Beep off

I was watching yet another movie on yet another sleepy afternoon. Ever since I left probably the best job in the world, I have been in a mood that befits my new found superduperlative schedule. And I realized that the secret to happiness is just an idiot box away. With all the English movie channels coming up with subtitles for people who just never catch dialogues (I founded and currently head that elite group) the motion picture has been relegated to the background while the written (rather edited) word reigns supreme. Trust our censor board to provide comic relief in the most unassuming places. Samples:

Dialogue: "I should have made a move on her. Damn I think I just lost my penis."

Subtitle: "I should have made a move on her. Damn I think I just lost my manhood."

Dialogue: "Did you notice her big boobs?"

Subtitle: "Did you notice her big?"

Do they realize that's not even a complete sentence? And that we can actually hear what is being said and so our pure, beautiful minds have already been corrupted? And that in spite of our muddled education system, we have all been exposed (oh dear is that a dirty word too?) to the taxonomy of human body parts, irrespective of their, well, location?

And the best was:

Dialogue: "You damn motherbeeeeep. Beep off."

Subtitle: "You damn motherbeep. Beep off."

But as I lay dozing off, I decided to imagine that the Board has someone with a great sense of humour. I like to think that the Subtitle Guy hates his job, gets the kicks about writing wrong grin-inducing stuff and weaves jokes into the lines. That's so much better than imagining them not knowing enough to think they are fooling (cleansing?) us.

Familyar Friends

My family is a motley bunch. But we are variegated - not like a bunch of badly matched flowers in a bouquet, but more like the different fingers on a hand. Each one with their adorable peculiarities, their beautiful quirks, annoying habits and loving ways. We fight for every cube of chocolate with unnerving intensity, each one hates a different sabji, making sure dinner is always full of fireworks, everybody likes their coffee at different times, and blaaaaaaah. We look different enough to belong elsewhere, we like and dislike things planets apart, lead our separate lives and intertwine and disjoint at a million little places across several generations. And yet somewhere, the seams find each other, the differences blend into this cross patched quilt of colours, so warm, it makes you want to wish for a winter forever.

What in the world prompted me to write thus? Careen into emotions that rarely leave the insides of my subconscious? I guess it is that sometimes the mundane can trigger something so pure, its a miracle that we still quiver to be different. And sometimes a moment is so precious, you don't mind it ending because it so graciously, so unassumingly allowed you to be a part of it.

Everyone was sitting in their individual comfort zones around the house. The women flitting across their numerous tasks (how just how are they so thoughtful...day after treacherous day?). Girl 1 was readying to curl up with a book, the rate at which she was devouring literature was alarming and awe-inspiring all at once. The man had changed into his kurta pajama (if India had a dress code and I had any say in the matter, all men would be in white kurta pajamas 24/7) and was about to play some mind-numbing/mood-stunning/blood-pumping/soul-drowsing music (depending on who you were and what kind of music worked for you). Girl 2 was settling into the Children's room that she had recently (re)claimed as her own, marking it with pictures and postcards, with her pens and papers, her faithful friend The Diary and The Laptop.

And then the bell rang. Everyone called out to the other to open the door (in spite of being the great, noble people we are, we are incurably lazy). Someone did. There was squeal. "Girl 1's driving license has come!"

"Whaat?" Squeals, shout shout, laughter, squeal, ha ha ing.

"She has an identity now!"

"Finally"

"They gave her a license in spite of her driving test." Wow

"It says LMV. Does that mean a bus?" Noooooooo.

And so we were standing. This crazy adorable bunch of somebodys. In the thin ohsothin gallery of our house, hyperventilating over a card (the new licenses even have a chip in them. No one knew what the chip was for. Way to go!). The card exchanged hands, chatter played, the soundtrack of the moment. And then we retired, back into our bubbles of individuality and momentary isolation. Nobody and nothing in the entire anywhere could take that moment from us. The somebodys who were everybodys for each other. When each moment holds the potential to be this pretty, how can we help but look forward to time?

Humming

I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
I’m just out to find
The better part of me

I’m more than a bird…
I’m more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It’s not easy to be me

I wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie'bout a home
I’ll never see

It may sound absurd…
but don’t be naive
Even Heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed…
but won’t you concede
Even Heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me

Trudging to the end

Tumbling

so very fast

up the tunnel

towards the darkness.

Isn't that the wrong way?

whisper whisper

Where is the right?

Somewhere opposite the wrong.

Tumbling over

into a sleepless dream

Has it begun?

shout shout

you took a wrong turn

And now we are plodding

Back to the ending.

