The Attack of the Cells

Strangely, it takes time to settle in. You hear your  speak the words, but they flow over you. The dab of the needle is dulled by the anaesthetic, till the moment it wears off. Then you feel the prick, the cold steel prodding its way through your veins.

The first thing that hits you is fear. What now? How do you handle this? Where do you go? Something in your life changes forever. You did not expect this. You cannot handle this. You look at your mom, who is suffering from it. She smiles weakly, and you smile back. What do you tell her? What can you tell her? The numbness seeps in. The brave facade you put up in front of already mourning relatives and friends is not because you are brave, but because you are numb. You are still registering the shock of the news. 

Then come the doctor visits. Each trip to the hospital is a visit to purgatory. There are others. There are worse. If you thought you were in a spot, you see others. They fill the footpaths, crowd the waiting room, sleep on benches and wait for hours to get the doctor to see them. The hospital might be the purgatory that Dante visited. More specifically, the first circle of hell; limbo. 

Mom was fine till the first chemo. She would have been fine even after it. It was us. We were not prepared. We never quite grasped the intensity of the shock. We were still paddling in high water, when the chemo hit us. Mom could not handle it. And we watched her fall, like collateral damage between two rioting factions. It was painful, on so many levels. 

Yet, she fought. With a braveness I did not know existed within her. Somehow, the disease has taught me more about my parents than 27 years of life. I learned that my mother more than anything else. I learnt that there are love stories beyond the ones that movies or novels can create. I learnt that I can break down any moment, anywhere. I learnt that you can never have too much help. 

And this is just the first battle with the dreaded disease - cancer. The war is still on. 

Fighting Emptiness

Emptiness can be a difficult construct to get used to. It requires patience. An ability to sort out necessary thoughts from unnecessary ones is mandatory. Also, the ability to ignore the few unnecessary thoughts that peter into the consciousness can be helpful. I realise this is not everyone's cup of tea. The mind can be a dangerous, but unavoidable companion in those quiet moments. It is the birthplace of all illusions that will drive you crazy. Little niggles will expand into unbearable pain. The searing cut knifing through your thoughts, imploring you to find some placebo to dull your senses. Find something to delay time, or perhaps, fast forward it to the future. It will force you to find a way to pass time in the most boring manner. There will be anger. There will be a sense of frustration. A helplessness that will threaten to destroy everything you seek to protect. You have to keep it under a leash. It is difficult. Ever try to keep a tornado under a leash? It is impossible.

You have to fight. You have to rein your mind back. Again and again. From thoughts running wild, and create a cohesive idea. The idea is often dull, flickering behind curtains of foggy words and images. It threatens to vanish before you can capture it in your mind's eye. You stay on it. You draw back the cobwebs of delusions. You crowd out the noise. You need to fill the emptiness with silence. Easier said than done. Vagueness will cloud your senses. Fight against it. Focus. And soon, it will emerge. An idea, pure, clear and beautiful. You shape it, create it and put it on a pedestal for all to see.

Suddenly, in a moment, as unexpectedly as it arrived, it shall vanish. You are suddenly used to the emptiness. 

The Dilemma of Sanity

She keeps speaking to herself. Reiterating words that offer her comfort. Lies they may be, but they are her only hold on sanity. Her face a ruin. Its terrain marked with fears, suspicion and hate. Each emotion switching to the other seamlessly, with a continuity that scares the more 'normal' people. Normalcy is overrated. It gives us the cover of society and sociable behavior to wreak havoc on the emotional and mental health of the weak. We speak in hushed tones of our neighbours. Our barbs disguised in the more delectable cover of gossip. Uninformed, careless of the havoc unleashed upon our innocent victims, we revel in the success of our verbal missiles. Meanwhile, the weak suffer. They run for cover from these rumors that swirl around them. They confide the truth to friends, who turn upon them and reveal a different version in their absence. The trojan horse of myths supported by the facade of truth can be devastating. An admission to a part of the truth is considered an admission of the whole. So, the true fall victim to the truth. Justice is dispensed and denied at the same time. It is politics of a nature that Machiavelli would be proud of. Yet, those who cannot act according to such rules are abnormal.


She has heard someone. Or so she says. Voices gosipping about her. She forgets where she is. The fear of infamy drives her, literally, crazy. The instigators are all around her. Voices attack from every corner. She is not safe, even in her own home. There is no one she can turn to for comfort. Those who love her struggle to find an answer. They cannot hear her version of the truth. It does not exist for them. The voices are imaginary. They can only try to comfort her by telling her that she is safe. But is she really? How can they prove that there has been no gossip about her? That would be a lie. And if they do accept the truth, they have to accept her ramblings. They are caught. Between the world, a struggle for the daily life and this emotional battle, they are collateral damage.


There is damage. There are fights. Physical, mental and emotional. Slowly, the ties that bind them grow weaker and weaker. Strands still hold on, but each wants to break off from the whole. They can't. They want to. They can't. Under the yoke of this burden, they chafe. They foam at the ends of their emotional and psychological identity and turn to any comfort they can find. Some to drink, some to medication and others to God. Distractions from the bane of their existence. Hell is other people, Sartre said. These unfortunate individuals run from other people, and yet, are bound to each other. Each the cause of the other's sorrow. In the want to be normal, they turn to the abnormal. They curse, rail and fight each other. They point to each other as the cause of their problems. They grow insensitive, cruel and absolutely ruthless. They seek to hurt each other, to escape the pain the world around causes them. Family, the one thing that should stand between them and the world, becomes their kryptonite. It kills them slowly, steadily, surely.


Meanwhile, the victim, she who is guilty of nothing but believing in the figments of psychotic imaginations that her brain projects, struggles. She finds the walls closing around her. She scrapes against it with her nails. No one believes her. Everyone keeps telling her to not believe in what she hears, what she thinks she hears. How does one do that? she asks. How indeed!

