The anaesthetic

The tiresome burden of dreams

That seek understanding

Is beyond my patience.

I fear you.

You, with your kindness,

Who claim to understand my pain;

Armed with words, and comforting sounds

You try to numb it.

Your anaesthetic patience,

Product of an orderly world,

Applied on living, breathing, wounds.

Did you really think

It would suffice?

I fear you.

You, who clean my festering wounds

Caused by broken dreams,

Wash my brain,

Make me drink my tears

Saying 'It will get better'

Can you do any better?

Thief

'You steal words,' she said. 

Yes, I do 

I pick them up from the streets

Littered among conversations,

From dirty bar tables,

From lonely trains crowded with people

Words, thick and thin, 

Dropping with sarcasm and malice,

Words steeped in the essence 

Of poetry and wine,

That stink of yellow teeth and cigarette smoke.

Some are tainted with blood, and love. 

Dangerous, safe, clean, filthy,

They are many things

But words they all are. 

I pick them up and bring them home 

With me they stay. 

Some only for hours hang about,

Before slipping out of my pocket,

Into the dark corners of my mind

Where I can't chase them. 

The ones that stay

I train.

I clean them, and string them 

Together in stanzas and couplets

Paint them with thoughts and dreams,

And sell them 

To the highest bidder. 

I am not just a word thief. 

I am a criminal of a higher degree. 

She

She
Hovers over me,
My muse,
Leaning across the dark night,
And the stars in her hair
Drop down by the bedside
Where I store
Broken pieces of my past moons.

Lunar Musings

White blotched orb. Keeper of secrets. Guardian of somnolent souls. Scribe of crazy silence. Eternal insomniac. Lonely heart. Wolf god. Or Goddess. Gaia's pale stalker. Pockmarked space football. Conductor of ocean tides. Chopin's muse. Galileo's muse. And Gulzar's too. Mother pearl in Lucy's sky of diamonds. Starman's last stop. The third person in every conversation. The first witness of shy suicides. Night watchman. Dawn greeter. Quiet walker. Dream whisperer. Indiscreet spy. Circumambulator. Romeo's friend. Juliet's matron. Lovesick. Pale. Cursed. A thinker. An idea. The full stop after Earth's sentence. The period before universe begins. Or ends. Explored rock. Unknown territory. Free. Independent. Scary. Moon. Luna. Chand. Male. Female. Foe. Friend.

Can you see me? Do you hear these words? 

Hi. 

Conversations

Conversations
Quiet, muddled, befuddled
Never reaching a conclusion
Endless, meandering, circumambulating
Tiresome in their childish repetitions.
Conversations
Are never clear
They never come to me
Like they do in my dreams
Lucid, transparent
With you before me
Gathering my words in your arms
Slowly, letter by letter
A game of scrabble only we can play
A puzzle formed block by block
Till I finally find the right words to say
They never come to me
Like they do in my dreams.
Clear, precise and charming
Completely disarming
With you on the other side.
It never happens that way.
It never will.

Exhausted

I wish to be exhausted
Too tired to breathe
Walking on broken bones
Staggering to bed
Empty of thoughts, feelings and you
So I work myself through
 pains last flashpoint
Break all memories' joints
Forget the task of remembering
Build a life of dismembering
Events, words, every trace
Of the shadowy curves of your face
The tinkling bells of your laughter
That ignite hope in a dangerously flammable heart
I fight the last fires that burn in the infinite dark
I wish to be tired, to sleep
Like I slept in your arms
Quietly breathing in life
With all its minutes and memories
Complete and half-done
When I could lift my eyes and touch the stars in your dreams

I wish to be exhausted of these

Be True...Re-view - The Secretive Six by Saurabh Mathur

Umberto Eco, offering advice on his complicated task of writing, said, “If we think that our reader is an idiot, we should not use rhetorical figures, but if we use them and feel the need to explain them, we are essentially calling the reader an idiot. In turn, he will take revenge by calling the author an idiot.”

