Vignettes from Rishikesh

The sugar sinks to the bottom of the glass of mint tea looking like white dust in a sky of green, eerily reflecting the color of the water a hundred feet below me. It’s a peaceful green somehow, not a weedy shade that one would expect from rivers in India, nor the pulsating green of the tormented seas. This is a green at peace with itself, serene in its own position as a symbol of what is possibly the most feted celebrity in this country, the river that gives its name to countless persons and establishments across the world, the river that provides livelihood to millions of people who serve the needs, and desires, of people like me.

That is a term that is hard to apply here though. “People like me” could mean just about anything and nothing. This café for example, like many others, is like a brochure that paints a desperate picture of multi-culturalism, with a menu that echoes its customers. A pair of young and astonishingly pretty German boys is smoking, tucking into a hearty breakfast, exchanging occasional laconic sentences that are the result of years of familiarity. A group of Americans on another table converse excitedly about their footwear, therapies for a bad back, the symbolism of the color red and their love for omelettes. A Korean girl sitting alone at a table tries to figure out how much to pay for the bill, her embarrassed smile responding to the patient one of the waiter’s.

I can also hear the sounds of another group of people from the lane right below me. Large families trooping in from towns all around, seeking salvation or at least a glimpse of it in the temples and banks of the holy city, even as the foreigners take the path of yoga and weed. Everyone loves capturing the moments though. Even here, the old and the new collide and then co-exist. A random selection of pictures of Rishikesh will reveal many selfies with those familiar pouts, even as there are an equal number of the traditional poses of children with scowls and women with suspiciously narrowed eyes standing against objects which could be considered of interest, e.g. a bridge or a famous temple.

Looking into this melee of diverse humanity, one could fashion oneself as an “observer” or “interpreter” or “narrator”, or any other interesting word that found on the blurbs of brightly colored book covers. Until one steps right into it.

**********************************************************************

A foot pokes into my back and then withdraws. A few seconds later, there it is again. I shift a few inches to the front. Then a flick from a cloth on my head. A poke from a foot again. I give up trying to concentrate on the bhajans and finally look up. A large purple flower printed on a synthetic yellow fabric pulsates in front of my eyes. Before I could congratulate myself of having got into a psychedelic trance without the ingestion of any substances, I realize that what I am seeing is a corner of a salwar kameez that belongs to a woman who is dancing. Now dancing is a rather vulgar term for someone who’s clearly under the spell of the evocative bhajans, being belted out at full volume by young priests (who interestingly look as well groomed as salesmen in an upmarket mall, but that’s another story). Then I realize there are actually two of them, pleasant looking, “healthy”, middle-class, middle-aged ladies dressed identically in brightly patterned salwar-kameezes, under a dark colored cardigan and a red shawl. The same shawl that flicked me, and I was happy to note, others.

I try hard to not keep looking; after all, religious fervor is a private and individual expression. But something about the dance makes look back again, some memory trying to surface into my consciousness through the sensory overload. I get it. Their moves are strikingly similar to those of the thousands (okay, hundreds) of women I have seen dancing to brass bands in wedding baraats. Come to think of it, it’s not just the moves. Here too, they seem to be enjoying themselves without a care in the world, even as they keep an eye who’s watching. Sure enough, a moment later, I hear the familiar strain of “aap bhi aao”, uttered to a young European girl whose eyes and mouth had been wide open for a few minutes now. Now the eyes gleam, the mouth snaps shut, and she jumps into cleared area (yes, we have all moved back a few feet) with all the determination (and grace) of a newly converted zumba dancer. The click of the smartphone cameras now takes on a new high, competing with the beats of the tabla and strain of the harmonium, and do I detect a hint of peevishness of the faces of the singing priests as the video camera moves from them to the whirling dervishes (sorry, ladies)? Never mind, I am sure it will generate more footfalls the next day for the “maha-arti”, absolutely the event of the day.

A few minutes later, the arti is completed. The yellow fire of the lamps burns brightly against the ochre of the sky and Ganga seems to approve. As I walk away from the brightly lit ghat where the arti was held into the darkness of the streets behind, the noise, the activity, the crowd, the smells just melt away. All that remains is the chanting in my ears, “gurudev bolo…” and it seems to calm and warm me on this winter night. I smile at the fast receding memory of the dancing ladies and walk on.

***************************************************************

Jagged rocks hang above me and if I were more imaginative, or this were night instead of day, I could attribute a more menacing air to them. But right now they are just pitiful, rocks ravaged by landslides, a rude reminder of how commerce has made this terrain so vulnerable that sights like this are as common as stray dogs feasting on piles of rubbish, children peeing on the sides of the road or SUVs filled with tourists causing traffic jams.

