Freedom?

Our Man-‘mohan’ made a speech

Stood atop the same old fort

It’s been the same for sixty odd years

Seems such a long time doesn’t it?

 

‘A tryst with destiny’ he said

The man with a rose in his pocket

It’s a pity we don’t even pause

To reflect upon his dream-laden words

 

Halfway into each August

Our lives take a slight detour

A moment to reflect, realise and redeem

Or just a couple dozen hours to kill

 

The kites still fly over the horizon

Each year still fewer dot the sky

‘What was the dream?’ do we ask ourselves?

Or has it faded away like the kites in the sky

 

Preparations begin well before time

The fort is under siege: no goes in or out

Long queues form outside the walls,

Everything grinds to halt, paralysed

 

Long pages are spoken

Lofty ideals abound

Proud flags are flown

Then trampled to the ground

 

We celebrate our freedom this day

From tyranny and oppression

But what does it mean for us today

How do we value this freedom?

 

History marks this day,

The day our country won her freedom

What was a fledgling nation,

Is now a strong people

 

I guess we all appreciate it,

 It’s historicity in our own way

But a point to ponder is,

What freedom means to you today…

Because I didn’t have an ironed kurta…

We recently had a party, for which each one of us was instructed to “be Indian” with their get up…..well i didn’t have a decent kurta at hand, so instead i decided to write this and take it to the party instead, dressed in white shirt and blue jeans….

 

What does it mean to be Indian? How can we define Indian-ness, in fact, how do we define tradition? Aren’t the definitions of these terms incumbent on the definitions of their exact opposites? In other words, we define ourselves as what we are not, rather than what we are. We define tradition as something that has past, but we still lay claim to it. Is what we see as India today, not the India in our minds? Why is it that in order to assert ourselves we always hark back to our past, to our history, saying, “We were a great people…?” Is what we are today not good enough? If that is true, then we the present generation of 20-somethings have a serious crisis on our hands. Because we are inheriting this nation as it is today. Isn’t it time we redefined ourselves? Isn’t it time we stepped back and look at ourselves, where we stand today?

Is the common thread that binds us all only in our past? We seem to be dividing ourselves further and further into smaller and smaller bits of societies and communities. Every community looks to ‘exclude’ itself from the others, looking to define themselves as not part of the rest. It seems that we are unable to come together as a nation anymore; we are a people of too many different people, who are growing increasingly intolerant. Is there nothing we have in common anymore? Maybe this is true, but then where is India headed? Can we take a look at her now?

Is wearing Levis jeans, Benetton shirts, and Nike shoes un-Indian? Is enjoying the fruits of worldwide prosperity in a globalising nation a crime? Do we like to define ourselves as everything that is non-global? We only need to look around and see that this definition is far from what the reality around us is. It is up to us, to take a critical look at it, and decide for ourselves what we want India to be. What we think today, shapes what might happen tomorrow, if we keep looking back to define ourselves, we might just get hit by the ‘reality check’ truck.

I am all for tradition, but it should not become a hindrance to a vision for the future, or cloud our sight of the present. Instead of always indulging in an easy exercise of pastiche of well-established, stereotypical images, we might want to look beyond, or rather, what is beneath our noses, the present. Can we examine the lives we are living today, think of not only what India means to us, but more importantly, what we can mean to India. Define who we are today, as a nation. Define Indian-ness today; let us start with that, we the inheritors of this nation.

 

The Age of Unreason

Crazed minds in a quest for the truth

It starts slowly as a trickle,

A small drop in the ocean

A miniscule bit, unnoticed, insignificant

I slip away, dark and crazed

Shrieks of a terror prey in my mind

Like an old scratched record

I can’t feel their agony anymore

Numbed by the pain I smile

Sardonic, sadistic,

I hold it within myself

The thoughts I clench,

A drowning man to the last reeds

It offers such hopelessness,

The invincibility of defeat,

Refusing to let go

It bursts within me

Why does it have to end like this…

Is it my destiny?

Or have I crafted it so…

But how….?… why?…

But… it couldn’t….

I sneer at my stupid arrogance,

As I slip past, I see it

The futility of my quest…

To think that I could make sense….

Of this age of unreason.

Shit.