And so, the mad dance continues. 

Routine

Man is a creature of habit. I am sure I read this somewhere. Now that I have arrived at that stage of life where it is measured out in coffee spoons, I can understand the meaning of that statement. Everyday begins with the electronic buzz of my alarm. The first few hours peter out through the subconscious before they can be registered. Then begins the tiring, crammed journey crossing the entire length of the city, in the company of a million solitary minds. Every minute is marked with the familiarity of a routine. The lunch might be different, but at the exact same hour. The check out from the office gate, the same tapri, the cutting and the wait for the delayed bus is a repetition of ennui. 

In creating a new routine, I have broken tradition with the old ones. The laptop lies breathing dust in a corner of the home. There are books lying all around the place. Some read, with torn covers marking the extent of my friendship with them. Others fresh, unopened and waiting to be picked up. They will have to deal with the disappointment. It is like losing touch with old friends. Slowly, steadily, without even knowing, you have lost them into a vortex of daily chores. But facts do not cease to be, just because they are ignored. One fine day, you come across something, a photograph, a number, a memory that brings them back to life. Almost. 

And thus, do I approach this blog. With a strange familiarity, that has now been lost. The hesitation, slowly gives way to old jokes, to the memories of stupid grammatical mistakes. Then comes the increasing tempo of the dance my fingers perform on the keyboard. Words form themselves and frame the pictures of my mental images. Yet, there is a conscious acknowledgement of the distance between the medium and my thoughts. 

Like Tennyson would say 

Though we are not now at that strength 
Which in better days moved earth and heaven,
 That which we are, we are; 

So, I write. And I ask you to not expect the same friendliness I once displayed with you. Do not judge me. Do not expect truth, or fiction for that matter. Just read, and hope that I can rebuild this friendship with you. Damaged as it is, it has not ended. 

Chalo ek baar phir se ajnabi ban jaaye hum dono.

Dreams: A World Untraveled Unseen

The silence of rippling curtains at an open window
Laughter on hidden faces, dreams upon closed eyelids
Dreams flitting in and out
Of quiet noisy minds that drift to and fro
from the vacant blankness of pitter patter nights
Dreams nestled within warm rugs of cotton,softly rustling in the colder dark
Dreams poor, rich, colored, worded, manufactured within crowded psyches
Now asleep, now awake;
Twinkling dreams, loud dreams, quiet and cold and warm and round
Shaped by the unconscious subconscious
Dreams kind and unkind, played in the theater of the mind
Carpeted by fabrics unfelt by touch, glided upon, sight unseen
A world hidden within a dream
Confined spaces, shrinking still,then expanding to hold universes within
The travel of ages defined in a dream.
Faces forgotten, or forgetting, voices unknown, now failing,
Flitting in and out intangentially, without chronology
Through timeless sleep
The terrors now hidden brought to life,
Breathing, moving, knife through the windless domains of a sleeping life;
Time lost in space, memories without a trace,
Vanish at the sight of morning's first rays;
And suddenly a universe is lost, never to find,
Exiled to the deepest recesses of my mind;
I find them, I lose them.
They find me, they shape me.
Dreams. 

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. 

Page 3 of the Travels in Bangalore: The True Identity

The sun that shines on the asbestos roofs is the same as the one seen from the balcony of my cousin’s spacious Raheja Residency apartment in Kormangala. It just feels different. It is a matter of perspective. Everything is as we perceive it to be. As humans, we are members of several groups. Each distinct in its own way. We adapt and carry on with multiple identities through our lives. The success of an individual is often determined by their ability to adapt to the changing definitions of their groups.

In view of this fact, it would be practically impossible to find a definite identity for a city filled with a million such individuals. The city will change its sounds, flavors, colors and nature with every street and neighborhood. Banashankari is not the same as Jayanagar is not the same as Malleswaram or 

Kormangala. Each a separate element, that is part of a whole.

This holiday began as a break from my practiced routine, in order to discover my identity, my one cause that drives my life. Instead, I have come to the realization of a new existence. For the last two weeks, my sojourns through the highs and lows of this young city in India, have made me realize several things. So, forgive me if I get philosophical in this blog.

The family is now preparing for the third marriage in my generation. I am slowly realizing the fact that my whole world is going to change permanently. I am now on the cusp of the realization, yet like many people I, somewhat, resent this changing environment. My brother was pointing out how our definitions of ‘the family’ changes drastically once we get married. We go from being single adults with time for beer and movies, to responsible men with chores, and financial liabilities. Marriage is not just accepting someone else in your life, but opening the door to a whole new truck full of people with a different surname. But, we still have to try to be part of this changing 

dynamics.

So I put on the faces to meet the faces I meet. With elders, I am the impish rogue. With cousins, I am the smartass from Bombay (Yes, they still pronounce it that way). With kids, I am the storyteller. I am young. I am old. I am many things, and one thing at once.

There is something admirable in the way a city accepts change. Unlike us, it does not let the change affect its inherent quality. There might be a surplus of malls and KFC’s filled with low jean wearing youngsters. There might be automatic cars racing down newly paved concrete corridors; but the city of Bangalore has retained some of its orthodox qualities. Somewhere deep down inside, it is still the same. Like the city of my dreams, Mumbai.

‘Of the Unreal there is no existence; Of the real there is no non existence”

The Vedic philosophy defines reality as something that remains constant, in the face of eternal change. In an ever changing world, where we shift our relationship dynamics according to the need of the moment, such philosophy might seem redundant. Our relationships change, our profiles change, our nature changes, our status messages change constantly. Yet, there is something within that does not change, but remains constant.

It is this constant value that defines our identity more than anything else. We might be drunk yuppies at a stinking bar, or a lecherous crowd whistling at the item girl on screen in a theater, but we will close our eyes and pray when crossing a temple on the street. We might hate mindless rituals, but will accede to be a part of it, just so our parents enjoy a little comeback on the nosy neighbors. Values do not exist in the activity, but in the thought that goes into it.

