PICHLE AANTH DINO MEIN #1

An I.V. of conflicting opposites.
Of smiles & laughter on one hand and tears on the other.
Of love & affection on one hand and repulsion and hatred on the other.
Moments when my eyes wouldn’t close and moments when I couldn’t bear to open them.
Of physical scars & pain and mental scars & trauma.
What hurts more? Now I know.
Of colourful memories and black and white photographs.
Of smiles and frowns. Of exhaustion and elation.
Of hopelessness and acceptance. Of concern and formalities.
Of luck and fate?
9 days of emotions. Strong and overwhelming. A tale of 5 cities. And of people. And of gestures.

Boundaries in the mind.

‘Suno gaur se duniya waalon
Buri nazar na hampe daalon
Chahe jitna zor lagalo
Sabse aage honge Hindustani’
Nice. Nice message for the world (most of which can’t understand the song as the lyrics are in Hindi… Ironic, but nice try anyways.
Just one question, though- Does India really need others to put their buri nazar on us? Well, not exactly considering that we are practically fighting each other in the pretext of religion, caste, region and anything that’s “worth fighting for”. Love thy neighbour, anyone? Naah.
Hatred. Biases. Prejudice. They rule our hearts and minds, don’t they?
So how many men does it take to create a terrorist? Apparently, just two.
First one, who offends/hurts the “vulnerable good guy who’ll turn into a cold-hearted terrorist” by inflicting some atrocity on him or his people.
Second one, who indoctrinates and manipulates the hurt/offended guy (all in the pretext of showing him the right way). And voila! A terrorist is created. (Just an assumption. Some guys are just born terrorists, no?).
Terrorist. In a world of stereotypical assumptions here’s one more. When I say terrorist the 1st image that comes in most minds is a bearded, hawk-eyed guy with a bulky bag. Well, what do you expect? These guys are trying to focus on their job and not on making a style statement.
Talking of assumptions, here’s one more-Terrorism. When I say terrorism, most people automatically assume bombs exploding in public places. Convenient. Let’s shake up that image a bit.
Terrorism- (1) Use of violence for a political purpose. [Cambridge Learner’s dictionary]
(2) Use of intimidation to attain one’s goals or to advance one’s cause.
[Webster’s Dictionary]
Wait a minute. According to these definitions, shouldn’t the Godhra carnage called an act of terrorism? Shouldn’t the violence against Christians in Orissa be called an act of terrorism?
Apparently and surprisingly, no.
‘Naah, that was justifiable violence ok.’ ‘We didn’t start it. We were provoked by them, you see.’
I see. I do see.
‘We aren’t those people who’ll present the enemy the other cheek if he slaps us on one cheek. We believe in Eint ka jawab pathar. An eye for an eye. A bullet for a bullet’ (or should I say a blast for a blast).
Talking of assumptions, here’s another inconsequential one. The assumption that flashing a “Stop Terrorism” banner after a blast will actually stop it or console the victims and their family members. Yeah right. Like the terrorist who’s about to blast a city is gonna have a sudden change of heart and he’ll resign. And the world’ll be a better place to live in. Amen. Or that it’ll brighten up the day of the victims or their kin.
The most frustrating part in the aftermath of a blast is people discussing the religion of a terrorist. Not the fact that the authorities are still investigating. Not the fact that politicians start their favourite ‘blame-game’. Nope, we are all accustomed to this. But the fact that our society is discussing (actually debating) the religion of the terrorist is hard to digest. People keep saying that terrorism is restricted to a particular religion. Like there’s supposed to be an ‘ideal God-sent’ terrorist and a particular religion is supposed to have perfected the art of terrorism and now have a monopoly over it. How naïve can you be?
My point is, how does it matter what a terrorist’s religion is? If he’s guilty punish him.
Why are we Indians mentally wired like this? Why are we so hung up on our roots? Why is it that every time some one starts telling us his name we start doing mental background calculations regarding his race, religion and his origins? Nandita Das once asked why do we feel such chauvinistic pride about these details that we didn’t even choose for ourselves? Why? Why are there so many boundaries drawn in the mind? And who drew these boundaries? Maybe someday these boundaries will be erased. And we shall all live happily ever after. Hypothetical fantasies aside, we do feel that oneness sometimes don’t we? Like when India plays a cricket match. This was of course before an illustrious gentleman introduced the concept of I.P.L. There you go. One more reason to differentiate yourself. Until some politician notices that players of his state/religion/caste are being inadequately represented in the Indian cricket team. That would give all of us another cause to fight for, no?