Some people have to have their morning cuppa before they can manage to open their eyes to the world every morning. Some people prefer tea. I have known people who stumble through their day, if they are deprived of their nicotine fix before they get out of bed. Personally, I could fore go all the above, but my morning isn’t complete without my daily date with my newspaper on my pot.

If one should find happiness in the small pleasures of life, this is it for me. Nothing beats this as a morning pick-me-up, as you pick up the freshly delivered newspaper (rubber-banded & rolled or just a simple quarter-fold) from your doorstep/balcony/verandah or lawn. The birds are chirping, the air is crisp, everything seems cheery as you take a quick glance at the day’s headlines, walking back into your house. As you walk, the anticipation builds. You can feel your stomach tighten, the first urges begin, as if on cue, whetted by the news. Your step quickens as you stride towards the loo. You reach the loo, open the door, and quickly shut it behind you, turn the latch. The place is yours now. A deep breath, a quick survey of your domain, no time to lose, the contractions are coming faster. You deposit your lowers hurridly on the floor, slam the toilet seat down, any time now…Once seated, you open the broadsheet to its fullest, the foreplay now reaches its pinnacle, you scan the headlines, looking for an article to delve into. “Parliament hung…sensational triple murder…new survey shows”…the front page holds no interest..the headlines are all done…quickly you flip directly to the last page…this is more like it. Now that you have found the appropriate reading material, you prepare for the final push. The stage is set, the urges have been replaced by crazy pangs now! “Yesterday’s T20 cricket match between India and Austrailia ended in an exciting bowl out after…” This is it! You release your bowels. Thar she blows lads! A feeling of sheer bliss envelopes you, wave upon wave of relief and complete satisfaction. “India captain Dhoni marshalled his resources perfectly as India reached…” The world seems a better place just for those moments of utter happiness. One cannot adequately put to words the feeling one experiences during the time on the pot. All your cares melt away, as you get lost in the new newspaper, the smell of fresh newsprint transports you elsewhere to a magical place, but nowhere else could one find the sheer bliss that one experiences while reading on the pot.

I would have to attribute my voracious reading to this very habit, that I had inculcated quite early in my life. As a kid, I would observe and be inspired by my dad. He was (and still is) my hero, and whatever he did became the way to go for me. He introduced me to the newspaper-pot pleasures, as I watched him every morning. At first the broadsheet was a bit too big for my puny arm-span. So, I took my Dr. Suess books, then graduated to Enid Blyton’s Famous Fives, Secret Sevens, then came the Hardy boys’ series, Sherlock Holmes, TinTin comics, the evergreen Archies comics. The trip to the loo became so enjoyable that I began to visit it 3-4 times a day, much to my mom’s concern over my fickle digestion, and that left her wondering what she might have put in yesterday’s daal that might have thrown my digestive system out of gear. It became a place of recluse, of retreat. A boring chapter of Maths, an argument with mom, a boring hot afternoon at home, all of them lead to the same conclusion.

My loo has a big stack of comics on the counter, ever ready to cater to my sudden urge to retreat. I have now become an architect, and now dream of constructing my dream loo. A large dark mahogany bookshelf, fronted by a pristine ivory pot, with automatic seat height adjustment, automatic seat warmer, retractable bidet water spout, automated flush function, drier and perfume spray. And oh yeah, a newspaper rack, most definitely! All this says to me, “Come let me make an otherwise shitty experience, worth your while!” 

Her

she sat there…. waiting
gazing at the abyss….searching
the broken fragments of sorrow
piercing through the illusions of joy

cold shatters of frozen emotions
she searches for comfort….the warm folds of familiarity
a turquoise haze on the surface
hides the scars etched deep in time

the bird has flown to its flock
she has none of her own
a stranger in time, lost
startled by her intentions
or what they seem to be….

“i’ll be glad to help….”
no, i do not want to cry..
silently…she tosses it away
bolder, stronger yet fragile….

“have you given up….?”
no the journey goes on….eternal….
“then the quest rages on….”
yes it is forever,….immortal….

all i seek is a sense of belonging
or do i?
would i want to leave my own?
to have a name…..a futile existance..