As I sit and write this, I am outside the Vidyarthi Bhavan hotel in Gandhi Market area of Bangalore city. Established in 1943, the small hotel has served generations of Bangaloreans. My uncle, all of 78 years, has been eating here for the last 70 years of his life. He tells me that the streets around the hotel have changed. Traffic has increased. Political climes have changed. Superstars have moved on to other galaxies. Sportsmen and musicians and litterateurs have vanished from the face of the earth. But the masala in the dosa remains unchanged.

The constant. The reality. The true identity. 

Page 2 of the Travels in Bangalore: It Rains in May

The advantage of being on a vacation is that you can lose all count of time. You are cocooned in a bubble of lethargy and comfort that exists only in fairytales. The world huffs and puffs and runs after buses to work, while you sit down with your kaapi and pongal and enjoy the rush hour from the balcony.

Nothing quite defines a Bangalorean like the morning tiffin. This is the first ritual of the day, and the continuing tradition that, I hope, will never be broken. It is the standard set to measure the hospitality of a host and the generosity of their guest. From the more recognised idli, dosa and the elaborate pongal, adai to the hastily organised lemon rice, each dish is a ritual that the ardent Bangalorean worth his salt will adhere to. If you seek proof of the respect this tradition holds, visit the MTR (Mavalli Tiffin Room) or Vidhyarthi Bhavan for a morning. You will know it first hand.

The MTR, located at a 10 minutes walk from Lalbag Botanical Gardens(No relation to the Ganpati mandal at Dadar) is an institution in the cuisinal tradition that carries on till today. It is a place the elders in my family swear by and the youngsters feign indifference to. The menus might have changed. The quiet orthodoxy of people may have given way to liberal values. The humble bungalows might have been dwarfed by multi storeyed skyscrapers. Roads have widened. Languages and apparels have changed. But the practice of having tiffin at 10 am with a cup of hot filter kaapi continues. The nouveau bangalorean might opt for the occasional cup of tea, but kaapi is for truebloods.

This is a city of contradictions, of oppositions and change. Virat Kohli and Chris Gayle might lead RCB in the IPL, but their aggression is a fairly new emotion. You can be as aggressive as you want, but slur Rahul Dravid or Anil Kumble at your own risk. The curses you will endure are only comparable to the passion of a Maharashtrian defending Sachin Tendulkar. Youngsters might wear Gucci and Levis, but will still close their eyes in prayer as they cross a Vinayakar temple on 4th cross. This is India. A traditional ancient civilisation coming to terms with the sudden change in its atmosphere and culture.

The architecture of a city is often a representative of the tastes of its residents. From the Gothic structures in Mumbai, to the Victorian elegance of Kolkata, Indian cities are dotted with structural beauties that jut out of the other modern structures that have occupied space. The Vidhan Soudha, the Mysore Bank, Nataraja theatre are some structures that turn back time as you glance at the ages that have washed off their façade.

My memory of the 80's constructs a Bangalore city dotted with comfortable individual houses, surrounded by sparse streets; each lande geometrically dissected and named confusingly as 4th main 2nd Cross, or 6th sector 3rd main 4th cross. My recent visits have crowded the same city of my memories with large monolithic buildings and a sudden spurt of KFCs and McDonald's that have rooted out traditional bakeries.

The yuppie invasion armed with Mac books  Digit magazines and Chetan Bhagat novels has redefined the city. Kaapi powder is no longer made at home. Iyengar bakeries are not the only source of bread. Tinkle, Amar Chitra Katha and Vikatan are replaced by Chip, AutoIndia and ET. Of course, not everything changes and not completely. Bangaloreans are still conservative wolves in the clothing of liberals. The religion of an individual and their caste is a determiner of their social circle. and Akki roti still takes spot over the pizza.

I came here in search of the Bangalore of my memories. A city that is fast disappearing in the concrete jungle, crowded by the mish mash of cultures and brands that have seeped in. I am in search of a Bangalore that exists in the taste of an Akki roti at a roadside stall. A taste that washes over you like a thunderous downpour on a May evening, only to disappear without a trace the next morning. Except for the faint longing in the air.

Ban-Galored. A Diary From Chris Gayle's Summer Home.

Before you enter a city, any city, the first thing you sense is an urgency of movement. People, animals, vehicles move with an intention, with a purpose of getting somewhere. Modern life has, in many ways, killed the art of sauntering. There is no form of leisurely stroll known anymore to the species, urbano sapiensis, or the city man. This is a species preoccupied with jobs, chores, money, problems and driven by ambition, needs, desires and a constant drive for achieving the improbable. Bangalore, or Bengaluru, is a city that is home to several creatures of this species.

The bus journey began on a noisy, cacophonous Sunday night, which was like many other nights in Mumbai. It was filled with a nervous, edgy tension that has come to define the city of my constant residence. The decision to make this trip, a break from my daily life, had already caused a couple of fights and several bouts of acidity. Yet, I had to make this journey. To get away from the routine and a stagnancy that had crept into my life, my thoughts and my ideas. I needed a new crowded confine to structure my view. This, was the only option where I could avail of food, clothing and shelter for free, while enjoying the sights. So, I climbed into a cold, blacked out, plushly equipped bus at Chembur to begin with. The journey was uneventful, to the best.

The arrival at Bangalore was the first sense of languor that I experienced. The city migt lack the suffocating terseness of Mumbai, and the crowds, for that matter; but the intent is ripe. This is a growing cosmopolis. If the Indian team were symbolic of the nation, Bengaluru would be Rohit Sharma - blessed with a fluid, languorous style that often outshines the grit, sweat and determined orthodoxy hidden deep beneath.

Do not be mistaken. People here work just as hard, as in any other metropolis. But theirs is not the juggernaut frenzy of Mumbai, that would crush you without a second thought. There is a certain soporific air that embalms the city. Or maybe, I am just taking in the holiday air. In either case, it was hard not to experience it.

