Not everyone will be kind.
And that's okay.
We'll still have a few
On our side
To fight our battle.
We'll hold their hands
And let the others go
Because it's a cause
Worth dying for.
Or a dream
Worth Living for.
Friday, December 25, 2020
Friday, August 28, 2020
Caged
The cage is open; but the bird does not flee:
She's bound by reasons that seem strange to me.
Torn is her heart as she peers at the sky;
Mountains and meadows invite her to fly.
No one nor nothing compells her to stay;
Why does she dither, why not fly away?
The trees and the rains, the wind of her dreams;
The temptation fails to entice her, it seems.
If she spreads her wings, she'll never be free:
The burden along will she have to carry.
A lump in her throat, in her thoughts as she wades,
Her choice is made; in her eyes the light fades.
What her heart yearns for, she cannot choose;
What she's been granted, she cannot lose.
She takes a step back, she closes the door;
She won't look again; be tempted no more.
Her faith in herself - therein her strength lies;
She's content; though some call it... sacrifice.
First published: August 2014
Thursday, August 6, 2020
Shadows of the Past and other stories - now available at a discount
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Sunday, April 19, 2020
Lockdown: Day 1
Silence.
It’s like an apocalypse movie. Deserted streets, dust blowing in the wind, empty tins pattering as they roll across.
No, actually it wasn’t. Empty lane, check. A few cars parked outside the gates, check. No one in sight, check.
I took cautious steps outside the gate. And onward, towards the highway...
No wind, no dust, no tin pattering across. Absolute stillness. As though even leaves were afraid to breathe.
I heard voices from a house; their gates were open. I did not look as I went past. If they catch my eye, they would glare at me: what are you doing outside when there is a lockdown in place? I had to buy vegetables and milk, and we are allowed to go out in case of emergencies, including buying provisions. But people who glare would not know my emergencies, would they? They would only assume I am one of those rule breakers they hear about in the news.
The disquieting silence made me crouch a little within myself. I wasn’t afraid, but had this strange feeling of being where I shouldn’t be. Just a couple of weeks ago, this same street was filled with residents who were offering Pongala to the Devi. Lined up on both sides, making fire and smoke and prasadam.
The quietness was broken by the low rumble of a scooter as I approached the highway. Then a car. I turned a bend in the road. Some vehicles were plying, but not even half of the usual traffic. This was peak hour. Back when there were things like peak hours. Only a few days ago, but seems like ages already.
Am I the only one walking? Oh, no. There’s an old man, shabbily clad, unconcerned with anything, trudging along, to who knows where. When cars passed me, I did not look at them. I did not want to invite questions - unless they were the police, in which case I had a written note that explained the whys and wherefores of my outbound adventure. Which was a pre-requisite, as per the new rules.
(Pause a moment and ask yourself: just two months ago, if anyone had told you that you would have to convince police officers or the government with a written note, about your purpose in stepping out, and if it isn’t important enough, they would have the authority to turn you back, how would you have reacted? Laughed in their faces? In this world, in this democracy! you would have said, indignantly. I have the freedom, you would have said. I live in an independent nation! Are they trying to turn us all into Kashmir? And so forth. And now look at yourself, meekly following rules, Yes, sir, I have a note with me, look sir, with my name, phone number and address, the date and time of my visit to the shop - I need to get some medicines for my mother, sir, and a couple of vegetables, because everything has run out; and oh! milk too, yes I will be back the moment I get it, sir. Of course sir, I won’t even stop to say Hi to my neighbour. Take care of yourself, sir. Thank you for protecting us, sir. Would you like some water, sir?)
The shop was closed. It would open in ten minutes. I decided to wait. A man came up to the store, looked at the shutters and hesitated. He would not talk to me, or even look directly at me, because we are in Lockdown. So I offered the information that the shop would open only at 11. He nodded and walked across to the medical shop - the only shop open on the other side of the road. We have this way of talking without really looking. Our attitude has changed. We see others without having to look into their eyes. We pretend we're not even here. You don’t see me; I don’t see you.
A post woman (not our regular), looking haggard under the blazing sun, with her khakhi uniform and her khakhi bag, returns to the post office. Her work goes on as normal. At least for today.
When the shop opened, I quickly went over to the vegetables section. Picked out whatever I could. Whatever was there. A handful of people had come in. Staying away from each other; again, conscious of each other but pretending to not be. Some wore masks. Which made it all the more difficult to identify them. But that was okay. We did not want to identify anyone. We're all invisible for the duration of the Lockdown.
In the midst of strolling with the trolley, I had to sneeze. I tried to hold it in, but it begged to be released. One hand on the trolley and another holding a packet of milk, unable to get to the handkerchief in time, I had to let go, using my sleeve to cover my face. I could sense everyone freeze and glare at me if I were the COVID virus itself. Everyone is suspicious of everyone else. We're battling an enemy we can't see, who can confront us through the face of our friends.
I did not look at anyone, just went ahead with my trolley, as though nothing had happened. I wanted to wipe the perspiration off my face; I wanted to clear my nose, I wanted to rub my eyes, I wanted to do a million things that were now considered dangerous. But everything is different now. As I waited to pay my bill, a packet fell from the hands of the person standing in front of me. Normally I would pick it up and hand it over to him. Today I did not budge. I am not supposed to touch anything. For my sake as well as his. I paid for the items and cleared out of the shop.
A few cars were arriving. But the roads were mostly empty. Sun was shining - burning is the word.
Again back into our lane. Two people waited by the road, one on a scooter and one on foot. There was a gas cylinder on the ground near them. Again that evasive eye technique. They don't see me; I don't see them. My reasons for emerging from the protection of home are my own; yours are your own. For a fleeting moment I wondered who they were. What if they knocked me down and took my purse and my purchases? I could do nothing. The handwritten affidavit would flutter away in the wind. No one would come to my aid. Everyone was shut up and keeping to themselves out of fear from catching the pandemic. The scene was perfect for criminals.