“do i want to find it…?”
it is unending,…. a fruitless pursuit
the utopia of her dreams…a fools paradise
‘learn to love the pain, the hurt, the scars…such is life’

the sun dips far over the horizon
the dark is not far…..
there is a light at the end of the tunnel….
“yes i know”
she could feel the tears welling up….
“but i do not want to cry….”

fragments of my mind

walking down the road…
slowly, assured…… confident… I think..
anonymous pursuits of visions unknown….
travelling to the edge of eternity….
caught in this blinding haze…
the hallucinations return……
slow, vicious predators…
stalking slowly, assuredly.. confident.. i think…
the journey unfolds… goes on..
they pass by….
“mister…. I’d like to-”
cold…. hard… I strike a match…
spark, flicker, falter, die out….
a brief moment of brillance…
“fifteen minutes…. thats all I ask…”
shunned, silenced….humbled…
desperately seeking a way.. an outlet…
is there anybody out there?
silence..
the lull before the storm…
i tell myself to hide in anticipation..
the moment has arrived… confident…. I think…
“speak…”
the words lodged on my throat…
“carpe diem!”….
or so I thought….
I seize..
“I need to tell you a story….
.. of a young man’s dream…
spark, flicker, falter… die out”
he dared to look beyond.. to dream…
futility of desire….
are we ever meant to be happy..is that really an ultimate..?
an abstract notion… of what we seek…
or is it the faded picture of what we once dreamt…
is there anybody out there….?
I just want you to know…
to know..
could i trust you to..?
you.. never could..
I pick up the fragments… put them in here….
the dark place….  they will never see the light of day…
it escapes me…..unreason….
surreality… chaos…
there is such simplicity to these….
I have crossed the divide…. or was there any at all..
lost my mind.. and with it.. its boundaries… 
I can finally see…
a perspective… never before… experience flight…. luminousity…
the flash before death… 
I laugh.. i am here…
here are the fragments of my mind…

The bus ride home

I and another classmate of mine never spoke during the entirety of our lives in school. Even though our houses were only a few blocks apart, yet we never spoke. We used to take the same school bus back home. I remember I would always be the last to board, just as the bus would start moving and there she would be, staring out of the window, sitting on the first seat. I bet she never uttered a word during the trip home. My place was at the back of the bus. We stood on the floorboard near the rear entry to the bus, which was permanently shut, its hinges welded shut to the jamb of the door. The window had no panes; I guess they just got tired of replacing them after a while. I remember the bus ride home was a crazy destresser. We would all be stuffed at the back. No place to move. The hot summer sun would pour through the windows. I remember the humid sweaty air inside the bus, the loud, boisterous dares, the not-so-much as whispered dirty joke of the day, the geek of the day being picked on endlessly again, the pride of place near the pane-less window, even though all you got was a face full of smoke at best, the rare lic-lolly ice cream that a poor unfortunate soul had made the mistake of buying, and not finishing it before being spotted, and the subsequent demolition of the same ice cream, in 5 seconds flat, no one cared whose saliva they had just swallowed. Then we tumbled out of the bus, as we got to our home stop. I remember the sights, and sounds and smells as if it was yesterday. That coloured my experience of the ride home. For me it will always be that, maybe it colours the way I look at the world now, maybe it will colour my worldview in the future. But I always wonder what the experience of the ride home would have been, to that unspoken-to classmate of mine. How did she see the bus ride home…?

Frozen whispers

It was still dark. It had been for a while. She waited at the end of the street. She hadn’t been around for long. She had arrived with an air of surety. It comforted her and those around her. She liked that.

 

She looked towards the horizon. Her gaze was more immediate than faraway, towards the abyss. “Strange!” she exclaimed, walking towards the old grey building. She crossed the street slow, deliberate.

 

The wind picked up, she hurried her step. She did not want to be outside at this time. Her hat blew off, unveiling her beauty. Few passer byes noticed her. Her face was filled with dread. She clambered towards the shadows, dawn had broken, and along with it, her surety.

 

She wanted to be back home, safe, warm. Out there her face exposed to the world, she felt naked, vulnerable. But there was a spark of adventure in it. It gave her a high. She liked that. She hadn’t felt this ever before. She emerged out of the shadows, her hair flying all about her face. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, startled.

 

“Excuse me ma’am, but are you lost?”

 

“N…No… I’m fine thank you… just let me go.”