The Majestic bus terminal is a place tha belies its name. Unlike the grandiose Gothic architecture at CST, that I have come to love, this terminal was not half as majestic. It is well planned, organised and practical. The buses arrive and depart at planned terminals, located in a semi circular formation, and numbered according to their buses. For someone from Mumbai, it is surprising to see no one showing their hands to stop buses, but you'll get over it. Once the structural bias for Mumbaiiya things give way, you tend to surmise the marvellous practicality of the plan.

People are constantly milling about, even at 2pm in the hot May afternoon. As a regular traveller of the 7.30 Karjat local, and having visited the Lalbag Ganpati mandal and on Virar locals, my definition of a crowd can be...subjective. Majestic is a place for college kids, policemen, vendors, salesmen, and everybody coming and going to various destinations in the city. Each individual awaiting a commute to the next stop. Much like in life. A terminal patience fills you with every sight of the stop. Inspite of the teeming sweat that might stifle you. But, I digress.

The people in Bengaluru require a paragraph unto themselves. And I am gonna give it to them. They are well versed in Hindi and English. This is what makes it an easier place to move about alone, than any other city in South India. A question in any language, will be answered directly, in a strictly no nonsense manner. Nobody here likes repeated questions. Ask them more than once, thou shalt diss them. For someone habituated to the patronising candour and overt friendliness of Mumbai, this might be a refreshing change.

My repeated visits to this city have always rejuvenated my love for their buses. Sleek, vast, spacious, turbo charged and sometimes, equipped with dolby speakers playing the hits of the day in the loudest manner. They cannot be missed. The Volvo city buses will drop the jaws of Mumbaikars who are used to crowded paan spittled footboards and cussing when climbing into someone's armpit. The moment the door of the Volvo bus opened with a 'psssssh', I was impressed. Of course, there are other 'ordinary' buses that ply the routes, more crowded, teeming with the workforce and cussing ladies that make me feel right at home. But for any newcomer to the city, the experience of sitting in a bus with French windows and watching it pass down the flyover across Race Course, through Cubbon Park, and out through the Silk Board Road is like a comfortable drive through the rabbit hole.

Now, for the rest of the travelogue to unfold as it does. Do stay tuned.


(Being updated according to the writing speed of the author. Complaints will not be entertained, so don't bother.)

The Last Walk of Death

 He walked through the corridor. Pristine white, and synthetically clean like a hospital. His eyes had grown bored of the white gleam after centuries and centuries of prowling. Immortality could be exhausting. The exhaustion was not that of a tiresome day of work, but one that tides, mountains and rivers of the world shared with him. He did not remember when he started, but he had gone through every street, every highway, every house that the light went into. Quietly and with an eventful finality, he approached those at the end of the light, and took them to their final destination.

He felt the air around the light. There was nothing. There never was anything. As long as he had remembered, it was quiet and clean. At the other end, as he would leave, he’d hear fading sounds of wailing, sniffles, the loud sounds of ambulances or sometimes, occasionally, a laughter. He’d keep walking with his hand on the shoulder of his passenger. Driving them towards their destination. In silence. Without a glance in their direction. This was his routine.

He could see the fading circle of the light at the end of the road. There was a silhouette emerging from the distant white shadow. Lean, weak and trembling, it continued to move in his direction.

One, he thought to himself, only one. Well, so much for the excitement.

He continued his walk. His passenger looked as though he had escaped through a war. Or not escaped, as it would be. The clothes were tattered, but they counted for little.

As he reached the frail body, the passenger looked up. With tired and frightened eyes, he said,”I am the last one. There is no one else left”.

For a moment, the angel of death paused. Then he smiled as he placed his hands on the passenger and took him to the destination. Rest in peace, he thought.

Waking Into Dreams

She stared past the grilled window,
Past endless horizons
Where the sun never sets
On dust covered tin roofs;
One strand of rebellious hair
dances in front of her eyes,
Interrupting her thoughts
Breaking dreams against reality
She pushes it behind her ears
looks at me and sighs
Before  closing her eyes
To wake again in dreams.

Farishton se safaai maante hain

Farishton se safaai maangte hai

Log sach ki gawaahi maangte hain

Apne khoon se arzaan kiye hain kalam ke karz

Ab log mujhse siyaahi maangte hain

Hum unse bhi wafaa ki aadat rakhte hain

Jo humse bewafaai maangte hain

Mohabbat kab hampe meherbaan tha

Ab to dard e dil bhi judaai maangte hain

Ranjh se yun shiddat si ho gayi hai

Ke ab dua me bhi duhaai maangte hain

Ek zindagi ke sivaa sab kucch to karz tha

Aur woh bhi yaa ilaahi maangte hain

Woh bhi ho jaata hum pe meherbaan

Ek hum hi rukhsat e maseehaii maangte hain

Dum ghut-ta tha zaahidon me

So hum mazhab se rihaaii maangte hain

Jaane log kyu maut se ghabraate hain

Hum to zindagi se rihaai maangte hain.. 

Writing a Poem

The words drop onto the book,
Embers from burnt out cigarettes,
Coal marks on white pages,
And smoke out thoughts from the mind.
Tired fans whir above
Circling out the heat in slow, creaking whispers
The thoughts keep petering out
And I blow and blow again
They spark a little,
Burn a little,
Each burn hurts a little
I fill my pen and let it drip onto the page
Another letter, another word
and slowly the poem takes shape.

A Rambling Saturday Write Up

The last train of the night has left. It is a Saturday night. People have left work early. The last remnants at the station are beggars, blind and deaf. Their laughters pierces ears that still hear. Ears like mine. What am I doing wandering in the middle of the night at an empty railway station? I do not know. I guess I was not sleepy. The trouble with being a neurotic, half educated pseudo philosopher is that you tend to think too much on topics too silly. I wander through the red tiled platforms; my feet clinking on the cold red tiles. The cold is getting to me. Mom and dad have no idea where I am. They are fast asleep. An advantage provided by sleeping pills and old age. I, unfortunately lack on both sides.