The urban chaos recedes into comparative silence as one keeps walking into the hills above the city. The concrete jungle of small hotels, guest houses, dharamshalas and “cafes” gives way to the boundary walls of more comfortable resorts where smartly dressed men and women go about their business of pampering travelers that seek salvation through comfort. Packs of younger boys and girls, many as part of corporate outings, drive by in vehicles imprinted with the names of the multitude of adventure companies that run their business in their area, promising a few hours of adrenalin pumping that could be perceived as exciting or terrifying (more the latter if I read the faces of the group correctly).

One keeps walking, the road on one side and the river on another. And suddenly I am at a corner where I can see the spread of the river across miles. The water glides majestically below me, resplendent in green, fresh from the exertions of rushing down the mountains, now seeming to pause and take a deep breath before it plunges into a landscape that’s weighed with expectation. As if to complete the picture, the rain stops suddenly and a rainbow appears, creating a perfect arch between two hills, a smile that speaks of wisdom far beyond the comprehension of the teeming masses below.

The smile disappears, and clouds gather again. The light falls steadily, and the chill in the wind is now driving people off the streets. I resolutely stand my ground on the hanging bridge, the Laxman Jhula, ignorant of the stiffness in my legs or the whistling in my ears. The river is now not just gliding, but tumbling in haste over hidden rocks. The moon makes a wistful appearance and casts a pale silvery glow on water that’s now as magically turbulent as it was serene a few hours ago. The temples bells ring out, possibly for the last time that day, seeking to drown out the strident murmurs of the remaining crowds, the screeching of the monkeys, the rattling of the vehicles in the distance, the insistent chatter of the inner voice. Only the sounds of the temple bells and the roar of the river remain, a divine reminder of our own insignificance, causing spirits to soar and sink at the same time.

There’s someone else walking by now. A sadhu. Brown eyes look kindly at me, under a head that’s piled with braids a stylist would approve of. In perfectly unaccented English, he asks me if I would like the best marijuana in the world. I smile and shake my head, thanking him for the offer. He smiles back, but his eyes don’t, as they search for someone, or something else. And I walk away too, searching for something, or someone else.

 

 

 

My self-important, pompous annual assessment of the movies of 2014

2014 was possibly one of the most exciting as far as Hindi cinema was concerned. For one, the trend of the last few years appears to have intensified – the truly “big” movies generated lots of hot, rancid air and made big bucks and the “semi-big” ones balanced both creative and financial success. Also, the range of powerful performances from female actors was immense – from Tabu to Rani to Kangana and so was the range of subjects – from several rom-coms and its variants to serious, gut wrenching cinema.

For me personally, I was constantly surprised - either pleasantly or unpleasantly. Is that a sign that I am no longer able to accurately predict the artistic merit of a movie? Ouch. A bigger Ouch (in a good way) was Alia Bhatt - someone I wrote off, but she delivered a range of characters that can put most of her senior contemporaries to shame.

Movies I saw and loved -

·         Highway – this one is the one I love; even as I acknowledge its flaws, I connect with it. The journey of self exploration, the straight-from-the-heart performance by Alia, the music that’s part of the narrative.

·         Queen – possibly one of the most flawless movies I have ever seen, it has more nuances every time on watches it. One of those movies where you live the character’s life and laugh and cry with her. Also ground-breaking in so many ways.

·         Ugly – so ugly, yet so beautiful. A well-paced thriller, with layers that creep up on you without you even realizing it. Gripping in its depiction of the darkest underbelly of our lives, a much-darker version of my old favorites - Satya & Company.

·         Haider – I wanted a repeat of Maqbool & Omkara but didn’t get it. Comparisons aside, this was possibly the best A-list movie this year, with compelling performances and a multi-layered script.

·         Khoobsurat – the best surprise of the year. I would pitch it against the best Meg Ryan rom-coms. Super production values, loads of laughter, pitch-perfect supporting cast and a dreamy leading man.

·         Finding Fanny – quirky black comedy. Reminded me of the earlier Johny Depp movies. Again, brilliant performances and what detailing.

·         Hasee Toh Phasee – most underrated movie of the year. It’s a genuinely funny romance, with OTT characters and pretty good music. Also broke a lot of new ground as it reversed traditional gender roles in movies.

·         2 States – another pleasant surprise. Both the romance and the familial emotion was relatable, and the music helped.

·         Mardaani – Reasonably well-made, it was elevated by the absolutely spot-on social issue that it highlighted, and a solid performance by both the “hero” and the “villain”. Weirdly satisfying climax.

