Walk on

Tweet

A long dark tunnel,
no light at the end of it,
no end at all in sight...
outstretched hands
encounter no wall,
uneven floor
trips one's foot to
stumble and fall;
a glance over the shoulder-
pitch black, is it
blindness or an absence of light?
if you turn around once
you lose direction
you trudge on,
falling and rising to your feet
'cause there is nothing else to do,
you must trudge on...
the battle is worst
when there is no battle to be fought
the battle is lost
when the walking is stopped.

Tweet

Character Study: Hypocrisy?

Tweet

She is pleasant and easy-going. You can tell her anything and be assured of her perfect response. If you crack a joke, she would laugh dutifully. If you are sad, she would offer comforting words. When you need the hard truth, she delivers them in a soft way, so as to cushion the impact. When you are upset, she acts as the sponge and absorbs a little of your anger. She never walks away.
In other words, she is the perfect person to be with.

But in truth, she hates working with you. She hates having to listen to your never-ending whines. She hates being forced to laugh at your lousy jokes, having to offer condolences to your endless miseries. But she and you are forced to be with each other, so she bears with you. She does not want you to know that she despises you, because she knows that is going to hurt you, the loner that you are. Never in this life will she be able to admit to you or show you through the slightest hint, that she is bored of you. You do not suspect, even for a moment, her aversion to your tales.

When she is overwhelmed with the weight of your stories, she spills it over to someone else, her close friend, of how tired she is of you.
Is she a hypocrite?


*Disclaimer: This is a character study, and any relation to anyone you know is purely coincidental.

Tweet

How (not) to Spread a Rumour

Tweet

He must have pondered over this for long. I can almost see his face, just as it was in his late teens, a series of expressions marching across it before breaking into a vile grin, as he proposed the name to the others. My name. I suspect he must have been the one to come up with the master plan too. Why don't we-? he must have said. And the others, the less creative ones looking up to him, must have nodded in agreement, their eyes shining in admiration at the sheer brilliance of the idea.

Even in that age, they knew how to spark a rumour. These girls, they must have whispered among themselves, they don't know how to start a fire, though they know very well to spread it. We need to show them the matchbox, the match stick and then gently suggest to them without seeming to, that these two could possibly ignite a fire or two.

The call came one sunny morning (yes, it was a Sunday). I was surprised - I was not expecting anyone to call. I was even more surprised to hear his voice. After some preliminary dialogs (carefully scripted, no doubt), he began in the utmost confidence:
Oh it's nothing. I just thought I should let you know. I have been pretty worried, and I thought someone sensible as you would know what to do.
My red flag went up. I knew him of course. But for a moment, I admit I faltered. I wasn't even twenty, for God's sake.
It's about - (he named a girl we knew). One of the guys (he named one) has a crush on her. Like a deep, terrible, unbearable crush, bordering dangerously on love. He cannot eat or sleep or sit or stand or study. I was just afraid someone would start to gossip about them or something. Don't tell her. Don't tell anyone.
I said okay, dontchaworry, my lips are sealed, and put the phone down. The red flag was still up and I wondered why.

It is important to note at this point that the dude knew nothing about me. Yes, you had figured it out when he suggested my extreme 'sensibleness', but otherwise too. If someone gave me a secret for safe-keeping, then I would protect it with my life (except when I blog about it a few decades later). It is also important to note that I am talking about a period on the other side of Y2K, and someone having a crush on you was like a disaster that has befallen you.

I went back and considered this bit of news. I felt sorry for my poor friend. What had she done to deserve a crush who could not eat or sleep because of her? What will her parents say if they heard this? No, there was no way I was going to tell her or anyone else. I did not want her to panic. I should not allow the rumour to spread, or anyone in the vicinity to gossip about her. My lips were sealed.

In the days that followed, when I met the dude who called me, I pretended as though the conversation on phone had never happened. When I saw the guy who had a crush on her, who looked all set to grab the attention everyone would soon shower on him, I narrowed my eyes, but I would pretend nothing was amiss. All the while I was looking out for some signs of people talking about it, ready to quell it at its slightest indication.

One week later - he could not contain himself any longer - he came and asked me how things were going. I hope you didn't tell anyone about what I told you.
Of course not, I said shaking my head vehemently. Not a soul.

