... Stop doing it!

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Somebody told me recently, "if you don't like doing what you're doing, then stop doing it."

I did not contradict him or agree with him, but it made me a wee bit uneasy. The discussion was on something else, and this had come in between. I had a hunch that the person knew what he was talking about, so I did not hover over this for long. But I have this unpleasant habit of regurgitating thoughts much after the talk is over. It might not be as easy as it seems, to drop what you're doing because you don't enjoy doing it. And I am not talking (only) about career. Aren't there a lot of things in life that we do because we have to, we're expected to, we need to, but we don't want to?


Related post... Take your own path

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Make this a daily exercise...

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(Click on the image to enlarge)

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Good things take their own time coming

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The MAG has finally announced the results of the short story contest conducted early last year. All my entries have made it to the top twenty! We're told that these twenty stories will be published in paperback. Awaiting more news from the MAG.

What a start to the New Year!

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Overheard...

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... a conversation between my five-year-old and his Grandpa over phone.

"Appupa, Gandhiji did not die. Gandhiji marichathalla."
"Really?"

"Yes. A bad man came to him, bowed, said 'Bapu' and did dishun-dishun with a gun."
"Is that so!"

"Didn't you know?"
"Yes, you are right. I remember reading something about it. In fact, your Grandma and I once visited a museum in Madurai where the clothes Gandhiji was wearing on that day are preserved."

"With blood on it?"
"Yes, the clothes are blood-stained."

"Why did he say 'Bapu' if he was going to shoot him?"
"He was a bad man."

"Then Gandhiji said 'Hei, Ram'..."
"Yes, that is what he said before he died. Did you learn this in school?"

"No, my Amma told me."
"Good. I'm happy that you shared this with me."

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Shifting Priorities

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Thus ends my second year of blogging. When I flip through the posts like I used to once upon a time with my personal diary, I feel it's more or less like looking at old photographs - you remember exactly what you felt when you smiled and struck a pose, when you sighed and wrote a line. They bring back the sweetness, the bitterness, the pain, the pleasure, the madness, the anguish, the euphoria, but without affecting you any more: many of them have become milder over time. You've recorded the good things in life, indeed shouted from the rooftops; hid the lows between the lines because you don't want people to really know or don't consider it important for them to; though you suspect that some day you would want to secretly peep at them. So you write them all down in your own way - regardless of whether or not the reader comprehends them - because you're used to writing and it's your only mode of expression.

The year is in the process of giving way to a younger one, bowing to the applauding audience (also to the ones raising their fists at it) at the end of a show that included marriages, fearsome sicknesses, achievements, new arrivals, farewells, crises, loss, satisfaction, displeasure, conflicts, betrayal, the whole drama that constitutes a Bollywood masala, and on a larger scale, scams, games, leaks and other matters of scant importance.

December caught me off guard, with the sudden appearance of unfinished chores all over the place and pangs after pangs of guilt for wasted time, though deep inside, when I really bring myself to look at it, the wasted time was not wasted at all - they often turned out to be precious memories to treasure.

For a moment, I pull myself back to three or four years ago. I try to convince the younger Me as to where I will be at the dusk of 2010. I see myself shake my head and reply, "No way!! Impossible!" But then, there was also a time when I thought marriage, motherhood, and other certainties of life were impossible as well.

The highlight of this year had been Shifting Priorities. What I considered important kept running hither and thither, my heart butterflying after it, with my targets trailing behind like a thread caught in the wings. I sincerely hope the wandering priorities find their home in the coming year, as I have grown rather tired of the efforts. The sputtering motorcycle is exhausted. Age and Life have caught up sooner than expected! There is no running away from them, not any more.

What am I talking about?
The year had been kind. The people have been kinder. The circumstances couldn't have been better. And Gravity, bless Gravity, has been pulling harder, especially at the corners of my lips.

So let's clink the glasses and usher in the New Year.

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Tele-Annoyance Unlimited

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"Hello?"
"Good Afternoon, Sir."

"Sir? Sir? Do I sound like 'Sir' to you?"
"Sorry, Madam."