·         Humpty Sharma Ki Dulhania – not really a very good movie, but the charm of the lead actors carried it through and I can call it a favorite. Could have been much, much better especially if it had good music.

·         Filmistan – wasn’t positioned well. It’s quite a serious movie. Not very well paced, but it was a good experiment and we need to see more of this.

Movies that disappointed –

·         Happy New Year…I wanted a full blown Bollywood entertainer, I got instant gratification crap

·         PK – over-simplified and the most anti-climatic climax ever

·         Bobby Jasoos  – such amazing raw material, and such a forgettable product

Movies that I didn’t see but would probably have liked – Dedh Ishqiya, Main Tera Hero, Mary Kom, Bhootnath Returns

Movies that I didn’t see and I am glad I didn’t – Kick, Bang Bang, Gunday

Movies that I saw and I am sad I did - Holiday

Darkened paths and more ranting

Once again, there are swirls of color around me. Red, green, purple...all tinged with grey and a hint of blackness. It is as if I am viewing a rich tapestry which on a closer look reveals a design that contains no beginning and no end...and when you turn it over, there's just a single color.

Yes, I am being dramatic. Maybe I am just influenced by the latest season of Project Runway that I am glued to right now. Or the hilarious Diary of a Social Butterfly that I am reading. Maybe it's the situations at work which could generate Dilbert strips for another decade. It could also be the virtual blue and orange worlds of the dating apps, reflection a range of sensibilities and attitudes so wide that it could either be the subject of an independent scholarly study or just drive a barely sane person over the tip. People play a part too, the grief and pain of loved ones seeping into your own experiences. Or it could just boil down to the dramatic 20 degrees difference between the maximum and minimum temperatures that eerily reflects the reality.

Because a dramatic difference there is. Even as life throttles along like an ageing Rajdhani determined to prove its worth in a faster world, I tip-toe along the sides of holes that promise an entry into a labyrinthe I most certainly don't want to get into. I dont even know where the darkened paths start and where they end, if they do. At each step, choices befuddle me as one appears more uninteresting than the other. And the ones that dont, seem to be closed to me. It could be some weird version of a video game too, where the moment I pay attention to a choice it becomes unavailable to me. In which case it's my own mind playing games with me. And that's another path altogether. A path that I probably do need to trudge down though. Because the others are not going anywhere. And by extension, neither are my career or relationships or my skills.

I remember the Katy series...which included a title called What Katy Did Next. For some reason, I keep remembering the series and that book. Because what I do next is something that's never clear to me. The gap between what I can do, want to do, should do, will do, and am offered to is often too wide. But again, maybe it isn't. Maybe the gap is only in my mind. But do I have the strength to try and deal with that gap, and all that it entails?

Or should I let it be? Sit on the train and get off at whatever station seems reasonably attractive? And till then, live with the swirls of color around me. Boredom, restlessness, inertia, irritation, energy, speed. All with that tinge.

 

The Ramgarh poem :)

 

A Tale of Two Tourists on a Weekend Trip

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But they are certainly not made for Sudeep;

Who prefers his walks to be a stroll,

Along pretty little trails, or maybe the mall.

 

 

Ryan, on the other hand, is smitten

By the thick shrubbery and the mud that’s hidden;

Yes, the same mud that’s turned slippery in the rain,

And causes Sudeep to fall, not once but twice, and cry out in pain!

 

 

But one must be fair,

Or at least as fair as one can be;

To the characters of this tale,

Hearty drinkers of tea.

 

Sudeep has a lot of experience of holidays,

But sadly not of the trekking variety;

Which is why his shoes sparkle blue,

And may appear just a bit flighty.

 

They do well on walks,

Along paved roads and air-conditioned malls;

But put them on a slippery slope of mud,

And they are found to wail “Oh I am a dud!”

 

With five inches over Sudeep

(In height I mean),

The outdoorsy Ryan strides boldly forward.

Not unlike a determined moonbeam.

 

I am sure he is secretly relieved

At having discarded shorts in favor of jeans,

Especially when huge bushes graze his legs,

And he gets chased by leeches & bees!

 

An hour later as the weary trekkers return,

In the evening light that’s fading;

Ryan turns to Sudeep and, flashing that smile,

Exclaims “How invigorating”!

 

At the room, equilibrium is restored,

Over vodka, and martini, and chocolate…and more;

And the holiday continued on its vein,

Of being a compendium of experiences,

Some adventurous, some tame.

 

This was certainly not an impulsive trip,

It had been planned for months.

But the date and place had been recently decided

When, due to erroneous calculations,

Ramgarh came out trumps. 