When his face fell, it came to me in a burst of clarity, what my survival instinct had been trying to tell me all this while. He had been trying to point out the matchbox and the match-stick and suggesting fire. He had hoped the fire would spread and engulf us all. He probably thought he could watch proudly from the sidelines as the affair he had orchestrated hit a crescendo. On the one hand, I could not believe that I had been so used, on the other, (in the safety of my room) I could not stop chuckling. God, he had so chosen the wrong girl, poor dude.

I did tell my friend about it, a few weeks later, after I made sure the story about the crush had become too stale and not even the sootradhar and the 'crushed' were interested in it any longer. And if I remember right, we both had a good laugh at their expense.

Tweet

The Fall is Coming

Tweet

"The Fall is coming, look."
"It's winter, already," you say,
"The Fall has come and gone."

"Look again," I insist;
"It's on its way. And we shall fall
Like the leaf, each alone."

"What's up with you?" you ask.
"The leaves shall spring again, of course;
The Fall returns next year."

"It's been coming for years,
Approaching slow and relentless.
It will be on us soon."

The leaf's always ignored,
for tasty fruits and pretty flowers,
Until it's time to fall.

The falling leaf is seen,
Colourful, melancholy, but
It's dead - and that's all.

Beyond the reach of words
That can hurt or prick or ignore.
The leaves will have moved on.

Tweet

Like the Wind

Tweet

Like the Wind*

When I slowly turned around, he still stood there, at the other end of the bridge, his hands thrust into his pockets, his face towards me. For the first time since I had known him, I could not read his face. I must have walked too quickly without realising it. My thoughts were too cluttered and clouded for me to notice how far I had come.

I tried to imagine what he must have been thinking: was it disappointment that he had failed again? Was it embarrassment for having spoken too soon, too openly? Was it pain? Was it understanding - did he know I would turn around when the shock passed, when hope dawned? Or was he just standing there, numb to all feelings, overwhelmed by a torrent of emotions? Was he thinking at all, in that moment?

And what about me? I was trying to shove away the choking emotion, by thinking of him. Why was I so concerned? Why was I shocked? Why had I walked away, like the wind? Was it because he had confessed his feelings so soon after my friend rejected him so shamefully? Was it because I hated to hurt my friend, though she no longer wanted him? Was it because I did not imagine him capable of such sudden shift of heart? Was it because he had been so surprised and so candid? Was it because I had known all along that he had been loving me and misunderstanding his own feelings? Was it because somewhere deep within myself, the ray of hope had always lain concealed, and it had darted to the surface at his words? Was it because it was unethical and wrong? Was it because when my friend did wrong, I was quick to admonish her, and now I was trying to pile up my dreams on top of her mistakes? Was it that I was trying to justify myself for feeling this way? Was it that I had been a stranger to happiness for such a long period of time that I did not know how to handle it when it came?

I was numb – with misery, confusion, desire. Everything had been so perfect – their life, as they had dreamed it. And in their perfection, I balanced my own. When they built their world, I found mine in it too. And all of a sudden, the accident and the strange change of mind of my friend. What it shattered was not theirs alone.

She seemed happy. And for a few minutes I had been angry. Her love had turned out to be fickle, and in her failure was my failure too. I had placed my trust on them, and how easily both had destroyed it! But now, as I looked back at him on the other side of the bridge, where I could barely see the wind playing at his hair, I saw my chance of happiness. I had played right into the hands of Love – unknowingly, unwittingly, like a fool. Love, from which I had run away; Love, in which I no longer believed; Love, which knew I would never approach it or allow it to approach; Love, that I thought I had seen in them; Love, that had shattered so many times than it had mended, and that still continued to spark. Love, whose existence I had denied.

In one moment, in a few words, a suggestion, a confession, he had turned my heart around. Where hope did not exist, he had planted it. Where love had wilted, he had blossomed it. Perhaps he was different, I knew he was different. But the fear would never leave. The fear would stop me for years from loving. And the fear of failing in love again would weaken the love. I feared it would all fall apart again, I feared getting hurt again. But I did not fear as much as I hoped.

