Lost...

I have always felt lucky to be surrounded by an extremely beautiful set of friends. Very lucky, to be honest. I somehow have always had the opportunity of having many friends at a time. Highly selective actually, but quite a good number... I can’t say I have fewer, cuz I make friends at different stages of my life. And that makes them important, as we usually share a piece of each other’s life at some point or the other.

It’s also why I guard them zealously. Often slightly possessively. They are unique beings, and they will always fit in the scheme of things... a much esteemed face reader once told me that I need emotional anchors in my life, to balance the person I am. And she was bang –on right! They live and grow with me, and spin this web of comfort all around....

Unfortunately I was not showered with the gift of expression very generously, so I’m as about good as expressing my love as the cactus on your windowsill J some of my friends get that, and being similar beings accept it. Others don’t like it but accept it anyhow. Then there are those who think I take them for granted. Maybe I do. Sometimes I do. But more often than not I try and convey it to them in my way. I’m not proud of it, to be sure. There’s also the fact that life now is too complicated to keep in touch with everyone. So I usually concentrate on them in turns, which is probably not the right thing to do. Nevertheless, I’m still learning...

Whatever the case, I have never lost a cherished one.

Until now. I think I lost one on the way, and just beginning to feel it. It’s left me with a weird feeling; like when you lose something important and have to live with, sometimes your fingers clutch the ghost of it- and then you remember. It was slow process of loss, almost silent. But it happened. And now I’m clutching bare air. My friend was someone who shared almost 2 years of my everyday life with the most mundane and the most wonderful things, all during the ritual of an evening walk. Sometimes even just walking worked, for both of us. We didn’t have to talk. I was too proud to admit it till now, but he was important. Well, enough to write a sobby blog post, which I’m sure he’ll admit. Him being the cactus plant sitting right next to me... but with an occasional flower or two.

 I won’t delve into the complexities of why and how things went wrong... it’s just important in itself that it did...

To you... I just want you to know I care. Even though I probably pretend I don’t. Or not said it out loud enough. Or showed it. And no matter how 'little' I know of you, I’ll always see you clearly (refer to picture)... you know why... J

Casanova...

His thoughts are in sync

With the rhythm of the hearts

He wears on his sleeve

Not his own, never

That exists in a quiet corner

Of something, somewhere

The things he knows

The mysteries he solves

The slow revolving fingertip....

Is trained... to perfection

But the cogs that run

Are not in the back of his mind

They are for more important things

Building nations...

Deconstructing war...

It is the back of his tongue

The words that twist

A sweet flowing hum

Of caressing words...

They swoon, they glow

In numbers...

Unfortunately, they are not his victories

For that is not his virtue

To each broken heart

He confesses

No intention of vows

Amidst groans...

This poor soldier will go far

And I dare not condemn him

For I know

What he doesn’t

His only fault

Lies in the destruction

Of a starved soul

To the touch of bare skin

And of a heart

That has only almost

Known love...

Recess

The town of Sehore (where I work) is devoid of electricity for about 7 hours a day. Between 6 am to 10 am and 3 to 5 pm. This means almost 3-4 hours of office time disrupted. Most of it doesn’t matter as many of the guys here are field animators but when reports have to be made and surveys analysed, we face problematic situations.

The upside of it is the 2 hours we sit together without doing much, from 3 pm to 5 pm is the kind of time when you almost can’t go outside unless you want to turn into ashes; the heat is unhealthy. So whether you like the company or not, you have to stay put. Everyone from the boss to the accountant comes and congregates in the same room.

That’s why I call this time recess. It is a time when everyone gets a chance to talk about varied things, and every opinion is considered. The conversations I have with my colleagues are far more than what you would call interesting- religion, literature, politics, history, fieldwork. Right from the oldest employee who has been working since the organisation came into existence- who can chart out the successes and failures of the various government schemes ever implemented in the state, to the history genius who knows the context of each context, the story behind each story. I’ve had loud passionate conversations about the differences between city people and village people. The notion of city amidst the others; debates that would take hours. There was silent reminiscing about old songs and movies as well as the newest gossip. I think their stories thrilled me as much as mine thrilled or shocked them. Most conversations had smart innuendos from our boss who’d attempt to make the situation lighter in some way or the other.

Though it seems a great way to spend an afternoon, it’s actually more than that. It gives us a niche to understand each other and accept the varied opinions thrown around. Most of us are outsiders coming from different states, and this proves to be a sort of rite de passage. 

It was a while ago when I realised I’ve never been part of such rich discussions before. Even the ones that involved village customs like ostracism and child marriage were not stuff that was read of newspapers. They were sharing their lives. And I was mine. We were living off our own experiences and we never got bored. We still don’t.

A few of my colleagues have decided to leave and find better opportunities elsewhere; I’ll probably miss out on a lot that could’ve been shared. And then again we might have new people, new opinions, and new lives with new topics. Whatever be the situation, I think I am grateful for these two hours sans electricity. Never thought I would like the stifling time spend in a small room. But recess still means something I look forward to J and probably the no work bit too!  

Blue...

Spirals of deep blue

In my blood

Making slow circles

Freezing

Everything else

Stirring only that

Which I long for

The only faces I see

Clearly

Eyes. Ears. Lips. Smile

This poison has seen my heart...

The final warmth

Coming from all that was....

AILA!! WICKE(D)T..........

I reached work earlier than usual only to flip the paper and check the random pre match gossip. Who was fasting for whom, where will the VIP’s stay, etc. Since I don’t have a TV for regular updates, the office newspaper has become important. I’d know nothing  of whats happening in the world otherwise. I still never flipped over to the sports page, but today I was going to do exactly that.