 

 

So Ryan and Sudeep started out from Delhi,

On Independence Day, when they hoped the roads would be empty;

Armed with pretty bags and lots of snacks,

Don’t smirk at their enthusiasm, cut them some slack!

 

 

For little they did know the nightmare that awaited them,

That started with a puncture,

And made Sudeep cluck like an irritated hen.

Then came traffic, of a size not seen before;

Not even the rancorous sound of the car horns,

Could drown out Ryan’s angry roars!

 

 

Long rows of cars stretched in front of toll booths,

Which turned up every few kilometers;

To turn the travelers from Delhi, and Gurgaon, and Noida,

Into queues that were long and bitter.

 

 

But the icing on the cake was still due,

And the cliché came true,

In the form of rains at Haldwani,

Such a downpour, it turned into a mini-tsunami!

 

 

Alas! The hills that day were not alive

With the sound of music;

Instead they bore mute witness,

To throngs of tourists that would soon lose it

 

 

13 hours after they started from Gurgaon,

They reached the resort, nestled in the green hills of Kumaon.

Their room was at the top of the hill,

With a view for which many would kill;

Unfortunately their room was also unlike any other,

We could even call it “Las Vegas meets Lajpat Nagar”.

 

The next two days made up for the journey,

Sunny and free of rain was the sky;

In the lush, green home of the famous Geetanjali,

Ryan & Sudeep stepped out with their heads held high J

 

They walked the long road to Neemrana Bungalows,

Where the setting was quaint and lunch delicious;

Along the way they halted at a sweet old library,

Home to Hindi literature, heaven for the reader voracious

 

A trip to Bhimtal was duly made,

With the obligatory boat ride and tea on the steps;

And to recover from the crowds & the aesthetic shockers,

Ryan made a beeline to the nursery and picked out their best.

 

There was of course the aforementioned trek,

And a few smaller excursions here & there;

But the agenda was largely of relaxation,

And, for Sudeep, to stay out of the sun’s glare.

 

 

Heavy tomes in bright colors were hungrily devoured,

In places as varied as the pool side and the loo;

Movie classics were also pulled out,

A musical, a comedy, and a drama too.

 

The daily food schedule was faithfully adhered to,

Despite the variations in quality and taste;

Supplemented by chai, coffee & “Madeira”,

As well as salted snacks & chocolates consumed in haste.

 

But the true charm of the weekend was in none of this,

It lay in the peaceful green of the hills;

The mists that rose, the brooks that bubbled,

The chill in the air, the silence that never troubled.

 

Now we prepare for the return to the choked city,

Praying for a comfortable journey as we start;

Leaving behind a weekend well documented in cameras,

And also occupying a place in our hearts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Corporate torpor

Didn't I just ambitiously declare my comeback last week? Only to disappear yet again? Yet another sign of how gloriously indisciplined and inconsistent I have become. And yet am I allowed to wallow in self-disgust? No. Quick and dirty is what my lifestyle demands...so all I can do is administer a few well-deserved figurative kicks to myself and come back here. Ah well...that's a topic for another day.

For now my topic is the surprisingly stable and calming nature of work presentations. Having just sat through 8 hours of presentations as part of a panel for half yearly business excellence awards, I use these words very consciously.

Stable - because ever since I gained corporate consciousness (i.e. approximately 13 years ago), I have been watching similar presentations being delivered by similar looking and similarly attired people using similar tones and words. The quality of the presentations vary widely but other than, the overall format and tone are replacable by one another...across industry, organization and geography.

Calming - because in a period of intense change, this kind of un-change calms one. You wrestle with newer technologies, with the attitudes of the young 'uns, with the moving train of expectations...and then suddenly you are in a room where you look at a schedule of presentations, surrounded by others of similarly potruding bellies and looks of self-conscious importance, and think to yourself - "ah, at least this has not changed"

And finally, Surprising...because...what the hell! Everything has changed...and I mean EVERYTHING! From the way we talk (in corporate jargon unintelligible to the layman) to the way we dress (flat fronts please, else you are a loser) to the way we type (well, we didnt type earlier) to the way we lead (consultative leadership preferably) to the way we follow (with an opinion and a sense of entitlement) to the way we think (like a child with ADD) to the way we bloody shit (with an option to the either wash or wipe).

And yet we still haven't been able to figure out a less cumbersome, time consuming, shamelessly hierarchical, borderline humiliating, template-driven way to do this kind of suff?