As I looked at him, waiting, at the other end of the bridge, his pale face with the dark glasses across it unmoving, I knew it was better to hope than be hopeless; it was better to love than be unloving; it was better to desire than be empty of dreams; it was better to exist than lead a meaningless life.

Something must have showed in my movement, for I saw his chin raise slightly, as the evening breeze played harshly at the top of his hair, and he took a gentle, unintentional step forward.

*

* Inspired by a movie

Tweet

Darkness

Tweet

Darkness stretches its arms and holds me close,
Out of sight of the blinking lights of the highway,
And whispers into my ear tales of untold woes,
Of faith and strength abandoned, Of people gone astray...

It beckons; seeps into my heart - a friend, unbidden;
Envelops my thoughts in a warm embrace;
From the eyes of the world, safe, I am hidden,
For a few blissful moments; a few precious days.

Darkness retraces its step in the dull dawn of day,
Bows in grace and gives itself up to the lights,
Life must and will go on, forever cold and grey,
Leaves me with memories of many solitary nights...

Tweet

The root of all misery

Tweet

"Money," this dude tells me, "is the root of all misery. We walk around carrying a wad of grief in our pocket."
I liked the way he put it, though I did not like the way he put it.
"Then use credit card," I said.
"That's one hell of a card to sorrow," he insisted.
"Then why is it so popular?"
"Because barter system is outdated and no one has come up with a better system yet."

"It's a matter of perspective." I wasn't ready to give up, not just yet.
"No, it isn't. We want money, then more money, and so much more money."
"If we work hard for it, then we deserve the money we get," I said. I wasn't quite sure where this was headed. I could lose myself in arguments if I so wished.
"But people are tempted to break the law or break someone's neck for it."
"That's true. There is a good and bad side to everything."
"Tell me about its good side," he said. "We all know the bad."
I suspect he was a little drunk or something.

"For instance," I said, "folks pay money for something they would not normally do otherwise, which is actually good for them."
"Yeah? Tell me more."
"I know a person who has paid a certain amount for gym classes and forces herself to go, just because her money is at stake. I can think of at least two others who do it just because they have spent money on it. They're taking care of their health because they have the money to, because they owe something to the money they spent. Then I know a rich loner who spends money on expensive materials because seeing the new purchases brings a certain peace of mind or even happiness. Another person donates to charity. Unhappiness comes anyway. If you have money, you can be happy at least temporarily."

He chuckled. "So you are saying Money is the root of all happiness?"
"I am saying, money could be both. Just like anything else. It could do good and bad, it depends on whose hands it is on - or not on."

"Money has brought me misery," he said, "and now I use money to drown my miseries in my drink."
I was right. He was indeed drunk. "So now you agree money can make unhappiness go away for a while."

I was wasting my argument on a man who would not even remember this discussion tomorrow. Why should I waste my time and my happiness on worthless debates?

I could go home and relax, and watch the DVDs my money has bought me, read books my money has bought me, recline in the couch that my money has bought me, and find satisfaction for the day.

Take each day as it comes, as some other clever dude has said. 

Tweet

Of not wanting to remember

Tweet

It's 26/11 again.

It seems like a date from the last century. A date from the pre-independence era. Something we had not witnessed, like pictures we see in an old magazine, of a burning palace, of a callous youngster in black, of a scattered and blood-stained railway station, of terrified, spell-bound citizens crowding the roads, of an entire world glued to the television.
Of names that popped up. The Taj. Girgaum Chowpatty. Chhatrapathi Shivaji Terminus. Leopold Cafe. Oberoi Trident. A little Jewish boy named Moshe wailing for his parents in the hands of his nanny.
The surge of hatred, towards the only one who survived. The hatred and pain that refused to fade even after his end. An end that was too merciful in the eyes of some.
Of calling up relatives to know if they are fine.
Of heroes. And heroism.

Of not wanting to remember.
The fear. The horror. The panic.
The quivering of the knees, the relentless pounding of the heart.
Of scars that remained.
Of hearing about the Indians and foreigners who were alive just moments before. Of wondering where their Gods were, at that moment.
Of the 26/11 that happens every day, everywhere, to every one of us.
Of never forgetting.

No, it was all real. It was not from the last century or before our time.
It was here. And it was now.
Today.

Tweet