So far, it has been unadventurous. The dogs have started strolling the roads. A couple of them give me the eye. They don't like intrusions into their area, in their time. We are so much like dogs. Marking territories, showing aggression and empty threats. How human. I stroll past the largest black one standing on the side. He watches me pass with a curious eye. Sort of like the bouncer outside a pub, where you are not allowed to enter. Ready to pounce at the slightest twitch. If he did, it would be an interesting story that I will have to make up. But why am I writing about dogs? Well, at least I am writing.

The walk does help ease up the cold sneaking through my bones. It has grown chilly in the last couple of days. Reminds me of the days when i was a child. When it was easier to play around and not worry about anything. When life was a lot easier. When writing was a lot easier. I used to write very regularly then. In diaries, in notebooks. I don't know when I started. I stopped a couple of months ago.

It became very difficult. My work sapped away my energy. Everything seemed like a damn chore. I had to get up to go to work. My health started going down. Samson's hair had been cut. Spending six hours in front of a screen, working on words, did not leave any words for me to put on paper when i got back home. The one thing I was good at, was the one thing I could no longer do. It was frustrating.
I write this today. In hope, that writing might come back to me. A faint hope, that I might start work on what I love. I need to. I want to. I. Have. To. Write.

Why I have not written or Why I still hope to write

I have not been writing for such a long time that it feels very strange. Maybe, it is because I haven’t been reading as much. Books have become rare guests into the steadily evaporating minutes in my life. Some days, when I am relieved of my worries and bills, I cast my eyes on my fading friends, lying unattended as show pieces on the wardrobe in the hall. I feel sad for them, like one does for people who have fallen from their high posts. Yet, I do have hope.

My laptop often lies unattended in the bag in the corner. On days when I am bored, I look it up and find half written articles and stories, incomplete drafts that beg to be completed. And yet, the drive is gone. Not forever. At least, I hope not. Yet, it is gone. Something is missing.

Yet, I wait. In hope. In silly, miserable hope. Every moment waiting, like the dry, wasted hay under the sun. In the hope of a faint spark that shall set fire to my imagination again. A fire that shall again burn through the dark recesses of my mind and light up my days. I wait. In hope.

Yet, there is a hidden fear. A fear of failure. I do believe it is natural. To fear being a failure, when you have already been branded one by everyone who seems to put up a claim of knowing you. My life seems so much like that of Philip Care in W. Somerset Maugham’s ‘Of Human Bondage’, that it feels scary. What if, like Philip, I end up finding up I have no talent in art? What if everyone around me is just being encouraging, without realising the fact that they are setting me up for a heartbreak in my quest of artistic success? Will it be too late to turn back, and try and find an ordinary career then? What then, shall I choose as a career? So many questions, so little answers.

“There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for every shilling you earn.you will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one’s dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his heart.”

Like the art teacher says ‘It is cruel to learn about your mediocrity too late in life.’

Indeed. This is one of the haunting prospects that face me. It is difficult.

This is not a defense of my procrastination. No. It is an explanation of my current emotional state. It is an explanation why I have not yet closed down my blog. It is my last line of defense. It is the reason why I have not yet given up my hope of being a writer. I cannot. Like my brother pointed up, you need an almost impossible target to aim at. It will drive you, when nothing else does. And so I wait.

Till the day the fire burns again. And I write again. 

The Potential Part 2

Amit walked across the vast campus courtyard. Not much had changed. The kids still laughed, screamed and walked across the main road in groups. They were sitting on the bench, bang opposite the Arts college entrance, discussing Sunny Leone’s tits against Deepika’s legs. He smiled. Nothing had changed.

 ‘So? Who is she?’ Mrs Joshi asked him one day, while a casual examination of his latest poem.

‘What?’ He blubbered. He really did not know what she was talking about. Many people did not. She had a habit of going on a tangent, crossing the equator, cooking some elephant gob, before returning to the topic. He sometimes wondered how her family could withstand her.

‘Your muse? The one who keeps propping up in your poems? Do I know her, by any chance? She does look familiar’ she clarified.

‘Err… No. I don’t think you know her ma’am.’ He wanted to close up the topic. This was uncomfortable.

‘Don’t worry. The poems are getting better with her. A word of advice, tell her, before somebody else does. College is a very competitive atmosphere for love.’ She handed the notebook back to him and smiled.

He had walked out the door with a weird expression on his face. He did tell his ‘muse’. It took him a couple of weeks. She had laughed to his face. The next couple of weeks were filled with poems, which today, look like a bad copy of Metallica and angry punk songs.

‘Have you ever written Ma’am.’, he had asked once. The third year Literature class was a lonely place. It had two idiots, and a cabin, that looked like the Old Widow’s shoe cabinet. It was embarrassing.

‘Yes. I have.’ Mrs Joshi answered, without looking up from the copy of Whitman. ‘And I have been rejected by publishers a million times’ she had continued. The voice was clear, but it had a slight edge to it.

Amit prodded further. It was a doubt that was prescient in his mind too. ‘Then why do you continue? I mean… I am not sure if I can be published or make money through writing either. Wouldn’t it be easier to choose some other career and go on?’

‘Yes. It would be easier. But should you do that?’ She asked.

For the next decade, the voice screamed from within Amit’s soul. It continued to scream when he could not think of words. It screamed when he felt like taking days off from writing. He could always hear her voice, bespectacled, and shattering the null void of the world. She haunted him into writing. And he remained ever grateful for that.

Sitting down with a cup of tea, he remembered the day of his graduation. He had walked in to see Mrs Joshi talking to Ahmed about choosing a career in a teaching. Amit wondered if she would be recruiting future professors for the department. He wondered if he was in the list.

