Wednesday 17 December 2008

City Lights


(An old one really; posting it now)

Gel Electrophoresis, protein structure elucidation softwares, nitro-cellulose strips, references, coffee, guffaws. Then get into the car and get home. After she got home, there was the usual channel surfing. Then the long debate with self of “what-to-cook”, ending with a 2-hour adventure in the kitchen. Smell, measure, cut, mix, heat, taste. Cooking for her was pure passion, unlike her job. She would spend hours in the kitchen deciphering the kind of alchemy that set aside a tomato salad from tomato gravy. This journey satiated her more than eating the food. Food just found its way into the mouth somehow, when eyes were wrapped with TV and ears glued to some music. Once the food found its way to the gut, came the real bites. Gnaws in ears to hear familiar voices, not just familiar noises.


And then, sometimes she would sit by the telephone and try the numbers of some ten people; for work, for self. She felt herself intruding privacy when she heard the sounds coming from the other end of the call. Disturbing their routines, upsetting their chores. She knew their reassurances that it was not so, were genuine, but then….


Sometimes, she just sat at her wide window, looking down at the city lights. Yellow, red, orange, neon. And fell asleep wondering why they never burn out before sunrise. Why there was never complete darkness. Cursing the lit-up, smoky, city sky.


The sun seldom failed to wake her up. A few stray birds would dutifully chirp at her window too. That morning, she woke up before the sun did and waited at her seat till he did, wondering what else she could do. It was her birthday. It pained to think that she had not received any of the customary midnight birthday calls. She heaved a loud sigh and moved on in her daily act of getting ready. As she drove to work later, she forcibly hummed with the radio. She wished someone would call her.


Once in the institute, she followed the regular trail- up two flights, turn right, get in the fourth door to the left. As she turned right, she noticed that the glass paneled doors were not emanating light as everyday. Fearing a power breakdown, she pushed open the door. Suddenly, lights flooded the lab and people swooped on her hugging and singing “Happy Birthday”. A cake was wheeled in on a lab trolley and was ceremoniously cut. They gave her kisses, wishes, cards and a T-shirt.


Later, as she was leaving the lab, a call from her mom instructed her to come directly to Hotel Renaissance. Family, friends had all gathered. It was a grand party. Food, drink and bunting flew all around. A smile would not leave her face. The celebration lasted long and she hugged everyone before breaking out. Gift-laden and a little tipsy, she sat in the car with the last coffee shot her sister forced in her hand. The car started with a slight jerk and she cruised on. As she climbed in the lift, the alcohol had begun to wear off. Happiness faded away under the stark loneliness of her flat. She put on the new CD her parents had gifted. Took up the book her sister had given and curled up at her favourite seat by the window. Her eyes watching the city lights and wondering why they never burn out before sunrise.

Encroachment


The black grille of my window cuts the whitish-blue sky and its soft, cottony clouds into triangles and rectangles. Airplanes, steely, glinting in the sun, pass these co-ordinates. An occasional black crow zooms by.
My window used to usher in a jamun tree into my bedroom. Its branches bent with unripe and ripe jamuns in summer. We spent many a summer afternoon reaching out and plucking these fruits, filling baskets. The tree sprouted new purple leaves in monsoon which turned green during the year. This monsoon, there are only sepulcharal branches. The tree is picked to its bones by our housing society. Punished for dropping dead leaves and ripe fruit in the compound. The middle branches were cut. The lonely leaves at the top tried in vain to nourish roots 30 feet below. They dropped, exhausted. The spectre is white now; visited by some squirrel on her travels. The birds who nested here have abandoned it for spaces in concrete. Who is encroaching whom?

Tomorrow


Tomorrow is another day. Another day, which has come again like a magnifying glass, for amplifying all my follies and misendeavours. Pierce me, like a inconspicious shard of glass on the floor, with realisation of wasted time and my growing years. I will cry again about my under-achievements, spend time brooding on my ever-widening paunch and curse the direction which is still eluding me. I will answer some fifty-odd calls. From friends, once-friends, family. I will smile and laugh a false tinkly laugh. I will accept presents greedily, then wonder whether I deserve all this attention today. I will shy away from the cacophony of the birthday song, loathe the candles and the cake and be afraid of the smiling faces which will surround me. Yet, I will be thankful that they are there. I will be grateful for everything I have. I will secretly bless those who call me. My false laughs will cover my happy tears. I will stare at my presents for hours and read the greeting cards well until next year. My celebration will be for my haves and my incarceration for my have-nots. Tomorrow holds much promise.I will look forward.

Thursday 4 December 2008

Hail Politics!