Auto-pilot

It an unexpectedly pleasant evening. Awash with recent rain, resplendently green. The dust had settled down into smudges and everything seemed to be smiling. My grin of course had been wiped away after all the haggling with the auto rickshaw drivers. Could absolutely no one find it in their hearts to agree to go to Janakpuri? Could no soul be decent enough to agree to go by meter? Since when did 8:30 become so late that fellows would start asking for exhorbitant rates? Just as I was beginning to get Infinitely Irritated, Along Came Polly. No along came a Kindred Spirit (I just wrote Polly on a whim. Ha).  So. He agreed to:

1. Go to my house,
   
2. Via Mr. Co-Passenger’s house and
   
3. Go by meter.
   

With a triple whammy like that, he obviously falls into the Kindred Spirit category (for definition, refer to Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery). However, flustered with the whole auto search and fail thing, I admit I muttured some “Aap auto waale kabhi bhi meter se nahin jaate” lines. Next I know, we had begun the long journey to the Faraway Land of Janakpuri  in absolute  silence and a whir of motion – he flew the rickety little triangle right upto Dhaula Kuan, where we hit the much dreaded, transportation nightmare - Perpetual Red Light.

Here, he turned around and nonchalantly said, “Toh kya bol rahe the aap auto waalon ke bare mein?”

“Err…yahi ki aap log meter se nahin jaate…” I squeaked because he after all was a Kindred Soul.

“Aapke haath mein kitni ungaliyaan hain?”

“Ek mein paanch.”

“Aur kya saari ek barabar hain?” (knowledgeable expression on face of a spider who knows the prey is oh-so-surely-entagled)

“Nahin” (foxed expression on face of a person who does not know where the conversation is leading)

“Yahin toh seekh hai. Sab ek barabar nahin hoteen. Ekdum se sab auto waalon ko achha ya bura mat boliye. Har jagah imandaar aur bemaan log hotein hain.”

Here the light decided to stop stopping us and we carried on in our motionic cacophony. I was quite startled by his sudden outburst (outburst is too strong an adjective, he spoke in a very mild, non-patronizing manner). Our next piece of conversation began at the Delhi Cantt light.

“Aap hi ki tarah ek madam mili then mujhe. Jyoti Madam. Rohini jaana tha. Tang ho gayeen theen. Koi bhi meter se jaane ko tayyar hi nahin tha. Phir mein le gaya unhe. Achhi dosti ho gayi hamari.”

(Here, I scoffed inwardly – “Is this a mujhse dosti karoge moment?” It wasn’t.) 

“Phir main unhe daily le jaata tha. Ek din Jyoti ji ne mujhe Pakistan mein driver banane ka offer diya. Mein tayyar ho gaya. Unhone mera visa passport sab banwa diya, mujhe ek Mohommaden naam tak de diya. Mein ghabraya hua tha par tankha achhi thi. Chala gaya. Plane mein baithkar. Wahan meri mano, sadak par laashein padi milti hain. Mera kaam embassy mein tha jo achha tha. Par wahan ka khana bahut kharab tha. Gandigi itni ki poocho mat. Aur har jagah maas. Mein thehra Hindu. Kaise khata unka khana? Chhe maheene maine dabal roti khakar kaate. Ek din mujhe teen ladkiyaan sadak par dikhin. Unke gaadi ka tyre puncture ho gaya tha. Maine unhe lift de di. Unka driver bhi Hindu tha, mere Bihar se hi! Sochiye! Bhagwan ke ghar mein der hai andher nahin. Bas phir, roz wahin, unhi ke ghar khana. Baarah sal kaise kate, pata hi nahin chala! Paise kamakar mein aa gaya wapas India.”

Reeling under the sudden turn of conversation and the socio-religious implications of this man’s interesting journey, we moved onto the next red light. For a moment I wondered if he was bluffing, cooking up a tale to make fun of the snooty girl who had defaced his kind. Then I shuddered at my cynicism (or was it suspicion?) and decided that even if it was a tale, it was keeping me hooked, so simply for its entertainment value, I should listen along. At Thimayya Park, he resumed: 

“Haan toh vaapas aakar maine auto khareeda. Paanch lakh ki aati hai ek. Pata tha aapko? Kaise pata hoga. (oh you poor richer-than-me kid sigh).  Phir bas dekhte dekhte ab mere paas teen auto hain. Ek chalata hoon, baaki chalwata hoon, achhi business hai.” 

Towards the end of the journey, he threw caution to the wind. He gave up on red lights and spoke irrespective of our state of motion. “Log ache hote hain, bure bhi. Bur ke bina humein ache ki kimat nahin pata lagti. Ek machli poore talaab ko ganda kar deti hai toh suna hi hoga aapne. Yahi taqleef hai hum auto waalon ki.”

