain. All through she saw just one color. Black.
6.35 AM
The trees were moving in the rhythm. The sun had started making love to the ground, the trees. The dry leaves eloping with the wind. The dew losing herself in the sunlight. The chill making love to the warmth.
I could hear the trees, the birds, the slow rhythmic breeze, and my footsteps. I could hear the silence. The silence that was pure, serene. A silence that was white.
I heard a scream. Again. This time the voice was shrill. Soon I realized it was a child’s voice.
She had stopped screaming. It was her uncle. She knew something was wrong. He drew her close. She wanted to scream. She didn’t. She couldn’t. The pain made her numb. For the next 3 minutes she didn’t scream. For the rest of her life, she never spoke.
6.38 AM
It was really amazing to see the sun making love to the ground. I was walking against the wind. The soft warmth of the sunlight was amazing. The serenity was divine.
The soft music of the mornings was embedded in my soul. The dawn was white.
I wanted to walk another mile…………………………………………………………………………
In India, a woman is raped every 3 minutes. Wake up.
On a lazy Sunday morning of the December winter in the suburbs of Mumbai, I was on a morning walk, counting the leaves on the deserted road, feeling the winter chill in my eyes. It was a bright dawn. A white dawn. The gentle breeze was touching my skin, making it a little moist. The sun was trying to fight with the morning darkness with his sword rays. The birds were chirping. The breeze had set a rhythm. Everything was responding, reacting, enjoying. I heard the morning.
I heard a girl scream. A scream that shattered my ear drums.
The guy ripped apart every part of the clothing that she was wearing. Her mouth was stuffed with enough cotton. Her eyes were wide open and staring expressionlessly at all of them, one by one. She closed her eyes and felt more naked than ever. She could just feel the weights shifting from her body for the next hour or so and an immense pain. All through she saw just one color. Black.
6.35 AM
The trees were moving in the rhythm. The sun had started making love to the ground, the trees. The dry leaves eloping with the wind. The dew losing herself in the sunlight. The chill making love to the warmth.
I could hear the trees, the birds, the slow rhythmic breeze, and my footsteps. I could hear the silence. The silence that was pure, serene. A silence that was white.
I heard a scream. Again. This time the voice was shrill. Soon I realized it was a child’s voice.
She had stopped screaming. It was her uncle. She knew something was wrong. He drew her close. She wanted to scream. She didn’t. She couldn’t. The pain made her numb. For the next 3 minutes she didn’t scream. For the rest of her life, she never spoke.
6.38 AM
It was really amazing to see the sun making love to the ground. I was walking against the wind. The soft warmth of the sunlight was amazing. The serenity was divine.
The soft music of the mornings was embedded in my soul. The dawn was white.
I wanted to walk another mile…………………………………………………………………………
In India, a woman is raped every 3 minutes. Wake up.
Monday, March 5, 2007
The kite flier
The sky looked at me and laughed.
The skin on my hands, for the first time tasted the flavor of ground glass while the bright pink string was wavering with pain underneath.
The sky thought I was a kid trying to get the hang of being a man by controlling something on my own. So what if it was just a measly and shaky kite which went the way the wind would take it.
But I was a man, a 54 year old one at that, just trying to win over something very important, something that meant the world to me. My son.
The string fought back and took its revenge on my fingers, using the same ground glass against the skin on my fingers. The fingers were bleeding. The blood red color on the bright pink thread, to me, seemed like the color of victory.
The other part of my body that was outrageously furious with me was my knees. I was sitting on an old wooden stool for the past 3 hours, slaughtering the thread, and the knees obviously didn’t seem to have taken it with the same spirit as mine. They were beginning to give in. now they will fight back the moment I decide to stand up.
The sky was still laughing.
As a kid I never used to fly kites. I knew I would never be able to fight against the winds with a measly, little kite. So I never tried.
“Mom…please teach me how to fly the kite… I can’t do it. Dad won’t do it… I know he can’t.
All my life I did only meaningful practical things. Never took risks as I always had a family to support. I did small jobs on meager monies, everything from a newspaper boy to a 2-in-1 stereo mechanic. I always managed to win over the situation and get enough funds to support my family, even managed to buy a small double room house in a small re-constructed chawl in Matunga.
