Drenched in the luminous golden downpour with the slowly blurring vision like that of the window pane on a monsoon morning, I see things slow down. There’s more silk in the voice I hear, more poignancy in the 22 strings. The bamboo emanating mournful melodies had brought tears before, but never made me weep. Even as my reactions slow down further, the fingers that pluck those strings in an effortless manner drag my soul out infusing it with a pain like never before. The blender deserves to be full of pride; he just brought me closer to god in a long time.
Blessed are the ones with music in their souls and melody in their voice. The melody that defies all logic building a road straight from the abode of mortals to the doors of the mightiest. The artists, who had begun with an urge to have a glimpse of him, now start conversing with god. I see their eye-balls pop out in astonishment and close yet again as the exchange gets more animated. I yell and shriek… “My voice never resonated to scale the heights where you reside, perhaps my screams will”.
The vision gets hazy still as Sufi trance is replaced by an outlandish fusion of Jazz and Carnatic. Unfair are your ways. Why give me the desire and take away the talent? Like a lust in my body and then make me mute. Why give me the will to fly and then leave me with a half-wing that I flutter with all my effort to fall flat on the ground. Antonio Salieri’s ghost speaking aloud in my voice!!
The voice that cannot hold on to a note for long, as the chain of breath breaks, killing the beautiful possibilities of connection with the One. The hands that were once training meticulously to create melody are now vehemently held by unseen yet powerful arms…rendering them motionless. My thirst only intensifies as I swill onto the last drop of golden amber. Why isn’t genius attainable without the help of the divine? Why at all did you create genius? The impulsive side of mine now grows out of the one sided conversation, only to focus on the music.
P.S. Never buy cheap whiskey.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
My umpTEENth Blog
Taking my socks off in the balcony of the fifth floor, I was taken aback by the sudden noise of a loud slap. It was the third floor of the opposite apartment and what I saw transported me close to a decade-and-a-half back. A time warp had abruptly opened its doors as I saw this boy in his early teens (I assumed thirteen) being thrashed and given an earful by a lady who certainly looked like his mother. The boy who was visibly startled by the sudden public humiliation at the hands of his own folks would have no respite though. His father joined in and the poor fellow now resembled a thief caught amidst an unforgiving mob. Little sister had foreseen the storm coming and disappeared in a flash. A dull summer evening meant show-time for the housewives and kids residing in the adjacent buildings. The boy desperately tried putting his case forward in Telugu which I interpreted as “Me and my wife will avenge this insult one day”
I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.
Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”
The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…
I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.
Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”
The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Being a clown...
The dark smoke from the colorful candles gushed into my nostrils as I plucked the E-string of the guitar for one last time. Cake smeared on her face as everyone clapped in joy. Happy birthday indeed it was as I saw the newly-weds smile, exchanging the loveliest of split-second glances. And midnight it was, but I sweated profusely. More couples in love meant more dedications and mushy numbers. This meant I’d strum the strings of a half-known, half stranger instrument while sweat trickled down my forehead further down to my cheeks. I’d cover up the end of each of my imperfect melody with a witty comment, or a lousy mimicry of an idiosyncratic actor, making the happy-high crowd chortle. The last beer can would then be crushed, lights put off as I’d pack my guitar cracking one final joke walking out. End of the party.
Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”
A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.
It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…
Next day the clown performs yet again at the post-lunch-pre-nap session at work. Some get the jokes and laugh, while some laugh as there is nothing better to do. It’s the beginning of the week, but the party for the next weekend is already fixed. “You and your guitar are cordially invited. No stag entry” reads the verbal invitation. Crowd disperses to the respective workstations as the clown strolls towards the washroom. “Let’s get the face paint and the red cherry off the nose now.”
A good sense of humour is a certain entry pass to all parties in town. Most jokes work out if the crowd is intelligent, some fall flat but could be ignored or lost in the commotion. But guitar is a serious art isn’t it? “Didn’t you play the same song last time?” and “Why don’t you play what you can?” are the most common words of appreciation. But then as the mercury rises, and empty Budweiser cans stack up, “Play the high pitch…can’t you”, “I will sing”, and “I know a professional guitarist” are more frequently heard. The clown takes it all with a warm toothless smile, for his is a small performance in the greater circus called life.
It’s midnight again and a long walk back home. I switch on the lights as I directly face the mirror, the guitar still tied to my back. I look at the face paint and the guitar…”Which is a tougher art??” Yawn…
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Gothic Perfection
“It’s a harmonious arrangement, a sense of completeness, a measure of excellence. It has to be a sunshine-yellow or an amber orange” - the white swan said about perfection. “It’s pitch black.” The black swan fluttered its wings violently, displaying its dictate. The two swans of course were the reflections of my imagination, perhaps steady partners of the subconscious me. The TV remote almost slipped out of my wet palms. It was early May and the noise of the rotating fan hanging from the ceiling seemed to provide nothing more than psychological cooling. Television channels had run out of juice ever since the cricket world cup was won.
Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.
The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?