"That's more like it! Now tell me, how can I assist you?"
"Madam, I am Uma calling from Tele-Annoyance Unlimited Incorporated Privated Limited..."

"What in the world is that?"
"We're an insurance-based credit card company...blah blah blah..."

"Uh."
"Er... would you be interested, Madam?"

"God Forbid. No, not in the least. Thank Heavens I'm not."
"Okay..."

"Can I offer you an advice? An unsolicited, unasked advice, for your own well-being?"
"Madam?"

"Probably someone is paying you to make these calls, but just in case you want anyone to be really or even remotely interested in this thing you're talking about... don't call them at 3PM. There is the remotest, unlikeliest possibility that they're taking a nap and your poor self will be exposed to the most vilest and foulest language on Earth."
"Sorry, Madam."

"Ah, you get the point. There, that's a good girl. Bye!" Click.

*

"Yaaawwww--ello--wnn?"
"Hello? Is this the house of Mr.-?"

"It certainly is."
"Can I please speak to him?"

"Ah, sorry, sweet lady. The darn guy's gone to office. I'm his wife. Can I pass on some lovely message from you?"
"Madam, I am Neha calling from H##C Bank, this is regarding a car loan..."

"Ah, the dumbo hasn't paid his EMI, eh?"
"No, I mean, I just wanted to ask if he would be interested in taking another car loan..."

"Another? You have no idea, this hubby of mine, he rarely remembers to pay his installments for the existing loan. They nearly confiscated our car the last time. Hey, maybe you can help me. Do you think you can give us some loan using which we can close the current loan? Hmmm?"
"Madam, our..."

"I hope we don't have to pay you back, since you're so nicely calling us up and offering a loan?"
"Sorry, Madam...."

"No? Then why in the world are you wasting my time, eh?"
Click.

"Heh heh."

*

"Hello?"
"Hello Madam, I am calling from Tele-Annoyance Unlimited... Can I speak to you for a minute?"

"Well, considering that you're already speaking, I am ready to risk the remaining precious fifty seconds of my life."
"As you're our valued customer, blah blah blah.. esteemed customer.. blah blah blah.... we're offering you blah blah blah... totally free of cost!"

Snore. "Is that all?"
"Yes Madam, would you be interested?"

"No. Nah. Nada. Curious, isn't it...?"
"Madam??"

"... That 'No' is the same in so many languages?"
"Err... Madam, yes of course... Does that mean..?"

"Wait! Let me make a deal with you."
"Deal, Madam?"

"Shhh... " (whispering) "I will share the contact numbers of my three managers and their managers. If you like, a couple of my colleagues too, the nastiest ones, mind you. In return, will you shift-delete my number from your records?"
"Madam!"

"No? I thought so. Thanks. Bye." Click.

*

"Hello?"
"Yawwwwwwnnnnn."

"Hello?"
"I'm here, I'm here. This has better be good."

"Madam, I'm calling from S@#$%% Bank, this is regarding credit card..blah blah blah."
"No, no, so kind of you, but thanks, not interested."

"Okay, Sorry Madam..."
"Oh, wait!"

"Yes Madam?"
"You said you're calling from S@#$%% Bank? But I am in no way related to that bank. I do not have an account there, so how did you get my number?"

"Oh, from our database, Madam."
"But how did it get into your database?" (Smiling) "I never interacted with your bank in my life."

"Er...we have our methods, Madam."
"Like? For example?"

"Err... I cannot divulge them, Madam..."
"Oh how unkind! We're talking about my phone number here," (Smiling) "Don't you think I am entitled to know? I am just soooo curious!"

"Errr.... we get these numbers from Airtel*, Madam."
"Airtel? My service provider?"

"Yes Madam." (Smiling) "Is that all, Madam?"
"It certainly is not all, Girl. Airtel, huh? Is that how it is? I am going to sue them for selling my phone numbers to cr@p sellers without my permission!"

Click.


* True story
** All are based on real incidents

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What's the hurry?