At 47, I had given up all hope of becoming a father. So we decided to adopt a kid. That’s how he came into our lives. Today he turned seven and means the world to me.
The sky was still laughing.
I knew he had no faith in my faith. He stood behind the water tank on the terrace, catching a glimpse of my effort as and when, thinking I hadn’t noticed him.
I was ready, did the initial effort of throwing the kite as high as I could in the winds and then holding on to the arrogant bright pink thread, all by myself.
It was the first time I was trying to fly a kite. It was the first time I felt that I don’t have to win this one. I had an excuse of the first-timer.
The kite gained momentum and was beginning to fly higher. From the corner of the eye, I caught a glimpse of him. He was watching the kite capture the skies very intently. Meanwhile some other kite had attacked my short-lived victory. Within second it was over. My kite was set free and was no longer attached to the string in m y hand. Before I could celebrate the victory, I saw defeat. The string had taken its final revenge. It was over. I had lost.
He came running to me as I fought back tears. His smile managed to soothe the wound a little but what he said after that was my biggest victory ever.
Papa… please teach me how to fly a kite. I know you can do it.
His happy little eyes made me lose once again. This time against the tears I was fighting back.
For the first time I realized you don’t have to win over situations. For the first time I realized a father’s victory does not always lie in winning. And yes, for the first time I realized when you are flying a kite, you don’t have to fight against the winds. You win when you manage to use the winds in your favor.
I bent down on my complaining knees, looked him in the eye, the sky smiling in the background, and said.. I will.
The skin on my hands, for the first time tasted the flavor of ground glass while the bright pink string was wavering with pain underneath.
The sky thought I was a kid trying to get the hang of being a man by controlling something on my own. So what if it was just a measly and shaky kite which went the way the wind would take it.
But I was a man, a 54 year old one at that, just trying to win over something very important, something that meant the world to me. My son.
The string fought back and took its revenge on my fingers, using the same ground glass against the skin on my fingers. The fingers were bleeding. The blood red color on the bright pink thread, to me, seemed like the color of victory.
The other part of my body that was outrageously furious with me was my knees. I was sitting on an old wooden stool for the past 3 hours, slaughtering the thread, and the knees obviously didn’t seem to have taken it with the same spirit as mine. They were beginning to give in. now they will fight back the moment I decide to stand up.
The sky was still laughing.
As a kid I never used to fly kites. I knew I would never be able to fight against the winds with a measly, little kite. So I never tried.
“Mom…please teach me how to fly the kite… I can’t do it. Dad won’t do it… I know he can’t.
All my life I did only meaningful practical things. Never took risks as I always had a family to support. I did small jobs on meager monies, everything from a newspaper boy to a 2-in-1 stereo mechanic. I always managed to win over the situation and get enough funds to support my family, even managed to buy a small double room house in a small re-constructed chawl in Matunga.
At 47, I had given up all hope of becoming a father. So we decided to adopt a kid. That’s how he came into our lives. Today he turned seven and means the world to me.
The sky was still laughing.
I knew he had no faith in my faith. He stood behind the water tank on the terrace, catching a glimpse of my effort as and when, thinking I hadn’t noticed him.
I was ready, did the initial effort of throwing the kite as high as I could in the winds and then holding on to the arrogant bright pink thread, all by myself.
It was the first time I was trying to fly a kite. It was the first time I felt that I don’t have to win this one. I had an excuse of the first-timer.
The kite gained momentum and was beginning to fly higher. From the corner of the eye, I caught a glimpse of him. He was watching the kite capture the skies very intently. Meanwhile some other kite had attacked my short-lived victory. Within second it was over. My kite was set free and was no longer attached to the string in m y hand. Before I could celebrate the victory, I saw defeat. The string had taken its final revenge. It was over. I had lost.
He came running to me as I fought back tears. His smile managed to soothe the wound a little but what he said after that was my biggest victory ever.
Papa… please teach me how to fly a kite. I know you can do it.
His happy little eyes made me lose once again. This time against the tears I was fighting back.
For the first time I realized you don’t have to win over situations. For the first time I realized a father’s victory does not always lie in winning. And yes, for the first time I realized when you are flying a kite, you don’t have to fight against the winds. You win when you manage to use the winds in your favor.
I bent down on my complaining knees, looked him in the eye, the sky smiling in the background, and said.. I will.
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