The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…
Did every perfectionist in every sphere of acquired talent be it visual, or performing arts, sports or any other skill have a dark side to him? I had slowly strolled into the common garden for the residents of the gated community, not remembering if the door had been locked. The seven year old who went on to become a world famous percussionist would dip his tender palms in ice cold water for long stretches during early winter mornings before his routene Riyaaz. The literary genius would lead a painful, desolate life, understanding the sensibilities and compassion of his character, weeping late hours. The neurosurgeon who made his presence felt right from page 3 to the list of the most influential people, had his long drawn stint with the nocturnal dwellers of the mortuary. The deaf composer of numerous symphonies spent thousands of night in the dark room by the flickering lantern, gathering musical notes from the silence within. Yes, the pursuit of perfection had come at a dark, gory price.
The light breeze on my face and the giggles of little children playing twilight games diverted my attention from the grim theme. A little brawl halted the rather playful evening. In the game of hide and seek, we all cheat a little don’t we? So were the contours of the lives of all perfectionists defined by foulplays? Did the host of the colossal gaming event chop off the hands and feet of non-performers and make the rest rehearse, practice and train for years to put up the most brilliant spectacle ever on earth? Did the master sportsman ever fiddle with the selection of another upcoming talent, who also happened to be his best friend? Did the artist romance compulsively with every other person of the opposite sex to give an illustrious look to the canvas of his life?
The little outstretched arms of my watch displayed 7 PM. Twilight had just been engulfed by the obscure shade. Darkness calling aloud…
Monday, April 4, 2011
Counterfeiters on 3 wheels
The petite headphone kept sliding off my ears as I tried holding on to the steel rod with one hand and the office bag with another. The music was more to block the loud noises from the 9 am office-going traffic than for amusement. The erratic movement of the 3 wheeler auto reminded me of a child who’d have recently started walking. With a little diaper on, he’d accelerate his way around the house, completely ignorant of his brakes. Combine this with the blazing sun opening its furnace doors at you; what you’d have is a perfect start to the day!
The actual seating space as usual went to the ladies, leaving every man for himself. You’d now sit right next to the driver holding on to whatever you’d find, to help you keep the centrifugal forces from dislodging you off the rickety little cockroach-faced vehicle. I tried positioning my hindquarters on the uneven plateau as the rocket propellant engulfed the atmosphere, marking the start of my journey heavenwards. The auto driver, an ardent fan of a south Indian superstar-turned politician pretended to be the coolest one in town, spitting more frequently than he’d blink his eyes. I was wondering why the course of the entire drive was so meandering when the auto took a sudden sharp right turn on a straight road. There was a gentleman on his way to office in his bright yellow Tata Nano. No way our driver would let a four wheeler cheaper than his leased vehicle get past us. This ensured a healthy competition between the two benefitting the 6 passengers who’d have woken up 5 minutes late than usual. As the two vehicles approached the finish line, the auto won by a whisker…fiery glares were exchanged, mothers and sisters greeted, and it was business as usual.
As I crossed the red light, a beggar tried deceiving people displaying acute pain from the limb that would have been amputated several years back. Another wait in the sun for the second auto meant more time for me to observe the urban crowd. The fair skinned twenty-something guy with tiny little eyes tried hard to look comfortable amidst hostile eyes staring at him. No matter if he hailed from Dehradun, Kathmandu or Imphal, or if his Hindi was impeccable, he was deemed to be a Chinese. The uber cool lady in her dark formal trousers and white striped shirt looked at the dark skinned women in salwars in a strange manner. Clearly she was way too superior. The young IT employee who had just elbowed a middle aged man to enter an auto first, just found himself sitting next to the same person. Covering half of his face with his hands, he looked outside, not with guilt for sure.
I got off the second shared-auto handing over a ten Rupee note to the driver. I had read the script in bold, well before it was being conceptualized. He slid his hands into the leather pouch that contained coins of all sizes and values. “Don’t bother about the change” I said as I walked off.
The actual seating space as usual went to the ladies, leaving every man for himself. You’d now sit right next to the driver holding on to whatever you’d find, to help you keep the centrifugal forces from dislodging you off the rickety little cockroach-faced vehicle. I tried positioning my hindquarters on the uneven plateau as the rocket propellant engulfed the atmosphere, marking the start of my journey heavenwards. The auto driver, an ardent fan of a south Indian superstar-turned politician pretended to be the coolest one in town, spitting more frequently than he’d blink his eyes. I was wondering why the course of the entire drive was so meandering when the auto took a sudden sharp right turn on a straight road. There was a gentleman on his way to office in his bright yellow Tata Nano. No way our driver would let a four wheeler cheaper than his leased vehicle get past us. This ensured a healthy competition between the two benefitting the 6 passengers who’d have woken up 5 minutes late than usual. As the two vehicles approached the finish line, the auto won by a whisker…fiery glares were exchanged, mothers and sisters greeted, and it was business as usual.
