Phantom and a child

As a kid I was in love with Phantom, the mysterious costumed crimefighter. I passionately believed in all that he did. I believed that he lived in a Skull Cave in the exotic African country of Bangalla and that he had two rings. One for his friends and proteges and the other one for his sworn enemies.

Often, while returning from school , in the heat and the traffic , I would catch a sudden glimpse of him, riding on his restless stud Hero, followed by his wolf, Devil. Although his mask made his pupils invisible, I knew he was looking at me. When a thief got caught in my locality I knew that the deed was done by my dear Mr. Walker dressed in his city clothes of a fedora, a trench coat and sunglasses. And I was quite obviously always on his side. I waited for him every Saturday as he made his grand appearance on a magazine page and astounded me with his wit, strength and courage.

Phantom was the safety vault of my childhood. He protected me and my imagination and all that makes a child's life magical.He kept me secure in my belief. In my ability to believe.

As I grew older, gradually and unwittingly other realities started claiming me. I could still read Phantom for hours, still gloat over the Ancient Jungle Proverbs, but something went amiss. I could not see him anymore on the roads . He had somehow disappeared, leaving the city in mess. I did not know why.

Perhaps ,I know now.

Superheros have a lot of qualities. They have the ability to defeat the bad (in) people. They have the ability to keep watch. They have the strength to restore order from chaos.

But they do have a limitation. They thrive on belief. For their existence they are dependent on people who believe them and believe in them. When people stop believing in a superhero, they become dysfunctional.

And that highlights one of the maladies of growing up and growing old. As adults we all become victims and patients of trust disorders. We become clinically challenged, unable to take sides with our superheros, unable to trust that they REALLY exist. We erase the roads they once trod on, we snatch away their horses or their web. In short we don't let them be.

Or perhaps, for a while, they just let us be. They let us go our way, lose sight of them, get lost in the process just to understand who we become without our imagination. Who we become without the ability to believe that walls can be scaled and lives can be saved. Who we become without our superheroes.

Every time Phantom was needed, Guran, his loyal friend would send him coded messages ... drum beats echoed around the dense jungles of Bangalla, reverberating the African darkness of ancient baobabs, travelling through the impossible and immense stretch of elephant grasses, the serpentine meandering rivers infested with dangerous fierce reptiles.

I have forgotten what Guran used to say every time he saw Phantom. Perhaps he just said " I believed you would come."

Big Deal ???

Today, my 4 year old nephew accidentally dropped a rasogolla from his bowl, saw all of us looking at him, promptly bent down , cleaned it up and shrugged his shoulders in a way that said "Big Deal"...Well, i guess that's wht it takes to handle unintended mess-ups - be prompt, stoop down a lil , clean 'em up and say ....BIG DEAL !!!

Wisdom and a thought

Perhaps getting wiser (and older) is realizing that all of us live in glasshouses and throwing stones won't really help... :p

Scream to Scare

A few years ago, I had stepped into "Scary House" at Prasads, Hyderabad, an ambiance created especially for the ones who din't mind shelling out a few extra pennies and getting scared...it was kinda cool...u had an artificial 'bhootiya' set up, dimly lit, photos of departed souls with discontented faces and roving eyes...it had suitable haunting background music...A timid "I" had hopped in too and was groping my way in the dark when suddenly a man dressed as a ghost jumped in front of me ...Scaring me was of course his agenda...but, he overachieved his target... I screamed to the best of my ability, with such passion and unexpected intensity that it scared the hell out of my Ghost. He impetuously raised his hand and cried , " Madam, bahar ka raasta udhar hain, aapko koi kuchh nahin karega." Not only that, he nervously yet graciously accompanied me and smiled a grateful smile of relief as I stepped out of the horror zone...

Just wondering whether we can try that in our lives sometimes...In case you r scared ,and most of the times we are, scream your guts out , scare the hell out of all the fears that surround you...one of them is sure to show you the good safe way out :D

LET'S ASSUME

Once upon a time when dinosaurs lived, I used to work for a bank...the trainer had taught me the basic tenets that made a banker what she is...fraud-proof. "Never assume", he had solemnly instructed his over-eager trainee. "Never assume that a customer would pay his bank back. Never take anything at its face value. Keep your information to urself and never assume people are not going to misuse it…It is illogical to assume because...(he had paused dramatically)... WHEN U ASSUME U MAKE AN ASS OUT OF U AND ME." I most certainly refused to be a quadruped ...instead I honed my "bipedal" skills and evolved as Darwin's darling...a smart banker with an impressive bank statement and a zero trust-bank balance.