INDIA SHINING/ RISING/ GLOWING et al....

INDIA. “World’s largest democracy.” Where cigarette smoking is injurious to your health you know, but just in public places. It’s also injurious to others health- a minister points out (it’s his pet crusade). But the smoke from firecrackers isn’t injurious to your health. How can the joyful smoke from a firecracker, lit so innocently by a kid, ever have any ill- effect on me?
‘Come on, join in, will you? It’s Diwali, the festival of lights after all.’
The festival of lights, not of diyas anymore. Not those innocent lamps but Chinese made bulbs that blink. How swell! How grand!
Then comes Holi- the festival of colours once, now reduced to a festival of bathing in public (not necessarily with water) and a festival of gross water wastage by filling it in plastic bags (above 20 microns, of course. They “supposedly take less time to decompose and vanish from the face of this planet that we claim to be our “mother”).

INDIA- second largest population in the world (most of which you’ll find in Mumbai’s local trains).
INDIA- a place where you groan, moan, rant, complain (exactly what I am doing) and even file a P.I.L against famous people for being obscene/ vulgar just cause you have nothing else to do and need the publicity and media attention to give some worth to your "decent" lives.
INDIA- land of Bollywood, politics and cricket. A “secular” democracy. (Though I wonder if the people were ever asked if they wanted Democracy as a form of Government wherever it is that Democracy was thought of . What I mean is- were the citizens ever asked to vote or was there ever a plebiscite to know if the people ever wanted democracy as a form of Govt.? If not then that would imply that democracy was forced upon the people, rather un-democratically. Ironical!! Perhaps George Bernard Shaw summed it up aptly when he said, “Democracy is a system ensuring that you are governed no better than they deserve.” )
India; where a way of protesting against people having an opinion different to yours or people following a different ideology is to burn his effigies on the road.
‘That ought to change your mind’
Where a cricketer is deemed as God by the people but the same disciples don’t shy away from burning his posters or stoning his house if these “Gods” dare to lose a game in the World Cup.
‘That ought to be motivation enough to perform better.’
Well what can I say; we are the same country that burns the effigy of evil every year in Dussera.

A politician reminds me of my religion and caste (my roots, I should say).
‘Thanks; I was going through identity crises anyways.’
Same/ similar politician is wreaking havoc on the streets for some issue or the other (for want of better term lets call it a personal crusade. Against whom? Fellow countrymen, I think)
Politician goes around blackening couple’s faces for being found together on 14th feb (why not on other days, I wonder). But his actions can’t be banned. Ban dance bars, ban flash mobs, ban something else, anything but him. After all he’s a representative of, by and for the people! And hey, don’t hate the player, hate the game.
Politician is kind to me. He noticed me when I gave my board exams. He took the trouble of preparing a hoarding just for my exam in which he postures with his thumb and pouts his lips as if to say “Best of Luck”. I feel inspired now. I enter the exam with a newfound gusto and determination. But ban those hoardings that that display commercial ads. I can’t afford branded products anyways, what with global recession and the economy collapsing. But that’s out of context. Why should I care? Let the rest of the world worry about it! All I want to do is go to a movie theater and watch an escapist movie, a no-brainer that has no plot but just over-priced actors serenading on the screen and which will hopefully help me to forget my troubles. But no boring movies please!
‘Art films, I like to call them.’
C’mon who wants to watch some movie about terrorism and crap like that? I don’t want to think while I’m watching the movie. I am just happy to munch on my popcorn and guffaw on the splendid humour.
INDIA- a nation with strong cultural roots. We can’t see women exposing on t.v. Actually we can, ‘But what if my child is watching it?’ His innocence is one virtue that I really care about. So ban adult content on t.v and I won’t even allow that damned school that my kid studies in to teach him Sex education.
‘No sir, I am not having you corrupting my gullible kid like this.’
And I don’t want alcohol or cigarette commercials on t.v. No commercials would mean that I can deny the existence of cigarettes and alcohol when I am sober (and continue to live in my self-righteous stupor).
Hypocrite, ain’t I? Aren’t we all?
Go complain about corruption and bribery in the system. And that’s exactly how low we’ll stoop to appease the authorities. ‘Bribery should be eradicated’, we shout and yet that’s exactly what we do. Caught by a cop for driving without license/a helmet- bribe him. Caught by a T.C for traveling without a ticket- bribe him too.
MORAL OF THIS STORY: Hypocrisy is everywhere; we are just too hypocritical to acknowledge it.