As I crossed the red light, a beggar tried deceiving people displaying acute pain from the limb that would have been amputated several years back. Another wait in the sun for the second auto meant more time for me to observe the urban crowd. The fair skinned twenty-something guy with tiny little eyes tried hard to look comfortable amidst hostile eyes staring at him. No matter if he hailed from Dehradun, Kathmandu or Imphal, or if his Hindi was impeccable, he was deemed to be a Chinese. The uber cool lady in her dark formal trousers and white striped shirt looked at the dark skinned women in salwars in a strange manner. Clearly she was way too superior. The young IT employee who had just elbowed a middle aged man to enter an auto first, just found himself sitting next to the same person. Covering half of his face with his hands, he looked outside, not with guilt for sure.
I got off the second shared-auto handing over a ten Rupee note to the driver. I had read the script in bold, well before it was being conceptualized. He slid his hands into the leather pouch that contained coins of all sizes and values. “Don’t bother about the change” I said as I walked off.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
From the diaries of a loner...
His cell-phone played a popular western classical number as NB watched it blink. He had just ignored the twenty-eighth call from friends and family and the unknown. Hate messages kept pouring in as he stared at the ceiling fan with blank eyes. He could mute the cell-phone but not the loud sarcasms exuding out of the text messages. A sudden loud bang jolted the otherwise lazy evening. NB who was visibly jarred for a second came back to normal realizing it was Diwali, a yet-another festival in the long list of a lousy Indian calendar.
His social networking account displayed over 500 friends, far too many to the credit of a loner. NB couldn’t trace back the origin, the journey, and his final transition to a polar bear in hibernation. The dormant hide-away phases had become far too frequent now, almost to the extent where NB started doubting his own sanity. A strange sense of sadism had crept in his life as he stared back at his mobile, waiting for another call he could ignore.
Winter was unusually cold this year and NB’s addiction to a cup of warm ginger tea had intensified manifolds. As he walked into the kitchen, the steel pan with remnants of a previous midnight tea fended him off. To feast his sore throat on a cup of hot tea, he’d have to diligently wash the tea powder and the sticky leftovers. “Your problems aren’t as big as you present them. You love being in pain” – one of the several text messages read.
NB rubbed his palms as the boiling water made his kitchen a little warmer. Over the past few years, he saw close friends losing their patience on him. Once greatest admirers of his art had now turned passive, and the nearest ones gotten withdrawn. Serial blasts of firecrackers lit up the world outside as NB added tea leaves to the simmering water. Ginger, pepper, eggs, guitar, harmonica and books…perhaps these were his only trusted friends now. They wouldn’t seek your attention nor shower you with guilt trips when on certain day; bouts of speechlessness shackled your tongue. Some of them would perhaps decay, displaying colours of contempt while some would stay intact, not uttering a word.
NB wouldn’t stare deep into people’s eyes anymore, as a strange fear would engulf his conscious each time. What began as a slight discomfort in public gatherings had now turned into a complete lack of composure in long lunches and coffee breaks. Happy, smiling people would get him anxious. NB couldn’t connect to anyone. Or was it just momentary? A power cut and the subsequent darkness were perfectly timed. Just when NB had prepared his profound mind to accept the implied meaning of the power failure, fireworks lit up the window pane displaying his own dark shadow amidst the bright walls…
His social networking account displayed over 500 friends, far too many to the credit of a loner. NB couldn’t trace back the origin, the journey, and his final transition to a polar bear in hibernation. The dormant hide-away phases had become far too frequent now, almost to the extent where NB started doubting his own sanity. A strange sense of sadism had crept in his life as he stared back at his mobile, waiting for another call he could ignore.
Winter was unusually cold this year and NB’s addiction to a cup of warm ginger tea had intensified manifolds. As he walked into the kitchen, the steel pan with remnants of a previous midnight tea fended him off. To feast his sore throat on a cup of hot tea, he’d have to diligently wash the tea powder and the sticky leftovers. “Your problems aren’t as big as you present them. You love being in pain” – one of the several text messages read.
NB rubbed his palms as the boiling water made his kitchen a little warmer. Over the past few years, he saw close friends losing their patience on him. Once greatest admirers of his art had now turned passive, and the nearest ones gotten withdrawn. Serial blasts of firecrackers lit up the world outside as NB added tea leaves to the simmering water. Ginger, pepper, eggs, guitar, harmonica and books…perhaps these were his only trusted friends now. They wouldn’t seek your attention nor shower you with guilt trips when on certain day; bouts of speechlessness shackled your tongue. Some of them would perhaps decay, displaying colours of contempt while some would stay intact, not uttering a word.
NB wouldn’t stare deep into people’s eyes anymore, as a strange fear would engulf his conscious each time. What began as a slight discomfort in public gatherings had now turned into a complete lack of composure in long lunches and coffee breaks. Happy, smiling people would get him anxious. NB couldn’t connect to anyone. Or was it just momentary? A power cut and the subsequent darkness were perfectly timed. Just when NB had prepared his profound mind to accept the implied meaning of the power failure, fireworks lit up the window pane displaying his own dark shadow amidst the bright walls…
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Mangrove Chronicles - Part III
The lump in my throat was a lot more prominent now as I tried to feel the wooden platform beneath my numb foot. We were ten criminals on a dwindling ferry who could no longer face each other. Once again I thanked the fading lights. Everyone pretended to look into the dark, each one knowing the limits of his vision and morals. More than a minute had passed since the boy jumped into the tides. More than a minute had passed since we tried closing our eyes hoping that the world would turn blind. Every passing second made us believe that our tender offering had reached the predator.