And then i committed the BLUNDER...I switched over my role, became a teacher...AND THE FUN BEGAN...

Trained not to take things at their face-value…all I could see were faces…faces, keen and naughty…faces eager and distracted, faces mischievous and honest. Faces peering out of the last benches…faces asking a million questions…faces changing every moment with myriad expressions.

Trained to calculate profit and loss and account for every penny, I messed up my balance sheet big time. Credits earned showed much more than debits entered…investments made at the classrooms with students started yielding rewards unthinkable!!!

Trained not to share information, I was doing just that!!! Sharing facts, ideas and the teeny bit of information that I possessed in my li'l kitty.

Trained not to assume…I was assuming that tomorrow would be better than today,that the careful and the cautious often have much at stake, that relationships are the ultimate investments that are more rewarding than gold bonds.

Therefore, although my bank statement is rather depressing now (and will continue that way till Teachers' Judgement Day) I am awfully relieved that my trust-bank balance has been replenished.

Above all, I am glad I have understood that assumptions are NEVER illogical. After all, Mathematics, the most logical of all the subjects begins with a "LET'S ASSUME".

Salboni Retreat...darkness and a forest

Salboni retreat , where i was last weekend, is in the midst of a jungle. The green around you turns pitch black as the evening drops its hat…so much so that the half a kilometer between the entrance gate of the retreat and the cottage is covered with dense impenetrable darkness oozing out of the silence that surrounds you. We decided to walk down the darkness and tried talking silence out of its wits... A step , then two, then a few more, small diffident steps that tried to make sense out of the mystery around…dry leaves protested as our feet frozen with cold and fear powdered them…our ears grew keen…we spoke about politics and society and art…all inseparable in the darkness...all rolled into one…Half way down we realized that the way back is just as dark as the one ahead…And then suddenly, just like that, we were at the gates, clutching the cold iron , looking back at the cottage …It did not seem all that dark anymore…we had managed to dilute darkness by deciding to be one with it , by staying with it till the end of the road…Wondering , whether all the walks down the path are diluted mysteries like this…feet booted, nonsense on the tip of the tongue, nose pinched by brutal cold…keep walking Marshall, keep on keeping on. :)

Relationships and us

Some relationships are like chewing gums...they stretch and stretch and lose all their sweetness...some are like bricks that build you up...some are like noodles slipping through your fork keeping you hungry and groping...some are like Christmas carols, repetitively joyful... some like flat tyres leave you nowhere, waving for help...some make you believe in lies... some teach you to lie...some kick you in your mouth and make you bleed...yet some make you what you never dreamt of becoming...A survivor...

Hear me out...

Friends, Indians, Country(wo)men...The next time you hear me getting Raped...don't worry about ME...I will be taken care of...by a Travel Agent cum Painted and Dented Government I admire...I will get a Singapore Health Treatment Package...get airlifted whether my Perforated Body permits it or not...and i will be assured of a "Peaceful Death" with my relatives and other Indian Embassy officials praying that i am not born a WOMAN next time... my Inconvenient Body getting a Convenient Foreign Burial...

Dear Rapists and the Santa-Claus Government...As the year gets old and older and my mutilated soul gets cold and colder, I am sorry that I ruined Your Christmas ...but i shall Not let you forget me ...NOT FOR MY BLOODY LIFE...i shall not Move On...I remain Your Ghost ...Yours faithfully for ever and ever after...

S.O.M.E.D.A.Y.S

Some days leave you defective...your vision myopic,your athlete ankles aching,your already cello-taped heart smashed.

Some days leave you restless...your path questioned, your love threatened,your humour eroded.

Some days you see a stranger in the mirror...and you don't know how to say "hello".

Some days cut you short...you skid and you fall and you stopppppppppp.

Some. Days. Are. Like. That.

And then, just as you count your broken limbs and the pieces of your broken being...you discover That which these days couldn't hog...and these nights couldn't swallow...

You discover you are Indigestible.

You discover that these days would go outdated as you stop living them...You realize that One Day you CAN. And Today you WILL.

A dark summer evening in the City of "Bhoi"... An Apology

Calcutta. September 2012. 4.15 pm.