THE MEDIA:
I love the media. Without it who’ll tell me whom Kareena’s dating, who would have told me that Prince got out of that hole alive, who’ll tell me if Big B survived after his recent hospitalization, who’ll tell about the “exploitation” of ‘The Great Khali’ in WWE. The media is so considerate. It not only tells me the “truth” but also asks me to sms my opinion on it. No one’s ever done that to me before.

MORAL OF THIS STORY: Stupidity is everywhere; we are just too stupid to notice it.

The promiscuous virgin

It was a quite September night. The moon hung in the air, apparently dozing away the quite hours of the night to notice the masses of clouds that had come calling. The calm and peace of the atmosphere was to be violently shaken and disturbed by the errant rains. The weather was rapidly turning hostile as a girl walked on an empty street with quite but quick steps. Everywhere she looked around her there was a serene silence that reverberated in the air. It started raining- gently at first and then gradually the clouds opened up and poured their hearts out. Rain lashed violently at her as she walked on an empty street, her silhouette barely visible in a night enveloped by darkness. The gale was wreaking havoc around her. But this mayhem was nothing when compared to the turbulence she was facing within. She walked on undeterred, as if possessed. She had reached her destination and her wait had begun. It was a bar which stayed open late into the night. She had been there several times before; the fact that she knew most of the people working in the bar bore testimony to that. She sat at her regular table and ordered a drink. While she sipped her drink her eyes were on the lookout. Her desire had grown into an insatiable urge which was guiding her. There were a few men who were looking back at her but she spurned them with a casual frown. Just then the door opened and a man entered. There was something about him that pulled her in his direction. He was exuding a strange confidence which could have been a consequence of his purposeful demeanor. He had green searching eyes. As he walked in, oblivious to her stare, she kept her eyes fixed on him lest he turned out to be a figment of her imagination. She sat still, not moving a muscle, not making a sound. She had found what she was looking for. It would be him today. And then she wasted no time in the pursuit of her carnal desires. She had been doing this for years now and it was almost like a familiar routine albeit the fact that her companion changed according to her whims and fancies. In fact she had forgotten how many years it had been. Neither did she remember how many men she’d been with nor did she remember their names or faces. They had just been a blurred hue in the night that had disappeared in the morning. It didn’t matter to her. What mattered to her was her own pleasure. Her own satisfaction. Nymphomania had created a scavenger out of her. Yet she didn’t care. She’d been addicted and she couldn’t get out. She hadn’t even tried. She had risen and walked over to the guy’s table. As she reached his table, he looked up. She introduced herself and told him exactly what she wanted from him. The next few moments passed as if the whole conversation had been practiced a hundred times. Soon they were at her place. The man had been exceptionally quite during the ride back to her place. They had driven back in his car and throughout the way he hadn’t spoken a thing apart from asking directions. In fact, he’d seldom looked at her. The silence lingered even when they reached her place. He just stood there looking into her eyes but still not speaking. She felt like he was passing judgment at her. She found it strange that a man was judging her. No man, after knowing about her addiction, had ever been judgmental. They didn’t waste their time judging her because they all wanted the same thing, the very same that she offered to every man and the very same that no man ever had the inclination to deny. And this man had been no different. He too had reacted with surprise at hearing about her addiction and he too had accepted her offer almost spontaneously. She wondered why he seemed so hesitant and troubled now. But she didn’t care for what he was thinking. Her impatience was growing like a crescendo inside her. She decided enough was enough and went closer, close enough for their breaths to collide. And in the next moment she was in his arms. Then she lost track- of everything. All she felt was a haze that overwhelmed her- much like walking down a brightly lit tunnel blinded by the light or drowning in a massive body of water. She lost control. This had never happened to her. All the men she’d been with over the years had been her slaves but today something had changed. She was being enslaved today, not by her addiction but a man and she didn’t want to resist. She had submitted herself completely like a man would on his deathbed. A feeling inside her was growing so dominatingly overpowering that she couldn’t feel the man’s body against her, as if the feeling inside her was insulating her body. This had never happened to her ever before. All she felt was the touch of his lips on her forehead. And then she knew it, the feeling inside her that she couldn’t understand was for this man. It wasn’t insulating her body from him; it was the man who was making her feel secure by his presence. He completed her. She’d been like the portrait of a woman enclosed in a glass frame hanging in a museum; everyone could see the portrait but no one could reach past the protective glass frame and touch it. And then she said it. Those three words that she’d never uttered to anyone, those words which she had always felt were a blatant lie. She’d blurted it out before she could stop herself. He stopped. He backed away like he’d come across something infected. He eyed her, not with repulsion or shock, but with utter disbelief. His face was a contorted mask of contempt.
“You are lying. You don’t even know me.”, he retorted furiously.
And before she could gather herself he had walked out. She lay there on her bed staring at the blank ceiling. His face was still visible, like an afterthought. She got up and ran after him. But before she reached the door she heard his car backing out and speeding away. Never to be seen again. She searched everywhere, asked every bar worker she could find but to no avail. He’d disappeared with such ease that sometimes she felt that he hadn’t existed at all. But he did exist and she knew it. What hurt her most was not the fact that he’d walked away abandoning her but the look of utter disbelief on his face when she’d confessed her love for him. She could bear a man who didn’t love her back but what shattered her was a man who didn’t trust her love for him. All these years she’d declined the existence of love and propagated, more to herself than anyone else, that lust was the only emotion that a body could feel. Now that she’d felt love it had chosen to walk away from her. It left her like a shell lying on a beach which is empty yet has the voice of the ocean raging inside it. She was left with just a memory. A memory that remained with her till she lived; a memory which become a part of her existence; a memory which changed her forever.