I tried hard to spot any trifling signs of despair on Kashi da’s face. He stood still, like an old tree that didn’t bear new fruits or fresh leaves for anyone to read what it was going through. Ever since the boy met the tides, there wasn’t a single clamour that would suggest his condition. Our worst fears were coming true. Suddenly a hand appeared out of the rapid tides pleading for help. Kashi da didn’t waste a second to get his kin on board.
There was no warm clothing to offer to this panting, half-dead boy who was shivering with cold. His face shouted aloud the horror he faced in the swirling undercurrents. His breathlessness prevented him from realizing the attention he was receiving from the worthy city dwellers for the first time. He would have been too shy to notice anyways, as he avoided eye contact. “I was dead…I was dead” is all he could utter. Not a single leaf moved of the old tree.
The boy opened up a little once his shock gave away to the euphoria of being alive. The tide had greeted him with animal corpse and thick vegetation from the swamps that entangled his body. Something down there was making him choke. Something would not let him hold his breath. Restlessness kept growing on Kashi da’s face, a face that lacked the ability to portray compassion even if he was left with any. He wasn’t interested in the young boy’s stories anymore. Maintaining the fine balance of the shaky boat, Kashi da asked him to do the unthinkable.
With the tide reaching its full fury, and the constant fear of poachers, Kashi da would give it one last fight. He asked the young boy to give himself to the tides once again. This time he had to try and start the boat’s motor whose blades seemed to have been jammed. Did the ferocious predator rip his heart off during one of those seven encounters, and leave Kashi da’s body intact to decay among other living souls? While we made livid glances at him, his nephew looked at the full moon with blank eyes.
In the tide country, they don’t question the old and the experienced. Another big splash, another violent tremor and the countdown began. My count had reached close to eighty when I heard a thudding sound that gradually grew with each second. While most of us expected it to be a rescue boat having forest rangers, it turned out to be our own motor. The little boy had given it a new life while risking his own. As Kashi da helped him up, he looked happier despite the shiver in his teeth. He had successfully detangled a large fishing net trapped under the boat’s propellers. The boat had finally started, making the loud thudding noise of the motor perfect music to our ears.
As the boat finally cruised along, taking us back to safety, we spotted the natives of the delta waiting at the edges of their little islands. They constantly gazed at their large fishing nets, completely ignoring our presence. The nets lay submerged inside the water, with only large, dark, kerosene-jugs attached to the nets acting as the floating markers to be spotted. Strange how the full moon creates beautiful yet scary mirages in the water. The cigarette was lit again as the Gangetic dolphin debate resumed…
I tried hard to spot any trifling signs of despair on Kashi da’s face. He stood still, like an old tree that didn’t bear new fruits or fresh leaves for anyone to read what it was going through. Ever since the boy met the tides, there wasn’t a single clamour that would suggest his condition. Our worst fears were coming true. Suddenly a hand appeared out of the rapid tides pleading for help. Kashi da didn’t waste a second to get his kin on board.
There was no warm clothing to offer to this panting, half-dead boy who was shivering with cold. His face shouted aloud the horror he faced in the swirling undercurrents. His breathlessness prevented him from realizing the attention he was receiving from the worthy city dwellers for the first time. He would have been too shy to notice anyways, as he avoided eye contact. “I was dead…I was dead” is all he could utter. Not a single leaf moved of the old tree.
The boy opened up a little once his shock gave away to the euphoria of being alive. The tide had greeted him with animal corpse and thick vegetation from the swamps that entangled his body. Something down there was making him choke. Something would not let him hold his breath. Restlessness kept growing on Kashi da’s face, a face that lacked the ability to portray compassion even if he was left with any. He wasn’t interested in the young boy’s stories anymore. Maintaining the fine balance of the shaky boat, Kashi da asked him to do the unthinkable.
With the tide reaching its full fury, and the constant fear of poachers, Kashi da would give it one last fight. He asked the young boy to give himself to the tides once again. This time he had to try and start the boat’s motor whose blades seemed to have been jammed. Did the ferocious predator rip his heart off during one of those seven encounters, and leave Kashi da’s body intact to decay among other living souls? While we made livid glances at him, his nephew looked at the full moon with blank eyes.
In the tide country, they don’t question the old and the experienced. Another big splash, another violent tremor and the countdown began. My count had reached close to eighty when I heard a thudding sound that gradually grew with each second. While most of us expected it to be a rescue boat having forest rangers, it turned out to be our own motor. The little boy had given it a new life while risking his own. As Kashi da helped him up, he looked happier despite the shiver in his teeth. He had successfully detangled a large fishing net trapped under the boat’s propellers. The boat had finally started, making the loud thudding noise of the motor perfect music to our ears.
