Friday, July 30, 2010

COBWEBS IN THE CLOSET

It is really amusing how we just can’t get rid of certain things in life no matter how dirty, old or useless they maybe. An old t-shirt, a favourite pair of jeans, an old stamp, your first watch, the first diary, the first thing you bought out of your first salary…

I happened to come across a carry bag in one corner of my drawer today morning while I was looking for something to keep my project papers in. I came across the bag – with a name on it that was at one point very special to me. I looked at the bag that had once carried a beautiful set of pearls for me in a beautiful brown coloured case with a note in it, and with lots of love. I looked again at the name on the bag that was at one point very special to me; and I looked at it with no emotion, no feeling or bonding or attachment.

That is what love does to you sometimes. It exhausts you, depletes you completely of any kind or form of love once it leaves you. And that is what has happened to me.

I still have the pearl set with me. It is far too beautiful for me to give it away to anyone. And it is the only gift that I have ever got that was really a surprise for me. I mean, I knew a gift was coming my way, but I didn’t know it would be what it was. I never knew or thought he was capable of picking up something like that. But he did, and it meant a lot to me. At least back then it did. And I cannot give it away.

But the pearl set remains in its brown case – untouched, unworn and out of sight. I never had the occasion to wear it, though I loved it very much. It is strange, considering the fact that I have had it for more than a year now. One year, so many festivals, so many family functions and get-togethers, and still not one chance good enough for me to want to wear it.

But the pearl set remains. I cannot somehow bear to look at it; for fear of releasing the emotions I have so painfully locked away in some trunk and thrown at the bottom of the sea in my mind – irretrievable. I am just not able to look at the set anymore; at least not without feeling a pang in my chest that refuses to go away for a long long time.

But I have somehow still kept the bag the pearl set came in – with the name on it that was at one point very special to me. I haven’t gotten rid of the bag, though I know I can. Of course I haven’t intentionally kept the bag with me either. But it just has remained with me for a while now. And I don’t really know if I have grown attached to it or what, but throwing it away doesn’t feel right anymore somehow.

And that is how the human mind is – an idea, a feeling, an emotion once planted in the mind only knows to grow. Happiness becomes mirth, boredom becomes frustration, laziness becomes inertia, and sadness becomes melancholy. Although what it is with the bag that makes it impossible for me to throw it out I still don’t know. The name, the person who the bag came from, what he did to me and where I have landed because of him also do not seem to be reasons enough for me to throw it out. I am conscious I have not intentionally kept the bag, as I have the pearl set on the other hand, and the note that came with it, and the coffee bill with a remark in his hand at the back of it, and a picture of ours that my friend had clicked for me.

And yet the bag remains, in one corner of my drawer, with a name on it that was at one point very special to me.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

KIN

Pune, 29th July 2010.

It was a horrific site on Senapati Bapat Road as I came back from my project place today – an entire seven storeyed building on fire, just like in the movies. The whole business complex had become a furnace – fire lashing out from all different openings that the building had. The terrace and the last floor of the building were completely wrapped up in a thick black blanket of smoke.

Me and my friend had already seen the smoke from about two kilometres away, and we had tried to find out what it could have been. I dropped my friend off at the bus stop.

‘Tell me what it is if you find out,’ she said, before I drove away. And within a couple of minutes I was staring at the business complex inferno.

All sense was lost to me for a moment. I could hear no sound, see no traffic, and sense nothing as I stared at the flames coming out of the building, threatening to wrap around everything that came in contact with them. I just kept staring at the site, totally numb and speechless. It was only when my hand went to my face to wipe out what I thought were rain drops did I realise I was crying.

I tried to make myself stop. But the tears just kept coming. I drove along the footpath at almost nil speed, staring at the fire. I just couldn’t take my eyes off it. When I reached opposite the building, a whistle blew right in my ears, and my sense returned. There was a huge crowd that had gathered on the streets and was staring at the building. A few traffic policemen were trying to control the traffic and divert it onto appropriate roads, blowing on their whistles time and again. I stopped to the side of the road and parked my bike. My eyes were as if glued to the scene of peril.

‘Tumcha kuni ahe ka aat?’ (Is anyone you know inside that building?) a boy standing next to me asked me. I nodded ‘no’, still looking at the building and the fire brigades parked nearby.

‘Mag ka radtaye tumhi?’ (Then why are you crying?) the girl with the boy asked. That remark somehow made me tear my eyes away from the building and look at the couple.

‘Mhanje?’ (What do you mean?) I asked. And the boy just shrugged. The girl looked at him, and then they both looked at me. I turned my eyes back at the building. They took a couple of pictures and then drove off.

I looked at the building and everything happening around for a few more moments. Something gave my feet momentum and I walked back to my bike. The policemen brandished their lathis at people, trying to get them to move away from the scene. I sat on my bike and drove away from there.

