What's the point of living with so much fear?

I am afraid of looking directly into the mirror because I may see traces of the person I didn't want to become. I am afraid of digging deeper into myself because I may unearth memories I would rather avoid. I am afraid of scrutinizing my own motives because I will probably realize that my drivers are not what I thought they are. I am afraid of analyzing my future career because it will force me to go back to past decisions. I am afraid of stepping up because I don't know if I have the knees to support it. I am afraid of stepping out because I don't know if I have the wind beneath my wings. I am afraid of thinking about the current deadlock because I might get into the superstitious zone. I am afraid of dissecting the relationships because I will realize how little control I have. I am afraid of thinking about people because I might need to acknowledge feelings I had pretended didn't exist. I am afraid of thinking about the wider circle of my influence because I will have to confront the negative impact of my existence. I am afraid to let my emotions show because I might scare someone away. I am afraid to be myself because people are looking at and up to me. I am afraid to let myself go because there is a persona I am bonded to. 

The trial

It was the black bag that did me in.

Till then I was on auto pilot, fully into a stream of activity that kept me distracted and engaged – party till late night, get up, get ready, mails, chase taxi, figure out location, get there, hug, greet, smile, offer to help, help, chat, eat.

I finally sat down for a few minutes at a stretch and the conversation with a fellow-guest petered out. Lulled by the carnatic music in the background, the noise around me dulled to a hum, I gazed lazily around, my eyes arriving at the mandap. And the little black suitcase. As Sonal pulled it open and took out assorted bags being used for the rituals, it suddenly struck me and the memories came flooding back.

The bag on the floor of the bedroom, packed neatly with DB’s clothes and toiletries for his weekend recruitment trips. Over the years, the bag (which I had initially got from Manila as a last minute purchase to stuff all my shopping) got steadily threadbare, causing me amusement and irritation in equal measure, especially when he would do his “I am so middle class” routine.

Well, middle class it certainly was, this sad-looking bag sitting on the corner of the pandal with its glorious orange, white and yellow theme. Little knowing what it stood for – the memories, the moments, the future. Little knowing what it caused…my mind to suddenly wake up and look at everything around me in a new light.

DB sits on the pandal, going through the never-ending rituals, a fixed smile on his face, occasionally looking towards us with a glance of recognition, his face unreadable except when he would make a grimace to signal his exhaustion. I am surrounded by his friends, people from another world, who were a little like mythical creatures to me, and now they were finally real, flesh and blood standing in front of me, looking and behaving exactly as they were described for the first time six years ago in the drive to Pondicherry, at the end of which he paused, put up his hand in that usual melodramatic gesture and said “main toh thak gaya!”

Today there’s no melodrama. The emotions are under a leash, getting frowned upon whenever they try to break free. There’s plenty of back and forth to do between the hall and the room where a lot of stuff is kept, and which is supposedly for him to rest and change in. I accompany as P & his wife, who are primarily responsible for all this. I am a little like a well dressed assistant, happy to tag along, and help wherever I can, not really making a difference, but being appreciated all the same. I am happy to just keep doing something, and comforted by the company of someone who I knew understood the reality, accepted it, and maybe even sympathized a little.

On of my trips back to the hall, I catch his mother’s eye and she smiles at me, obviously happy at the event but somehow also acknowledging my presence there. Or was I imagining that? Would her reaction have been very different if she had known the truth? Or did, as I have always suspected, she always have an inkling of the reality? How many secrets do we carry with us, sometimes for the sake of our own sanity, sometimes to preserve someone else’s dignity or wishes. So much baggage.

We were in the corridor again, going back this time when DB had changed into a tasteful dhoti & kurta, the latter cut short, in his typical style. The three of us stand in a lift, and I joke again about his father-in-law’s stinginess in giving gifts to him. I notice the silver colored watch and ask him if he wants to exchange it with my green one. He looks at me, strangely I think, and says its Tommy and someone else gave it to him. It doesn't strike me for a moment and then I remember. I don’t know what I say…maybe I just smile. Because my stomach had just plummeted as the echoes of another “tommy” played in my head.

P wants to talk about careers. He’s shifting gears for the second time in as many years and wants to make sure he joins the right place. As I give my usual HR advice on the subject, part of me goes back to the day when I folded up that admission letter and put it in my drawer (or did I just tear it up). What a different course my life would have taken if I hadn't done that. Or that mail I wrote. “So you are into stars”, or something like that I said. Sparking off an exchange of mails that snowballed. Or the moments when I kept quiet, wanting to let my guard down, but my ego not letting me, building so many walls around me that he finally couldn't even see through. Or that evening when I got bored and said “what the heck, let me make that profile and check it out”. Small…big…moments that shaped life forever.

I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking. His past, his present and his future are in this room, around him. They are not really that linked and don’t flow into one another. The book is more like a set of short stories with some linkages, rather than a series of chapters. To move to the next, you have to firmly end one. What if you want to revisit? But can’t?

R & I probe me – am I really ok? They can’t believe it when I laughingly tell them I am fine; there’s some sense of irony, but no emotion. “We were and are friends first”, I tell them confidently. I know others are worried too, but they know me too long, and so are not as bold and carefree as these two. They sent me careful texts, and I reply as carefully. There are others who don’t remember, or don’t care, or just don’t know what to say. Not surprising. I always know who’s standing firmly by me, in person or in spirit, as I go through the trials. And I know who aren't or won't. 

