Back With a Thud

I am usually given to a healthy trot rather than a lazy traipse on any normal day. People who know me know of this and take rightful precautions – make way in narrow passageways, hiss at me when I start moving in the same direction as them or point a mean finger at me and follow it up with a colorful expletive. One pregnant colleague-friend even advanced her maternity leave by a week to prevent any premature drops.

The few times I have quizzed myself about this, the knowledgeable me has silenced the ignorant me saying that this is a personality trait, something which adds a tint of interest to an otherwise mono-colored personality (I am wheat-ish fair all over, spotted, though not unduly, with a few dark colored birth marks). So it was that, as I made a quick entrance to the office rest room in the morning, with a song on my lips as it were, I pushed open the door with more force than justifiable for the act. Little did I know perched behind the door was the gentleman who keeps the said place sparkling clean and odor-free. It’s not an exaggeration if I said I heard a thud behind the door and so I say it – I heard a thud behind the door. I had hit the poor man’s behind with a force that crossed the boundaries of a friendly pat on the derrière by a mile.

People who know me know well that I am not one to stave off sorry’s and really-did-not-knows at the slightest provocation. So I went ahead with the usual ritual made special by the use of a language largely unknown to me. There were bits of bhaiyya, laga kya?, dard hain kya?, malum nahi tha…in my minute long speech.

While my mental energies were channeled to support my linguistic challenges, I did still notice that the chap whose tail bone I had almost broken was smiling through it all. Before you go giggling and curling on the floor, let me assure you he was not in anyway amused by my language. He was indeed in pain. The thud was as real as any thud I have heard. He was smiling because he knew it was an honest mistake on my part. He was smiling because maybe he thought his social standing required him to do so. He was smiling because I was saab whereas he was I-still-don’t-know-his-name.

Whatever it was, his humility touched me in a way that nothing had in the last few months I have been staying in Mumbai. And I did what any other suave, socially-responsible, warm-hearted person would do in such a situation. I proclaimed the way I felt on twitter. Not many of my friends follow me there so I also wrote a blog post on it.

Chaos or Ordain?

A while, a minute, a second. A spark, a smile, a wink. All that passeth between two people, two individuals. Love, hate and confusion.

What a world we all live in! Strewn with emotions, materialism, philosophy, art, politics…the list moves on and on into infinity. Into that tunnel whose end no one has even seen. Into that hole which opens not at one end. And still we tread miles walking the journey of life. We smile, we cry, we laugh but carry on we will. What leads us through this journey? Is it the hope of seeing light in the end? Or is it plain helplessness?

Why should one go through experiences that would distort the meanings of the words he knew from childhood? What is so important about character building that one should put in so much to gain it? Whose world is this? Who owns me? As I see my arms lift in a wave of goodbye to my loved one, I wonder who it is who pulled the string for me to do so?

Two Heroes and One More

It was at one of the inaugural functions of a this-or-a-that where it all began. Goenka was a veteran by then and Ambani, the chairperson (CEO’s did not exist then) of 20^th Century India Private Ltd. It was one of the few times when money entered before the pen and did some nasty talking. “He is after all a pen-pusher.” And that sparked off all the rivalry between the two. While one made for the headlines for all the twisted routes he employed, the other showed how a pen can bring the heart of the other to come under the knife. Offices were burned, and bigger headlines made. Attention crazy politicos made some money and won a few votes. It was fought bitterly and shook the press. However this fight made two heroes. One – Ambani (there is nothing called negative publicity) and Capitalism. The law twister became the hero. Amitabh Bachan and other big stars of that age started acting the role of the villain. And Goenka? Well he was anyways a hero. And he shall remain so.

MY OBITUARY - AS THEY WRITE IT

At particular times of our lives, we feel the need to see ourselves through the eyes of others. And to be read through without the usual prejudices that are, even by sheer chance, never uncommon is too much of an effort. There are far too many ooh-that’s-too-idealistic situations that obstruct our paths when one endeavors to do so. But, little angels flying past my room window did see the goodness in me and whispered a benediction or two that materialised within a very short time. There is this friend, a kid, who I thought and later found out for real, to my satisfaction, was capable of doing this deed for me. He would write me an obituary. One that would speak of me as a person seen by the outside world. One that would not be pressed by silly anxieties and one that would, most important of all, have no prejudices. He knew me through a hundred odd messages which, I must confess, went beyond the weather-talk. I shall say no more; here goes the memorial a dear friend writes for one whom his eyes have never washed over.