The ride had begun easy. I had boarded the public bus from Elgin Road. I was on the way to my mom's place.The bus was full although it had very few women passengers. We had barely reached Esplanade, one of the most crowded places of Cal, that a few young men, stone drunk, got up . They stormed past a delicate and frail conductor, hurled abuses at men, plopped themselves on the empty ladies' seats and started having "fun". The women were, of course, the target.But the men too weren't spared. They cracked obscene jokes, made vulgar gestures,tried to get up to get cozy with the women, which a moving bus and an overdose of alcohol to some extent mitigated.

A lady co-passenger and I protested and demanded these men to be pushed down at the next stop. A couple of men raised their voice against the "nuisance" they created. And then the show began.

Three of these young men, drew out broken bottles from a plastic bag and rushed to the gentleman who had demanded that they better behave themselves. They were about to hit this elderly person when the conductor "pleaded" them to keep peace and not to lose their temper "over such a trifling matter."

The words of peace however, did not pacify them. Soon inspired by the Don Juan of their group, the others started yelling and using profanities. They even drew up a young kid from the seat and slapped him hard as he resisted. They also mentioned a certain political party's name and said that they would show us what it is to protest .They towered over the women's seats and continued to comment on their anatomy.

The bus could have been stopped. At a police kiosk.With the hope of the law keepers taking some measure. But somewhere we the veteran Indians knew that informing the police would cook up trouble. They perhaps would under some political influence accuse me instead of adam teasing.Or drag the the young boy to the court or slap a charge on the bus driver for breaking a traffic signal.

They got down at the NRS Medical College bus stop, gloating over their success to unleash terror.

My protest wasn't up to the mark. It was hardly a protest. Something had frozen inside me.I could "feel" terror. The woman instinct in me had recoiled in fear and had warned me against confronting these men.

60 people on the bus...6 women...54 men...6 drunkards...2+2 faint protesters...56 Spectators. Simple maths. Complicated logic.

I couldn't figure out what kept us silent that day. I guess it was the fear of being the first one to take the broken bottle thrust at her/his tummy.I guess it was the fear of getting manhandled. I guess it was the fear of getting involved in a brawl that could take us to an unsympathetic corrupted law machinery. I guess it was the cynicism that nothing would come out of this.I know we had taken the easier way out. " What cannot be cured has to be endured."

I had narrated the incident to a few friends who had expressed surprise and extreme dismay at our spinelessness. They were ashamed of us. I AM ashamed of us. And I am sorry that I failed. To stand up for myself. To stand up for Damini, To stand up for all the humiliated Adivasi women.To stand up for the elderly gentleman. And all the other men on the bus.

Calcutta. December 2012.10.47 AM

As the phantom of a September evening haunts me...I quit. I quit my peace. I quit my comfort. I quit the "culture of silence". I quit to stay quiet anymore because other women and men have already taken the first broken bottles in their tummies. I need not be scared. I apologize to myself and I tell those creatures "meet ME next time." Protests don't go in vain. Nor do Resolutions.

Ants ants everywhere

My friend Gullu and I are ant people. We love ants. We think, talk and adore ants. And trust me if u can, this world of ours is full of ants…not cows, not rats, not even dogs but ANTS. Ants black and red.

The black ones are super cute….they crawl and they breed and they carry burdens ten times their body weight…they tickle you too and make you feel googly woogly woosh…Gullu says she envies them. She wants to have their lives…They are the lucky ones. Harmless, wormless and plain lucky. They follow their lines blindly and have everything clearly charted out for them. They abide by the wise old Grandfather adage…Don’t look here and there. Looking and thinking SUCKS. Instead feel each other's bums and continue to walk. The destination would be right ahead of you. And so they sow …and so they reap. They have their winters well stuffed and provided for. They, Gullu, makes me believe, and not without reason, are indeed the LUCKY ones.

The red ants are however, the ones who steal the show. They are my personal favourites. Gullu says they are the ones who really make a difference…they bite at the wrong time, in terribly wrong places, leave our skin swollen and our fingers scratchy. They build castles and parliaments where they breed and protect their kind, construct remarkable labyrinths and tunnels and nuclear reactors. These red ants also have a language of their own. They come on TV shows and use catchy duplicate dialogues like “ Behenji hatao, SC/ST bachao” or “ Mulayam hatao OBC bachao”. At times they ask legitimate questions like “When am I gonna get to the throne, Mummy?” At times they study Economics. And just keep QUIET. In short, they make their presence felt.