I was still quite in a dazed state as I drove on towards my home. The site of the building on fire, of people standing around and looking, of smoke coming out of the building, the fire brigades parked nearby kept coming back in my head again and again. My ears had somehow gone mute again. All I could see were scenes, like in a silent movie. And then suddenly I heard the girl’s voice ringing in my head –

‘Mag ka radtaye tumhi?’

And then like a record that gets stuck in a gramophone, those words were the only ones ringing in my mind for a while, until they were like a battle cry.

And they made me angry. And frustrated.

‘Mag ka radtaye tumhi?’

I honestly do not know why I started crying when I looked at the building. No one I know, none of my friends or relatives was working in that building. I didn’t even know the different offices that the building housed. And yet the site of that building on fire, on a street I travel by everyday alarmed me, scared me, and made me cry.

Is it so that we must cry only when someone we know is hurt or faces a mishap?

Why have we become so immune to each other’s pain?

I honestly, genuinely felt worried sick for the people in that building. I thought of their families, their relatives, waiting for them to return home from their work. Maybe some had dinner plans; maybe it was someone’s birthday; first day of work for someone; a day of promotion even. Maybe someone had fought with her boyfriend before coming to office that day – would the boyfriend be able to forgive himself for having fought with her? Maybe someone had decided to not go out for lunch with friends because there was extra work that day – would they all be able to see their friend again?

The real cause of the fire is not known yet, it will probably come in the papers tomorrow. But I am guessing that with the rains and all, it must have been a short circuit that must have caused the fire. But short circuits can happen anywhere, right? What if there was one to happen in my college tomorrow? Or one at Dad’s office? Or maybe even in our own home?

And in a worse come scenario – what if I had people like the couple I spoke to around me when my family was in trouble?

The thought sincerely scared me.

Why is it that we have become so immune to the feelings of people around us? What has made us so stone hearted as to not feel anything when we see a whole building on fire, just because no one we know is burning inside? It is a shame if our material things and all the progress we are making is also making us so insusceptible at the same time. I don’t mean to say that we should cry at the slightest of bad news and should go and pay our respect to every family to ever have faced death. But if people have come to a state where they look at a scene like the one I saw today and feel nothing, it is something to worry about indeed.

This brings up a lot of issues to the forefront. On reaching home I learned that all people from the building were rescued and were safe, with no major injuries – it was running on one of the news channels. And still that unsettling feeling had not dissipated from within me. How is it then that terrorists are able to plan the killing of thousands and lakhs of people? We come close to driving over a small kitten or puppy on the road and we screech to a hault. That is our first instinct – to not harm the kitten or puppy. It gets our heartbeats racing and our pulse shooting. Then how is it that people are able to kill someone? What might be the reason to make them the way they are?

I understand that we cannot really put the aam janta and killers, murderers and terrorists in the same balance pan, but looking at all of them as human beings, don’t you agree that as a race, humans are becoming more and more self-absorbed? As long as I am happy, my people are ok, and no one I know is in trouble, I couldn’t care less if a train blew up in Mumbai, or if a Tsunami left scores of people homeless, or if a building in my city caught fire. How did we get to this point?

This is not an issue that you play the “blame-game” with. This is more something to think and reflect on. We see an accident, and all we do is look upon the people with our arms crossed across our chests. We look at the mother trying to calm her child and find her keys and other belongings while the minor who dashed into her speeds away. We neither offer the poor girl water or first-aid, nor do we note down the number of the vehicle the minor kid was driving. We are no help, just a bunch of on-lookers. Imagine a case of reverse – how much would we curse the spectators just standing around doing nothing? I know people who have become paralysed for the rest of their lives, lost an arm or leg, or even their eye-sight or speech because of not getting help in time. Why do we run away from an accident when it has been our fault? Why are we so scared of the police? Why aren’t we responsible enough to take blame of some wrong we have done, and at least try and make amends?

It is all about me, and my pain, and my suffering, and my family, and my friends, and my happiness, and my comfort, and my benefit – me, my I. I want this. I want that. I was cheated. I was hurt. I am disappointed. People have failed me. When will we come out of the ‘I’ and look at the ‘we’? Ask yourself this – when was the last time you helped someone out, genuinely and only because you wanted to help him/her out? When was the last time you did something for someone without thinking ‘Now I can ask him/her for a favour sometime’?

I do not know what it is that is taking our attention so perfectly away from each other and the people around us, so much so that no one matters to us much anymore. I do not know what is making the human race the way it is. But if we all do our part of thinking, I am sure we can come up with ways to change this – for this is a change definitely required.