We spoke of bribery and treacherous officials, potholed roads and karma, money and how daughters were a curse (that was his opinion). My dismal Hindi disallowed me from convincing him otherwise, which was thoroughly shameful. The journey ended (as do all journeys, which is rather depressing) and so did our conversation. He left me with a parting shot: “Logon mein burai nikaalna bahut aasaan hai. Achhai bahut hai. Bas use dhoondhna hamara kaam hai.” 

He had reached me home in record time, surprisingly decent tariff and sufficiently entertained. I realized, that all journeys, no matter how mundane they could be, become interesting.   

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the loneliest of us all?

There is something terrible about eating alone in a public place. It seems improper and is astoundingly tragic. I saw her open the menu card, she had an air about her which wished she already done with this one meal. Although I noticed her decide what she wanted right away, her eyes lazily ran over the printed words, hoping for them to provide some solace, for them to start a conversation, entertain her, occupy her in any way possible. Resignedly she ordered, just a nod of her head beckoning the waiter to her in a familiarity that was almost amusing if not pathetic. Now came the waiting and she did it with subdued impatience. She fidgeted with her phone, feigning deep involvement in every little button it had, but she couldn’t fool me. She looked at the couple sitting on the next table and studied their conversation with an interest she thought she concealed well, but then I am after all, a fanatic observer. The couple couldn’t understand the misspelt chomin or sandwitch on the menu and engaged a whole waiter for a whole 10 minutes understanding what each item meant. I saw her lips curl upwards in amusement, or was it scorn? With her you couldn’t really tell. I told you I had been studying her long. I knew the way her features moved, in that intimate way a lover knows each frown, each smile.

Just when the silence was deafening, there arrived a gaggle of people, each competing with the other for being ostentatious and obnoxious. They brought with them a fur clad perfumed spaniel pup. I saw her eyes widening as she saw the little puppy, she almost choked on the water which she had been sipping for well over a minute. There were four of them with one woman, fat in a shapely way, a voice louder than the words she spoke, impeccable English with an authoritative air. She sniffed at the water and asked for mineral water, petted her spaniel with affection and laughed heartily. My object of observation frowned as she watched this ridiculous display of garrulousness, and looked sympathetically at the three men around the table. One had a nervous twitch, so noticeable, it made me want to twitch. The other fellow nearly collapsed in relief when the waiter permitted him to smoke inside the restaurant. The third was one of those people who have nothing specific, they are a face, like any other, listless, without character, the kind of face you wouldn’t want to hear talk, the kind my mind has no use of. the verbose lady carried out pompously discussing everything from cheap hotels to unending journeys, pets and politics.

But coming back to her. Today she is wearing blue. Heightened against her dark skin. Her hair has been left loose. I can make out she hasn’t brushed it and the dishevelment becomes her. She started as her food came and she rolled up her sleeves, as if it were an unpleasant task to be done. Slowly she chomped through the chapattis, taking big mouthfuls and washing them down systematically with water. She cocked her head slightly and I knew she was eavesdropping. I could tell by the way her expressions tattled. There was a frown. Sometimes a grin. She rolled her eyes at times and almost chuckled when the dog peed on the carpet. I played along her emotions, wondering if she saw me sitting beside her table. I had ordered what she had and matched her movements. Break a piece. Make a bite. Put in mouth. Chew a bit. Just a bit and swallow.

She carried on till the dishes were empty. The cheeky waiter, a boy at best, cleared away her dishes. She rose now and I with her, but I left abruptly so I wouldn’t be too obvious. She stood near the counter, picking at the saunf and smiling at the manager. Her knee was bent, she toyed with the tassels of her shawl. It was a balmy night and I hated to say goodbye.

Dislocating Duality

"Hinduism has always acknowledged the existence of opposites (and reconciled them): pain and pleasure, success and failure, creation and destruction, life and death, are all the manifestations of the duality inherent in human existence. These pairings are not contradictory but complimentary; they are aspects of the same overarching reality. So also with the secular and the sacred: a Hindu’s life must involve both."

State of Soul

I am out.

And about.

My mind

it's fooling me.

Into

believing.

That it's

doing

something.

Ha.

It seems

the soul

is shuddering.

The mind

a-shutting.

The nose

oh-so-sillily

a-sniffling.

Tip: Visit Leh in August. It's (unbelievably) even better.

Deluge in Delhi

What do you do when you realize that the entire day’s work has been lost because you replaced (this is the operative word here replaced) the new file with an old one of the same name? And then, to add to your mortification, a perfect storm picks up outdoors. Swaying trees, torrential rains, special effect-like lightning, thunder, flooded roads, wet scurrying people. The works.