A wait unfulfilled

It all began on a wet, bone-chillingly cold day. The rock, his mind in turmoil, sat still like a sage. His body had been torn apart by the piercing rain that continued to inflict pain upon him in tandem with the strong winds. Such was the brutality of it that even the rock, an intimidatingly imposing structure, was reduced to a shivering mass. But he knew relief would come, sooner or later. He had known it all day long ever since the first wave had caressed his feet early in the morning. More waves had followed, one after the other, each subdued in its efforts. A tiny strand, as if in rebellion, rose up in a wave and crashed against the rock where its flight was crushed. The rock had endured the pain because he was waiting for his salvation. He could see the wave, a tall, serene mass of water moving as easily as a serpent slithering on grass. His body had frozen but his heart was a burning crescendo. His patience was being tested as other waves touched him and sprayed his face with mist. But yet he waited, unflinching and undeterred, for the wave to arrive and touch him in the face. The waves had partially immersed him now. He waited with bated breath as the wave came closer. His wait had reached its climax. A song was playing somewhere in the distance. He didn’t pay attention but instead chose to stare unblinkingly at the sea which grew boisterous every passing minute. The song got even louder. The rock still chose to ignore it. The wave was all that mattered to him. The interlude since their last meeting had been painful enough but he knew he had no option but to wait. And he did, every fiber of him calling out to the wave. Just then a song jerked him out of his trance. A boy, in his late teens, had walked onto the rock itself and was sitting on his knees. The wave was surging ahead rapidly. The boy started bleating on top of the music. The wave was drawing closer, surging ahead in its own trance. But the rock couldn’t think of the wave. The boy had interrupted his meditation. Closer, even closer it came. The boy had started to cry. The wave, at last, had arrived. The rock felt two warm drops fall on himself which were soon swallowed by the wave as it immersed the rock in itself. The boy sat there weeping pitifully. But the rock felt no pity for the boy. His own wails were much louder than that of the boy’s. The boy, in his quest for solitude, had spoilt an intimate moment which the rock had awaited for days. Slowly as the water receded the boy left the rock alone to moan the quirk of fate which had soured its ecstasy. The rock watched the wave as it receded back to the sea. In his heart he felt an anger that he had never known before. But in the larger scheme of things it mattered not. What mattered was that in a few weeks the wave would come again. Till then the rock would wait, unfazed and undeterred. It wasn’t the end of the world and he knew it. He was accustomed to the long wait. In those moments of solitude he kept reminding himself that waiting for something is always better than waiting for nothing. This game between the rock and the wave had continued for ages. And it would continue-for eternity or till the day one of them would cease to exist. Till then the rock would wait, sitting patiently like a sage.