Nothing happened.
I crossed them and reached home, sweating from all pores. Nothing can match Kerala's summer, I assure you.
I hope the virus would find it unbearable too.
(Written on March 25, 2020)
It’s like an apocalypse movie. Deserted streets, dust blowing in the wind, empty tins pattering as they roll across.
No, actually it wasn’t. Empty lane, check. A few cars parked outside the gates, check. No one in sight, check.
I took cautious steps outside the gate. And onward, towards the highway...
No wind, no dust, no tin pattering across. Absolute stillness. As though even leaves were afraid to breathe.
I heard voices from a house; their gates were open. I did not look as I went past. If they catch my eye, they would glare at me: what are you doing outside when there is a lockdown in place? I had to buy vegetables and milk, and we are allowed to go out in case of emergencies, including buying provisions. But people who glare would not know my emergencies, would they? They would only assume I am one of those rule breakers they hear about in the news.
The quietness was broken by the low rumble of a scooter as I approached the highway. Then a car. I turned a bend in the road. Some vehicles were plying, but not even half of the usual traffic. This was peak hour. Back when there were things like peak hours. Only a few days ago, but seems like ages already.
Am I the only one walking? Oh, no. There’s an old man, shabbily clad, unconcerned with anything, trudging along, to who knows where. When cars passed me, I did not look at them. I did not want to invite questions - unless they were the police, in which case I had a written note that explained the whys and wherefores of my outbound adventure. Which was a pre-requisite, as per the new rules.
(Pause a moment and ask yourself: just two months ago, if anyone had told you that you would have to convince police officers or the government with a written note, about your purpose in stepping out, and if it isn’t important enough, they would have the authority to turn you back, how would you have reacted? Laughed in their faces? In this world, in this democracy! you would have said, indignantly. I have the freedom, you would have said. I live in an independent nation! Are they trying to turn us all into Kashmir? And so forth. And now look at yourself, meekly following rules, Yes, sir, I have a note with me, look sir, with my name, phone number and address, the date and time of my visit to the shop - I need to get some medicines for my mother, sir, and a couple of vegetables, because everything has run out; and oh! milk too, yes I will be back the moment I get it, sir. Of course sir, I won’t even stop to say Hi to my neighbour. Take care of yourself, sir. Thank you for protecting us, sir. Would you like some water, sir?)
The shop was closed. It would open in ten minutes. I decided to wait. A man came up to the store, looked at the shutters and hesitated. He would not talk to me, or even look directly at me, because we are in Lockdown. So I offered the information that the shop would open only at 11. He nodded and walked across to the medical shop - the only shop open on the other side of the road. We have this way of talking without really looking. Our attitude has changed. We see others without having to look into their eyes. We pretend we're not even here. You don’t see me; I don’t see you.
A post woman (not our regular), looking haggard under the blazing sun, with her khakhi uniform and her khakhi bag, returns to the post office. Her work goes on as normal. At least for today.
When the shop opened, I quickly went over to the vegetables section. Picked out whatever I could. Whatever was there. A handful of people had come in. Staying away from each other; again, conscious of each other but pretending to not be. Some wore masks. Which made it all the more difficult to identify them. But that was okay. We did not want to identify anyone. We're all invisible for the duration of the Lockdown.
In the midst of strolling with the trolley, I had to sneeze. I tried to hold it in, but it begged to be released. One hand on the trolley and another holding a packet of milk, unable to get to the handkerchief in time, I had to let go, using my sleeve to cover my face. I could sense everyone freeze and glare at me if I were the COVID virus itself. Everyone is suspicious of everyone else. We're battling an enemy we can't see, who can confront us through the face of our friends.
I did not look at anyone, just went ahead with my trolley, as though nothing had happened. I wanted to wipe the perspiration off my face; I wanted to clear my nose, I wanted to rub my eyes, I wanted to do a million things that were now considered dangerous. But everything is different now. As I waited to pay my bill, a packet fell from the hands of the person standing in front of me. Normally I would pick it up and hand it over to him. Today I did not budge. I am not supposed to touch anything. For my sake as well as his. I paid for the items and cleared out of the shop.
A few cars were arriving. But the roads were mostly empty. Sun was shining - burning is the word.
Again back into our lane. Two people waited by the road, one on a scooter and one on foot. There was a gas cylinder on the ground near them. Again that evasive eye technique. They don't see me; I don't see them. My reasons for emerging from the protection of home are my own; yours are your own. For a fleeting moment I wondered who they were. What if they knocked me down and took my purse and my purchases? I could do nothing. The handwritten affidavit would flutter away in the wind. No one would come to my aid. Everyone was shut up and keeping to themselves out of fear from catching the pandemic. The scene was perfect for criminals.
Nothing happened.
I crossed them and reached home, sweating from all pores. Nothing can match Kerala's summer, I assure you.
I hope the virus would find it unbearable too.
(Written on March 25, 2020)
Wednesday, March 25, 2020
This Moment In History
We're here, at this moment in history,
Looking out across the gulf
Trying to see the bright, free land
That we once knew and have lost sight of.
This generation, the people who are
Alive and aware at this moment,
We're going to remember forever
The battle we fought
... and won.
We're living in that sliver of Time
When History is being written
The Pandemic of 2020 will be talked about
Whether we survive to talk of it or not.
Will we ever find the normalcy we knew?
It seems unlikely. The normal will change.
Can you imagine getting a haircut,
Going to the grocery store, or standing in queue?
But years will pass, wind will blow
and a new normal will return,
Heaving with the burden of the past
and establish itself in our collective memory
We shall sigh, we shall pause a moment -
A long moment when, passing before our eyes
Would be the steep curve rising daily
Before it began to flatten. (Of course it will flatten.)