One more protest march. One more rally. One more gathering of people shouting for justice. Who will give them justice? This is a democracy. A government of the people, by the people, for the people. We should help ourselves to justice. It is time to redress our wrongs. Do not blame the government. They are sitting in their plush thrones because you let them. They continue looting the state of money because you let them. Remember, your vote or the lack of it, put them there.
We have so many intelligent citizens busy sending space-ships to moon, putting new satellites into orbits. There are other intelligent people creating multi-million dollar industries, churning more billions in profits, worldwide. While you and me (if we can consider ourselves intelligent) were busy earning money using our intellects, we conveniently forgot about the collective whole, the nation. We assumed that the police and army would keep us secure, the politicians would build flyovers and reduce traffic and zoom to foreign countries for photo-ops with other ministers to put up a 'shining' image of our country. When we were thus engaged, the poor and illiterate farmers, cobblers, blacksmiths of our villages were forced to come into politics. Their lack of education did not deter us from electing them, since we were too caught up in our own galaxies to bother about their eligibilty. The poor villager saw money, something that had eluded him and his forefathers for centuries. He was not wrong when he grabbed hold of some for a better lifestyle. But, money taints. The no-longer poor politico wanted more. He had taken under his wing his family with all its distant relatives. Slowly, he adopted his village. He built schools and colleges which ran with his now tainted money. He left no nook and cranny in his greed for more money. He was possessed with something he had never seen before he was 25. He had felt the power that comes with it. Addiction destroys.
We blame him now. But he was a victim of circumstances who was forced into the limelight because of our negligence. Illiteracy, poverty and sudden windfalls had taken their toll. His soul was sold.
How many of educated Indians prefer a government job over a private one? How many of educated middle-class Indians want to stand for the election? In most middle-class homes, politics is considered harakiri. Leaving the 'safe' environs of corporates and venturing into social service is considered a sign of mental imbalance. It is time we changed this. It is time an educated, middle-class Indian, a representative of our 5 billion, came forth. It is time the youth realise that a jobs with MNCs and high salaries are nothing if you are going to die while commuting to it. It is time we realise nobody can help us but ourselves. It is time we wake up. It is time for some politics.

Wednesday 3 December 2008

Stream of consciousness

I am heady with excess sleep. Long hours of resignation to active life. My neurons are weaving stories. I see myself. Standing on the bus stop at VT, waiting for a bus. The bus comes. I start running towards it. It goes away leaving me in a cloud of black soot. I am waiting for the next one. The bus never comes. And suddenly, I am at home. Sitting in my room, staring at the magenta wall. Floating in the same way I am now. Directionless, nauseous, with a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. This is a nightmare now. The dream should be a relief when my days are nightmares. Where is the cyclicity of light and dark? I wake up. This is worse. I hurriedly think of a food I like, smile a little, and lo, I see the weighing scale. I am sweating now. This is a bad night. I push my head back to the pillow. I close my eyes and see the dark. It is my constant companion. My enemy. It filters via my pores into the recesses of brain. It extinguishes the tiny flicker of motivation. It is all-pervading. I am it. Sleep. Dream. I wake up. One more day of my continual night.

Tuesday 18 November 2008

I began here, an age-old, done to death litany- "Where did I go wrong?" (or aptly, "where was I right?") . I am old. Old by standards set by myself when I was 12. I should have won at least one major award in some field by now. (Though, the Field's was always thought to be impossible). I was supposed to have found direction by 16. It's almost 24 now. ( i like the 'almost'). I cannot be a pessimist and say it is too late for direction now. I like to call myself 'interesting' :); and move on to weave neurons in the ever competitive world of my interests. They range from science to literature, cooking to painting to singing (i used to be good at it a long time ago). I have to choose, but how can you choose a favourite child? I like to keep everyone happy and avoid a choice. I procrastinate. I have done it for so long, I think I am great at it. Maybe tomorrow I will have won a medal for that. My acceptance speech shall read like this, "I accept this magnificent prize for being the world's best procrastinator. I would like to thank a few people tomorrow."

Sunday 21 September 2008

Passing by



I sit sipping acidic black coffee in an overpriced coffee house. Gazing outside, a book lying idle on my lap. It is fun looking at life pass by through this huge plate glass. A series of snapshots in a frame. Sometimes, an entire lifetime. New age hippies with weird hair and branded footwear. Office-goers, hard pressed for time, in their discount store, over laundered formals. Fading at creases. Happy and ignorant college kids wearing the latest off Linking road. Infatuated eyes and dreams of movie-like endings. A couple clutching each others waists. Proclaiming love, demarcating territory. An occasional ragamuffin. A limbless beggar. An umbrella seller balancing four rainbow-coloured ones. And then, a person I recognise.

You walk in. We smile. I notice the subtraction of plastic in it. My smile fades. I was hoping for some pretense. That is a lot easier to deal with. You order the latte. We are fumbling over the weather, prices and distant acquaintances. Away from the mutterings, in our heads, twenty years loom. Tormenting us, daring us to touch them.

It is unlikely we open the Pandora's box. But, your lack of pretense today is making me expect the worse. Slowly we move towards the box. It is full of knots. We begin to unravel.
Tears don't come easily. I wonder why not. I am far too removed. I am with worse pains. This one was so distant until now. I understand it is so for you too. Then why this tete-a-tete. I hit upon an answer. It involves childhood, and confusing adolescence; a history.