Everyone, each and every single person on this planet, is capable of doing good karma – from convicts to the innocent. And it doesn’t matter whether you believe in luck, fate, destiny and stuff like that or you don’t; good always begets good, what goes around comes around, and good things do happen to good people.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

WAVE OF UTTER GIBBERISH

I hate Chetan Bhagat.

I never thought I would ever get this kind of a feeling. But I did, within less than a moment, today, when I was at Crossword.

Now, lemme take a moment here to dwell a little bit into my relationship with the author.

I was in 11th standard, when I read my first Chetan Bhagat book. Or rather when he wrote and published his first book. And I instantly fell in love with it. I gifted the book to many of my friends on their birthdays, and the popularity of the book spread like wild fire. Suddenly everyone was reading Five Point Someone, communities sprung up on Orkut, and people started having competitions of who had read Five Point Someone the most number of times.

Then came One Night @ The Call Centre.

And then 3 Mistakes Of My Life.

And somehow I started liking him lesser and lesser.

Somehow I still felt a little… how do I put this, ummm… I felt a little ‘committed’ to him. Like I had to ‘like’ him, in spite of him not writing stuff good enough anymore, just because I had immensely liked his first book. Yeah, I am that kind of a person. I feel like I am cheating and being unfaithful to admit that someone I like, or used to like is not so great anymore. But yeah, that is more or less how I felt. I used to try and find something good, something positive about his books. And I failed and failed.

And then came the final blow: 2 States.

I read that book and swore to never read another Chetan Bhagat book ever in my life. But I still didn’t hate him. He had, through his book, given me some precious moments, some unforgettable, funny, happy moments. And for that I was happy.

But I totally lost it at Crossword today.

I was an hour early for a show at E-Square. And with another book lover by my side, I stepped into Crossword to kill time till the show. I turned straight to the fiction section and browsed through the different titles. I added a couple to my list of must-buys – a list that is never empty. At one time there were about 34 books in the list, and the least number of books to be in that list has been 5. I turned to the book lover with me – Mom – and observed her as she leafed through some of the Marathi titles. And then I turned to the rack that is near the billing counter at any Crossword store – I am not sure if it is one of New Arrivals, or of Recent Best Sellers. But I turned towards it. And I wished I hadn’t.

Out of about 42 books arranged six in a row in total seven rows, roughly 30 books were of the kind that I call ‘the Chetan Bhagat genre’ – one average student, smitten by one ravishing (or maybe not so ravishing, if the author is trying to be different) girl, stuck in a college he doesn’t like, with professors who hate him, and then there is the lowest low, and then something happens and everything is eventually alright. Invariably there is a hostel involved, so it has to be an IIM or IIT where the story is based. Then there are the parents with high expectations, the topper who is waved in the face as an example at every possible chance, and our rebel who always scores less and has friends who make him feel less guilty – more often than not by throwing a booze party.

Just looking at the shelves made me sick.

Oops I Fell In Love.

The Lost Scarps Of Love.

Heartbeats And Dreams.

Crazy Bloody Thing Love.

The Equation Of My Love.

The Kiss In The Rain.

She Broke Up I Didn’t.

Everything You Desire.

Jab Se You Have Loved Me.

The Journey To Nowhere.

(The last one had a tag line even, which went – ‘unfortunately a true love story of a medical’.)

I almost puked.

Lemme get a few things straight though, before I move on.

I have been in love and out of it. And yeah, it makes you happy to be in love and be loved, and yes it hurts like hell to come out of it. I have no intention of ridiculing young love, or the problems youth faces today, or the stress that the education system puts on them – no. I know what it feels like when you and your problems are not taken seriously. It sucks. Big time. There is no better phrase I could use.

But that does not mean that if one person gets up and writes a book about all this everyone should follow and jump into the well as well…! Not everyone can do it! In fact even the guy who started it all can’t do it that well anymore, I think.

I really do not like what is becoming of the Indian Fiction Writing scenario – all these wanna-be Chetan Bhagats sprouting out of nowhere like mushrooms in the rain and coming up with utter rubbish that is not even remotely enjoyable. Find your own thread people! Choose your own subjects, make your own cocktail! Explore other things in life! It is not that the youth wants to read about only this. For the mere lack of better stuff to read, we sometimes have to pick up books we wouldn’t even give a second thought too. These people write one book, become a one-time wonder (in fact I am not even sure if I should call them a ‘wonder’ at all) and then fade away like they never existed. I mean seriously, do we even call them writers? Ruskin Bond and many other authors wrote simple stuff too, about everyday people and places and situations. But they were never boring! And not in the least stereotypical! And they did NOT all write the same kind of stuff over and over again.