Unbelievable (incidentally, one of my most over-used words for a while now)

Back

Like the faint rumblings that signal an imminent visit to the nearest washroom, random thoughts, observation and pithy lines have been making their presence felt in the caverns of my mind recently. Following time honored tradition, this conglomeration of signals led to the starting up of the roller coaster, which had been lying happily (or unhappily) dormant (or sulkily silent) for the last year or so. And since I have absolutely no normal way of expressing the roller coaster - no tantrums, no crying fits, no mindless orgies, no drinking binges, no anxiety attacks, no excruciating workouts, no expensive therapy - I turn to myself and land up here.

Before the reader (i.e. the future me) takes a scared gulp in anticipation of the self-indulgent vomit that he will be forced to wade through, I must make clear my resolve to avoid going down the path of microscopic level of self dissection. What I am going to do is to just open a blank page each morning (or afternoon, or evening...not night) and just write about whatever is top of my mind. I could also dig into the recesses and finger things out.



 

The possible idealist

 

What kid, after returning from a Sunday picnic full of fun, proceeds to request for another one, and then describes in exact detail how the perfect picnic would be like? Arav, that’s who. “Mama”, he says, “we should go for a picnic again. But this time, it should be a proper picnic. There will be no dirt and no garbage…there will grass everywhere…it will be sunny with a few clouds…and no flies, only butterflies and bees.”

As I heard this and agreed, I was reminded of the many times I have been in a situation which I have refurbished in my head to a degree of perfection. Looking out from my balcony on a cool, rainy day, I would wish to be transplanted to a lawn, possibly of a resort, seated on a white chair made of cane under a large umbrella, looking out at a vista of rain drenching vast stretches of green, against the backdrop of hills, next to a table laden with tea and books. Or, watching yet another movies whose reality belied expectations, I would craft a parallel film in my head, where the script is cleared of the discordant notes, the casting is corrected, the pace is evened out, the production and costume design fit and the music enhances the narrative.

When I do, I am conscious that my companions are sensing that I have drifted away for a bit. If I am comfortable enough, I usually share these thoughts and invite the usual responses, ranging from an exclamation at my idealism to a knowing smile. Considering I have known many friends for a long time now, the latter is more common now.

I often wonder how other people don’t do the same. Isn’t it natural, when confronted by the incompleteness of reality, to pick up a brush and fill in the blanks, making it “picture-perfect”, so to speak? Or does a healthy chunk of inherent realism prevent most people from doing so, knowing that their imagination will always produce something that will inevitably lead to disappointment? If that’s the case, how do I survive? I don’t live in a perpetual state of sulk (as I know many people do), comparing the as-is with the as-it-could-be and brooding over the gaps. In fact, people often comment on my ability to just accept things as they are and move on, while colleagues/ friends/ family take their time. I draw an equal amount of response on the lines of “yes that’s how things should be, but it doesn’t always happen that way”.

I would like to stay that I display an healthy proportion of idealism and realism, but I suspect that’s yet another of my survival techniques of staying in the middle of the road and avoiding the dangers of the extremes. To be truly, truly creative and move the world forward, one needs to see an imagined perfection and seek it, artistic depression and trauma be damned. And to be truly, truly adjusted, one needs to accept daily realities and maybe tweak them a little bit. The middle of the road is liable to keep you skipping as you avoid large vehicles that threaten to main, and possibly destroy.

As he continues to read and travel and fuel his already sharp imagination, I wonder which part of the road Arav will finally take. And as I wonder, I try and subdue the worry I feel, as my instincts for protection take over and I imagine, ironically enough, a vision of both the pain and pleasure that greets

When it didn't come up trumps...

When I am down and out, I try all sorts of tricks to get myself back up again, but normally reserve the trump card for the rarest of circumstances, because I know how precious it is – i.e., just connecting with loved ones. The peace I get just listening to the voice of someone who genuinely cares…believes…loves…heals me.


Except now. With that terrible hollow feeling in the middle of my stomach, I spoke to several people over the weekend, starting Friday evening to now. No difference.

Maybe it’s because this hollowness springs entirely from within, with very little relation to the surface. An all-time low on confidence. This is the first time in my life, I think, that I feel completely “un-desired”. Desire is a fanciful word but I use it deliberately. I have always felt wanted and desired. By colleagues...by team members…by business partners…especially by my bosses…by friends…by acquaintances…by lovers…even by strangers. I am not saying that I was like a superstar…but at any particular moment in time, when I suffered a crisis of confidence, I could think of someone who desired me. Who wanted me.

I don’t mean to particularly sound like a self pitying victim, but that’s just not the case right now. Both at work and my social life, I have never felt so decimated, so mediocre. Like a member of the large masses who angle for a piece of the juicy cherry but need to remain satisfied with lesser fruits. And being a part of the large masses…now that’s a new feeling.

