Crossed Roads

[another old one; luckily, stopped the gym-going 5 months back :)]

It was one of those dreary days when you curse the hour your great grandfather was born. Overcast, humid and with a 4.00pm, post-lunch gym appointment. Life can suck, and how! I dragged myself (duty over mind and matter) and pushed my being into the huge red tin boxes which pass for as buses. It carried me as slowly as possible, not missing any potholes, to my dreaded destination. The grueling 40 minutes of the bus left me with a dust-caked face and a runny nose (my allergy to particles floating in the air). As I moved ahead with the small crowd, a small mite of a girl, came up to me and asked me if I could help her cross the road ‘cause her tution classes were on the other side. She had sharp cut hair, framing her face in a square, pierced nose and shiny skin. She had worn a loose salwar kameez which hung on her bones and billowed in the air. She had a rectangular backpack. I said “hmmm.” And we walked to the crossing. I reached for her hand and at the same moment, by some deep seated human instinct, she put her tiny hand into my palm. We waited for the vehicles to pass. Me awkwardly holding her hand, she confidently grasping mine. We crossed the road and the tiny hand slipped away before I knew it. She quietly walked away in haughty tip-toes, then, prancing, as only a child can. I smiled, as only an adult can, with regret for my own lost childhood; and remembering the pressing matters at hand now. I went to gym.

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.

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.

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.

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."