The endless cries to wash your hands,
to stay away, shut yourself up,
protect yourself, protect yourself,
To save humanity...
How we broke the chain, how we
stood together, even as we
Kept our distance from each other;
How we held our breath...
The sacrifices, the hardwork,
the never-ending worries,
The optimism in the midst of terrible news
One half idle as the other half works double...
A new normal will return, fear not -
It might seem too long, but
We shall see the other side,
When the world reopens after the lockdown.
Sometimes we need a reminder.
Today, the Silence all around
Reminds us the profound truth, that...
...we're all in this together.
This has been featured in "Stories to connect us" by Commonwealth writers: https://www.commonwealthwriters.org/stories-to-connect-us/
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
The elephant in the room
They walk around it - taking care
Not to step on it.
They speak of the illness, the discomfort
The sleepless nights and the lengthening days
They see the wall ahead, dark and sinister
They know what it signifies-
Each step getting them closer-
Nonetheless pretend it does not exist.
They talk of the coffee, the dinner,
And the journey someone has to undertake
the next morning
Secretly wondering each second,
Will the next morning arrive at all?
Will there be a sunrise, a sunset?
When can there be another walk
on the grass, barefoot ?
How many more rains, and sunshine,
How many more full moons?
How many more full moons?
How much more time to enjoy the flowers ?
How much longer, this precious life?
Talking of it is taboo.
They tip-toe around it, taking care
Not to disturb it.
They see it, and close their eyes
They turn away lest it feels itself invited
They say not its name, for fear of tempting it.
It bides its time,
mocking them,
stalking them,
stalking them,
scaring them...
It matters not what they do,
What they say, or not,
What they pretend,
...It'll get them in the end.
Wednesday, January 15, 2020
Fear...
It’s difficult to find happiness or contentment in this world, and hold on to it. It’s like seeking warmth in the middle of the cold, dark forest. We manage to create a little spark. A piece of paper, a few dry leaves, twigs. And we carefully blow on it so that it catches without dying out and spreads its heat to us, and protects us from the wild beasts. Are there wild beasts around us? We do not know. But as we sit around the fire, we are conscious of the intense jungle around and the possibility of danger. We do not gaze directly into the fire, for if we do, our eyes will take too long to adjust when we need to look into the darkness. Who knows, standing just outside the circle of light are all kinds of creatures, patiently waiting for the fire to die. We look around; see nothing. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Nor does that mean they do. As long as the fear is in our heart…
Tuesday, December 24, 2019
How do you think the world's going to end?
According to my early morning dream, it's alien invasion. Not your regular, creepy, six-tentacled, three-eyed, human-sized alien. These are insect-sized. Of all shapes.
Small they may be, but they arrive in large numbers. And we have no escape. Our planet is doomed.
The story begins deep in the heart of Kerala... Actually I've no idea where I am. I've forgotten the backstory. I just remember I'm there for work. There's a mountain range at a distance. And the place looks like a Kerala village. Somewhere I've been, in some forgotten past.
I know the name of the mountain. (But I've forgotten that too, now.) We know everything, in dreams.
As we stand there admiring it, one side of the mountain goes up in a tremendous blast. It's too far away but we feel the tremor.
We've no idea what happened.
A little later, probably hours, as we stand watching, a building closer to us explodes as if a bomb was dropped on it. This time debris fall towards us... We are thrown backwards.
With an eerie instinct we have in dreams, I realise what's going on.
I pick up my phone and call my mother.
I know she would see the news and be worried.
I tell her that this place is going up. I know it's goodbye. I can see her in my mind, holding the phone and staring at the TV, too shocked to even react.
More time has passed... On the river close to our place, we see small boats, thousands of them with colourful sails, they just keep coming...
And I remember, again with that knowledge we get only in dreams, that I've heard this somewhere:
They come in boats.
The next part is sketchy. We run, we hide; we see small insect-like creatures crawling and rolling all over the ground, over everything they see. They have eyes, but pretty much nothing else, except an urge to crawl over and destroy everything in their path. Just swarming everywhere.
A few of us escape from view, acting dead... And dash to an abandoned shed.
We peek through the window, it looks okay.
We go in and close the door. We turn around...
only to see, the room is already filled with these creatures.
It's over. There's nowhere else to go.
Nothing else to do.
We look at each other, my friends and I, smile knowingly, and we hug. At least we have each other.
We're ready.
I feel them creep over my feet.
I hold my friend tight.
And I wake up. Here, in this world, in my bed.
(It's just like Inception. If we die there, we wake up here.)
I remember the feeling. I was ready. I wasn't afraid. I knew there was nothing else to do.
It was time.
Small they may be, but they arrive in large numbers. And we have no escape. Our planet is doomed.
The story begins deep in the heart of Kerala... Actually I've no idea where I am. I've forgotten the backstory. I just remember I'm there for work. There's a mountain range at a distance. And the place looks like a Kerala village. Somewhere I've been, in some forgotten past.
I know the name of the mountain. (But I've forgotten that too, now.) We know everything, in dreams.
As we stand there admiring it, one side of the mountain goes up in a tremendous blast. It's too far away but we feel the tremor.
We've no idea what happened.
A little later, probably hours, as we stand watching, a building closer to us explodes as if a bomb was dropped on it. This time debris fall towards us... We are thrown backwards.
With an eerie instinct we have in dreams, I realise what's going on.
I pick up my phone and call my mother.
I know she would see the news and be worried.
I tell her that this place is going up. I know it's goodbye. I can see her in my mind, holding the phone and staring at the TV, too shocked to even react.
More time has passed... On the river close to our place, we see small boats, thousands of them with colourful sails, they just keep coming...
And I remember, again with that knowledge we get only in dreams, that I've heard this somewhere:
They come in boats.