There are so many issues out there that need the attention of the common people. And by this I do not mean grave things like child labour or sexual harassment or drug addiction or students suicide or girl infanticide. Even simple, less burdening stuff, like lack of interest in theatre among the youth, changing cultural tendencies, fashion trends that make no sense really but are spreading like wild fire, the types and kinds of movies that are made these days, where is the music industry headed to, what is becoming to good journalism, why has the media become the way it has, why do more and more people break traffic rules these days, how you can make a difference in keeping our city greener.

I think writers have a responsibility towards society. But if you look at it more as an opportunity, it won’t burden you. Every writer has the opportunity to affect a change, to create a revolution, to start a movement, to set a trend. Every writer has the potential and the tool in his hand to bring about inception of new ideas. Every writer has the voice that a thousand people will hear when they read his books – and in a world that is soon becoming overcrowded with everybody begging to be heard, and where mobile networks are always busy, that is quite something.

I call myself a free-thinker. I write stuff and put it up on my blog, and facebook. Yes at some point of time in life I want to be a published author, and I am trying to work little by little on my novel that I wrote a couple of years ago. I know how hard it is to get published and not be forgotten by your readers. But when I look at these mushrooms springing up in, I lose all hope and think I am a fool to spend so much time on improvising what I created a few years back. If writers – if at all one is to call them that – like these can get published, I don’t know why I am still posting stuff on my blog.

Please please realise the power you have people. You have a gift – of having your way around with words – that many people out there would give anything for; people with better ideas maybe, but no platform to express them to the aam janta. You have it. Use it wisely.

No I am not against pleasure reading/writing. But it doesn’t mean everyone writes an IITian’s story, or a love story, please! Whatever has happened to other genres? Thriller? Action? Sci-fi? Humour?

I see a wave of change coming in the Hindi Cinema. It is not so big, but it is soon catching up and more and more people are liking it. I hope and wish to see that change come in Indian Literature as well. I will really almost tear it apart if I see another title belonging to ‘the Chetan Bhagat genre’ next time I am at a bookstore, I swear I will! It really fills me with anger and disappointment to look at all these people who could become great writers even, maybe, writing such mediocre stories and books. And what angers me further is that everybody is actually reading these books! I once even met someone who said – I read Chetan Bhagat. Like he is Wordsworth, or Shakespeare, or R K Narayan even. I really honestly have nothing against Chetan Bhagat, seriously. I empty my book cupboard once in a while and pull out my old tattered copy of Five Point Someone and read it all over again, I really do! But not everyone can write another Five Point Someone. And more than that, the point I am trying to make is – STOP trying to. There is a lot more in you that you must explore! And who knows, if you try really hard, you’ll be even better than Chetan Bhagat ever was or will be.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

WALKS OF LIFE

‘I really need to get it done today. Can you please help me out? I will wait back tomorrow to make up for today if you want. But I have to go now. I have to leave. Please yaar…’

I looked at my lab partner and the look of utter determination on her face – determination of non-cooperation. I took one look at her face – and I couldn’t look any more; for I am not a good liar, and I somehow didn’t want to get caught that day. All I needed was some quiet. I wanted to be alone. There was no pressing family matter that I had to attend to – it was my own pressing need of wanting to be home that mattered more to me that day; more than anything else in the world.

I don’t like being weak. And I absolutely don’t like begging or pleading people for anything. I don’t like to ask for help, but this has got nothing to do with me wanting to put up an image of me. It’s just the way I am. I’d rather be on the other side of the table and help people out than ask them for help.

But a lot of things happen in life for the first time. And I was only beginning to discover what all that included.

My lab partner miraculously fell for my lie – or at least showed like she had; for she agreed to cover up for me that day and do some of my lab work. And that to in exchange of nothing. I guess she sensed something amiss. I picked up my books and packed my bag and left before she changed her mind.

To hell with the project and the thesis and my guide and my lab partner and college and everything in life.

To hell with catering to people’s needs.

Today, it was my turn.

I switched my phone off as I climbed down the stairs. Mom was not going to be home either today. And dad was going to come back late. So I had the whole house to me. And I wanted to make everything of it. Didn’t want to attend to or talk to or be disturbed by anything. Today it was going to be just me.

I decided to pick up Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup on my way home and make myself hot chocolate and enjoy the rains, cuddled up on my bed under a big quilt, looking outside my window.

But I was restless. Yes something was definitely amiss.

I tried to put the feeling away and sought after getting home as early as I could. But as fate would have it, one of the loneliest streets in the city was exceptionally busy that day, and I was soon caught in a massive traffic jam. Quite reluctantly I switched my phone on again and played some music. Soon the mood of the song got me and I began to nod my head ever so slightly to the beat of the song. I observed the people around stuck in the traffic jam with me. A guy on the bike next to me tried to strike up a conversation.

‘Music lover, eh?’ he asked.

I just smiled.