Gullu says she wants to become an ANT…If possible in this birth itself. She says she doesn’t care. She says Baba Darwin is outdated. She has another 25 years at the most and she would do anything to get her ambition fulfilled. But somewhere she and I and some of you genetically cursed human beings have not yet mastered the trick and the ANTics.

And that leads us to arrive at the greatest ANT-I-CLIMAX of it all. We like the whale are an endangered species, while the ant continues to do just fine…SO as the wise old book says…“ Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes. Observe its labours, sluggard, and be wise.”

Love and best wishes to Me, Gullu and You...We too can be observANT and can reap abundANT advANTages as a genetically altered triumphANT species… cANT we??

A tooth for a tooth, an I for an I

Ever wondered what distinguishes us from one another…you from me, her from her, him from the whole lot of them? Is it the way we walk, the way we talk, the way we think, the way we look at life…is it our height, weight, mass or density?

Well, all of these may and do have their role to play in the portfolio we hide or flaunt. But ahhhhhhh, u still escaped the rudiments…what distinguishes us primarily from our lookalike homosapiens is nothing else but two sets of ….TEETH.

Just the other day, I saw my grandmother, through the foggy glass window of the bus I was travelling by. I checked my pulse and tried to find out whether my heart is still beating. All that to confirm whether I am alive still…How else do I get a glimpse of the dear good old dead lady face to face , unless this bus is the one which is carrying me to my final destination? I would have crossed myself , reluctantly happy at the thought of resting at peace, when suddenly I realised the truth behind my granny’s grand reappearance. It was two sets of missing teeth…my grandmother and the lady looked alike because both of them lacked teeth…and both of them ( Thamma confirmed, the old lady I am guessing) must have stoically resisted a pair of dentures.

That kinda led me into an epiphany. I started visualizing you and me and them in terms of our teethlessness. And all of a sudden, we all looked fundaDENTALLY alike.

It brings comfort. It brings satisfaction. To know that perhaps my skull and Brad Pitt’s are interchangeable if only the teeth part is taken to task !

And that relieves our ever probing mind from its teething doubts. Identity becomes demonstrably simpler and to a great extent dependent upon the presence or absence of our teeth. The karmic uniformity and intertwining identity that we dig our teeth into right from our birth, finally boil down to the small, calcified, hard, whitish ( a choice of colours from the shade card available at the dentists’ store) structures found in the mouth. Silly palaeontologists have broken their teeth to establish uniform connections between fossil species through their teeth without grasping the paradox of it all.

So that’s my point, however, flawed my logic of Teethology is. In order to bring uniformity and unity and harmony and equity, strip urself of ur ego , ur wealth and ur teeth. And soon fighting Tooth and Nail for our existence would become history. After all you need to distinguish people’s faces to hate them. After all you need to distinguish people to kill them. Won’t identity cards suffer from identity crisis if they exhibit toothless mammals all through? That InciDENTALLY and acciDENTALLY... my dear ,Teethonus, remains the question and the answer...take ur pick as u pick ur tooth...:)

Evenings and Achilles

Regular evenings for me are :

1) Tired
OR
2) Especially tired

For evenings that leave me tired, all that I wanna do is rush back home, take a shower, enjoy the delicious silence around, read a book and craaaaaaash !!!
“Being with myself ,” I ceremoniously call it.

For evenings that leave me especially tired, I elbow my way through an almost impenetrable mass and matter of irritated people, get down at a certain stop , count my slow steps, climb up an ancient flight of stairs, press the bell with the weary tip of my exhausted finger…and see my MOM.
“ Fleeing from myself,” I grudgingly admit.

Yess! End of such days, it’s all about returning. Our days and our lives have real smart ways of battering us, beating us black and blue, reducing us to a lovely smooooth mango pulp !!! And, however much you may enjoy the bumpy ride, it’s nice, u see, to return to somebody, who unconditionally takes you… and also takes it from you. Someone who surprisingly still somehow manages to be there for a seasonally disgusting “you”.

The funny old Gullu has a nice way of putting it. I tell her I am going to my mom’s place. She tells me I am hungry. And as I drag my Achilles' heels up the stairs, I know she is right. I can smell food…and I can smell “waiting”.

And as the old city skyline changes , becomes more fickle and even more bricksome, all that makes life worth is the thought that mothers (and some predictable rare others ) somewhere keep waiting for you . Returning to that person, remains your only compulsion and your only choice.

And somewhere you know that you are the “luckier one”. So before you start cribbing again…Chuck the day, Dump your baggage and ENJOY the attention :)