Sensible advice and one worth following. Saurabh Mathur, sadly, does not stick to the famous librarian's words. His debut novel ' The Secretive Six' reads through like a badly shot film that leaves you regretting the ticket price. Revolving around a group of 'super' cops seeking to solve the mysterious murder of an IIT professor, the story becomes predictable in a way it shouldn't be. As a writer, the author needs to dominate the pace of the story, releasing plot points and Macguffins slowly. Mathur, on the other hand, seeks to explain every bit. Nothing ever happens by accident in Mathur's novel. While that might be a fascinating philosophy for Sherlock Holmes to live by, it reduces the allure of a suspense novel. After all, where would the suspense be, if the protagonists knew how anything and everything happens. This is one of the key reasons why creating an antagonist in a suspense novel requires just as much work as creating its main characters. For every Batman to work, you need the Joker. For every Sherlock, there needs to be a genuine, bonafide, genius Moriarty.

The novel does have its good parts. The characters are well fleshed out, and the murder, though not mysterious, does have its complexities. The technical aspects of crime solving and forensic science do emerge in some detail. This is a credit to the writer's research, we presume. It would make for an engrossing read if you have the time to spare. Otherwise, Saurabh Mathur might want to take Umberto Eco's advice and try sparing the readers all the details next time.

Tum mere paas hote ho goya...

I opened my eyes to annoying brightness. 

'Where are we going', she asked. 

I didn't know. Somewhere good, I hope. Why are you here?

'Why? Would you rather I was not?' 

The desert raced past the windows. I could see her reflection imposed on the scenery. A reflection of my mind. 

'It has been a while', she smiled.

I wondered about the last time we met. There was no day that came up in my thoughts. There was no word I remembered having spoken. Yet, there was her face. Popping up like warts across the skin of my memories. 

Why are you here? 

'I was bored. I needed someone to talk to. Did you miss me?'

Time casts a shadow upon memories. A glance, a second, could expand to occupy hours of your dreams. 

'I was gone a long time, wasn't I? Did you miss me?' 

The rain started as suddenly as the conversation. Tiny little drops of memories that teetered on the edge of time. And then, without a thought, fell. To rise up again, some other time. 

The darkness of the room was so different from the light I had dreamed through. I could still hear her smiling. 

'Did you miss me?' 

You're still here, aren't you? 


Tum mere paas hote ho goya 
Jab koi dusra nahi hota 

You are by my side 
When no one else is

REM Sleep

The quietness of dawn is creeping upon me. There is no sound, but I can feel it. In the coldness that covers the floor. The creaks and snores of bodies in the other room. The sound of the dripping tap, one that was to be fixed last week, causes a mild irritation. I still have to get used to it. As the words form on this blank page, coded by words themselves, I wonder if I am awake or asleep.

Life seems to be on autopilot. I find myself in an open cubicle during daytime. Typing out documents, filled with copy that is interesting and uninteresting alternatively. I talk, mumble, and sometimes reply to others. All the time, my mind wandering to a place I don't recognise. I see that place occasionally, in my dreams. Quiet, dark and cold like this moment.

Fear is the immediate emotion. Next comes wonder. Slowly, the mind wakes up to the fact that the only danger is itself. No being can kill the mind, except the lack of escape from such a dark place. A place so dark that the mind loses its ability to imagine light. You slowly give in to the darkness and the mind...goes blank.

Peace comes at a heavy cost. You sleep. Your body - paralysed. But your eyes move. Rapid eye movement, they call it. Your brain is functioning. It discovers new worlds. Light, Soft, sweet, warm light. It floats through it. The prisms of brightness radiating through the mind.

Strange words to type in the night. I can feel the cold creep back to me. I can hear the snores back again, through the darkness. I look up and find it impossible to make out the features of the room. It is pitch black again.

Am I awake, or am I asleep? 

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.