He looked away. And suddenly at the exact same moment we had both spotted two street kids – one boy and one girl – sitting under the fly-over, and the kids had looked at us. They started talking among themselves. The guy turned to me again.

‘I bet they are going to be here in no time,’ he said to me – like that wasn’t the most obvious thing at that moment. But the kids surprised us. The boy quickly got up and came running to us from in between all the vehicles. The girl stayed put where she was.

The small kid somehow skipped me and chose my ‘friend’. The guy first denied to give him anything, but then pulled out a one rupee coin and placed it in the boy’s hand. The kid happily bounced off to join his mate under the fly-over. He held up the coin for his friend to see and teased her. She looked at him for a moment and then turned away. I looked at the guy next to me.

‘I can never beg anyone for anything,’ he said.

‘Neither can I,’ I spoke my first words to this stranger. ‘But just imagine a way of life like that.’

We both turned to look at the kids again. The boy had procured a handful of peanuts out of what he had just received. The girl with him looked at him – but there was no longing on her face. She just looked at him as if to observe him. Or just about as casually as we were both looking at them. She then turned to look straight at me – a pair of eyes looking straight into another pair of eyes. Somewhere I had connected with this girl. I could see a part of me in her, and I guess she sensed it too. We both just kept looking at each other for a long time, as if we were only looking at our own reflections in the mirror. Begging was not a way of life for both of us – though the connotations and implied meaning of the word maybe very different in each of our lives – and it would never ever be; we wouldn’t let it ever be. Even in our lowest low, we would rather die than beg.

I let my lips curve up in a very small smile. But the girl didn’t return the gesture. She didn’t need any stranger’s sympathy or friendship. She didn’t need to smile back at me just because I was rich and might take a liking to her and give her some money or nicer clothes to wear or something to eat. She was cordial, in the least; for there was no animosity on that sweet little face with its child-like features and mismatched grown-up eyes. But there was no sign of amity either. And yet, that little face under the fly-over was not blank or devoid of expressions.

I went home and spent that entire day with the memory of that face in my head. Somehow in those few moments I had connected with that girl to such a depth as was unimaginable. Next day was a Sunday, so I didn’t have to go to my project place. But I still went to that road under the fly-over – just to catch a glimpse of that face again. And there she was, right where I had seen her yesterday. Only the boy was missing. I went and stood under the fly-over, a little distance from her.

‘Ikade ye,’ I said. (Come here.)

She got up and walked up to me. Only then did I realise there was blood stain on her torn frock.

I looked at it and asked – ‘Kay jhala?’ (What happened?)

‘Munna ala hota, gheun jayala.’ (Munna had come to take me away.)

‘Mag?’ I asked (So what happened?)

She quietly walked back to where she had been sitting and pulled out an iron rod from under a few gunny bags and showed it to me. I looked at it, and looked back at the girl. There was no sign of remorse or regret on her face.

‘Kaam dein. Paise pan. Khana, pina sagle. Shalet pan jayala milel. Yetes?’ (I will give you work, food and money. You will even go to school. Will you come along?)

She nodded.

I took the girl home. All the way back there was a battle of two voices in my head. On the one hand I was feeling guilty about making a small girl work. I strongly object child labour. But on the other hand, I knew this girl wouldn’t come with me if I didn’t give her anything to do. She was not one to accept favours. And I didn’t want to leave her on the streets, to the mercy of more Munna’s.

I opened the door to my house. Mother was standing near the phone. She saw me and put the phone down.

‘Kuthe geli hotis sakal-sakali? Sangun jayachi paddhat?’ (Where had you gone so early in the morning? Couldn’t you tell me?) She then saw the little girl behind me, and her expressions changed. I turned to the girl.

‘Naav kay tujha?’ (Whats your name?)

‘Sangi.’

‘Avadta tula?’ (Do you like it?)

She nodded ‘no’.

‘Kuthla naav avadta tula?’ (Which name do you like?)

‘Madhuri.’

‘Thike. Chal, anghol karun ghe.’ (Ok. Go and have a bath now.)

She walked away into my room. I told Mom about her. She was glad I had got her home.

I went inside the room and took out an old t-shirt and a pair of shorts from when I was a kid and gave it to her to wear.

‘Udya jaun tula navin kapde gheu.’ (Let’s get you some new clothes tomorrow.)

I smiled at the girl, and I knew she was going to smile back at me; for that was her way of expressing gratitude, she would do no more than that. She was never going to hug me, or touch my feet, or sing false praises to me of how good I was, and God bless me for helping her and all. But she had accepted to come into my home in exchange of work and a better life. And I was glad she had.

The girl smiled back at me. And I knew I had got that younger sister I had always wanted.

RUGBY VS. ARCHITECTURE

I do not like to start the day with a debate or an argument usually; but today turned out to be different.