The next part is sketchy. We run, we hide; we see small insect-like creatures crawling and rolling all over the ground, over everything they see. They have eyes, but pretty much nothing else, except an urge to crawl over and destroy everything in their path. Just swarming everywhere.
A few of us escape from view, acting dead... And dash to an abandoned shed.
We peek through the window, it looks okay.
We go in and close the door. We turn around...
only to see, the room is already filled with these creatures.
It's over. There's nowhere else to go.
Nothing else to do.
We look at each other, my friends and I, smile knowingly, and we hug. At least we have each other.
We're ready.
I feel them creep over my feet.
I hold my friend tight.
And I wake up. Here, in this world, in my bed.
(It's just like Inception. If we die there, we wake up here.)
I remember the feeling. I was ready. I wasn't afraid. I knew there was nothing else to do.
It was time.
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Stillness
Not a leaf moves.
Not a stone takes it upon itself
To roll to a side.
Not a tree desires to sway.
Not a vehicle arrives.
Not a human decides to stroll this way
Nor a pet or a stray.
I open my eyes.
Leaves are rustling.
Trees are swaying in the wind.
Cars swoosh past,
Flinging pebbles to the flanks
Cats meow eerily
Busy dogs sprint along
For no purpose
The world moves on.
I shudder and I...
close my eyes again.
Not a stone takes it upon itself
To roll to a side.
Not a tree desires to sway.
Not a vehicle arrives.
Not a human decides to stroll this way
Nor a pet or a stray.
I open my eyes.
Leaves are rustling.
Trees are swaying in the wind.
Cars swoosh past,
Flinging pebbles to the flanks
Cats meow eerily
Busy dogs sprint along
For no purpose
The world moves on.
I shudder and I...
close my eyes again.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
When you scroll down...
If you are going to scroll down the pages
Know that you will encounter my Life
What you have known, what you haven't
What you have felt, or haven't suspected
What will shock you, send you reeling
What will calm you, or astound you
What will make you nod and say
I have known this all along
What will make you marvel
Or will disappoint you
You'll find philosophy
You'll find silliness
You'll find half-cooked thoughts
You'll find abandoned efforts
And promising plot-lines
That never quite made it anywhere
You'll see my dreams
Concealed well or peeping out
You'll find reminders
You'll find secrets
You'll find almost everything.
But there will still be a part of me
That I haven't written down
That's mine alone
To die when I'm gone.
They don't emerge from between the lines
They're buried deep in my mind.
When you scroll down these pages
And encounter my Life in words...
Make sure you treat it with care
Because you now hold
My living, beating heart in your hands
Know that you will encounter my Life
What you have known, what you haven't
What you have felt, or haven't suspected
What will shock you, send you reeling
What will calm you, or astound you
What will make you nod and say
I have known this all along
What will make you marvel
Or will disappoint you
You'll find philosophy
You'll find silliness
You'll find half-cooked thoughts
You'll find abandoned efforts
And promising plot-lines
That never quite made it anywhere
You'll see my dreams
Concealed well or peeping out
You'll find reminders
You'll find secrets
You'll find almost everything.
But there will still be a part of me
That I haven't written down
That's mine alone
To die when I'm gone.
They don't emerge from between the lines
They're buried deep in my mind.
When you scroll down these pages
And encounter my Life in words...
Make sure you treat it with care
Because you now hold
My living, beating heart in your hands
Thursday, September 5, 2019
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Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Quirk of Fate
The only reason
Why
You're scrubbing
The floors outside,
On all fours,
While I'm seated
Before the TV
Relishing a delicious meal...
Why you're seated
Beneath an unkind sun
Burning your shoulders
Begging for alms
While I sit in a cab
Ordering food through an app...
Why your child
Doesn't know school
Whereas mine speaks
Of higher education
And choices
And contentment...
The only reason
Why
I'm here
And you're there
Is a strange
Quirk of fate...
Fate?
Something carried over
From an earlier life?
Or someone's cruel joke?
A game of life
where some always lose?
Who decides
Where I go and where you?
Nothing I have done;
Nothing you haven't done.
Our paths have been drawn
Before we were born.
It's as though I was
Given a head start.
For reasons
Neither you
Nor I
Could fathom.
You and I are
interconnected
through mutual need,
across the closed doors
and thick walls
And the chasm between us.
I'm given the chance
To give you a hand
And raise you
To your feet
Or to turn my back on you
And abandon you
To your fate.
Why
You're scrubbing
The floors outside,
On all fours,
While I'm seated
Before the TV
Relishing a delicious meal...
Why you're seated
Beneath an unkind sun
Burning your shoulders
Begging for alms
While I sit in a cab
Ordering food through an app...
Why your child
Doesn't know school
Whereas mine speaks
Of higher education
And choices
And contentment...
The only reason
Why
I'm here
And you're there
Is a strange
Quirk of fate...
Fate?
Something carried over
From an earlier life?
Or someone's cruel joke?
A game of life
where some always lose?
Who decides
Where I go and where you?
Nothing I have done;
Nothing you haven't done.
Our paths have been drawn
Before we were born.
It's as though I was
Given a head start.
For reasons
Neither you
Nor I
Could fathom.
You and I are
interconnected
through mutual need,
across the closed doors
and thick walls
And the chasm between us.
I'm given the chance
To give you a hand
And raise you
To your feet
Or to turn my back on you
And abandon you
To your fate.
Saturday, August 10, 2019
Lost
I opened the door and peeped in. I had gone back to get an umbrella.
She wasn't there so I called and asked aloud for an umbrella.
Still no response, but the balcony door was open so I stepped out. She was there, in her favourite chair, watching the drizzle. I had left her just a moment ago, but the face I saw was not the same.
She looked bewildered. As though the raindrops perplexed her. As though they were not supposed to be there. As though she was wondering what they were.