 

“You look flushed. Are you sure you’re feeling fine?”

 

“Y…Y…Yes…please..let me go..”

 

His eyes looked through her, piercingly yet painless.

 

“But your eyes speak differently…”

 

She was stunned. How did he know?…  he couldn’t.”

 

“What do you mean good sir?”

 

“You’ve been hiding, haven’t you?”

 

“From what?…”

 

“You know that best…”

 

She was strangely at ease with the stranger.

 

“It is strange that you say that… not because it its true… but just, strange.”

 

“Is it not something one would say to another when they first meet?”

 

“No… not usually.”

 

“The case is fundamentally different here isn’t it m’lady?…. nothing here is ‘usual’.”

 

“Well… yes… but.”

 

“Well… that answers your question. And as for what I’m doing here, you know very well, you shouldn’t try to fool yourself y’know… it doesn’t work.”

 

“Hmm… psychic… we’ve met before haven’t we?”

 

“Maybe… if you allow yourself the liberty to believe your dreams.”

 

“What are dreams…. But illusions in limitless space…. Fragments… spanning all of time.”

 

“You’re hiding again… behind all this façade of ideals, chained by apparent hopelessness.”

 

“Ha!… you wouldn’t know”

 

“Granted… But you do.”

 

She had known this day would come. She smiled graciously.

 

“You win…. This time… one wish…”

 

“I want your hat. Don’t deprive the world of your beauty.”

 

“You can have it. I have dozens at home to choose from.”

 

“But you won’t after today would you?”

 

She looked towards the horizon once more… faraway… infinite…

 

“You’re right, I can’t.”

 

Solitude: Scene I

Scene one: at the Bangkok Swarnabhoomi international airport.

I was at the Bangkok airport waiting lounge. I was waiting to take my connecting flight to Osaka. It was quite a large airport, with handsome facilities. It is housed in a very ‘contemporary’ building, steel and glass all around. It has multiple levels of shops and eateries. It has it all, about a couple dozen eateries, about fifty different duty free shops, even a massage parlour thrown in for those really long connecting flight waits. For those who prefer not to spend, there is an enormous amount of eye candy on display. On the concourse, one can see the umpteen numbers of flights taxing up and down the runway and hangar strips. One should imagine that there is no dearth of things that you can do to occupy your mind and kill time. The wait at Bangkok airport, could never be mundane. Your senses would continually be assaulted by the seductive ‘saleable’, images of capitalist mayhem. Time appears to go faster, if the world around you is spinning around. Your psyche is constantly stimulated, as if you were in a nonstop porn flick, or so you are made to believe. The truth is, inspite of all the wonderful things I could have indulged in during my four hour wait, I found myself bored out of my wits. I tried to indulge in the spectacle around me, but it could sustain my attention only for a sum total of thirty minutes. The remainder of my wait was spent looking at my watch with increasing intensity and purpose, as though by some supernatural occurrence, time would go faster if I tried to scare it with my glare. But this was abnormal for me, I usually am at ease when I am alone with myself; I am an accomplished day-dreamer. I have no real craving for company or entertainment; I can quite satisfactorily amuse myself. But at that time, no matter how hard I tried, I was bored and alone, even with so much happening around me. Those four hours seemed like eternity to me.

Solitude: Scene II

Scene two: at the water temple at the Awaji island, Japan.

The setting was idyllic. It wasn’t much, just a pond atop a hill, with the mountains in the backdrop. We had just walked up the hill, and there was a calm hush all over the place. The silence wasn’t deafening, but you could hear the flutter of a bird’s wing. Nothing moved there really, it was all still, as if the earth had stopped its mad tailspin. I remember while entering the place, I wondered why we had scheduled a whole hour for the trip here. By the look of it, we could be out of here in ten minutes, given the size of the place and paucity of detail. But as I walked around the temple, I lost any sense of time, as we know it in the ‘real’ world. Minutes, seconds, hours, days, months, years, decades, centuries, millenniums, all seemed to vanish into the haze. It was no longer something that moved constantly, but expanded and contracted naturally. I sat there and stared at the water, as the fish swam from one end to the other, in a loop. The rhythm faded into the background and I found my thoughts zooming through my head again. I stared at those fish for the entirety of the hour, which seemed more like ten minutes to me.