As I sat at our dining table having breakfast, mother came and announced –

‘Do you know? Shambhavi has decided to quit rugby.’

‘What? Why?’ I asked, clearly not able to think of one sane reason why a girl in the Potentials list of International Rugby Team would want to quit suddenly; right when she was at the foothill of what could be her pinnacle.

‘She is not able to manage her studies and rugby both.’

Sigh. The age old discussion or career versus sports.

I got into quite an argument with my mother over it – which in retrospect I shouldn’t have, given that Shambhavi is neither my daughter, nor my sister, neither my best friend. She happens to be one of my schoolmates kid sister. But this is an issue very close to my heart.

Even as we have stepped into the 21st century, some thoughts, concepts and beliefs have gripped us so hard – or rather we have held onto them so firmly – that we just can’t seem to be able to dispense them.

Even today a parent is not able to convince her daughter that one can make a career in rugby too – or the parent very conveniently ‘leaves the decision upto’ the child.

Has the daughter really chosen to give up rugby because she can’t cope with studies and rugby together? And maybe she genuinely can’t cope with the two things. But would she have chosen to give up ‘rugby’ if she knew the option of making a ‘career’ in it was open/available, or that her mother would be ok with it?

And we are not talking about any random girl here. We are talking about someone who has dedicated a significant amount of her life to a sport she dearly loves, has crossed every hurdle and passed every level of selection, who has given up movies and get-togethers and maybe even a part of her social life, a boy-friend even, just so that she be able to give rugby time. We are talking here of a girl who has exceled to such a level that she is now part of the Potentials list for the International Rugby Team – a chance to represent a nation’s people for the sport she so dearly loves.

Does one give so much time and energy to something one even has the slightest idea of not being able to pursue further? I don’t think so. Every five years can now be regarded as a generation. And these newer generations are way more liberal, straight forward and free-thinking than we can imagine. Maybe few years ago this would have seemed a ridiculous idea – first the fact that it’s a ‘girl’ we are talking about, and then the fact that it is ‘sports’ we are talking about. But kids today know what they want - from making a career in dance, to becoming a free-lance self-taught photographer, to choosing to study Sports Management in the States.

But just so that their parents are happy, or just so that they don’t have to deal with too much of unnecessary debate, discussion and maybe even quarrels at the end of the day on the dining table, they will chose to travel on the same old road.

I am not trying to say that everyone should go for just exactly what their heart desires, without looking at the practicalities. But definitely a girl of the potential of Shambhavi should not be wasted in a classroom, with 60 other heads to accompany her, learning how to build buildings. No.

I think it is time we revise our concepts about ‘good career’ and ‘bad career’. Had Shambhavi known she could pursue rugby in place of architecture, maybe she would have. Yes we do need to think about money too – and there is nothing wrong in it. There is absolutely nothing wrong in ensuring you are going to be able to fill your stomach and still have cash to buy that beautiful diamond set or that amazing gizmo you saw on your way back home from college or work. But then rugby pays too! Probably more than architecture even! Then why not choose to do the work you love rather than making yourself love the work you do?

Shambhavi has still not taken her final decision… but something tells me she is going to end up quitting rugby. What the poor girl needs right now is just a bit of moral support from her parent and relatives. I know it somehow, just as I know she is going to end up quitting rugby, that she doesn’t really ‘want to’ quit… and till the day she finally decides, I will keep hoping she doesn’t.

Monday, July 19, 2010

MUNGFALI

It didn’t feel anything like coming home.

I was quite upset with Dad for not getting our new house ready by the time I had to leave the city. But it had been for a totally different reason. Having found my love in a new city where I had gone for an assignment, I was sure I wanted to get married to him, and as early as I can. And as if I had a premonition about the whole thing earlier, I used to keep hurrying Dad to get our new house ready so that we could shift into it as soon as possible, and I would get to enjoy it for at least a while – the balcony in my proposed room, the huge terrace. I had spent nights dreaming of all the barbecue parties I would throw on the terrace when the family got together, and all the sleepovers I would invite my friends to.

But none of this ever happened.

And now here I was, back from my assignment after a period of six months, and I had no clue what to expect from this new place I was going to call home, even if it was for a short while till I got married to my love.

I got out of the car and a smiling Balu greeted me.

‘Ya ya tai…’ (Come come!) he said, as he hurried and came forward to remove my bags from the dickey of the car.

‘Kasa ahes Balu?’ (How are you Balu?) I asked him. He just smiled in response. Balu had been with us for almost 10 years now.

I got into the elevator along with Mom and Dad. And soon we were right outside our house, and then inside the new apartment.

I admit, the new house was very beautiful, much more spacious, and didn’t look like a dumpyard like our last one had looked.