"Hey," I said, and explained why I was back.
She looked around, blinked and came back ---to this world.
A shiver spread through her. There was a breeze, and it was cold, but not that cold. She looked frail to me, all of a sudden. Frail and weak and... unprotected.
No, she wasn't. The shiver had given me that notion.
"Umbrella," she said and began wandering through the rooms. "Umbrella."
She doesn't have much use for one, I realised, for she rarely went out. Perhaps to the store nearby, or to get a haircut. She could choose her time. She need not go when it was raining.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "Don't bother."
But she was on the prowl and nothing could stop her. Muttering to herself, as to where she had seen it last. I just stood there, watching. Thinking. She was like a tiger in a cage. Searching, seeking, restless. In her eyes, the memory of wilderness lost, never to be found again. Wrapped in a cloak of solitude. Isolated. Desolated. Neglected. Abandoned. Forgotten. Yet living, as only some can.
She found it finally, but by that time the rain was over. It was just a drizzle after all.
She went out again and gazed at the light. She took a cloth and wiped a few drops off the railings. Had she forgotten my presence already?
I wondered if I should stay a little longer. She still had the wild look in her eyes. Just a few minutes ago we had had lunch together and she was a different person.
Now she was enveloped in this shroud.
It was strange.
But was it, really?
I had been conscious of this quiet transition. The shadow had been gaining on the light, in small steps. Today, my reappearance had brought her back. Tomorrow, she would wade into it for longer, and the next day, even longer, until one day she would pass entirely into the darkness.
We all lead two lives, a day and a night. As long as they exist in their own halves, we appear normal. For some, the light chases away the darkness; for others, the darkness shadows the light. There's an overlap that's normal; a shadow region with varying depths that's acceptable. And solitude, an overdose thereof, often lets the darkness in, gradually. We may even allow it to grow on us. The dark side is like a thrill - we know it is leading us astray, that it is shattering us to pieces, but we need its trance, if only to dampen the effects of our inexorable righteous thoughts.
She wasn't there so I called and asked aloud for an umbrella.
Still no response, but the balcony door was open so I stepped out. She was there, in her favourite chair, watching the drizzle. I had left her just a moment ago, but the face I saw was not the same.
She looked bewildered. As though the raindrops perplexed her. As though they were not supposed to be there. As though she was wondering what they were.
"Hey," I said, and explained why I was back.
She looked around, blinked and came back ---to this world.
A shiver spread through her. There was a breeze, and it was cold, but not that cold. She looked frail to me, all of a sudden. Frail and weak and... unprotected.
No, she wasn't. The shiver had given me that notion.
"Umbrella," she said and began wandering through the rooms. "Umbrella."
She doesn't have much use for one, I realised, for she rarely went out. Perhaps to the store nearby, or to get a haircut. She could choose her time. She need not go when it was raining.
"It doesn't matter," I said. "Don't bother."
But she was on the prowl and nothing could stop her. Muttering to herself, as to where she had seen it last. I just stood there, watching. Thinking. She was like a tiger in a cage. Searching, seeking, restless. In her eyes, the memory of wilderness lost, never to be found again. Wrapped in a cloak of solitude. Isolated. Desolated. Neglected. Abandoned. Forgotten. Yet living, as only some can.
She found it finally, but by that time the rain was over. It was just a drizzle after all.
She went out again and gazed at the light. She took a cloth and wiped a few drops off the railings. Had she forgotten my presence already?
I wondered if I should stay a little longer. She still had the wild look in her eyes. Just a few minutes ago we had had lunch together and she was a different person.
Now she was enveloped in this shroud.
It was strange.
But was it, really?
I had been conscious of this quiet transition. The shadow had been gaining on the light, in small steps. Today, my reappearance had brought her back. Tomorrow, she would wade into it for longer, and the next day, even longer, until one day she would pass entirely into the darkness.
We all lead two lives, a day and a night. As long as they exist in their own halves, we appear normal. For some, the light chases away the darkness; for others, the darkness shadows the light. There's an overlap that's normal; a shadow region with varying depths that's acceptable. And solitude, an overdose thereof, often lets the darkness in, gradually. We may even allow it to grow on us. The dark side is like a thrill - we know it is leading us astray, that it is shattering us to pieces, but we need its trance, if only to dampen the effects of our inexorable righteous thoughts.
Tuesday, July 30, 2019
We (Must) Matter
The one thing we are all afraid of, deep down - however we try to mask it with trivial and flashy occurrences of daily life or by exposing ourselves to desperate acts - is being irrelevant, becoming insignificant. Of passing through life without achieving anything of significance, without leaving a trace behind. Of reaching the end of our journey and wondering what we had done with the time we were bestowed. What extraordinary thing had we done that justifies our time on this planet? Or even, how exceptionally well did we perform the ordinary tasks of life, if at all our life wasn't meant to be remarkable? Something must stand out. We must be content at the end - that is our expectation. We must have mattered, to someone, somewhere. Our presence must have made a mark in someone's life. Preferably for the better. Sometimes even that is not enough.
All our antics are aimed at proving to ourselves and to the rest of the world - whoever be watching, whoever be remotely interested - that we are not immaterial, that we do leave a scratch behind, deep or negligible, that a grain of sand has shifted because we existed...
If everyone shifts the same old grains of sand, our efforts become ordinary, compelling us to begin again, a short distance from where we had started, and add to our efforts to edge forward, rolling up huge globes of clay without seeming to, pushing them up the hill and letting them roll back down... often without a spot of hope. Because each life matters; must matter... we must make a difference...
Everything we do boils down to this unconscious, and sometimes glaringly conscious, dread of being moored, through the relentless passage of time. Of being motionless when the World, in its infinite hurry, passes us by.
A Fear of Having Done Nothing.