Birth and Death

Birth. Death. The only certainties in life. Birth and Death are as connected to each other as a brother and sister sharing the umbilical cords from the same womb. While birth and death are contrary notions they still co-exist in every man’s life. Because a man is born he will die. The only difference is the time gap that exists between these two phenomena.
For some birth and death are separated by decades. For some it is a matter of mere seconds.
To many people, these intricacies of life matter not. Niall Dutta was one of them. As he nonchalantly lay asleep on his bed, insulated by the cozy walls of his well furnished home, life continued- as it always does, the drone of machines interspersed with the voices of men.
An alarm beeped somewhere in the distance. Niall’s head jerked up instantly and he looked around. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows. His younger sister was standing besides the window, her pensive face looking outside. Sunlight fell on her face and lit up every facet of it. Her gleaming earrings, touched by a soft breeze coming in through the window, danced in her ears. Every morning Niall woke up to the same sight. He sometimes wondered what fascination the world outside the window held for his sister.
“Any interesting guys outside, Tua?” Niall asked grinning.
“Couple of them. Winking and whistling,” Tua replied humouredly.
“Hey, where are mom and dad?”
“Off to work. Mom tried to wake you up but you were busy dreaming.”
“She did? I didn’t feel a thing,” replied Niall as he walked into the bathroom.

*****

Half an hour and a bath later, Niall finally felt awake. He made himself some coffee and opened the newspaper. He was scanning through the paper when his eyes fell on the date. 15th may. The day seemed to have an odd familiarity to it. Niall couldn’t quite place it and then in an iota of a second he remembered.
“Hey sis, today’s the 15th right?”
“Yeah”
“Happy birthday, sis”
“Thanks bro”
Niall gave Tua a giant hug. Niall knew Tua liked being hugged by him. It gave her a sense of security. A feeling of being loved. Of being wanted. He liked the wide smile which spread on her face whenever he hugged her.
“Did mom and dad wish you?”, Niall asked pulling back and looking into her eyes.
“No”, replied Tua nonchalantly, in a tone that suggested both hurt and defiance.
“What! Really? How could they”
“That’s ok”, Tua said trying to sound unfazed although her eyes were brimming with tears.
“Tell you what, sis. Forget mom and dad. Let’s just celebrate your birthday. Only the two of us. Have a cake, a few candles and some good music.”
“Thanks bro”
“Don’t mention it”
*****
Another hour later a small cake sat handsomely on the dining table in the living room. A small red candle was placed like a cherry atop it. Tua always preferred a quite birthday. Niall was the only one who bothered to wish or buy a gift for her. This face irked Niall but he never could summon the guts to ask his parents to celebrate Tua’s birthday with the same enthusiasm and fervour that they displayed on his birthday. He was always pampered like a lone child. Tua’s birthday always passed with a strange gloom lingering around the house. His dad maintained a stony silence while their mom always seemed irritated with something and seemingly small incidents managed to piss her off. Niall knew well the reactions of their parents if he even dared mention the name of his little sister. He felt an underlying sense of guilt that tortured his heart. His guilt, coupled with his affection for his younger sister, manifested itself through his insatiable urge to make his sister feel loved and to make up for the apathy of their parents. So he had taken to celebrating it alone when their parents were off to work. Every year they celebrated Tua’s birthday within closed doors like a secret ritual. Niall took special care to ensure that their parents wouldn’t have a clue of what was going on behind their back. Every trace of their secret party would be removed and everything in the house would be returned to its position as inconspicuously as possible.