But I just didn’t feel right.

I went into my room. Mom and Dad eagerly tagged behind me, to get my first expression I guess, on seeing my new room and all. It was just like I had wished it to be. But it still didn’t feel right. All the old belonging that I had wanted to keep were there in the room – an old dressing table, my favourite soft toy, my first quilt, the study table and the photo-frame I used to keep on it. And even the new things – right from curtains to the lamp shade, to the new phone connection in my room – were in the place and just as I wanted them to be.

But it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like home.

I immediately wanted to turn around and say to Dad – something’s missing. But I saw the look of expectation and anticipation on my parents’ faces, and I lied. They had taken immense pains to make up for not getting the new house ready in time – every minute detail of my room, even stuff I had forgotten I had ever mentioned/asked for was there and had been taken care of. I smiled my best false smile and said –

‘This is beautiful, I love it!’

Mom came forward and hugged me.

‘I am so glad you liked it! Dad has put in a lot of efforts to get it ready!’ mom disclosed finally; and I was glad I had lied.

For many days after that I tried to grasp that which seemed to have gotten lost as we had shifted just few blocks down the road. I tried to find that sense of familiarity, that feeling of belongingness, of comfort. The feeling of home. But I failed everyday. I just couldn’t I kept missing and wishing for my old room, my old house – the house that felt like home. Even with all the matched curtains and sofa sets and the complementary furniture and everything, it still felt like somebody else’s house. I tried to feel what Mom felt when she talked about our new house with her friends, but I couldn’t.

And then one day I woke to the smell of Mungfali’s at my bed-side.

That smoke that rises from fresh mungfali’s after they have been just roasted on coal – it is my most favourite smell in the world. It is the smell of my childhood.

I sat up on the bed, rubbing my eyes and smiled lazily at the same old wicker basket in which Mom used to remove the mungfalis after they had been roasted, and covered them with a thin cotton cloth, to retain the smoke in it just a little longer. I couldn’t possibly count the scores of mornings when I had woken up to that smell by my bed side.

I picked up the basket and came out in the drawing room. I went and sat in the balcony, on the swing, holding the basket between my legs and looked at the first colours of the morning being splashed across the sky. I didn’t even realize when Dad came and stood behind me. All I can say is, he had been standing and observing me for quite a while – because when I happened to look at him, he had the sweetest smile on his face. I pulled my legs together and made room for him to come and sit on the swing next to me.

He came and sat down and put his arm around me and said –

‘Welcome home Mau…’

And suddenly it felt like I had finally come back home again.

Friday, July 9, 2010

25

Woke up with a wonderful feeling yesterday that lingered till my last waking moment before I hit the bed. Mom had gone out to meet her group of friends at Vaishali early morning, and it was only after she got back and rang the bell did I wake up from my slumber. I quickly put on my specs and opened the door for her. she stepped in. I turned around and went into my parents room and lied down next to my father. Mom came and sat next to him on the other side. I raised both my hands and stretched them out, one at each of them, and wished them –

‘Happy 25th Anniversary!’

Both smiled at me and then at each other very sweetly. Mom immediately got out of the bed. I got pissed off.

‘Bas na ga jara… kiti uthlya uthlya kat kat karte?’ (Sit for a while, no! why do you have to hurry into your chores right away?)

‘Tujha Ajja utarnar nahiye warun, swaypak karayala… baghu de mala kay kay karayachaye te!’ (Your grandfather is not going to descend from the heavens to make food! Lemme go and see what to do…)

She walked out of the room before I could further try to persuade her to laze around a little more.

‘Ashi kay arre hi!’ I said to Dad. (Why is she like this?) dad just raised his hand and let it fall right back onto the bed. I gave him a bear hug. Felt like childhood, when I used to get up and out of my bed, and come and sleep with Dad again for a while, every Sunday. Mom came into the bedroom and started complaining, completing the childhood memory.

‘Uth na ata bande, kay challaye?’ (Come on now, get up dearest! Whats going on?)

‘You should be the one hugging him! But since you are not, I am!’ I teased my mom. That finally did the trick and Mom sat down on the bed, laughing. Dad uttered his first words of the day –

‘Chal we’ll celebrate Lazy Day!’

‘Yay!’ I said.

‘Nandu arre jara aajchya divashi tari uth lavkar!’ (Nandu at least get up early today !)

Dad just nodded ‘no’ sleepily. And Mom agreed. Moither was being very easy to convince and coax today! Maybe she too didn’t want to actually cook food today or anything. I seized the opportunity.

‘Ok that’s it! The head of the family has declared it to be a Lazy Day, and so shall it be! I’ll go get eggs and bread. We’ll have nice omelet sandwiches for brunch!’

‘With cheesh!’ Dad added, his eyes still closed.