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The aircraft touches down on the smooth tarmac close to the sea. A gentle voice announces the arrival at Thiruvananthapuram International Airport.

Click, click, click... The seat-belts begin to come off, even as the voice continues to advise, "All passengers are requested to remain seated, with their seat-belts fastened, and keep electronic equipments switched off until the aircraft comes to a standstill and the seat-belt sign is switched off... "

The click, click, click continues, followed by a jugalbandhi of  music from different cellphones being switched on.

The voice goes on, this time with a shred of tiredness and resignation, "You're now allowed to switch your cellphones on."

The five-year-old looks up at the seat-belt sign that is glowing as the plane slowly glides to a halt and asks, "Why do those people take the seat-belt off? See? The sign is still on."

His mother replies just loud enough for the other passengers to hear, "Uh.... they must be used to jumping off moving trains..."

*

The bride stretches her neck forward and blushes.The Nadaswaram rises to a crescendo as the groom passes the yellow string around her neck. His sister, waiting right behind the bride, helps him tie the knot. The visitors in the front row throw handfuls of flowers at them. A man hiding behind the curtain pulls a clandestine rope and the pot hanging right above the couple overturns, showering them and everyone in the vicinity with flower petals. 

The bride and groom rise from their seats, garland each other, and her father places her hand on the groom's, in a symbolic Kanyadaan. 

For the back-benchers, this is the cue to rise from their own seats and rush and push towards the hall where lunch is served, unmindful of the fact that the bride and groom have not even stepped down from the stage.

A non-Malayali, watching the exodus, asks, alarmed, "What happened? Where are they all off to??"

"Oh, don't worry," mutters the bride's sister, pretending not to notice the rush at the door to the lunch-hall, "they must have skipped their breakfast for the sake of the sadya..."

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Pickle

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I wish there was pickle.

The rice is bland, the curry that was plopped on it seems as though it was held under a tap, the clump of vegetable placed on the side of the plate, tasteless.

Last night I again dreamt of dipping my finger into a generous helping of lemon pickle, the salty, spicy, mouth-watery kind someone used to make long ago, and licking it, and squirming with pleasure at the sting that set my tongue aflame. The dream returns every other night.

The day they made sambar, the fragrance flowed to me across chasms of hunger pangs. But the moment they plopped it on my rice, I knew, it was as dead as every curry they plop on it day after day, year after year.

The sweets they serve on special days I no longer wish to taste, and never was there a special day when they served pickle.

The gardens are dull and colourless, a few stumps grown here and there by people who had no love for them, ploughed up by those whose hearts were not in it. Weeds would never overgrow this lifeless garden, nor would roses. Leaves would show a sick green, never the fresh lively colour they display elsewhere. The plants would wither without blossoming, stunted in their growth by unfriendly hands that knew no gentleness.  The planting, the ploughing, the watering, were part of the exercise, the punishment.

Fresh air never found the door to this place, nor did it seek it. Forever, if I am let out, my body would carry the damp prison smell. Even the wind that blows on my trips to the court are contaminated by the walls of the room and the windows of the police van.

They, as always, push my case and me aside with a wave of the hand. Another hearing, another day. They argue with each other on my life and death, I need not talk unless spoken to. They debate on whether I am this or I am that. My felony I can hardly recall. Maybe there was one, maybe there were many. I shake my head. I lost interest in the farce long ago. When I look out the window, I see that the shrubs there don't flower either.

There never was a line between sanity and insanity. The sane ones said there was. The insane ones never cared.

When I asked for pickle one day, I was told, "You're sentenced to death. What use do you have of pickle? Pray for clemency, instead."

Another day, another year, they told me I am serving a life sentence.

The craving for pickle makes my stomach turn. My tastebuds are dead through lack of exercise.

By the end of the sentence, a spot of pickle on my tongue would be a shot of cyanide.
A word I utter would burst my throat.
A puff of fresh air would slash my skin.
A touch of a loving hand would break my heart.

Within these gray walls, life and death are mere sentences, short, straightforward, without the beauty of metaphors, without a sparkle of colour...

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