A Fear of Not Making the Best Out of This Life.
A Fear of Not Grabbing Opportunities as They Flashed Past.
A Fear of Not Having Knocked on Doors Hard Enough.
A Fear of Regretting Doing Nothing.
"The Cab is at the Door. The Letter is in your hand. All you need is a touch of Courage..."
All our antics are aimed at proving to ourselves and to the rest of the world - whoever be watching, whoever be remotely interested - that we are not immaterial, that we do leave a scratch behind, deep or negligible, that a grain of sand has shifted because we existed...
If everyone shifts the same old grains of sand, our efforts become ordinary, compelling us to begin again, a short distance from where we had started, and add to our efforts to edge forward, rolling up huge globes of clay without seeming to, pushing them up the hill and letting them roll back down... often without a spot of hope. Because each life matters; must matter... we must make a difference...
Everything we do boils down to this unconscious, and sometimes glaringly conscious, dread of being moored, through the relentless passage of time. Of being motionless when the World, in its infinite hurry, passes us by.
A Fear of Having Done Nothing.
A Fear of Not Making the Best Out of This Life.
A Fear of Not Grabbing Opportunities as They Flashed Past.
A Fear of Not Having Knocked on Doors Hard Enough.
A Fear of Regretting Doing Nothing.
"The Cab is at the Door. The Letter is in your hand. All you need is a touch of Courage..."
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
Unexpected
Death knocked on my doors unexpectedly that day.
Unexpectedly...
Let me take a moment to consider the word.
Was it really unexpected?
Is death really unexpected?
Don't we know we will all die?
I knew she will die. Not that I had thought of it, even once.
Some day. (What a wonderfully optimistic word it is: "some day".)
It is an awareness. It is not a conscious knowledge.
Not something we spend even a minute on, unnecessarily.
On the other hand, it was her husband who had been sick. For whose treatment she used to borrow money.
So that's why it was unexpected.
Subconsciously perhaps, we expected him to pass first. As though...
It's unpleasant when we put it into words like that. We never expected him to die either.
That had not been a real thought we spent our time on, either. An consciousness, a belief, somewhere deep within.
But if that had happened, we would have nodded. Yes, he was sick. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.
She had been missing for a few days. Gone away, we were told. Which was true. She fell sick during her final journey. A pilgrimage? A vacation? Or a final duty to fulfil?
No one really learned when the transition to a hospital happened. A surgery followed.
All in a matter of days.
The next thing we see is her body wrapped in a cloth. Cotton in her nose and ears. Bloated face.
A mere shadow of herself.
Unexpected.
Because we expect nothing to change.
We expect tomorrow to be just as uneventful as today.
We complain about its uneventfulness, mundaneness, stagnant boredom - even when, in a way, we're grateful for it.
Unexpectedly...
Let me take a moment to consider the word.
Was it really unexpected?
Is death really unexpected?
Don't we know we will all die?
I knew she will die. Not that I had thought of it, even once.
Some day. (What a wonderfully optimistic word it is: "some day".)
It is an awareness. It is not a conscious knowledge.
Not something we spend even a minute on, unnecessarily.
On the other hand, it was her husband who had been sick. For whose treatment she used to borrow money.
So that's why it was unexpected.
Subconsciously perhaps, we expected him to pass first. As though...
It's unpleasant when we put it into words like that. We never expected him to die either.
That had not been a real thought we spent our time on, either. An consciousness, a belief, somewhere deep within.
But if that had happened, we would have nodded. Yes, he was sick. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.
She had been missing for a few days. Gone away, we were told. Which was true. She fell sick during her final journey. A pilgrimage? A vacation? Or a final duty to fulfil?
No one really learned when the transition to a hospital happened. A surgery followed.
All in a matter of days.
The next thing we see is her body wrapped in a cloth. Cotton in her nose and ears. Bloated face.
A mere shadow of herself.
Unexpected.
Because we expect nothing to change.
We expect tomorrow to be just as uneventful as today.
We complain about its uneventfulness, mundaneness, stagnant boredom - even when, in a way, we're grateful for it.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
The Primitive Art of Conversation
I have been walking around with a list for a while. Taking deep breaths every now and then. Putting the piece of paper down, and picking it up again. Fiddling my fingers and contemplating running away. You may suspect it is a list that could shatter a few worlds, or something as powerful. Sorry to disappoint you: it's my grocery list for the day. Or week, if you like, if you are a systematic person. Me? I just call up the shop whenever I remember an urgent item or two to purchase. And they deliver. I can pay with my card; they don't insist on cash. Easy-peasy. I have been calling them for over ten years. They know me now. The people who pick up the phone, if they have a moment to spare, ask about my well-being. I ask about theirs. So why am I trying to postpone the very simple, delightful task of ordering a few items which will be delivered to my door within the hour?
The answer is: I don't know. I try to put off calling the shop as much as I can. Almost until every necessary item in the kitchen has run out and there is no more escape if the family has to survive.
I have been doing some thinking and it occurs to me: I don't want to talk. Sad though it sounds, it is the truth. How much do I talk to people now? Very less. Everything happens via the phone - the very device which was invented for people to converse, is being used these days to do anything but. Almost every task gets done with enough amount of punching on the keypad or screen, not a word needs to be spoken.
Think about it: Family updates come via group chats. News from around the world pop up as messages; friends send their updates through social media. You can check at your leisure. You can reply at your convenience. Or ignore altogether, if you like. Food gets delivered, cabs line up at your door, books can be read, movies can watched - if you just know where to click. If you want to report a faulty telephone or know your bank balance, you don't need to say a word. Just dial, follow the recorded voice and keep pressing the keypad for the right amount of numbers. If you want to ask your neighbour something, send her a message and wait for her reply.
