I wait for the noise to subside before every single sentence. Before I start the next sentence, the frenzy drives up. As though they were waiting for me to stop. Reminds me of the ‘repeating’ game that kids play. The drum beat is beautiful. A slow dhup-dahm-dhup-dham, with a cymbal accompanying it through the song. They are perfect. It is the vocals that bother me. They are croaking through a constricted larynx, where the wind whistles and sighs before escaping out the mouth. In this long process, the words are lost somewhere in the middle. Strained ears could not capture the essence of the lost lyrics that meander into the crowing crowd that followed their leader. No, don’t take me wrong. I appreciate their spirit and their prayer. I am just describing it. Well, that they are annoying me is another fact.
Prayer. A novelty I never understood. Nor its purpose, nor its manner. The frenzy is unbelievable. Frenzy always is. People swaying to the tune of music. The drum beating to its heartiest and the heart beating with the drum. You can hardly not be affected. The noise, strange word noise,is pleasantly annoying. I have been here before. I was once within a durga temple. The idol was a stone; red with big white eyes carved upon it. It was when the aarti began that I noticed the huge drum that began being beaten. My heart swung and rang with a different rush of adrenalin that no doctor could supply. When I left, I felt inebriated. I do not know what you call it. The world remained silent for a couple of days after that.
The purpose of prayer is quite contradictory to its origin itself. If there is a god, which there is, omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient; he need not be told what is to be done. He need not be praised and called different names. He knows and shall do what is right. So why does man pray? Why does he feel the necessity to placate and try to coax the all powerful into doing something that he does not want to do? And to do all this at the discomfort of your neighbour is questionable. Or not. For questions raised in this matter often end up with me ‘as a disgrace to my parents’. SO we silently smile and nod our heads as they ask me ‘How’d you like the puja?’…. You don’t want to know.
The clock on the wall behind me keeps ticking. Its constant tick tock annoys me. It keeps me awake and worrying at the same time. I stare back at the paper. It’s the third time I do that in thirty seconds. Well, I’ve got nothing else to do. That’s not entirely true. I could write the answers to the questions. But I have time. Less and less by the minute, as the clock seems to say to me. That is why I am annoyed.
The girl on the third bench behind me is writing. I am watching her. She is not pretty. I did not notice this before. The examiner is staring at me for the last 3 minutes. I know. I have been keeping time. He looks at me like I am the scum of the earth. I have half a mind to tell him he is wrong. I belong in hell.
The blank page on the answer sheet stares back at me with equal repulsiveness. I stab it with my blue pen and scribble over its skin. It would have been painful, to have somebody violate your pureness so, but it doesn’t seem to complain. Regardless of what nonsense I write. Nether do my professors. They appear to have acquired a cold, calculated indifference to my answers. Everytime they see my paper, they give it marks if possible and pass it back to me. I never ask for it. It is as though they do not want that cursed manuscript.
I want the bell to ring. But things do not always happen the way I want them to. I want a lot of things. But nothing is enough. I thought I would be done with this nonsense when I graduated. But I still have it with me. A grim reminder of a horrid past. Horrid because it remembers what I wish to forget. In its unforgiving memory it traps my soul and forces it to remember and relive ghoulish hellholes.
I fidget with my pen. It disturbs the examiner… He has much more important work to do. Like me, he too is in a race against time. It’s a stupid race. Both of us know that in the end time is the only winner. After all
Men may come, men may go
I remain
I write a few more imaginative answers. In the middle of a singularly strange thought process, I’ve been doing this. Writing answers. People My imagination runs riot when I am dealing with facts. I am writing an exam on editing. An art where you have to convey the most accurate details in the most concise manner. I doubt if anyone is more miserly with words than me. In the answers. I console myself that I am saving paper. A little contribution to a dying world.. How long is another matter.
I look at the clock one last time. It has an angular frown on its face. A fly is sittinon the 7 that the short hand is pointing to. I get up and push my incomplete pamphlet towards my examiner. He arches his eyebrows in a wuestioning manner. I do not answer him. I wonder what I am doing. I look at the clock again. It is sickeningly silent now.