So maybe I set in motion more things than I had anticipated. As I deliberately threw myself out of a so-called “comfort zone” at the beginning of the year, I knew I would feel challenged, depressed, lonely, frustrated at different times for different reasons. But this – the decimation of self – is not something I had thought I would encounter. I didn’t want it either. I have a feeling this could lead to something more permanent. Something deeper. And not something I could swing around and give a silver lining. There’s no silver here. Only grey.

Mixed Feelings

Confidence levels oscillate...usually between the low, lower, lowest levels nowdays! The desire for warmth and love is held at bay with the fear of vulnerability. The need to withdraw is unacted upon, for practical and immediate reasons. I draw upon the equity I have built over the last few years, unsure of how long it will last. New places, new people, new feelings excite me, and also intimidate. Assumptions get questioned, and then quickly reaffirmed, which is unusual. The Capricorn ghost hovers. Baggage holds me back, and yet gives me strength.

So when someone asks me "Are you happy?", I am stumped for an answer. And have to settle for the ultimate cop-out cliche...it's a mixed bag.

I wish...I think...I wish...sigh....

I think I am going to have a nervous breakdown.


Or let me correct that – I think I wish I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Oh….what bliss it could be! To gaze up at curious well wishers with hooded eyes and a puzzled expression…and after a moment’s pause, declare my own condition. How would it be, I wonder? To not be governed by the clock and, horror of horrors, not stick to any schedule? I could actually get up in the morning and just decide not to work, asserting the independence that I thought I had earned after 12 years of working but in reality had given away.

Guilt could just be another word in the dictionary. Not that heavy feeling I carry with me the entire day, a realization that I am a much lesser son, brother, lover, friend, professional…indeed, person, than I could be. And those little cells in my brain…they could finally do what no amount of willpower has been able to do the last few months. Make me stop worrying. About the pain that loved ones are going through. About their hassles. And their worries. And their complications.

What if I have taken my life in a direction that has no destination? Doesn’t matter! What if I don’t succeed in meeting my own challenge? To hell with it! What if I am just a puffed up ball of moist air? Who cares?! I don’t! I am in a nervous breakdown, remember?

I could sink, sink, sink…towards that attractively dark looking place under the sea…where the noise of the everyday world recedes into an irritating hum and my own tears fall freely without being judged by my mind. Grief will not be contained, regrets shall not be buried, irrationality shall not be feared. I will let these stones drag me down, down, down…because I know someone, something will get me up again.

How?

There would be soup. Nourishing soup. And freshly cut fruits. And hot chocolate fudge every day. Calming cups of tea, accompanied by hot samosas. Steaming momos washed down with iced drinks. Wine would interfere with the medication. But I will live with that. Because my hair will stop falling. And my back wouldn’t ache. My skin would look and feel fresh, not like a floor mop doused with phenyl.

Seen through the haze of deliberately slowed reflexes, the world would be calmer, slower and maybe happier too. And, if despite all these efforts, that little nagging voice in my head tells me I am being selfish, I will plead for it to be silent for a little while longer.

While I indulge.

A chapter closed

At exactly 6:20 pm on 18^th Jan 2013, I felt my safety net slip away from beneath me. I stood at the helpdesk, turning over the green plastic card in my hand, observing details I hadn’t noticed earlier, wasting time on the little stuff, because I didn’t want to think about the bigger elephant on the table in my head.

I acutely remember the trepidation and the butterflies I had in my first week here. Sitting at that desk in that little bay in Bang 1, trying to disappear into the background as I watched the more tenured colleagues stride about, having incomprehensible conversations. And then the events…the community events, the inductions, the employee initiatives…that terrified me when they happened, but left an afterglow of satisfaction.  The joy of sitting across a business leader and anchoring a conversation that made a difference; the frustration when it didn't. My team at AFS, my first taste of the headiness of growing, nurturing, driving people. My fumbling introductions in Manila, averting my eyes as I felt all others’ eyes on me. The little scrapbook at the end of that assignment, something to treasure always. The long, indulgent, self-revelatory chats with the people I worked for and the balancing act amongst them. LC’s tears, genuine and touching. The weird employee cases. The awe at St. Charles, the pride of being part of something great. Coming across a practice and template created by you at a desk several years ago, still used and relevant. The points of decision, sometimes swayed by the interests of the people around. The long hours, falling hair, expanding waistline. The long coffee and phone chats with friends that made it all worth it. The anger at the misuse of the system, at the multiplication of mediocrity. And yet the sense that it all came together finally, something bigger than the sum of the parts. People I adored, people who adored me. People I detested, people who detested me. Dancing, sometimes just a quick spin…sometimes till my feet ached.  Large events, expensive give-aways. A line by a leader, heard in a session, stored and remembered forever. My first “tpov” session, laughing at my own pomposity, sobered by the attention of my audience. The knowledge that I was looked at, looked up to. Learning to be careful about my expressions, facial and verbal. The culture of offsites, many boring, some fun…the Bollywood night in BPO for example. The first salary review, so incredibly satisfying; the last one, so shocking! The irritation with the delayed promotions, the anticipation of new roles and jobs. Farewell messages. Beautiful poems. Interesting out-of-office mails. People who didn’t have a life; people who were all life. The beautiful madness of 2012 when I got on that rollercoaster. Emails; all the time. Getting corrected on communication…and then paying it forward. Mind numbing processes and procedures…and lightning shortcuts through relationships. Decks. Fancy notebooks. The delight of an award won…and again…and again. Making a difference to someone, earning their respect.