Her advice to him was simple. ‘Do you have something in mind?’ she asked. He shook his confused head. He immediately regretted it. He did not want to stand and hear to another one of her long and droning lectures. Not when, he had just ensured that he wouldn’t have to listen to it anymore.

She smiled. ‘No, I am not going to lecture you. I never waste my advice where it is not wanted. When the day comes that you need it, do let me know.’ She walked away.

That was the last he had seen of Mrs Joshi. Life, with its vicious henchmen, responsibility and economy had seen to it.  Amit had found time to continue with his academics though. Not that he had a choice. Education was his only solace from the world. Books offered him a comfort. Dickens, Dostoevsky, Lamb and Browning. Tortured souls, trapped in the vicious circle of life. There was a certain familiarity of being in the company of these friends.

He had forgotten all about college. And Mrs Joshi. Till today. Today, when Mr Shah walked in bumbling, with his trademark white kurta, and scratched the surface paint off his wall of memories. 

The Potential - Part 1

Mrs Joshi never called herself a writer. Even in the years, when her sight failed, thoughts wandered, and the salt pepper bob of hair lost its bounce, she never called herself a writer. Amit knew better. He had known her better. In better times.

The first time he had met her was on the winding staircase at his college entrance. He always thought that it was too filmy. It stood there, like the grand trunk of huge oak, branches of corridors snaking out through the first floor, and students scattered like leaves all around it. He had run into her on his early days in college, a time when he used to attend lectures. She was fierce. Dressed in a blue and white salwaar kameez, that would become her staple apparel for work; she asked him what he was up to. He did not know. He was looking for the principal’s office, and was lost. She pointed out to the right corner, from the entrance and said “I do hope you can read. There is a board right there. Are you sure you cleared the SSC examination?” He went off without a word. Words had not yet become his staple weapon. Words, which she had not yet taught him.

The principal’s office was a huge room to the left sight of the entrance, past the clerical offices of the college. It was an oasis of silence in the middle of a humdrum that was college. The principal is the one person who can never enjoy popularity amongst students in a college. It has nothing to do with his character, which can be as affable and jolly as Santa; it is just against the rebellious hormones that run within the youngsters that walk these corridors. The office belonged to a Mr Keerti Shah, MA, M.Phil, D Lit.

Almost a decade since that day, Amit looked at the small, balding and pitiable man in front of him. The invite for the annual college fest lay in front of him. It was the 25^th anniversary of the college. He almost felt a twang of pity for this old man. It was hard to believe that this was the same fearsome figure, who had denied Amit a 5 day break from college. Simply because the reasons were not convincing enough. A part of him wanted to remind Mr  Shah of that incident, but it would be rude.

‘Please do come for the event. It would be nice to have a former alumnus visit us on our 25^th anniversary…and one as prestigious as yourself, would be an inspiration to our students’, Mr Shah muttered.

Amit knew his recent spate of awards was a honeypot for social parties, events, but his college anniversary was a surprise. He was half afraid of attending events in colleges. He remembered the times when he had sat in the last benches of the assembly hall and jeered and hooted almost all of the chief guests. Actually, all of them, he smiled to himself.

‘Sir, I really do not know. My schedules are so packed these days. I will surely give it a try. Please, do not take offense.’ He fumbled.

‘Of course.’ Mr Shah mentioned. His eyes spoke their disappointment. ‘I understand. But please, it would be nice of you to come. We, teachers, do not get many opportunities to boast about our students. Especially, ones like you’ Mr Shah muttered. It sounded, pathetically, like the last request of an old man.

Ah, what the hell… ‘Sure, Sir. I will try and make it to the event. It would be nice to meet my old professors as well. Are they all well?’ He asked.

‘You know… most of them at least. Mr Kak passed away last week. Well, that is life.’ Mr Shah is not a man of sentimentality. He never was one.

But Amit was. He would never forget the years spent outside in the campus. The walks, the friends, the udhaari chais and the free lunches. The crushes, heartbreaks, poems composed and the delirious joy hidden in a smile. There was a time when life was simpler, when happiness was easier to come by. There were people who took young boys, and taught them about the better things in life. People like Mrs Joshi.

 ‘If you think literature is for easy going Casanovas, you are in the wrong class, kid’ She had snapped at him. He was late again, and she was known for her punctuality. He remembered the minutes of embarrassment, while his friends tittered at the back of the class. Dammit woman! There were girls watching. But Mrs Joshi never had mercy on students that did not respect English Literature lectures.

‘You will never be a writer, unless you are fearless’ she would go on to advise a year later. She had spotted him scribbling in his notebook a couple of times in the classroom. She took the notebook. It was 3 nervous, agitated hours, before she called him and gave it back. The works were filled with edits, and pointers. Since then, Amit had a critic and reviewer, as honest, and probably, more honest than any he would encounter in his life. 

...To Be Continued

The Man and the Sea.

A deep dark horizon
Spreads its wings endlessly
Over my head
And embraces the sea;
The waves come in
And crash on the rocks beneath my feet
And again, and again
The sea heart beats;
I sit there, a lonely soul
In the embrace of the cold, sharp wind,
Looking at the future
That is fading into the past;
Love is in the air, they say,
I try to smell it, but I can't;
Nothing, other than the smell
Of wet, white sand.
I remember Poe
And his poem, 'Alone'
I wonder if that is what my future is,
If that is what I am, what I should be.
The wind blows again
And the waves rise over my head
To hold me in their embrace,
And put me to sleep on their sandy bed.
The waves part reluctantly
Farther than they were before,
They return, but surely,
Further than they came before.
As my eyes probe the sky,
My lungs inhale the wet air,
And the waves rinse my skin clean,
My heart beats, with life.
My skin is now sand,
My blood, the waves,
And my lungs have the wind of the sky within
I am the world.
The world is within me,
I, within the world,
Inseparable, yet distinct,
Thus, do the twain meet. 