I will never understand hindus. No, I do not speak as a general statement. There are a lot of things that I do not understand about my religion. On the one hand it is the most openly varied religion that is, and the other hand it holds all the sanctions and constraints that I can think of. But the issue that bothers me most, is the refusal of contemporary civilized humans to accept nudity in its natural form.As though we are so ugly that it is shameful. Why should we be ashamed of ourselves?? If I got a chance I’d walk around naked through the city…Maybe not. But we’ll get to that later.
Man is such a hypocritical being. We all accept the fact that there is no other means of creation possible, other than the method of ‘Original Sin’, if I may use that term. Adam needs an eve, so why condemn it as a sin?Another thing that bothers me is the snobbishness regarding nudity. More so Hindus objecting to this in works of art.. Gimme a break!!! If you were to condemn nudity, we wouldn’t have a Hindu culture. They are the people who worship a male phallus embedded within the cervix ( the Shiva linga). Oh, but that is okay. OF course it is okay!! I remember one of my tours to the elephanta where a foreigner was asking a tour guide what the linga was. The guide just left at the fact that it is lord Shiva. Why are we so ashamed of ourselves? If‘God’ wanted us to be civilized and ‘decent’ he would have sent us with clothes!!! How many works of art would you vandalize to ban nudity? Michelangelo’s ‘David’, “the Venus De Milo’. Go ahead, destroy a few Davincis and Raphael’s on the way. You might as well consider banning the ‘Ramayana’ by Valmiki, where he describes Ramain his entire ‘fullness’.
And what about ‘Lord Shiva’? I like him. He is a rock star. Long hair, no clothes(do not believe those deerskin clad pics) happy forever. HE drinks when he wants, smokes cannabis and dances to the music of the dead. He does not care for society, not for money or the well being of other gods. He lives in a graveyard, or in the most arid places. No wonder then that among the Hindu trinity, he is the only one bestowed with the artistic qualities of song and dance. Nataraja!!!
Art is different. It raises human thought and passions to another level. To see beyond what is and to portray what could be. Nothing is more pure than truth itself to be portrayed. And truth never comes clad in Ralph Lauren suits and Gucci shoes. It is stark naked. There is a sense of vulnerability in nakedness. A consciousness’ of our tender skin and temporal body. A constant awareness of death. Maybe that is why we are afraid. And to show our ‘gods’ naked would be to bring them down to the same plane. But aren’t they all trying to show us the same. That the images we create for them are temporal. They’ll change as ages progress.
I like MF Hussein. The guy is a star. When he wins plaudits abroad, he is an “Indian Artist’. So why can’t he portray Hindu gods and goddesses as they are in the temple of Khajuraho..Naked!!! Just because he is a muslim, he offends your senses?? What sense?? The nonsense, I presume!! Wake up people!! You were born naked, with your little willy dangling, or without it… The greatest work of art, a human child, is naked.
As Adam early in the morning,
Walking forth from the bower refresh'd with sleep,
Behold me where I pass, hear my voice, approach,
Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass,
I picked up the stem and lit the end, dragging in a few puffs as the embers burn in red spots. The fumes entered my diaphragm offering a pleasant irritation; unfamiliar and exotic at the same time. The evening sun dips down the horizon sleepily. I blow a long fume into the opposing wind. It spat back at me. I smiled. Nature has been in constant opposition to man since I know. But the wind is my companion.
It is my second one of the day. I am breaking a rule. Well, rules are meant to be broken goes the old saying. I have never waited so long, that is another rule I’ll break today. What am I waiting for? Or who? I do not know? I have been waiting ever since I was born. For someone or something, doesn’t matter. They’ll come in the end. You cannot deny what has already been given. Maybe it’s the smoke, but I’ll still ramble. Who cares? I do. Well, I should. That is the least I could do to my own self.
I should get a girlfriend. That is what my friends seem to tell me. I never know why. As though women had the answers to everything? Nothing against women. Loneliness is not depressing. I like it. It offers me a certain freedom of thought. Lonely yet happy. It is a wonderful place to be. It is a wonderful feeling to be able to sit back on the steps outside a closed shop at night, not listening to anybody’s version of the day or about political arguments. Just sitting and watching the world dissolve into smoke. Like that song from dev anand’s film’ har fikr ko dhuey me udaata chala gaya’. But it won’t go away. It will always come back. Which is good, because by now you have cleared your lungs and are ready to dive in again.