Here I must pause a moment to acknowledge people who still like to hang from their phones for hours on end, talking, talking, talking, dissecting every little detail, regardless of whether their curry is burning in the kitchen or whether the world stopped spinning on its axis. Off the top of my head, I can recall at least five acquaintances. Thankfully, not everyone is afflicted with my strange illness. (I shudder at the thought of having to call these acquaintances.)
Except for this grocery list, most of my purchases are the outcome of my punching on their respective apps. It's like magic, isn't it?? Tap, tap, type, type, click and voilà! What you seek is in your hand. (Accio Firebolt!)
The only reason I haven't moved my grocery purchase to a very inviting app (of a different shop) that does not require a reading aloud of my list, is a sense of loyalty to this shop, a loyalty which is at its flimsiest at this point of time - just because of the painful job of having to say, "Hello, I am calling from... Can you please send me..." I am impatiently waiting for my shop to develop an app: they are still taking baby steps. Perhaps it would be a clever idea for me to remind them: "Business isn't bad even without the app; but for how long?"
If this trend keeps up, people might find a method to avoid talking even face-to-face. Perhaps a technique would develop wherein we could just fiddle our fingers and the thought appears before the eyes of our spouse. We won't ever have to look anyone in the eye. Reminds me of the world of the future as depicted in the movie Wall-E.
Just as I begin to worry over the vanishing art of speech, comes the newest kid on the block: the talking / responding / obeying box of an assistant, currently immobile, but a precursor to the metallic dwarf-like creature that would soon trail after us and bring us tea. As of now, the orders are to be given via voice. Alexa, for God's sake call up the damn shop and order groceries! What am I paying you for! On one side, we are getting rid of conversation with humans; on the other, we have to parley with the non-living, to get things done. I am quite speechless at human progress. The future holds so much promise in the art of making conversation, don't you think?
Meanwhile the grocery list beckons. So what if sugar and salt and rice have run out, and the kitchen is empty, and the family starves? Perhaps I should throw loyalty to the wind and install that promising app of the other shop.
Loyalty prevails for one more day... I pick up the list again and gather courage to make that one dreaded phone call...
Sunday, May 12, 2019
Remember, they don't get paid...
This Mothers' Day... Show some support - to the women in your life.
Look around, what are they doing? The mothers, wives, daughters and sisters...
Do you only see them relaxing on the sofa or catching a show on television?
Or chatting with friends on Whatsapp, or gossiping and laughing?
Do you think they are enjoying life, just as free as you are?
Do you think they are taking life too casually?
Look closer: are they not doing something more,
Something right before your eyes, but always out of your sight ?
Things you always knew, but never gave a thought to:
And if at all you did, it would be to say,
"God, I'm glad I don't have to do this!"
Who dusts the shelves? Who cleans the table?
Who picks up the clothes you have strewn around?
Who switches off the lights after you've walked out of the room?
Who reminds you to pay the bills?
Who washes the clothes, hangs them out to dry,
And folds them so you find them ready to use?
Who makes the bed, who waters the plants?
Who takes the garbage out every day or the dog for a walk?
Who makes sure the maid cleans the room every day?
Who ensures the family has a meal on the table daily?
Who teaches the kids to do the right things, over and over again?
Who keeps track of school activities, homework and exams?
Who balances the finances of the family?
Who buys the grocery? Who cleans the toilet?
Who do you blame if any of this is not done?
And if this were not enough, most of them have
A job to keep up with, and its own share of pressure.
Are they not doing most of the above, if not all?
And if the best you can do is say, "I am grateful
I don't have to do these", then think again:
At least pause a moment. See what they do.
Acknowledge their efforts, help when you can,
Because they may be too proud to ask for help.
Or they may be tired of asking and not getting any.
Don't mock them, don't ignore their cries if they complain.
Stop what you're doing and appreciate their efforts
For they're doing what you hate to do.
You have them to fall back on: they may have no one.
Remember, they don't get paid: not even with a word of gratitude.
Yet they have to do over and over, this cycle of boring chores.
Neglect may break a woman's spirit, and so would ingratitude.
She is not quiet because she is content,
She may be quiet because she has lost her confidence.
Spare a kind word, a thoughtful gesture,
Show some gratitude, make her smile.
Look around, what are they doing? The mothers, wives, daughters and sisters...
Do you only see them relaxing on the sofa or catching a show on television?
Or chatting with friends on Whatsapp, or gossiping and laughing?
Do you think they are enjoying life, just as free as you are?
Do you think they are taking life too casually?
Look closer: are they not doing something more,
Something right before your eyes, but always out of your sight ?
Things you always knew, but never gave a thought to:
And if at all you did, it would be to say,
"God, I'm glad I don't have to do this!"
Who dusts the shelves? Who cleans the table?
Who picks up the clothes you have strewn around?
Who switches off the lights after you've walked out of the room?
Who reminds you to pay the bills?
Who washes the clothes, hangs them out to dry,
And folds them so you find them ready to use?
Who makes the bed, who waters the plants?
Who takes the garbage out every day or the dog for a walk?
Who makes sure the maid cleans the room every day?
Who ensures the family has a meal on the table daily?
Who teaches the kids to do the right things, over and over again?
Who keeps track of school activities, homework and exams?
Who balances the finances of the family?
Who buys the grocery? Who cleans the toilet?
Who do you blame if any of this is not done?
And if this were not enough, most of them have
A job to keep up with, and its own share of pressure.
Are they not doing most of the above, if not all?
And if the best you can do is say, "I am grateful
I don't have to do these", then think again:
At least pause a moment. See what they do.
Acknowledge their efforts, help when you can,
Because they may be too proud to ask for help.
Or they may be tired of asking and not getting any.
Don't mock them, don't ignore their cries if they complain.
Stop what you're doing and appreciate their efforts
For they're doing what you hate to do.
You have them to fall back on: they may have no one.