As the boat finally cruised along, taking us back to safety, we spotted the natives of the delta waiting at the edges of their little islands. They constantly gazed at their large fishing nets, completely ignoring our presence. The nets lay submerged inside the water, with only large, dark, kerosene-jugs attached to the nets acting as the floating markers to be spotted. Strange how the full moon creates beautiful yet scary mirages in the water. The cigarette was lit again as the Gangetic dolphin debate resumed…
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Mangrove Chronicles - Part II
There was a sudden lull in the atmosphere, the kind you’d feel in late winter evenings only to be broken by the routine azaan from the nearest mosque. Except for there were no mosques around, not even human beings, only a pin drop silence caused by the sudden outage of the boat’s motor. High tides had just set in as everything around seemed to move in a hurry. The tide carried vegetation, waste, animal corpse and everything frail it found on its way. As nature displayed its might in full fury, the most atheists of people stared out with their mouths wide open.
The wind hitting our faces had just grown colder. I silently thanked the fading lights that concealed the terror on our faces. “Would I have the guts to play the guitar while the titanic sank?” I wondered with a nervous smile. Just as I realized we weren’t carrying along a guitar this time, the boat quivered. Left at nature’s mercy with a dead motor, the boat started playing to the music of the tide. As the boat started moving downstream, we saw the full moon moving to our right and further. The boat was revolving in the middle of nowhere and everyone held on to the wooden railings. The whisky seemed to have evaporated off the gang as they performed the balancing act carefully.
The barely visible gloomy faces revealed that our spirits were sinking faster than the boat. Every single second of the next twenty-odd minutes we breathed a little less, and a lot slower, hoping to prolong the twelve lives hanging on a balance. It was pitch black now and our dark skins glowed under the full moon. A slight movement, a little sneeze or a minor itch could cause the boat to shake violently. Everyone hoped not to be the first one to fall off the boat with the dark creature waiting for its prey right beneath our feet. Was Kashi da waiting for a divine intervention or did his prolonged, dark life turn him into a sadist who enjoyed watching people being dragged, drowned or devoured to death? Would he live another day to tell the horror story of another kin’s loss, this time to the tides?
The kin, his fifteen year old nephew had been his helper since the last monsoons. We hadn’t bothered to talk to this young teenager throughout the journey. He had displayed several attempts to come closer to us, look at our fancy cellphones and music players, perhaps imagining a life outside the confines of the tide country. A bright city life where four legged creatures would be behind the cages, where everyone would wear bright clothes and wide smiles, and the day would start once the sun went down.
It was his time to go down now, right under the boat to investigate the issue. A man of few words, Kashi da asked him to “stay safe” as he prepared to take the plunge. The entire gang that was battling to cope with the fear of losing their lives, now had a new emotion to deal with. The air was suddenly thick with guilt as the young boy looked at us for one last time. He was to risk his life for ten drunken men from the city whose lives were obviously more prized. Before anyone blinked, he had jumped off. The boat shook viciously.
The wind hitting our faces had just grown colder. I silently thanked the fading lights that concealed the terror on our faces. “Would I have the guts to play the guitar while the titanic sank?” I wondered with a nervous smile. Just as I realized we weren’t carrying along a guitar this time, the boat quivered. Left at nature’s mercy with a dead motor, the boat started playing to the music of the tide. As the boat started moving downstream, we saw the full moon moving to our right and further. The boat was revolving in the middle of nowhere and everyone held on to the wooden railings. The whisky seemed to have evaporated off the gang as they performed the balancing act carefully.
The barely visible gloomy faces revealed that our spirits were sinking faster than the boat. Every single second of the next twenty-odd minutes we breathed a little less, and a lot slower, hoping to prolong the twelve lives hanging on a balance. It was pitch black now and our dark skins glowed under the full moon. A slight movement, a little sneeze or a minor itch could cause the boat to shake violently. Everyone hoped not to be the first one to fall off the boat with the dark creature waiting for its prey right beneath our feet. Was Kashi da waiting for a divine intervention or did his prolonged, dark life turn him into a sadist who enjoyed watching people being dragged, drowned or devoured to death? Would he live another day to tell the horror story of another kin’s loss, this time to the tides?
The kin, his fifteen year old nephew had been his helper since the last monsoons. We hadn’t bothered to talk to this young teenager throughout the journey. He had displayed several attempts to come closer to us, look at our fancy cellphones and music players, perhaps imagining a life outside the confines of the tide country. A bright city life where four legged creatures would be behind the cages, where everyone would wear bright clothes and wide smiles, and the day would start once the sun went down.