This was good. Felt a little different. Surreal, but nice. I should speak to you more often. So what if you think I am a little looney? I am.
Today we sleep. In the cosy comfort of our blankets, we forget everything that was; for everything will be new. We shall wake up when the sun is still dark and light new lamps. Lights for our bright futures that will dot the earth like yellow stars while the sky shall still be black. Our naked skins covered by new clothes. Colours dot our foreheads and sweets stain our tongues. Rejoice. Rejoice for the day that comes.
I can’t. For everyday I see and feel and feel when I see. I see hungry women holding dirty children. Children corrupted by the pangs of hunger. I see men; ambitious, insensitive and cruel. I see promises caged in forgotten imaginations. Something I cannot forget. And everywhere I go, they haunt me. I sleep and wake up again wanting to know why it is so. Why is it that I celebrate and they watch? I have tried to make them go away. Bribe charities and missions and yet what I do is never enough. Something more wants to be done. A new face asks for something I cannot give. And like everybody else, I too shrug them off and walk ahead. But they remain… So I shut them away from my eyes by burning crackers, loud enough to drown their wails. I watch money burn up in piles as I let it fire up to the sky. I pig myself on dainty dishes and satiate my conscience. I lie and cheat and gamble upon it. And yet after these few days, I shall wake up with a heavy heart and wonder why I did what I did.
Maybe I should’ve walked down the street. Found a poor soul alone and hungry. I could’ve fed him a morsel or two. That’s what dickens in A Christmas Carol asks us to do. I should light up a few kids’ lives. Teach them how to use the fork and the knives. Not that I myself know. But it would be fun to do so. I know a beggar boy who could agree. He smiles every time he sees me. Honestly, that’s the best time of my day. When I see unknown souls rejoice that way.
And you know what he said to me today ……. “ Happy Diwali” HE didn’t even wait for me to say
It has been so long a time that the form feels alien to me. I do not know why I chose to do this today, nor why this today… I have long been absent from this land of abstract thoughts, yet not long enough as to banish its memories form my own heart. What am I writing?? Nonsense.. Yes. But then not a lot of things are making sense these days. Those apart from the American President’s latest imperialistic conquest on Noble Minds. I feel like being surrounded by the fumes of memories like cigarette smoke that cloud everything in my view. I will have to hold my breath in order to see clearly. Hell, I might as well try connecting the dots.
Where did I last leave you guys and gals?? My graduation ? Yes, that tragedy happened. I graduated as a Bachelor of Arts. But Unlike Narayan’s hero, I never managed to find an Adventure along the way. Well, Que Sera Sera… So I had nothing else to do now? Unless I decide to spoil my wisdom even more by educating myself further. I now pursue the Masters along with a couple of other courses. Funny, I never imagined studying after my HSC debacle. The past is put into perspective from the future.
Hows Family?? Yeah. They’re good. Mom’s nervous about me being unemployed. Dad’s pissed off. I lack the ability to use hyperboles, so I’ll leave their expressions to your imagination. True. I should’ve been more responsible. I could’ve been somebody. I could’ve been a contender. I can’t do it as well as Brando; but the emotions are the same. Sorry for rambling about. Its hard to keep a rein on memories. They have a tendency to stray. More so when you’re filled with so many that you’ve to let out.
My days are long nights short. Nothing new, somethings older. I have lost weight ..Not a good thing if you’re me. I have lost hair. I have lost love. Come to think of it, I have lost a lot of things. As though I am on my way to become an ascetic. Ok. I may be overdoing it. But I no longer am the same person. Change is natural, even compulsory but it is not readily acceptable. I had a picture of me in my mind. Never knew it would be so wrong. But then C’est La Vie. I am no more than another nerd sinking under the weight of his knowledge. No more am I a rebel. No more a radical. Just another idiot who thought he could change the world. How stupid of me? The world changes without me doing anything. It changes us with it. So Forward dear heart, swim to further shores… Enough of this nonsense.
Is it still I, who there past all recognition burn?