The Drunk

He sat down on the rusted swing. His boots were dirty from walking in the rain. He ran his hands along the chain and thought someone should fix this soon. The children were going home and the few that were playing were being hunted down by tired mothers looking to get homework done. The clouds crept just as tiredly across the sky, as he lit his fifth cigarette.

He did not care if he rained again. He was tired. His work had drained him. The fight with the CA and the accounts department head did not help either. He swung a little, to feel the air in his face. It was wet, cold and smelled of the rain that was to come. It also smelled a little of the rain that had gone. Time is constant, in the past and the present, he thought. He puffed again and watched the grey smoke against the pitch black sky.

The first showers of July had passed. Soon, it would flood the city, he thought. I need to get rain wear for the kids. The little one had just entered school. She needed new rainy clothes. But that was for another day. This was another week. His life had changed suddenly and unexpectedly. Some things are more important than the rains and shopping. Things like family.

There was a question to which he had no answer. Not yet, he thought. Then again, maybe, not ever. But he had no choice. He had to make a choice soon. This was his last week. He took another drag and let the burn settle into his lungs. There was a strange comfort that alleviated the restlessness. The time ticked off the seconds on his watch, and the cold crept into his blood, slowly but steadily.

He could hear Dr. Mehta in his ears. The man had the moustache that reminded him of Kakkad uncle, his father’s military friend. ‘The shivering is a sign of regression,’ Dr Mehta had said. ‘It will last till your body feels the craving. Just focus on the eventual goal.’ He said. He was an optimist. This thing was harder than he had thought.

He never believed in goals. Life had a tendency to take his goals and fuck them bad. Take his career for instance; it had gone from being a journalist to a copywriter to a manager within the span of 15 years. Every decade had resulted in a loss of direction and a complete return to the life of a homeless remnant. Thankfully, some people too his eccentricity to be a sense of adventure. Except her. She really believed him. Or so he thought. Till that eventful day last week.

He tried to inhale the smoke again. But the intoxication was gone. He no longer felt calm. The shivering was beginning to come over him again. He could remember her face, when he saw her in court. Her brown eyes were bloodshot. He knew she had not slept the night before. Just like him. The judge ruling their divorce, was blissfully unaware. Or he had too many cases that he did not want to bother over.

He would have called it off. He had tried talking to her. But it was always the same argument. You won’t change, she had said. Change! He was willing to give it all up. Did she even realise the extent of his pains? He was torturing himself to stay sober every day. But did she know it? NO! She would not have any of it. He kicked the last cigarette into the mud. It sank with the last gasp of smoke escaping the water.

He did not blame her. She had stood by him when most others had given up. She had been around when a better life was calling her. Yes, he knew he had problems, but who did not? Every man hid something dark within me. Some did it better than others. But they did hide it. And so what if he did have a problem? Would that make him any less of a father? Any less caring? Had he not provided for his children? Did he not try his best to be at every one of their major events? Why could they not understand how impossibly, ginormically and hugestic difficulty it was to quit the bottle? Dammit, smarter men than he had failed at the effort. But he was getting there. He would’ve. Eventually.

She should not have done that.

The watchman took Mr Lall home that morning. He had been in the rain, drenched all night. The fever had taken a hold of his body. The watchman rushed out to call the doctor. He spotted the bottle of Jack Daniels lying by the swing. The watchman never could understand why Mr Lall chose to suffer the cold and torrential rains, rather than take a shot of the Jack Daniels. He laughed, ‘crazy rich bastards.’

The Journey (A short)

He stood by the railway platform waiting for the train to arrive. It was six minutes late. The crowd was getting restless. No one wanted to get to work late on a Monday morning. Just then it struck him, he had forgotten to take the newspaper again. It would be left hanging in the door post for somebody else to swipe. The thief was simply stealing his newspapers. Why would anyone steal newspapers? Aren’t they going obsolete? He hoped Mrs Sabnis would take the paper in and hold it for him till the evening. He hated to have his dinner without the newspaper. Eating alone wasn’t his best experience.

The train slowly chugged into the platform. And then began the mad clamber to get in. Mr Phadke, as usual, jumped into the still entering train, like a jackrabbit. Then, went Mr Iyer and Damle. He was still amazed at the urgency of these men to get, not to work, but inside the compartment. He squeezed in just before the rush was beginning to take over. Slowly, the compartment filled up, like water flowing into a vessel. In the beginning, a thin trickle, then suddenly a gush of people packed in. Soon, there was no space to stand.

Sandeep was sitting at the window on the right as usual, and Mr. Joshi was catching his forty winks. Soon, the train picked up pace. And the scenery outside began to move at a steady rhythm. The lush greenery of the first month of June, was moving in a beautiful blur. He reminded himself of sending a picture to his parents back home.

Mr Phadke, slapped Sandeep on the shoulder.’Kaay re kaartya! Haltos ki! Old men are standing here and you, young fellow, sitting comfortably. Get up, lazy bum!’

Sandeep laughed, ‘Kaka, kaay…Morning morning only you fought with your wife or what? Why take it out on me? Joshi ko dekho… How soundly he is sleeping? You never wake him up? Best friend no he is your?’

Sandeep was a 12^th standard graduate working as a peon in a corporate organisation. You could not have told it from his attire. The stylish belt, the branded jeans and the checked shirt would have cost him more than a thousand at any store.

Joshi Sir heard the conversation and lazily opened one eye and said ‘Sanya, he is my best friend. Ask him last time who brought Kande pohe for breakfast? I did no. Now till next month, no one will wake me up from the seat. At least till Kurla.’

Mr Iyer had already caught a seat. He was involved in a deep conversation with Rajesh. Rajesh was a software engineer by profession. Since the last few weeks, Mr Iyer was offering him suggestions about investments and mutual funds. Not many people knew Mr Iyer did this as a part time. His full time job was as an accountant at an engineering firm.