A quiet entry. A noisy farewell. Love and respect. My safety net, woven carefully and diligently over nine and a half years. Slipped away as I handed in my id card.

You and I, caught in an unexpected cycle of pain

What am I doing? Why am I being so cruel? Or am I sulking? Or is this a tantrum? Or am I hurt? Or am I tired? Or am I sad?

What does this silence hide? Can it hide the thousands of words that flow from me to you? Can it blank out the shared universe we inhabit? Does it shield us from intrusive glares of a world that may judge, and even condemn? Is silence my response to the emotion that consumes to such depth that it leaves me speechless?

There have been so many laughs, so many smiles…chuckles, grins. It’s not been fire and brimstone. Instead it’s been easy companionship, aided by an electrifying chemistry. Am I insisting on paying the price for this happiness I have received, anticipating and pre-empting a demand? For what is the easiest way to burn and torture myself, than to see you suffer? Each iota of pain in your mind doubles as it makes its way to me. And that is the equation I rely on for justice to be served, at my cost and yours.

I long to talk, to hug, to love, to caress. But I know that’s not possible. So maybe I am throwing the kind of fit a child would…either I have it all...or nothing.

That is not sensible. I know that. But nothing of this is sensible. That’s what conventional wisdom says. But I want to lay that convention down and screw it upside down. The last year has meant giddy happiness and a transformation of the soul. That, in any language, is sensible.

But what of right now? Am I suddenly turning sensible, and causing my own destruction in the bargain? Or am I being cruel? Or sulking? Or throwing a tantrum? Or retreating in hurt silence? Or getting tired? Or just being plan sad?

I don’t know. All I know is that I love. And I am silent. 

Show the middle figure to 2012.

Weighed down by the enormity of the issues that plague the world around, confused by the contrasts between my actions and what I believe my personality to be, overwhelmed by the sheer turnover of events, apprehensive about the changes to come, saddened by what I long for but cannot be, tired by the steady stream of problems to be solved, worried about my loved ones...it's so easy to slip into that inviting abyss and let the darkness take over.

But I won't. Because there's a lot to be thankful for. I am loved...and more importantly, I love. Money, health, career...yes, there are issues everywhere but I have come a long, long way from where I started. There are a lot of good people around, I just need to look into their eyes. Good books are being written, good movies are being made. No, life isn't perfect and the world around me isn't either. But, god help me, I have my brains intact and my spirit is still in fighting condition. And as long as I have that, I will survive. 2013 - bring it on. 

To heal

It's been such a chaotic year. And so heavy, within and around me. Right now, I am just muddled. And tired. And a little depressed. I want to write so much, I have so much to say, to craft into words...but don't have the energy to do it. And my trigger for that expression...well, he hasn't got that energy for me either. So I am just sitting by myself, pretending that I don't express what I am feeling. But I think I do. That's why D sensed something and is coming over. For an afternoon of entertaining images, solid food and companionable silence. Maybe that's the healing touch I need. For I am wounded. 

The death within

Written by V (as a reflection on the reality we are confronted with in the aftermath of the Delhi rape case)...


When moments broke down and time cried for help 
When the weeping reality hung its head in shame
We failed once more...
We failed once more to hold that child's hand

Once more. 
And shattered what she dreamt 
Once more we let our character fall apart 
Shattered in millions that didn't matter

We had never mattered
Never mattered to ourselves
Or our conscience
Never mattered that our lives are nothing but a shred
A shred of cold heart that beats no more
A shred of hand that hold no more
A shred of soul that died long ago

Death is not uncommon
But painful it is
When you die a thousand times
When you die for twenty minutes each day
When you shift the blame for heinous crimes
When you refuse accountability
When your collective mindset kills, disfigures or rapes a society.