*****

The gloom of the night had replaced the joy which morning had brought with itself, much like the stoic darkness that replaced the last receding rays of sunlight. Niall sat on the couch, his mind in turmoil, absent-mindedly staring at the floor. His mom had confined herself to her bedroom and his dad was reading a newspaper. Tua sat on a chair, her knees drawn up to her chin. She had a penchant for being unnaturally silent around people. So much so that people didn’t even notice or acknowledge her presence. Tua never talked to anyone except Niall. In fact she didn’t even talk to him in front of anyone, not even their parents. The silence reverberated around the room. The journey of life had come to a standstill to make way for the chariot of the past. Niall’s dad sat staring at the newspaper but no words penetrated his mind. He tossed it aside and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and stared in the mirror. It had been 13 years now. 13 long years. He could remember it as vividly as it was just yesterday. He had endured it all in silence. Just like his wife had. He stared at his own face, white with self-inflicted agony.

*****

5 year old Niall was excited. As he sat on the dining table eating his breakfast, he could barely keep himself from gulping down entire morsels of food without chewing. This earned him a few rebukes from his dad who sat besides him but today it hardly mattered to Niall. He had waited for this day for almost seven months- since his mom had told him about her pregnancy. His excitement, since, kept growing with the bulge on his mom’s belly. He had wanted a sibling ever since he had known what it meant. His mom would have to be admitted at the hospital and Niall was told that his sibling would be born soon. He was expecting the doctors to give them the baby as soon as they entered the hospital. But as his dad explained to him the baby would be born in a few days. This delay was something Niall was unprepared for and his excitement soon gave way to restlessness as he got into the car. His dad sat in front while he and his mom sat behind. Soon he would be joined by a small kid, he told himself. The half an hour drive from his house to the hospital was more than what Niall could take. He couldn’t sleep the previous night in his excitement. A few minutes into the journey he dozed off. He didn’t see much of what happened in the ensuing minutes. All he heard was a loud crash.
When he woke up next his dad, clothes bloodied and a few rips on the face, was sitting next to him. Niall himself, miraculously, had survived without any major injuries. A nurse came in and after ensuring Niall was fine asked his dad to accompany him outside where a somber-faced doctor stood. The door was ajar and yet Niall could not hear their conversation. He caught a few words like ‘Daughter’ and ‘Dead’- but he didn’t know what dead meant. He saw his dad crying into his hands but didn’t understand why. He and his dad returned home the next day and his mom came home a week after that but the baby never came. Niall waited on the door when his mom came back from the hospital. But she was alone. He repeatedly asked his parents where his sibling where his sibling was but he never got any replies. His mother buried herself in her room for many days after returning home. His dad spent most of his time doing anything but talking. But Niall’s little baby still hadn’t come home.
Then one day she did. When Niall woke up early one morning he saw a small girl of about five years standing next to his bedroom window and staring outside. Niall asked who she was and she replied that she was her sister. She didn’t have a name. So Niall named her Tua. An elated Niall had rushed to his mom and dad to tell them. But they gave him pitiful looks which turned into looks of anger when he tried repeating his story. But, even then, Niall didn’t care. He had what he wanted all his life. He had his sister. His own sister. And he stopped caring for anything else in this world.

*****

A sharp car horn brought Niall’s dad back to reality. He realized he had fallen to his knees in the bathroom. Tears were running from his cheek to the cold floor. He had just been visited by a memory which had tormented him for 13 years. He had tried to move on but he couldn’t. Just like his wife. He stood up and splashed handfuls of water on his face as he examined it in the mirror. He saw the scars from the horrific accident. The water had washed away the tears but the scars remained. Just like the scars on the mind of his son. And yet, he walked out, to face his son and the world. He knew that his daughter’s death had been an accident but he still felt guilty. After that fateful day, he hadn’t been able to see his son in the eye. He wished he too had died in that accident. But he couldn’t die yet. He had his son to take care of. His son, Niall, who had been affected the most by the death of his sister. Niall had started seeing weird things and more often than not his parents had seen him speaking to nobody. Two months ago, they had consulted a specialist. The specialist had used just one word to explain all of Niall’s actions. Just one word had been sufficient to summarize Niall’s love and affection for his sister. Just one word. Schizophrenia.