“.....days went by....and days went by...

but i actually couldnt see that smile..n the twinkle in your eyes.
unknown by material and known only through msgs

____was a person I have never met yet ive always been with.
this is perhaps a very good example how technology has brought people closer.
he was a person ive communicated till today only by sms.....yet i could see those smiles n sparkles of his expression vibrating through words in glowing text. ......so common and deep .
so much expressible and thoughtful.....sometimes confusing.
they say never try to interpret a complete understanding from a message as u may be wrong.
but in this case it was never so.....it was always interpretable n clear.
he was not one of those people whom you had to wait for a reply for you would get them immediately....this person was pure spontaneity and expression.
there was always a spark of interest in his msgs which really brought a smile to my face,,,
a very good company at the midnight hour......n it was really amusing .....of all those music reviews and book talks.
as time went by,,,
smss popped up here and there and a good friendship bloomed by...
the sun shined
said good bye to those twinkling stars
invited the morning dew
and the morning wind coming by....
into the afternoon and .....
coffee at the evening hour...
as time went by
there was darkness again
and a tear drips by...
as i miss the day..just gone by.

but we must move on and oh yes we will
the fire never subsides but is just sometimes
invisible!
and perhaps it is so just here too
yet another memory
yet another story
but this one by expression
this one by thought
all by msgs.....n never a talk”

LIVING IN THESE TIMES

Stocks are doing fine. Weather is being rated the best in a long time. Presidents are gaining weight; some of them growing luxuriant hair. Old politicos suddenly are rewarded some publicity. N-deals are being signed. N-deals are being rejected. Inflation is being controlled. Railways is bringing money to the country. The Swiss are getting richer. So are the Americans. So are the British. So are some Indians. Quarter results are being announced. Some are doing great. Salaries are being increased. Some are buying houses. Some cars. Damn the world – I am sad.

Gold is being dug. So is oil. Gold is looted everyday. I wear, he wears, you wear. Everyone wears branded clothes. Branded watches. Shiny shoes. Shiny cars. IPods are sold by the dozen. Every minute. Competition is kindling the long forgotten spirit. The human spirit. The stars are moving away. The sky needs to be darned. Diseases are born. Diseases are fought. I give a damn – I am dissatisfied.

Millionaires are made. Swords are bought. Paintings are auctioned. And paintings are bought. Animals are killed. Men are killed. Forests are murdered. Wood is burnt. Gods are born. Men are worshipped. Boys turn into men. Lust matures to respect. Respect fades into Vacuum. Mothers are killed. Mothers hang themselves killing the wife, the woman. Diamonds are polished. Diamonds are paired. Weed is grown. Weed is sniffed. Sixteen year olds turn seventeen. What the hell – I am not cared for.

Thoughts are dying. Ideas are clicking in everyone’s mind. Two headed creatures are being operated upon. Three eyes, four limbs. One heart. One dies; the other kills. Roads are constructed, flags are flashed. Television gets brilliant anchors. Brilliant shows. Of people dying. Of wars. Of jubilation. Of a ruler losing power. Of a little Miss flirting in public. Disgusting americanisms are born every minute. The English are ridiculed. Time is not honoured. Temples are built. Rats are worshipped.

But I am still hopeless.

What shall I tell the author?

There are rough days, there are smooth days, there are rainy days and there are sunny days. And there are just days. And it is during these ‘just’ days that many things happen which we fail to remember. We might have remembered the events if it was a rainy day or a sunny day or a bread-for-breakfast day or something along those lines.

The whole of my school days, mostly, have been these kind of ‘just’ days. I do not remember feeling happy or sad, good or bad, excited or bored. In fact I do not remember feeling anything. Maybe things did happen. Important things which get etched in the fresh minds of the ever-enthusiastic kids. Maybe I did smile at a few of the happenings, laughed at a few jokes and secretly cried at some, secretly cried for other reasons as well – getting 14 on 25 in Maths and fearing the worst of treatments at home, not being able to talk as fluently as the next kid when we fought – but I do not remember any of these happening. Call it bad memory or discretion (I sincerely hope this is not the reason) here I am today liking where I am (‘where’ referring to the stage I am in now, number of years I stand on and also the people I find myself cracking jokes with and getting laughed at).

As often happens in the industry I find myself in, there are patches of time when you are on what is very glibly called ‘the bench.’ I have used this time to ponder about life and its close cousin death. On those days I used to ask my fellow bench-mate ‘Do you wish to go back to school?’ more as a means of trying to make the old onion nestled somewhere deep inside recall my days when the calendar showed less crowded days. If there is one question for which the whole world gives the same answer, I realized it was this one. Well obvi….. he said with a drawl that elicited enough of BP that my ear started turning red. Why is it everyone wants to go back to school? What is it that they had which I did not when going to that old institution? It is definitely not the institution, I am sure of that. This I say with the greatest of assurance because kids who studied with me at school are all members of the club which goes ‘Well obvi…’ or ‘Naturallllllllyyyyyy……’ or something to that effect every time they are confronted with the question. It is me then. Will I remember the days I am living now? Will I also forget these days of glory by the time the sun grows a bit more older? What would I tell the enthusiastic young writer when he/she comes to me begging to be the author of my biography? I do not want to be an imaginative story teller then. The author will then refer to my blog.

Happy belated birthday Anupam.

May all your dreams materialise in the nearest future or whenever you have always wanted them to.