We never shared dolls or trinkets. Or played rowdy games on bicycles together. It was about the thoughts, the dreams, the books. Of competitions in gaining favour in schools and in groups of friends. It was about the music; the little darts of taunts. It was as real as the world around us now.

The knots were always there, we did not realise that they would make our leashes smaller. We would become more impatient to get away. Time does this so often. There is no one to blame.

I have called you here today. I want to clear the air. I need you to know I have moved on. I know more than I did three years ago. I can see why you take some decisions you do. I can see the clockwork of your mind, even though I chose not to be a part of it. You should know that even if I may not agree with you with you, I can see what calculation, emotional and otherwise, led you to it. I can still support you. I am going to be there.

We will sit in more comfortable silences now, I hope.

Now, you get up to leave. I wave you out with a happy smile. I think I will order one more cup of coffee and watch the people passing by and you, as you go.

Monday 5 May 2008

This year has been like none ever before. In the 23 years of my existence, since the time I can remember, years were clocked with changing school standards 1st, 2nd, 3rd...... June mingled with the scent of fresh paper of new books and May was best remembered for being at home or some vacation spot on a mountain far away. The rest of months were fused. Classrooms, friends, teachers, sports days, assemblies, exams....
Then college came. Nothing much changed except for the lack of a school uniform and compulsory attendance.
Then came June 2007. No new paper smell greeted this month. I spent most of it in the house, helping my mother who had torn an ankle ligament. I tried to enter new pursuits in the months that followed: joining a gym, enrolling for a correspondence coaching course for those mgmt. entrance exams, making plans for catching up with friends. For the first time ever, I felt the months making their presence felt. An August which led to September, September to October, October to November.......It is May now. 11 months of random, structureless life. Nothing like the lovely ordered study and work patterns I was so familiar with.
My schedule has been disrupted. This is not done. I am free-floating. Not enjoying the feeling. I now treasure routine, love planning. I want to know what is in store for me tomorrow. I want the power to change it. I am a victim of the moment. I want to conquer it.

Monday 28 April 2008

Lemontree

This one just fits so well!

I'm sitting here in the boring room
It's just another rainy Sunday afternoon
I'm wasting my time
I got nothing to do
I'm hanging around
I'm waiting for you
But nothing ever happens and I wonder

I'm driving around in my car
I'm driving too fast
I'm driving too far
I'd like to change my point of view
I feel so lonely
I'm waiting for you
But nothing ever happens and I wonder

I wonder how
I wonder why
Yesterday you told me 'bout the blue blue sky
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon-tree
I'm turning my head up and down
I'm turning turning turning turning turning around
And all that I can see is just another lemon-tree

I'm sitting here
I miss the power
I'd like to go out taking a shower
But there's a heavy cloud inside my head
I feel so tired
Put myself into bed
Well, nothing ever happens and I wonder

Isolation is not good for me
Isolation I don't want to sit on the lemon-tree

I'm steppin' around in the desert of joy
Baby anyhow I'll get another toy
And everything will happen and you wonder

I wonder how
I wonder why
Yesterday you told me 'bout the blue blue sky
And all that I can see is just another lemon-tree
I'm turning my head up and down
I'm turning turning turning turning turning around
And all that I can see is just a yellow lemon-tree
And I wonder, wonder

I wonder how
I wonder why
Yesterday you told me 'bout the blue blue sky
And all that I can see, and all that I can see, and all that I can see
Is just a yellow lemon-tree

Thursday 24 April 2008

Days go by


We met when we did not yet know the meaning of that word. We stuck because, there was no one else more suitable around. And we were stuck, together, for years. Without need, out of habit. You could never point out what was wrong, though you always knew something was. (or maybe was not, I will never figure that one). Had our own strange equation. One's complex fed another: superiority, inferiority. Saprophyte and its host. But, both, symbiotically happy. (I cannot figure that one out too).
Days, months, years. Kindergarten, primary school, puberty, heartbreak, love. We saw it all together. I cannot say we stood together through all this, though we did share words. Some hollow, some well-worn. Summer treks, Monsoon umbrellas, in winter; steaming Maggi. This was where we were together. Sometimes studies, sometimes pranks, some stupid notes passed during class. An escape when parents went mad. Great songs, to be listened and sung. That's all that ever was. Or will be. ( I cannot still figure that one).
Lately, we tattered away, like some worn-out rag. PR exercises replace comradeship and formality disguises boredom. Faith is an illusion.

Saturday 19 April 2008

I fear to tread here

I fear to tread here. Everything becomes real. In script, in ink, hopes become goals; ideas, advertisements. I fear treading here.

I fear to tread here. Fear my writing, just prefer some brave one's book. My scrutiny of theirs haunts me when I write my own. I fear treading here.

I fear to tread here. Everyone becomes a bit of virtual space. The one thing I am running from; meaninglessness. I fear treading here.

I fear to tread here. My footprints will be washed away. Am strong enough to make them, but not quite to create an eternity. I fear treading here.