Remember, they don't get paid: not even with a word of gratitude.
Yet they have to do over and over, this cycle of boring chores.
Neglect may break a woman's spirit, and so would ingratitude.
She is not quiet because she is content,
She may be quiet because she has lost her confidence.
Spare a kind word, a thoughtful gesture,
Show some gratitude, make her smile.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
Fear of Change is worse than Change itself
It's not that you were not expecting a Change. You have been, for years. Even so, it must be admitted that you were not exactly "prepared". Even when you know what's coming, (and you hope it isn't) you deny the possibility of it ever happening, and so you're never quite sufficiently ready.
You knew it was bound to happen. Eventually. Eventually was so far away that, when it did happen, you were almost taken by surprise.
All these years you had scraped by, because you had fallen between the cracks and gone unnoticed.
Suddenly the Change you feared looms before you like a huge, dark, undecipherable shadow. All you want to do is turn tail and vanish. But running away is not an option.
The only way is forward.
A long dark tunnel appears. You don't know how long it is going to take for you to emerge on the other side. Perhaps days. Perhaps years. Perhaps this lifetime.
You lived your life right, according to principles. According to morals. You held on to integrity. Honesty. You followed all the rules. If there is such a thing as Destiny, then maybe the tunnel will not be that long. Because you lived right. You can only hope.
You see clearly before you - how your own choices in the past have brought you here. If anyone is to blame, it is yourself. With the veil before your eyes that prevent you from seeing tomorrow, you did the best you could do. If one could see tomorrow, one's choices may be different. But then, the tomorrow you foresaw would no longer exist.
In spite of your correct decisions, you were taken by surprise by the twists and turns of life.
In spite of your correct decisions, you were taken by surprise by the twists and turns of life.
There is nothing to do. Pause; and reflect. Are you making the best decision based on everything you know, at this moment? Then, open your eyes wide and step into the darkness. Your eyes will adjust. There will be a light at the end. (There has to be. If not, there is nothing you can do, anyway.) You can take that crucial step only by telling yourself that you did the best you could. Courage comes from that firm belief.
From there on, there is only one thing left to do.
You keep going.
One step at a time.
One step at a time.
Monday, April 8, 2019
Routines
There's no escape
From the frightening
Circle of life
A chaos of terrifying routines
One falling over the other
In senseless abandon...
We're all prisoners
Of our own conscience.
Addicted to sacrifice,
Brought up to believe
In selflessness.
To break away is to be Free.
Hanging ourselves
From the rigid
Ceiling of expectations
With the rope called love;
The noose called duty
Shrinking daily...
Freedom comes with
Tiny doses of
Courage and recklessness
You may be born with
Or you learn and develop
With awareness
One almost begins to
Long for a morrow
That brings Disaster!!
If it would make a dent in life
A hole in the ground
For weeds to spring forth...
I'm a slave to Routines...
From the frightening
Circle of life
A chaos of terrifying routines
One falling over the other
In senseless abandon...
We're all prisoners
Of our own conscience.
Addicted to sacrifice,
Brought up to believe
In selflessness.
To break away is to be Free.
Hanging ourselves
From the rigid
Ceiling of expectations
With the rope called love;
The noose called duty
Shrinking daily...
Freedom comes with
Tiny doses of
Courage and recklessness
You may be born with
Or you learn and develop
With awareness
One almost begins to
Long for a morrow
That brings Disaster!!
If it would make a dent in life
A hole in the ground
For weeds to spring forth...
I'm a slave to Routines...
Tuesday, March 19, 2019
Goodbyes
How difficult Goodbyes used to be... for those who remember a time before the gadgets of today. You meet someone, make friends, and then it is time to part. As the last day approaches, you realise that there is nothing you can do to push it a little farther. You have to go your separate ways. You exchange postal addresses and landline numbers, and promise to keep in touch. And it happens too, for a short while. Then one day it stops.
Today at least we have the luxury of knowing they are always at the other end of our phone. If we miss them, all we have to do is ping. Text them, call them, video call them. Or read up their updates on Facebook.
But how does one bid farewell to one's Dreams? There does come a point when, after much deliberation and struggle, we realise that it is time to give up. Stop, let go, and move on. For reasons that cannot be generalised. Or explained. Or even understood. Not a screeching halt, perhaps; a sputter, a jerk, a roll and... it comes to rest. The decision may not be made lightly or quickly; it could happen over the course of months or years. If we are unlucky, it would just snap out of the blue, leaving us unprepared and flailing.
There is a Goodbye looming in my horizon; and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. I have been fighting tooth and nail to keep it away. But there is only so much one can do - what is bound to happen will happen. You can only try to find satisfaction in that you tried your best. It doesn't work all the time.
How does one say Goodbye to a Dream, and to the people that come with it? Only Time can tell. Only Time can heal.
Or so they say.
Today at least we have the luxury of knowing they are always at the other end of our phone. If we miss them, all we have to do is ping. Text them, call them, video call them. Or read up their updates on Facebook.
But how does one bid farewell to one's Dreams? There does come a point when, after much deliberation and struggle, we realise that it is time to give up. Stop, let go, and move on. For reasons that cannot be generalised. Or explained. Or even understood. Not a screeching halt, perhaps; a sputter, a jerk, a roll and... it comes to rest. The decision may not be made lightly or quickly; it could happen over the course of months or years. If we are unlucky, it would just snap out of the blue, leaving us unprepared and flailing.
There is a Goodbye looming in my horizon; and there is nothing I can do to prevent it. I have been fighting tooth and nail to keep it away. But there is only so much one can do - what is bound to happen will happen. You can only try to find satisfaction in that you tried your best. It doesn't work all the time.
How does one say Goodbye to a Dream, and to the people that come with it? Only Time can tell. Only Time can heal.
Or so they say.
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