You kill
You kill the hope, the trust...
The part of you that beats

Rediscovering beauty

Gentle, provocative and emotional. Very rarely do we get to use these words together for movies nowadays, but Memories of March was one such piece of art, sure to stay in my mind, and heart, for a long time. Particularly due to Deepti Naval’s performance as a mother who’s suddenly bereaved and goes to her son’s home & city and discovers that he’s gay…the layers and nuances of the performance left me breathless and emotional.

This is yet another part of my current mood of wistful reflection…and all books, movies, songs appear to complement each other and heighten the feeling. Or maybe it’s the reverse.

Antaheen… a muted drama about love and loneliness and loss. It had been a long time since I had seen a movie of that nature…and Barfi doesn’t count because it was a great entertainer. This one wasn’t…it was a simple offering. And I liked it.

A couple of songs from Agneepath that became my favorites recently.  O Saiyaan is this plaintive cry of someone who’s madly in love and is also conscious of the pain and loss that awaits her. Abhi mujh mein kahin speaks of the discovery of humanity within the self…the stirrings of emotion that tell us we are alive

Which led me to relisten to older songs that are perfect companions to my driving…Tanha dil…Justuju jiski thi…Yaara seeli seeli…Rubaru…Ajeeb dastan hai yeh…Waqt ne kiya. I love driving as I listen to these songs…the cacophony of the world retreats into a background blur and while my instincts keep me driving, the eyes of my mind are somewhere else as I absorb the lyrics and the voices.

Books too…Colm Toibin and his examination of the lonely life of the immigrant is so dispassionate yet so detailed that I have no option but to get completely wrapped up in their lives. And Alexander McCall Smith’s sweet and gentle stories of the lady detective in Botswana helps me remember the fundamental values and principles we cherish…or need to cherish.

And so these days pass…as the year comes to an end, and frenetic activity combined with irritation and frustration characterizes my days, a part of me has detached itself and is spending time rediscovering some depths which I had forgotten existed.

The diatribe of a very messed up person, pun intended

In one sudden moment, to be repeated several times over, all that thought and emotion and reflection and introspection merge with the remains of the oil and the spice and the salt and the flour and find their way out of my body. Eyes streaming with the water of guilt, head throbbing with the pound of adrenalin, I survey the world around with in a gaze of curiosity triggered by unabashed self absorption. I dig deeper and deeper into myself, questioning every single decision I have ever taken in my thirty four years of existence. Each spoonful of sugar that added to the waistline, each utterance that left a heart broken, each act of conspicuous consumption that burdened my wardrobe, each penny I contributed to the temples of gluttony, each instance I missed to make someone's life better, each speck of dust I left untouched - let all the sins be accounted for! Let them all stand in line and confront me with my own baseness, so I may touch the ground with my head and beg for understanding, wait for that light to shine from above that reveals the complicated machinery that is driving this destruction. But I beg in vain, I wait in vain. Because there is no light. There is only darkness, where all the sugar and the spice go and wait for their companions to join them. As this darkness grows and envelops all, I notice how the walls don't look so white any more, how the red of the curtain appears to have faded into a duller hue that reveals as much as it hides, how the smiles look forced and how the eyes are actually shut all the while they are open. Am I surrounded by blindness? Is this some sort of fantastical existence where all the light has been merely my desire to run away from the darkness. And when finally the moments of truth, as they are so passionately evoked by the authors who write books of a thousand pages, do finally arrive, do I realize that this light is as worthless and as transient as the shimmer of the diamonds in the sky on Diwali night, creating an illusion of light and magic that only the very stupid or the very blind would believe to replace the reality of the darkness? There's that boy planning the first threesome of his life, anticipating the excitement of love (!) at both ends. There's that woman systematically planning the impulsive, emotional arguments that will slowly drive her loved (!) son to the destination that she firmly believes he needs to reach. There's that girl who has finally arrived at the answer to the critical question of life "what do you love (!) to do?" and is now going to make a "go for it", in the language of the self-help books she read recently. What madness! What blindness! Or are they the ones who see the darkness and accept it, evolving with it so their eyes can see in the dark, and help them to hunt, and eat, and survive, and grow stronger? While there are us...the idiots who bump their knees, their elbows, their ankles...anything that evokes the howls of pain...and then attribute the pain to the process of "growing up" and "learning about life" and, like Calvin's dad, "building character"? Well , there's my character now, a pile of pastel colors on the floor, the regurgitated remains of my inner blind self, raising a stink that can unblock the most stubborn of noses, supreme even in its messiest avatar.