“You ever tried writing your name on these walls with…?”
“Why in heaven’s name would I want to do that? Give me one good reason!!”
“To show that you could..that is a start. Its kinda fun actually.”
“Seriously…whay are we having this conversation? Are you done yet? I need to get outta here.”
“Because we have run out of any more conversational topics.” Long pause..”So back to the paintings..”
“Shut up.Please.”
“Hey!! You are H, right?”
“Yup.”
“ English literature, right?”
“Yup”
“So…………Whats up??”
“Nothing much.” You don’t wanna know, seriously.
“What are you doing here?” Long pause…..Should I … “ Just came to visit an old friend.”
“Really!! Who?”
Who are you!!!! “You know the girl in sociology…” “Ummmm..No”
I thought so. “ Yeah!! That’s the one.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh!!”
“See ya!!”thank god.
“You know what happened yesterday?”
“No.Enlighten me.”
“ You missed a great laugh man”
“Yeah..really.” ”Yeah. S there, you know, really went hysterical. You should’ve seen the look on M’s face.”
“ohhkaay”
“So where were you yesterday?”
“Home.Sleeping”
“With whom?”
“I’m done.”
You know sometimes ii just wonder if there might be a time when my classmates wouldn’t walk in on my ‘time’ and talk. Why can’t they just pee and get out. Get in, drain and get out. No chitchat. No hi or Wassup..God!! Why??
I have always been an obstinate child. This has been a cause of constant worry for my parents. They have had courses in good parenting for all these years and yet never managed to figure out the reason why two perfectly obedient adults produced one crazy rebellious fool. There have been annoyed aunts and grand aunts who have been unable to figure out the cause of my unhealthy disposition coupled by a healthy disregard for anything religious. The legend goes that I was a very ‘good boy’ till my last school year; it never can be confirmed. Reports keep varying. What changed though is a mystery even I do not remember, though I think the basic catalyst would be the song ‘Its my life’ by Jon Bon Jovi. It was a rage in our SSC days, and somehow it seeped into my unconscious.
After 6 years and multiple character diagnostics later, I have been labeled as the ‘psycho’ in the family. The long hair and unshaven beard doesn’t help my image either, but I like it. I am the guys my neighbourhood moms warn their kids about. I am actually the person who can say “I am not useless; I can be used as a bad example.” But all said and done, I have disappointed my parents hugely. Often I have felt sorry for that, have tried to apologise in my own way; but efforts have failed and disappointment doubled.
Being born in a Brahmin family has its advantages. I have been lucky enough to be able to see the culture and rituals and the customs of a very huge limb of the tree of Indian society. I cannot say much about the honest practices of the aforementioned things in the religious texts, for what I have seen has led me to the observation that we, Brahmins, generally are a very hypocritical and selfish lot. This, of course, is a personal opinion and you are right to throw stones at my house. But I say what I see. Hence, I retain my opinion of going against customs and not the religion itself. But that is a difficult choice to explain. So I never try to. This leads me to my second dilemma.
After years of deliberation and postponements, my parents have finally come to the decision that my thread ceremony shall be conducted. The arrival of a late monsoon that seems to be bent upon drenching the guests does not seem to deter them. Rain or flood, this will be done. The budget began as a modest middle class fare, but with the arrival of ‘unexpected guests’ has risen to astronomical heights. The explanation given is, as always, ‘I did not expect them to come’. This makes me wonder if people really give out invitations in order to invite or do they do it as a way of saying, “don’t bother”. The caterers, pundits and guests who visit do not hide their disgust at my lifestyle. Halls have been booked and itineraries prepared. My stuff has been shifted to my neighbour’s, who I suspect will not miss this opportunity to dig into my secrets. The atmosphere resembles a parliament with a score of voices screeching to have their opinion heard. I grin and bare it. The typo somehow fits, so I’ll leave it there.
As for me it remains to be seen if I shall outlast this assault upon my psyche. On the other hand, I never expected so many people to be so eager as to come watch me sit half naked and dripping wet in the chilling rain and recite mumbo jumbo that nobody understands. They expect me to now suddenly become a very obedient child, well versed in rituals and humble, honest and scrupulous in character. Bonne chance! I say.