Little did I know that the first page of the Hindustan times will contain 5 snapshots, four of which I knew and liked. A few moments later I was guilty; the immediate childish guilt for having seen/said/felt something you completely shouldn’t. I back tracked and looked into the faces of Sangakara, Murlidharan, Malinga and Jaywardhane again. In the crack of the moment I realised they were Sri Lankans and they were playing against my country today

The IPL somehow did this one amazing thing. It made teams more important than countries. And people more important than teams. Apart from the billion dollars of personal wealth attained each year, it’s giving us more. A fair chance to love players from other countries. With some awe I remembered that all these four were in teams I had supported last year in the IPL. And not because it was home team or I liked the region. But I liked the players individually. Murlidharan and Malinga still give me goose bumps as they charge on to the field with all that confidence and passion. And sadly, I might hate myself for admitting this, but none of the Indian players make me feel that way anymore. After Dravid, I’ve never felt like revering Indian cricketers for their style or grace; in the way I do these Sri Lankans.

But I love my country too much. I’ll pray for a clean win and the biggest victory for the strongest Indian side since 1983. And I'll whoop at every wicket we take and every boundary we score. Yet I feel divided somehow. Between unquestionable patriotism and honest respect for a few players. I didn't know I'd have to choose.

Whoever wins, I will win today. Whoever loses, I will lose.

All the best India. Beat them. But let them have their peace. Amen.

SOS

A farmer commits suicide every few hours in this country and there is nothing 3.5 billion of us can do for it?

It’s enraging how politicians are getting narrowed down to one homogenous genre every time I lift the newspaper. People who somewhere on the path of selfless service and altruism lose their hearts to the magnitude of their stomachs. It is this greed that consumes them and then the 90% of the population at their mercy.

At 21, I’d rather die trying to make a difference than live to see the future that lies ahead. In my head I am sure that if a power a Mamta Banerjee possess can be divided and distributed to a thousand local activists, we’d have one great state. I get to see rural politics each day of my life and still cannot comprehend how a Sarpanch can favour rich relatives over dying neighbours. How does this man sleep in the next room, knowing that he has done wrong?

I left a buzzing city to feel better about myself and the work I want to do. Mumbai’s soul was crushed many years ago under an overburdened local train. The city now exists in the small bubbles of each individual’s selfish life, where nothing matters unless you are satisfied. It thrives because it’s a million minute lives, not one integrated city. The more I tried to find its soul, the more it seems hidden in the crevices. And no one can be blamed anymore. Each one is fighting hard to live; its difficult to get them to look out for others.

But that’s the case only with select metros. What about the others?  Now I’m working in a district in an underdeveloped state, trying to bring some ounce of peace to the villages. And again, I find myself faced with the commonality of heartlessness and helplessness. For now, I cannot see a way out.

Will we ever have the opportunity of seeing a leader who has one bit of the essence of giving back, fairly and honestly? Politicians do need the will to see change. And to be change. To be genuine and loyal. And be ready to help. I see none of it for now.

It’s all greed and glamour. With a price tag...

Two little girls

I sat in a train next to a window seat and watched two little girls. Each caught my attention differently. They were two very different little girls...

 The smaller of the two was a quiet child. She sat prim and proper watching everything around her with a straight eyed-understanding. It was as though she was assessing the people around her. Her glance rested on my face for an instant, she knew I was watching her. She took in my exhausted expression, smeared kajal and black spectacles. I could feel her sum me up. She gave a slight nod and looked away. I felt accepted by her, and smiled to myself.

The second child ran up to the opposite window fifteen minutes later. Older than the other, she had a little haggered, messy look about her. Her eyes were big and curious, bland and frank. She had a hint of stubborn on her, the kind of look you see in the face of a child resisting hardships. She snatched herself away from a harrowed mother and ran to own the window. Her authority and triumph were quite obvious. She too sensed my eyes on her and looked up. Her defiant eyes dared me to object, but since I didn’t she looked away, to find something more interesting.

I saw them both in the same range of vision, the silent observer and the trouble maker. The latter started to hum, then wail a little. Then stage a dashing cars scene with two coins she had with her. The former looked behind and spoke some bit of wisdom in a listening father’s ear.

It was then that I saw the father. Something also told me that the dashing cars had come to a standstill as the other child noticed what I had. The whispering between father and daughter. The bond of understanding. And slowly I sensed the stubborn air around her deflate. Her wide eyes were taking in the loving conversation. She looked helpless and jealous at the same time. I could read the obvious on that child’s face. It simply said. I wish I had that. I might’ve been better. I’d try to be better.

Unconsciously, as if an unknowing force had settled on her, the harrowed mother got up suddenly and came to sit next to her. They wrestled for a few seconds; she didn’t like her mother encroaching on her space. But slowly, she gave way and propped her face in her mother’s lap...

The younger one showed no emotion. She looked at the mother caressing the child in front of her, her eyes read the submission on each face. Slowly, almost unknowingly, her fingers reached to her shoulder where her father’s hand rested. She didn’t move after that...

I looked at these two children and realised how much they had said to me, without uttering a word. I saw fear. And longing. And love, and undeniable chaos. There was a world of chaos going on even in those tiny heads, wanting their place in the world... searching each nook and cranny for something of their own... and I suddenly realised that this chaos was never only a grown-up thing. It grew up with us, and breathed and observed and wailed with us. We’re just too self absorbed in ourselves to notice such small things. To notice two little girls.