It was his time to go down now, right under the boat to investigate the issue. A man of few words, Kashi da asked him to “stay safe” as he prepared to take the plunge. The entire gang that was battling to cope with the fear of losing their lives, now had a new emotion to deal with. The air was suddenly thick with guilt as the young boy looked at us for one last time. He was to risk his life for ten drunken men from the city whose lives were obviously more prized. Before anyone blinked, he had jumped off. The boat shook viciously.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Mangrove Chronicles - Part I
It was twilight as I struggled to look beyond an arm’s length. Kashi da, who had been quiet and reserved throughout the boat journey had finally broken his silence. I had been itching to strike the right note with him after a seven hour long journey. The journey that took us deep into the mangrove forests and little half-submerged islands. It may have been the dialect that I used; or my genuine interest that he eventually opened up. His intense eyes that were keenly searching for patrolling boats of forest guards spoke of his encounters with the man-eaters of the Sunderbans.
“The light fades off extremely fast in the delta” – I remembered reading somewhere. As the shadows thickened, I was trying hard to see if he had any permanent marks left from the fierce encounters. Did he have two-less fingers or three? Did I somewhere spot a small tear drop while he spoke of his nephew being dragged by the creature “we don’t speak of!” These were trivial questions for most of my gang that was busy playing cards on the upper deck of the motor boat. As the high tides set in, the old motor started making restless noises battling the heavy undercurrent. I was barely ready with my next question for Kashi da as the silhouettes of a dark creature suddenly emerged a few metres from the boat.
I was too shy to raise an alarm wondering if it was my tired eyes or a long day of antiquity blue speaking. Before I could react, Kashi da was on his toes. He was well into his late fifties and had been wearing a blue chequered lungi with off-white stripes and a white vest that hugged his distinct ribs. A farmer turned honey-searcher turned helper for tiger surveys turned a boat-man, Kashi da had something very intriguing about his facade. He quickly hushed something to his helper nephew who was in his early teens. Once again my Bengali let me down as i stood up bemused holding the wooden railing. The sudden movements in the boat had alerted the wasted lot of nine men who seemed to be in a state of trance.
Meanwhile before anyone could react, this creature came tantalizingly close; took one full rotation around the boat and in a blink of an eye went down, right under the boat. To evade an attack in case the dark creature emerged out, everyone tried ducking for cover. In panic, the entire gang of drunken men had moved to one side of the boat, making it bend into the water. Now I could hear my heart thump louder than the dying motor. Despite the huge lump in my throat and my weight shifting towards the bend, I tried taking charge. “Get five on each side of the boat!! Balance your weights…” I shouted but was royally ignored. Kashi da’s timely intervention saved me from a cardiac arrest.
“It’s a Gangetic dolphin guys. Gimme a light” – said a nonchalant Abhigyan who was tipped to be the smartest of the lot, as he pulled a pack of cigarette from his pocket. It took me no time to realize, it was Amitav Ghosh speaking out loud in the voice of our well-read man trapped amidst the hungry tides. For Dipjoy who had done his post-graduate research here in the delta, it was a crocodile. For Abhishek if I remember well, it was a large over-bloated fish. My profession of an analyst had taught me to consider information from credible sources only. I immediately turned to my key opinion leader – Kashi da who for the first time displayed deep lines on his forehead. And this time even the guy standing next to me could hear my heart thump loud. The motor had breathed its last…
“The light fades off extremely fast in the delta” – I remembered reading somewhere. As the shadows thickened, I was trying hard to see if he had any permanent marks left from the fierce encounters. Did he have two-less fingers or three? Did I somewhere spot a small tear drop while he spoke of his nephew being dragged by the creature “we don’t speak of!” These were trivial questions for most of my gang that was busy playing cards on the upper deck of the motor boat. As the high tides set in, the old motor started making restless noises battling the heavy undercurrent. I was barely ready with my next question for Kashi da as the silhouettes of a dark creature suddenly emerged a few metres from the boat.
I was too shy to raise an alarm wondering if it was my tired eyes or a long day of antiquity blue speaking. Before I could react, Kashi da was on his toes. He was well into his late fifties and had been wearing a blue chequered lungi with off-white stripes and a white vest that hugged his distinct ribs. A farmer turned honey-searcher turned helper for tiger surveys turned a boat-man, Kashi da had something very intriguing about his facade. He quickly hushed something to his helper nephew who was in his early teens. Once again my Bengali let me down as i stood up bemused holding the wooden railing. The sudden movements in the boat had alerted the wasted lot of nine men who seemed to be in a state of trance.
Meanwhile before anyone could react, this creature came tantalizingly close; took one full rotation around the boat and in a blink of an eye went down, right under the boat. To evade an attack in case the dark creature emerged out, everyone tried ducking for cover. In panic, the entire gang of drunken men had moved to one side of the boat, making it bend into the water. Now I could hear my heart thump louder than the dying motor. Despite the huge lump in my throat and my weight shifting towards the bend, I tried taking charge. “Get five on each side of the boat!! Balance your weights…” I shouted but was royally ignored. Kashi da’s timely intervention saved me from a cardiac arrest.