Talking about memories, we all have our share. Most of these are filled with some fantastical characters. Some stay in memory longer than your first ‘boo boo’, while some vanish to return. I still remember my first math teacher. She was this scary bespectacled old gal, who for some reason is faceless in my memories. All I remember is I once pissed in my pants because I didn’t do her homework. Since that day, I have never done well in mathematics. Every time I watch Species, the alien somehow looks familiar. Since we have got down to typecasting people, there are a few people I’d like to name on my side. Like my first cousins. I owe a large part of this miserable life to them. Being the youngest kid in the family , I have been bullied a lot. This is my chance to get back at them. So here go-r-es.
MY eldest cousin would be ‘The Agony Aunt’. She is my eldest sister. That’s not my only trouble; I have two more sisters ‘Goody two shoes’ and ‘The Doc Ock’. So you know that I had to think a lot for this. They will have an opinion on everything I do…most sisters do. But she always has the better idea. This sometimes pisses me off. Agony aunt is mostly the one who keeps tabs on me. She can do that with a family on the backburner. Its like tossing dosa on the pan and going off to watch tv. If I am ever caught slacking, she will have that tone that will make me guilty and stupid at the same time. “Goody two shoes’ is the more cheerful of this sista triad. She has been adventurous and pretty outgoing. That’s not good if you think it is. Because everytime you tell her one of your adventures, she sounds like she’s been there done that. This is a tad disappointing after you think that you’ve done something really cool. “Doc Ock’ is the coldest of them all. She’s smart and a sassy mouth blessed with great brains. I slip a step and she’ll put me down with the ease of a pro wrestler. Not to say that she used to weigh like one… once upon a time. I can actually hear the ‘snap’ when she snaps at me. If that wasn’t enough she actually is smarter than me, and thinks up of a repartee faster than I can. No wonder she does not date a lot.
The guys are pretty easy. That’s cos most of them are like me…losers. The first boy could be “The Guru’. He is about a decade older than me. Being the brother to the agony aunt, he has grown to be easy and cool; though he did not grow so much. Add to that a weird likeness to Matt Damon, makes him look older than he actually is.He is alos the only guy who can answer the phone saying 'hari om'. He is followed, in chronology of course, by ‘The Thing’. Now this douche bag is someone I think has potential to be something really cool or really wicked. He is stingy enough to make Ebenezer scrooge look like a gentleman. Add to that a voice that is rougher than BMC cement roads and a Kevin Kline moustache. He definitely isn’t HQ material.
Now that you’ve met everybody in my family. You should also, I think its time, know the narrator. That’s me. I am called ‘Shorty’. Now you know what these guys will be thinking when they read this blog ( they will…I am forwarding this to them. How’s that for a death wish). I know its too filmi, but I couldn’t help it. “Get Shorty”.
THERE IS SOMETHING ABOUT FATHERS THAT I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND. They have this innate fear of their children’s independence. It is almost as if they dread the day that their children will grow up, and wait in patient horror of the future. They toilet train kids like pet dogs, make them study mathematics and weird algebraic formulae; insert in their heads words like discipline, love and duty so that children would do what they want them to. But it is the future that they expect to be potty trained. Unfortunately for them, the future has a bad habit of shitting where it pleases. Children often turn out to be what their fathers fear. In my case, if ever you happen to ask my father who I am; the answer would be “My worst Nightmare.”
I was not exactly a big fan of my dad since the childhood, as my mother often reminds me. You might quote the ‘oedipal complex’ and other Freudian gloop but it remains that my dad and me have always been on the opposite sides of the coin. Legend goes that pissed off with his work antics and regular absence of family time, I once asked my mom to ‘give this dad away’ and get a new one. My mom still jokes that would have been a good idea. But it is not always that way. I love my dad. He is honest, well read, idealistic, hardworking. I love him for the way he will not compromise his principles. I adore him for his uninhibited faithfulness to what he likes. I can even like his popularity with people. He is what every child hopes to have – a loving father, a hero.