‘See both the Madrasis are sitting discussing something. This is the bad habit you people have. All the time, you get together and keep talking in some unknown language’ Phadke snapped again. He had this annoying habit of making comments. Iyer was not very fond of it, but he bore it because he was not fond of confrontation either.

In the corner of the second row, a couple of young college kids went through their notes. Struggling through those years was something he remembered clearly. He was not a bright student, but he got through just fine. Now, was a different time.

Damle had, by now, immersed himself into the Navakaal newspaper. The paper had frontlined the news of the fire in the State secretariat. The news had become the main spread across the train compartment for the week. Damle would never shut up about how it was a conspiracy from the congress party.

‘It is. Can’t you see? The corruption, all those files are burned now. Nothing will come out of this inquiry-winquiry!’ he groaned.

‘Kaay pan kaay!’, rebutted Joshi, ‘Nothing like that. Did you read the papers or not? No important scam papers were damaged in the fire. The government has lost already. Why plan a fire now? They should have done it before people came to know about such news.’ Well, he had a point.

Sandeep turned and asked, ‘You want to sit. You are standing since a long time, no? Sit. You get down at Dadar, right?’

He nodded. The standing journey had made him tired indeed. He was dying to sit down. He crumpled himself at the window seat. The space was small, but at least, you could sit down and rest your calf muscles, he thought.

The train had passed Thane now. The crowd inside the compartment was exceeding the limits of humanity. All he could see was a mass of arms and legs flailing around. Mr Iyer had finished the never ending conversation and was now beginning to look for his friend from Thane, Suresh Yadav. Yadav was late, but he bungled his way through the mass of arms.

‘Damn crowd! Every day it grows more and more. I don’t know where so many people come from.’

Sandeep laughed ‘Sab gaanvvaalon ko lekar aa gaya ab kya rota hai?’

Even Mr.Iyer couldn’t resist a chuckle at that. Rajesh responded, ‘Nahi nahi. Its about the city population growing. It had to happen some time now. You can’t blame people from outside for this’

Yadav frowned ‘Tum logo ko koi aur kaam nahi hai. Everything is blamed on outsiders. Khud to kabhi mehnat nahi karoge.’

Sandeep would’ve taken the argument further, but he spotted an old couple struggling through the crowd. He waved them over.

‘Kaaka, yaa ikde. Basa. Arrey, unko andar aane do. Itni gardi me kyu chadte hain pataa nahi? Basa ikde’

He sat the old woman and uncle down. He was a kind man, the one who grows up in very difficult places. Kindness is often valued highly amongst people who are surrounded by violence and injustice. Sandeep, growing up in the slums knew how cruel the world could be.

Yadav worked as a manager at a firm in Bandra. His travel everyday was accompanied by a dish, packed carefully in his suitcase. Breakfasting in the train was a practice he had developed over the years. Of course, Mr Iyer had a habit of stealing his dabba before the bag even reached out to the upper loft.  He did it again.

Iyer sat down and unwrapped the silver foil, and opened the parathas in. He offered a piece to everybody. Yadav could only stare as his beloved breakfast vanished again.

‘Iyer,Ghar pe khaana nahi mila kya? Your wife sending you to office hungry again? What did you do this time? Pull out early?’

Iyer replied ‘Nahi. Since I decided to eat your breakfast, she has stopped cooking for me. It is also very cheap you know.’

Damle piped in ‘Ye accha hai. See, Yadav. He is saving his money. You are doing work of charity by feeding poor hungry people’

Iyer added, ‘Yes. He is manager. Where do we accountants get paid as manager? We are poor only, no.’

Yadav nodded ‘It does not take money to feed people. It takes heart. You should learn from me. No dil only, I say.’

The train was jostling past Ghatkopar by now. Joshi had already made his way to the door. The college kids were also off. The lane between the door and the inside of the compartment was packed still.

I should probably get up, he thought to himself. He got up and offered Damle the seat. Phadke was already snoring his way to glory on the right. Damle squirmed into the gap between the window and Phadke.

‘So where do you work,’ Damle asked.

Sandeep piped up ‘He works in a HR firm’

‘And how did you know?’ Yadav asked, ‘You even know the meaning of HR?’

‘Arrey baba, he gave me his card once,’ Sandeep said, ‘Kya tum log bhi? What? If I don’t pass graduation, I should not learn anything of the corporate industry, kya?’

Rajesh was now preparing to get off at Kurla. His journey to his office in the BKC would take him another 30 minutes. He strapped on the laptop bag and made his way through the crowd. The customary goodbyes followed him to the door.

The compartment was beginning to get lighter now. The mass of the crowd would empty out at Dadar. That is where Damle and Iyer would get out too. For now, they were catching a small nap on their seats. Sandeep had borrowed the newspaper and was reading the film page. Deepika Padukone stared out dressed in a swimsuit. He laughed. She wasn’t the same league as Katrina, he said. Sandeep nodded.

The day in the train ended uneventfully, he thought, no fights today. Not even the high toned argument between Yadav and Sandeep. Those people are getting sober. He got down at Dadar station and waved a formal goodbye to Iyer. The old man needs to lighten up, he thought.

The roads were crowded as usual. He walked up the centre and tried to stop a taxi. The cabbie would not have stopped for anything. The world was growing crowded he thought. He had to get back home. Mom would love it. She kept complaining about how he had lost touch with the culture and tradition back home. He’d have to talk to the management to see if they had any opportunities or projects running back home. Ohh, he’d love it.

He took a step further, before he could hear the horn. He turned to face the metal grille of the truck coming at him. He was not very sure if he was dreaming or if this was real. Sandeep would have laughed at the confusion. He thought, what the others would think if he did not make the train tomorrow.

But most of all, he wished Mrs Sabnis would really take the paper today. He wasn’t going to make it home.