“It’s a Gangetic dolphin guys. Gimme a light” – said a nonchalant Abhigyan who was tipped to be the smartest of the lot, as he pulled a pack of cigarette from his pocket. It took me no time to realize, it was Amitav Ghosh speaking out loud in the voice of our well-read man trapped amidst the hungry tides. For Dipjoy who had done his post-graduate research here in the delta, it was a crocodile. For Abhishek if I remember well, it was a large over-bloated fish. My profession of an analyst had taught me to consider information from credible sources only. I immediately turned to my key opinion leader – Kashi da who for the first time displayed deep lines on his forehead. And this time even the guy standing next to me could hear my heart thump loud. The motor had breathed its last…
Monday, January 31, 2011
New Boy
“Swim here New Boy…now!!” K dictated as he spat on the floor near the wooden desks. The New Boy was trembling with fear as his feet resembled the dance steps of the popular Ketchup song. There wasn’t enough water to swim but enough to drown him in the realm of fright. He took a sizeable number of blows from K and kicks from the two-dozen audience of class VI students. The only trade-off: a bubble gum he had purchased with great difficulty for Rs. 1.50. It meant more than what a bottle of Jack Daniels would mean to him now. Parting with it with a heavy heart, he cursed his parents for getting him to his fifth school in 8 years of academics.
Fifteen years later, as he prepared to join his fourth company in 4 years of corporate experience, the plight of being tagged a New Boy throughout his life just flashed in front of his eyes. Whistling past towns and cities with an arrogant horn, that of a steam engine, New Boy realized how he only took pit stops at certain stations and then moved on. Not every station was forthcoming and warm. Each time the train arrived, the crowd welcomed it with loud roars of “New Boy”.
Each year the New Boy would struggle to build his identity, pick up the new local language, turn hostile classmates to friends and get biased regional teachers to appreciate his efforts. Next year, like a pawn he’d be picked up from the white checkered square and placed into the black one. He would learn the tricks of the trade, master the operational processes, read the pulse of the client’s whims and massage the ego of the insecure manager. Next year the entire world would conspire against him and create an Economic Downturn to ensure he chose another job.
Cities changed, so did schools and organizations. Tiny, fiery eyes gave way to dark skins with protruding lips; Kela Bongali (bloody Bengali) changed to Bangali Saala (bloody Bengali again); “just a fresher” changed to “you can’t have direct reportees yet”. What never changed is our innate propensity to judge. If only as human, our retina allowed us to see beyond the color of the skin, the size of the eyes, the accented speech, the salary one drew or the number of years one had worked…the numerous New Boys wouldn’t dread to make a New start each time…
Fifteen years later, as he prepared to join his fourth company in 4 years of corporate experience, the plight of being tagged a New Boy throughout his life just flashed in front of his eyes. Whistling past towns and cities with an arrogant horn, that of a steam engine, New Boy realized how he only took pit stops at certain stations and then moved on. Not every station was forthcoming and warm. Each time the train arrived, the crowd welcomed it with loud roars of “New Boy”.
Each year the New Boy would struggle to build his identity, pick up the new local language, turn hostile classmates to friends and get biased regional teachers to appreciate his efforts. Next year, like a pawn he’d be picked up from the white checkered square and placed into the black one. He would learn the tricks of the trade, master the operational processes, read the pulse of the client’s whims and massage the ego of the insecure manager. Next year the entire world would conspire against him and create an Economic Downturn to ensure he chose another job.
Cities changed, so did schools and organizations. Tiny, fiery eyes gave way to dark skins with protruding lips; Kela Bongali (bloody Bengali) changed to Bangali Saala (bloody Bengali again); “just a fresher” changed to “you can’t have direct reportees yet”. What never changed is our innate propensity to judge. If only as human, our retina allowed us to see beyond the color of the skin, the size of the eyes, the accented speech, the salary one drew or the number of years one had worked…the numerous New Boys wouldn’t dread to make a New start each time…
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
My Idea of Equality as on January 18, 2011
It’s a 6:30 am cab for office this winter morning as i recollect the candid conversations with my doctor-cousin a few years back. Anosmia he says it is. When you lose the ability to smell...and to a great extent taste. The Indica takes a left turn from the dump-yard where on usual days the stench is unbearable. Today is different. I look outside the window pane, oblivious to the reek of the rotten waste across the road, the aroma of boiling tea from little shacks and the smoke from broken huts. A copy-pasting job surely kills your appetite but this morning there's more to it.
The tasteless days last for weeks, sometimes an entire month. Anosmia grows with each day. Anger turns to frustration and explodes into despair. The loneliness I am so fond of screeches aloud in my head. The symptoms seem synonymous to PMS. Except for that one doesn’t start shouting randomly at colleagues or burst into tears or argue over non-existent issues. It gives you a perspective though and it's fun. It acts like caffeine, stimulating your brain right from the start of the day. I can't help as my nose and tongue pull me into an egalitarian mode. There’s nothing as a pungent smell or an alluring fragrance; and a bitter-sweet taste or tangy flavour. Everything is simple – Insipid and Equal.