Half past nine on a monsoon night. People getting wet. Pee getting washed off the numerous pee soaked walls of Delhi. Birds were shivering. Traffic jams a-building. “Sonam” cab service sent us a car (whoever heard of a Sonam cab service?). Anyway, out we ventured into the dark stormy night. Neon lights flickered over soggy stalls of whatever. Lightning tore across the inky sky, illuminating washed out dogs, sodden motorcyclists and glistening trees alike. Thunder raged across the heavens, competing with the cacophony of the downpour. Water gushed from everywhere possible. Our car raced through puddles, sending sprays of water on everything that dared to cross its path. We exchanged suitably abusive language with the guy we drenched on his lookatme bike. There were enough broken down DTC buses and marooned cyclists to certify the monsoons had finally arrived in Delhi.

Delhi was under deluge. The journey was interesting – I got an education in the transport systems of Calcutta from Sujati (ha ha ha), which made me want to visit the city more than ever (it definitely goes on my list of places to travel to along with Pondicherry, Andaman & Nicobar, Sikkim and Gujarat), we nearly had a gazillion accidents, dodging potholes and second guessing similar surprises like speed breakers and open manholes was quickly developed into an art...in short it was an eventful drive on a backdrop of a movie-like scenario (really, superheroes were just waiting to appear).

Then I got stuck (ohsostuck) in a never ending ribbon of various modes of transportation, stretching over kilometers. Barely functional autos, spewing out copious quantities of fumes, big bad buses which hogged most of the road, tractors which moved slower than each other, two wheelers of various shapes and sizes filling into any lacuna they could perceive, cars – elegant so-not-fit-for-monsoon sedans and burly high end I-can-hog-large-chunks-of-the-road SUVs. A friendship sprung up between the taxi driver and I, where topics of conversation ranged from traffic woes in Delhi, to the construction of the Metro and its side effects, to the child wailing in the next car, the surprising weather conditions, his inability to understand Delhi roads and my ability to give last minute swerve-crazily-or-you-will-miss directions. He was as new to Delhi as the rains and appeared just as lost.

The radio station played a Floyd number and managed to surprise me. Then they followed it with Michael Jackson and won me over with their predictability. A man in the next car was reading a book, the name of which I didn’t manage to catch. A dog waded through the river and looked at me with forlorn eyes. A breeze started and shook a few bougainvillea flowers which stained the divider with their scarlet exuberance (bougainvillea flowers have so much character, it’s inspiring). It was post twelve and dreams beckoned with their characteristic naivety. I reached home at some ungodly hour and got another glare from the madamji-aap-itne-late-kyun-aate-ho guard. He laughed at my wet clothes and I pointed to his folded pants.

The deluge, it had done wonderful things to my state of mind. And I thanked you for this cruel summer. It made the rain that much funner. (Wow I am thinking in rhyme now!)

Of Animals and Aesop's

“As a rule, man is a fool

When it’s hot he wants it cool

When its cool he wants it hot

Always wanting what is not”

I remember this poem from a time frame so obscure, that it’s a miracle I remember it at all. The poem was from this thin little copy of Aesop’s fables I had. Yellow cover. Red lettering. Very poor quality paper. Bad printing. I learnt the poem thinking it meant something very important and adult like, not realizing how true it would turn out to be. [Adulthood fascinated us so much when we are kids, its such a let down I tell you. The only part I like about it is that you don’t get shooed into bed at an ungodly early hour.] So, coming back to Aesop’s, I realized how my treacherous memory was failing me and I couldn’t remember even one story [or fable whatever]. So I picked up the book [this version was a hardbound, tastefully illustrated version, nice yellow paper, beautiful slanting font and delectable printing] and began a very loud rendition of … wait I think I should read it out to you people as well (since it seems like I have nothing else to write anyway :P). Here goes:

The Wolf And The Sheep

A Wolf, sorely wounded and bitten by dogs, lay sick and maimed in his lair. Being in want of food, he called to a Sheep, who was passing, and asked to fetch him some water from a stream flowing close beside him. ‘For,’ he said, ‘if you will bring me a drink, I will find means to provide myself with meat.’ ‘Yes,’ said the Sheep,’ if I should bring you the drought, you would doubtless make me provide the meat also.’

Hypocritical speeches are easily seen through.

That, I realized was some moral. And yes its been tried and tested by so many, that it's not a hypothesis by any stretch of imagination. But then I also came across another one, which was sort of, let’s just say, a little drastic?

The Ass And The Grasshopper

An Ass, having heard some Grasshoppers chirping, was highly enchanted; and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort of food they lived on, to give them beautiful voices. They replied, ‘The dew.’ The Ass resolved that he would only live upon dew, and in a short time died of hunger.

PS: The concept of a story with a moral seems so proper and naive.

PPS: Narrating stories with animals as characters lessens the blow. But that doesn’t make the moral any smaller or more frivolous.