The Truth about the Lies In My World

Time slips through your fingers like melted snow. A cold flush and soon, all you have is wet memories of a day past and knocked off the calendar. It has been a month now, since my last job. I am now beginning to grasp the meaning of jobless in its true terms. Everyday I sit in front of the cruel, unemotional computer and send out resumes begging for an opportunity to work in their company. I have always wanted to work in such a publication, It would be an honor, I add. Lies, indeed, but lies need to be told. In a world, where only the mad men and the drunk speak truth, for an opportunistic job seeker to tell lies is the natural way.

Lies are what we are built out of. Our memories, lost to the ravages of time, are often resurrected upon glorified lies. People, characters whose likeness has been eroded slowly with the passage of years, are now remembered with qualities they never did possess. They are recalled, knowingly or unknowingly, to create examples for a newer generation that never did know them, and hence cannot question the veracity of the recollection. Such a funny world do we live in.

Coming back to the fact of my unemployment, it is quite a quandary. My parents, kind as they are, are willing to suffer a few more years of bonded labour in order to support my odyssey of finding the shores of a career. They live on the dredges of the hope that my mediocre writing qualities have evoked among friends and relatives. Lies again. Of course, these are constructed under the façade of decency. You cannot tell an upcoming writer the truth, that his writing sucks and he should make a living out of something else.

All the while, my parents continue to hope like a candle in the storm, of a future that their successful son shall create for them. I, meanwhile, sit in the centre of this whole depraved drama, watching, weeping and wondering when people will understand the truth. Sometimes I think I should speak the truth. Tell them, this is it, I can’t do no more. There is no brilliance hidden under this mediocrity. No flashes of a bright future. Just darkness. Empty, soulless and chronic. A darkness that needs to be traversed in hardship and soundless company. Then I wonder If I can give them nothing, why take away their hope? That would be crueller than I am capable of. So I lie. I tell them I will do something. I put on faces of ambition and pretend to have a drive for success. I send out resumes and wait for modest replies that mask the rejection hidden between the words. I lie that I did not read the truth between the lines.

Our worlds are constructed out of complex systematic lies. Lies, that uphold our dreams, our hopes, that might otherwise be terminated before they were put down on a blueprint. These lies are the foundation to a future that can never be seen, only felt, made up like broken dreams on the next morning. We need the lies, as much as we need the truth. Perhaps, more so. Now, I am realizing the difference between them. Or I am lying to myself that I am. 

The Teamaker

Cup of tea? (Photo credit: trekkyandy)

I see him everyday. He sits there brewing his tea all day, while customers flit in and out of his little store. Its a walk from my home. Right next to the railway station where crowds mill in and out of their own occupational frenzy. This little man, keeps serving hot, spicy ginger tea. Day in and Day out. His smile is infectious. He gives me a little wave when he sees me walk past his shanty. That is invite enough for a cup of tea. 

'Kaam se jaldi aa gaye?' he questions handing me my first cup 

I just nod. For someone employed in an occupation of words, speaking can become a task after a day at work. When days and hours lead to nothing, and life, somehow, feels empty. All I am looking forward to is wordless silence. 

I just hold my cutting in my hand, and the burning embers of another stick in another and stare wordlessly into space. Sometimes i wonder if he wonders about me. If he thinks i am weird and talks about me to other customers. I have known barbers share information about dandruff. Maybe, he does. But he wouldn't show. 

I watch as he pours out cup after cup from that tarnished steel kettle of his. Held by its handle, it has the mark of a thousand burns on the burner. He smiles at me as i hand over the cup. 

There are others that walk in to sit on the tired benches. Flip through the newspaper, or listen to some gossip. He smiles and joins in conversations effortlessly. Everyone talking about their problems. Things they have, things they do not. And witnessing all this, is a lowly tea maker. He does not complain. He does not whine. Just makes tea and goes on. 

He returns my change and says 'Meri bacchi kal class me first aayi'. I nod and say 'Badhiya hai. Congratulation bolna use.' He nods embarassingly. 'Bahut acchi padhti hai. Kucch banegi'. He says. 

There. Steaming with the Assamese green, boiled with the milk is hope. Dreams steamed in a cup of hope with the fumes of the future rising forever. And I can see his reason for standing in front of the burning fire. I can see the comfort for the callouses in his fingers and the burns he has suffered through. 

And i see what he has that i don't. Hope. That never ending fountain of strength. 

SIN!!!!

I saw something today,that i might not forget for the rest of my life.Even the mere recollection of it brings my dinner up from the stomach.It was a bleak picture,except that it was life unfolding itself before me.I have sen this before,but it never struck me as being so poignant .

It was a 7-9 year old boy.In the middle of a hot afternoon,scourging through the garbage bin.he only company he had was that of a dog,who was there for his own selfish motive.He dipped in his hand and found a stale packet of bread.That was the find of the day for him.He sat under the shadow of the bin,and began sharing that stinking morsel with his friend.At that point,I just could not take it.Then I did what first came to my mind.I left my company,went up to him and gave him a 5 rupee coin.He was first apprehensive at this intrusion of his lunch,then surprised at my foolishness.But then,he smiled.No other smile that i remember had wrenched my heart so much as this one.He held the coin in his hand,picked up the packet and walked away.

My friend came up to me and said," Well,now he won't go hungry for 2 more days."His observation chilled my heart.If it was sarcasm,it was cold.If he said the truth,even more so.Now,I sit here on a public platform and tell my story to young,rebellious and intellectual minds.I could quote Sartre,speak like Che,but does it matter? If i do,I might get a few more hits on my blog.But then,would i not be the ame as the many ppl of this city,who see such sights everyday,tut-tut for a moment and catch the next train home?

we have all seen movies.SALAAM BOMBAY,CHANDNI BAR,TRAFFIC SIGNAL.What happens after these movies?We all applaud the grit,courage of the filmmaker.The director wins a national award,the actor a filmfare.But what of those characters?What about the beggars,the prostitutes,the 'system'?They keep on.With every turn of the reel they return to their pain,hunger and humiliation.Eternally trapped within 24 reels.

I am doing my BA today.I might do an Ma.Years later,I might go to Oxford.But what of the boy on the street?What future does he have?Is it going to be better? If so,how?What kind of company does he live in,what sort of a life would he lead?Does he have a family?Or a mother ? Where is his mother...does anyone know where his motheris? Is she happy that her son can feed himself? Or is she scavenging somewhere else?Or worse...?

Mumbai is a city of dreams.what sort of dreams are we talking about here?Does this boy even dream?He probably walks around those desolate streets at night,hungry and under the influence f drugs.Used more to obliviate hunger,than as a tool of pleasure.What country gives its citizens food not fit for dogs?So what if it is 'imported'.Well,we have so long been used to seeing slavery,oppression that some of us have got used to it.The poor are happy,as long as they get to eat,so what if it is dog food,It is imported.

I feel nauseating.I find my life and the existence of it in such a society disgusting.Who am I to judge others.I am a hypocrite myself.When you have such thoughts,questions,and see such sights.what do you do?What could you do,other than ignore them and continue to live in a blissfully fictional world,where 'pain is but an occasional episode'.

Wake up,for somebody else lives a life in pain.