For breakfast in the cafetaria, the 6 foot tall, spike haired, parantha-loyalist Delhite; and the petite, shy looking, dark Tamilian who craves for a vada dipped in sambar – they all look the same. Why the cold war? I feel confused. The Tamilian sniffs the freshly poured sambar and gives me a smirk…not sure why. Reminds me of the numerous Sholay jokes where Thakur is asked to toss the coin, shake hands or pick up the phone.
From the brightly lit conference rooms to our very own ammonia lab (read men’s toilet), I can’t spot a difference. I see a senior manager, an analyst and the floor cleaner – all composing enchanting music, that of a placid waterfalls standing next to each other in the loo. Just that every musician has a different expression. The senior is a visionary, too engrossed, as if in a superior connection with the divine. The analyst is too shy...perhaps intimidated by the senior musician’s presence; frequently looking at his instrument, composing melody at an intermittent tempo. The cleaner is nonchalant, a thorough professional possessing a been-there-seen-it-all manifestation. He performs as though the stage is all his and leaves before the automatic flush could applaud his concert with a thundering drizzle.
From the convoy of Merc and Volkswagen that brings in a troop of fair skinned clients from the west; to the formal-clad assistant manager (whose shirt is crisply ironed and shoes that shine like his slime-ball head) who greets (almost salutes) the guests with all his paan-stained teeth out…..They all look the same.
From the boss in electric blue shirt who actually knew nothing but incessantly had “I knewed” (to be pronounced as “nude”) on his lips; to the loony intern from a premier pharma college who is at other's mercy to swipe him out of the glass enclosure even when nature calls him aloud....they all look the same.
Its ironical that due to some involuntary action, my fingers type in Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago speech on google this morning. It’s the same speech that I would have read a million times since Class III. Not that it is difficult to comprehend; it’s a masterpiece in true literary sense. But the timing is spotless. Swamiji elucidating the importance of equality and tolerance during an era of religious extremism and social evils…And me getting a forceful taste (or rather lack of it) of the need for equality in turbulent times at workplace.
The day at office ends with a very serious dilemma as I approach the customer friendly coffee vendor in the cafeteria. Should I have coffee or tea is the question. Without a blink of an eye, picking up a steel cup he says “coffee saar…strong-aa?” The Sholay jokes start looming large in my head….
The tasteless days last for weeks, sometimes an entire month. Anosmia grows with each day. Anger turns to frustration and explodes into despair. The loneliness I am so fond of screeches aloud in my head. The symptoms seem synonymous to PMS. Except for that one doesn’t start shouting randomly at colleagues or burst into tears or argue over non-existent issues. It gives you a perspective though and it's fun. It acts like caffeine, stimulating your brain right from the start of the day. I can't help as my nose and tongue pull me into an egalitarian mode. There’s nothing as a pungent smell or an alluring fragrance; and a bitter-sweet taste or tangy flavour. Everything is simple – Insipid and Equal.
For breakfast in the cafetaria, the 6 foot tall, spike haired, parantha-loyalist Delhite; and the petite, shy looking, dark Tamilian who craves for a vada dipped in sambar – they all look the same. Why the cold war? I feel confused. The Tamilian sniffs the freshly poured sambar and gives me a smirk…not sure why. Reminds me of the numerous Sholay jokes where Thakur is asked to toss the coin, shake hands or pick up the phone.
From the brightly lit conference rooms to our very own ammonia lab (read men’s toilet), I can’t spot a difference. I see a senior manager, an analyst and the floor cleaner – all composing enchanting music, that of a placid waterfalls standing next to each other in the loo. Just that every musician has a different expression. The senior is a visionary, too engrossed, as if in a superior connection with the divine. The analyst is too shy...perhaps intimidated by the senior musician’s presence; frequently looking at his instrument, composing melody at an intermittent tempo. The cleaner is nonchalant, a thorough professional possessing a been-there-seen-it-all manifestation. He performs as though the stage is all his and leaves before the automatic flush could applaud his concert with a thundering drizzle.
From the convoy of Merc and Volkswagen that brings in a troop of fair skinned clients from the west; to the formal-clad assistant manager (whose shirt is crisply ironed and shoes that shine like his slime-ball head) who greets (almost salutes) the guests with all his paan-stained teeth out…..They all look the same.
From the boss in electric blue shirt who actually knew nothing but incessantly had “I knewed” (to be pronounced as “nude”) on his lips; to the loony intern from a premier pharma college who is at other's mercy to swipe him out of the glass enclosure even when nature calls him aloud....they all look the same.
Its ironical that due to some involuntary action, my fingers type in Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago speech on google this morning. It’s the same speech that I would have read a million times since Class III. Not that it is difficult to comprehend; it’s a masterpiece in true literary sense. But the timing is spotless. Swamiji elucidating the importance of equality and tolerance during an era of religious extremism and social evils…And me getting a forceful taste (or rather lack of it) of the need for equality in turbulent times at workplace.
The day at office ends with a very serious dilemma as I approach the customer friendly coffee vendor in the cafeteria. Should I have coffee or tea is the question. Without a blink of an eye, picking up a steel cup he says “coffee saar…strong-aa?” The Sholay jokes start looming large in my head….
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