Saturday, 19 January 2013
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 :)
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