‘Okies! With cheesh!’ I said, mimicking Dad. About a couple of hours later we were all enjoying hot omelet sandwiches at our dining table.

‘What yaar! Twnty-five years with the same woman!’ Dad said, eyeing Mom out of the corner of his eye. ‘Don’t you think I should upgrade?’ he asked me.

‘Go and ask barni!’ I said. ‘Barni’ is a nick name we had all given to one of Dad’s very old college friends – Dad had been her romantic interest back in those days. They happened to have met recently at some wedding and were back in touch now.

‘Tereko 25 din bhi she legi na, toh main khud khushi khushi tereko talaq degi!’ Mom announced. (If she can tolerate you even for 25 days, I wil happily divorce you and step out of your way!)

‘No, but you know why I never remember our anniversary, or how many years it has been?’ Dad asked me genuinely. ‘Its because I never had to count…’

I put the sandwich in my hand down in my plate and clapped. ‘Brownie point, Mr Belvalkar!’ I said. Mom leaned in and gave Dad a hug. She served herself another couple of bread slices and went about making her second sandwich, when suddenly she looked at Dad and said –

‘Aila Nandu! Pacchis saal ke baad fir se omelet sandwich yaar!’ (Hey Nandu! Omelet sandwiches again, after 25 years!) And what followed was a Kodak moment. Dad, who is usually quite subtle about his emotions, actually high-fived Mom! And his face was lit up with the happiest smiles I had ever seen on that face, that reflected in his eyes. I looked at the two of them, having their moment, and smiled, satisfied and immensely happy. I wanted to ask Mom what she meant, but I didn’t. It was clear from their expressions that it was a very dear memory and probably also a top secret! And I wished to keep it that way… I continued to devour my sandwich and let them have their moment. Soon brunch was over and Dad had dressed up and was ready to leave.

‘Arre wait! What about dinner?’ I asked Dad just as he was about to step out.

‘If the car arrives, we go to Mainland China… so pray the car arrives!’ Dad said, and pulled the door shut. Me and mom eagerly prayed out new car arrive in the evening, and arrive it did. to complete a perfect day, we went and dined at Mom’s favorite restaurant and had a nice time together, just the three of us after a long long time. I didn’t attend to any friends that day, Dad canceled his Harmonica batches in the evening, and Mom actually asked me to give her a facial at home! – which is so so so unlike her!

We had one of the loveliest dinners we had had in a long time. Mom and Dad were both elated and in a world of their own. I felt a little like an outside, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I felt very happy for the two of them. And I know I am their daughter, but I still silently blessed the two of them in my mind and in my heart. When our drinks arrived we all raised a toast to ‘another twenty-five years of togetherness’… and it was perfect. The last images in my mind before I went to bed that night were of mother waiting for Dad to return in the evening. There was something very different in her eyes, on her face that day. And it was beautiful.

If in another twenty-five years, I can be even half as happy with my husband as Mom and Dad are with each other, I will consider myself blessed. God bless them.

WAKE-UP CALL

Fresh beginnings.

Brand new starts.

Sound so tempting, don’t they?

But are they possible in a place you have spent the last four years in?

I discovered the answer to that today – YES.

Cos the change is not in the place, its buildings, its furniture, the people inhabiting it, the new faces that have invaded it or the old ones that have faded away.

It is not about the people who now suddenly seem too far away.

It is not about the change of attitude of your friends or peers or colleagues or subordinates or seniors; or a lack thereof.

It is never about ‘the without’.

It is always about ‘the within’.

And change ‘within’ can stem from anything and nothing.

A book.

A break-up.

A friend turned foe.

Discovering anew that you don’t really hate that cousin anymore.

Realizing that you are living without something or someone – forget whether you could, should or would.

Doing away with your prejudices – even if only to replace them with new ones.

Or just getting off the wrong side of the bed someday.

Change comes to you when you are ready for it. It won’t before that – no matter how hard you try or struggle. And it won’t fail to when it should – no matter where destiny puts you.

It is nice to know that the opinion of each and every person around you doesn’t really matter or bother you anymore. It is a relief to do away with peoples’ expectations from you – especially people who you had raised and put up on a pedestal. It is never too late to come to realize who really matters in life, who shouldn’t and who never was a part of your world at all.

If you don’t love yourself, who will? How can you even expect someone else to love you when everyday you torture yourself, worry yourself sick about what unnecessary people think about you, give unfair importance to things that are not even sure to be with you in the next moment, burden yourself beyond capacity and reason with your own concepts of right and wrong, worthy and unworthy?

Everybody wakes up to that moment at some point of time, when they realize who’s in, who’s out, what’s more important than what and who they really want to be. What one should do is not shut their eyes and pretend to be asleep when one does truly wake up.

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