The problem with fathers is very strange, it stems from the fact that they are too old. Their experiences in a cruel world make it seem necessary to them that they should warn their prodigals of the dangerous world that they step into. What they do not notice is that in their hurry to protect their ‘dear ones’, they are denying them of a chance of experiencing the world. Every human that is born sees the world in a different light. If it were up to fathers, we would see only the best. A noble ideal, nonetheless constricting and suffocating to their wards.
Children are almost like aliens coming into this world, says a line in the movie ‘Martian child’ (Great movie, by the way!!) . They have no idea who they are, or where they are. To them each day is like an experience, to live life in a particular way only would be to close up an inquisitive mind. Yet, agreeably there are things that are not to be disclosed to children. But once they have reached a certain age, it no longer is up to the parent to choose how the child should be. The parents are the ‘cause’; children are the ‘effect’. As they say in philosophy – the effect has its origins and nature in the cause but the cause does not share the same with the effect. Thus, though the effect is similar to the cause, the cause is not similar to the effect. The father might have been like the son, but the son cannot be his father.
MY father has toiled for fifty long years. Sun, rain and false promises have made him cynical. His ideals have now been eaten away by constant hunger and principles weakened by the termites of responsibility. He no longer has the vigour of a young man and the strength of a believer. I have watched him go from being a believer to a skeptic. I know he fears the same looking at my growing fearlessness. I am sure he sees the image of himself in his younger days and does not want me to become a picture of him in the older days. But his experience does not necessarily have to be mine. He has every right to be afraid and warn me, but it remains that I choose the other way. I want to be my father, the ay he could not be. “You’ll never make it in this world”, he says. “You have no idea how hard it is”. Yes, Sir. I have no idea. But if you won’t let me find out, I never will.
I woke up today feeling like a stuffed doughnut. The extra rice and ‘sambhar’ from Sunday had decided to cancel their tour of my smaller intestine and were returning through the wrong direction. I rushed into the loo and to spare the rest of the details, I sent off the rice and sambhar, they left unwillingly though. I wonder why. The rest of the day promised to be a bummer till the call came. I was actually hoping to hear a sweeter voice, when the phone crackled to a loud ‘Wassup!”.
I hate when people manipulate me to do what they want without even trying too hard. After half an hour of wait under a steaming sun; with the crowd teeming around, you decide to head up to the loo again to piss your pants off. You are almost in the process, when the phone rang again. It is such an awkward moment when you are very busy relaxing and like the devil’s bugle, your phone rings out loud, and somebody in the neighbouring compartment says, “Would you please pick it up!! I’m trying to concentrate here.” So you curse, zip up and head out; but not before checking the zipper again. The phone turns out to be your ‘long-lost’ friend who, it seems, has been caught up in some urgent work and won’t be able to make it for another half an hour. So whaddya do, jack? What d’ya do? You wait. What else is there to do!
The most exciting time of a year to visit a college is when the results are out. O! The excitement, the rush, the hopes and the nail biting, tear jerking finish. Ahhh!! All the ingredients of a potboiler. But this is also a day for the memories. Behind the scenes of jubilant teenagers and crying mothers, there are nostalgic passersby. TY students and their juniors, who, have just passed this same state last year; watch these people and smile cynically. But somewhere deep inside they feel happy, or sad, knowing their own emotions at the time. They smile wry smiles and try to carry on with whatever they do.Often I go back in time to think about the moment I was handed m result which showed 13 marks less in two subjects from the passing grade. I remember feeling numb and having an Out of body experience of the entire day. Three years have passed and not one passes without reminding me of that day.
And after almost an hour of waiting, the ‘VIP’ finally arrives. Between thoughts of violence to knock him down and rub his nose on the hot concrete and the curiosity at why are we here in the first place, you stand flummoxed. He runs up to you with the smile of a slimy politician, and grabs you in a bear hug. For the next three seconds, you feel like you’re stuck in a “Friends” episode, feeling like chandler. After the morphine induced excitement dies down, you decide to ask what the F#@k is the reason of your standing here today. He smiles, then blushes and smiles again. And just when you are thinking, again, of smacking him on the head, he answers “You know the crush I had in college…. She has a sister…she was in 12th this year. She passed. She might be coming to take her mark sheet. I might be able to see her.”
And you sit there wondering who she is. As the carnival carries on through the day.