In a few hours I am standing below the stage, looking up at them. Arranging for tissues and water as they sweat their way through the greetings and blessings of hundreds of strangers. I wonder if I am being too forward in doing that, in talking to them, in suggesting actions. If I am being too forward in just being there. My aim was, and is, to comfort, to calm and to support. But is that what’s happening?

There’s heat, and humidity. And then some air conditioning. I am restless, wanting to go out and see how he’s doing. Sonal looks at me a little weirdly. I realize my guard is beginning to drop. It’s time to go. I say a hurried goodbye, there’s enough confusion around to not make that look unseemly. I avoid getting on the stage, the formalities would be too tiring. I say a few words of goodbye to his mom, P & S...thanking them with my eyes, even if I couldn't say anything.

I am heading back on the drive, when a voice calls out “Ralhan!” I turn back, he’s standing across the bushes, smiling a little, his face gleaming with sweat, the clothes shiny in the spotlight, his eyes soft and questioning and maybe even saying something. I know I am in the darkness. I don’t remember what we say. But I do manage to say bye. I wave my hand and move away, his face blurring. I keep waving, walking down the drive and then turn away completely. The dark interiors of the car are what I need, my refuge. 

A question in the morning

I am surrounded by a melee of colors and sweet, synthetic smells as I hang clothes out to dry. The warmth of the day is just beginning to make itself felt and I look forward to the many activities lined up with a mix of anticipation and mild irritation. A conversation with a loved one loops in my head as I turn to get back inside from the balcony. A movement catches the corner of my eye, makes me pause and look around. In the balcony of the house next door, a small boy is sitting on his haunches, his back towards me. From the clothes and the way he was sitting, he is probably the maid's son. Something about his stillness catches my attention. As I keep looking, he turns a little and I can see half his face. Every limb of his body is stationary, as if frozen by a spell. His little hands rest on his knees, his feet are glued to the floor. The unlined lips are half parted as if he is about to say something, but doesn't know what to. The eyes are quiet as well, though not as still as the rest of him. They are looking intently at the pram and toy scooter standing next to him on the balcony; the blues, whites and reds contrasting with the faded pallor of the T-shirt and shorts he is wearing. Several moments pass. There is ambient noise from the road and other apartments, a bead of sweat trickles down my back, a plane roars somewhere overhead and there is a rustle in the curtains of the apartment where he is sitting. He remains still, then suddenly gets up to go over to the other side of the pram. He bends down, I can't see what he's holding. Then he rears up again and comes back to his original place, holding a colorful ball, the kind you give to babies. He sits down again, holding the ball, his limbs back to their stance, his eyes quiet again, looking at the pram and the toy scooter. I turn away finally and go back into the comforting darkness of my bedroom. 

What have we done to have a little boy whose limbs are still and eyes are blank?

Waiting

The headiness of the year is coming to an end. Perhaps hastened by the slew of unpleasant news. Or the inevitable resurgence of harsh realities in the face of sweet denial. Looks like it's time to take decisions. Cut through the clutter, go back to basics, examine your core values, look around you to assess impact...and decide the road you want to take. Or...you could just ignore all this and close your eyes and know what you want and...plunge.

But that's the crux of it. Is this about what we want? Or has it become about what we need? Or even more, what's the right thing to do? The egoist in me refuses to concede and stakes claim to what I believe is rightfully mine. The realist in me advises to look for what we need...especially in the long run. The humanist in me forces me to look at the right thing to do.

Even as the head and heart aches with the processing of so much of thought and emotion that accompanies each of these questions, I am aware that, thankfully, I don't really need to decide. The decisions will be made for me. The family will chart their own journey and I shall observe. The kingmakers shall provide me opportunities as they see fit and I shall follow. And Vik will sort out his mind and his heart and tell me, verbally or otherwise, where he is going...and I shall retreat or accompany, as the case may be.

Again, the egoist in me rebels at the thought of the course of my next few years being in the hand of so many external hands. Yet I remind myself - it's not the events in our life that shape us, its what we do with them and how we react.

So...my destiny remains in my hands. I shall just wait for the events to unfold. Eyes closed, fingers crossed. 

"Its just a bad time"

I find it eerie how some weeks just beg for this description. Like last week, when a spate of bad news flowed in from each direction...friends, relatives, team members...mostly related to health. A team member's cancerous condition returned and required immediate surgery; a close friend's brother suddenly developed an abscess in the back and needed surgery. One friend suffered from a fortnight of allergy induced cough & cold, while another friend's relatives went through a shocking third death in the family within a period of 3 months. Each day I heard something new, spent some time thinking about it, possibly reached out the concerned people to offer my prayers or support, and then resolutely went back to the minutiae of daily life. 

Till Friday, when I received the panicked call from D about the accident involving his parents. It was a nightmare come alive. My heart bleeds at the thought of what they have already gone through, are going through and will go through for quite some time to come. I can't even begin to try and put myself in their place...or for that matter D's, whose worry for them is eating him alive. Yes, I am carrying on with my so-called "normal" life...worrying about program launches, catching up on friends' lives, eating, drinking, preparing for Vik's upcoming trip. But the knot remains. And I am just praying and hoping that "this bad time" will be over soon.