Thursday, 12 December 2013

I am...



Last night
I bled
as I walked
amidst
the shards
of
broken hopes
and
shattered dreams
strewn all about.

I am
the broken hope
the shattered dream
the violated right
the misty eye
the muffled voice.

I am
the disrobed Draupadi.
She, too, was disrobed
in a court
by the defenders of faith.

They will now
judge
ridicule
assess
opine
incriminate
what?
My BEING!

I am
nature
as natural
as the rain
that kisses the earth.
What gender is the rain?
Or the earth?
Did you ask?

Saturday, 7 December 2013

The Beast Within...



The hideous incidents that have surfaced in the recent past have, apart from supplying the desperately needed fodder to keep the 24X7 media up and running, forced us to re-examine and re-assess, our estimation of the importance of morality and education in particular, and, our idea of civilisation in general. 

Talwars, a dentist couple, Mr. Tejpal, an editor-in-chief of an eminent national magazine, Justice Ganguly, head of the Human rights commission (and Asharam Bapu, a so-called God-man): people from different walks of life with only one thing common—besides their renown, respectability, and competence in their respective fields— their alleged involvement in some of the basest crimes known to man.

In all fairness, almost all the cases are sub judice, and therefore it’d be a little too early to pass a judgement on any of these matters; my point, however, of writing this is not to pillory any of these individuals. I think the media have done their job well to that end. One of my intentions of penning this piece is to actually reflect on this rather entrenched propensity of ours to pass judgements at others so impetuously. 

All of these are people belong to the upper crust of humanity in terms of their financial and social standing. These are people in whom hundreds of people have in the past reposed their faith. They are doctors, top-notch journalists, former judges, and (self-claimed) paragons of all that is holy. We look up to them, or their likes, in our daily lives. We seek solace in their counsel in times of physical or emotional distress. Some of us have taken their words as final words on matters secular or divine. And yet, now we have been forced to come face to face with a nightmarish dimension of their personalities.

I should reiterate that I refer to these people only as prototypes of a larger problem. As I said, since most of the cases are sub judice one should refrain from jumping to conclusions too soon. However, that caution does not omit the possibility of their, or people of their stature, having perpetrated the alleged crimes. There are far too many examples in the history to show that. And that to my mind is the larger tragedy. 

That infallibles exist only in mythology (do they? More on that soon) is an unsettling thought. What perturbs us more when we read/hear such news? Is it the occurrences/presence of such malice in our society? Or that in these cases in particular, the malice can be traced to people who themselves were apparently torch-bearers of humanity and crusaders of human-rights, quite literally in one case. I think it’s the latter which is more unhinging and comes as a sort of a blow. 

Believe it or not we have a tendency to push and displace depravity to the margins, away from the seemingly safe cocoons we’ve spun about ourselves. We imagine knaves and rogues to come from the other class, community, caste, country even. That the educated, civilised, and righteous mind can also breed the basest of thoughts comes as such a shock to us.

But as the recent events have shown, we seem to place undue importance in our idea of education, morality, urbanity;  for the aforesaid are assumed to be the foundation of the edifice of civilisation. And these incidents have once again showed us how that foundation is shaky.    

Is it, then, only a complacent illusion that civilisation has managed to temper and curtail the beast that lurks within each of one of us? Or is this behaviour only human and a proof of our helplessness and impotence to fight that beastly instinct despite being conditioned and trained to do so?

No, I am not for a moment condoning what these people have allegedly done. They must be tried lawfully and must face the consequences of their actions. My concern is not to vilify, justify or condone their actions. My concern here is more selfish than that. 

Imagine these people in their day to day lives. How many times must have Mrs Talwar winced when she must have seen some gory visuals of a murdered body on her television screen or in a newspaper report, and must have pitied the unknown victim. The Supreme Court judge in question must have censured so many people who must have transgressed legally and socially. The said God-man must delivered so many sermons warning his followers against the sins he himself has allegedly committed. The editor must have churned out so many stories lashing out against people who must be guilty of committing crimes similar to the one he himself is alleged (and admitted) to have done.

Will it be wise and correct to write off all of their above stated behaviour as phony and contrived? Is it is safe to assume that none of their pity, censure, sermons, indignation had even a whiff of genuineness?  I doubt it.

And this doubt haunts me. Doesn’t that mean that we who fume and fret over such matters, and take not even a moment’s time to express our vexation through social-media, are not exempt from such follies? We are as vulnerable to that beastly side of us overpowering all the mental conditioning, and drawing out from within us the kind of behaviour we ourselves would have never imagined.

One moment of indiscretion induced by agents external (say, alcohol) or internal (say, anger, lust, or greed) is all it may take to eject me from the high horse of civility, and make me stand in line with people whom I was chastising and fuming over minutes, days or months ago; and I may end up being the object of others vexation and ridicule. But, again, are these ‘others’ immune to the malice that they are fuming over is my larger concern, a deep-seated fear more so. Can a person be defined in totality by a vice he/she gives into or a virtue he/she upholds?


“Give me that man,
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart.”
~ Hamlet  (3.2)

Friday, 1 November 2013

Desiccated



It had been two years since He left Vrindavan. Diwali was two days away. She decides to write a letter to him. A monthly ritual.
 She begins writing thus:

Dearest,
The town is adorned like a bride.
I miss your presence by my side.
Why doesn’t the festivity animate me anymore?
Is this stoicism a fallout of betrayal?
Whose? Yours or Mine?
Or is it just a part of evolution?

The luminosity that drenches the houses and streets evades my heart.
Not even a jot of it can I feel touching me.
An uncanny darkness has settled in the heart. And it refuses to diffuse.

Every day is the same. So is every night.
Nothing seems to make sense without you.
How meaningless and dry it all is.
Such a powerful desiccant reason is.

You were my end and the means—the pivot of my very existence.
Everything seems disarrayed now. Vague and bland.
For whom do I preen?
Whom do I sing for?

They look at me with a cynical eye. Not their fault entirely.
I fail to understand their gaiety. They fail to understand mine.


She folds the letter neatly and steps out of the house, careful not to be seen. This letter, too, was to meet with the fate of every other she had been writing for the past two years.
Upon reaching the banks of Yamuna, with moist eyes, she kisses the letter and sets it adrift.




                                                                

Thursday, 24 October 2013

Void

A void
shapeless
and undefined

Desirous
Painfully so
Of what?
I know not

Murmurs
now and then
What and why
Beyond my ken

Looms
Like a wraith
Shapeless
and watchful

I know it's here
Or is it there?
Feeding
on moonlight
Observing
coldly
Me & my shadow

I grope
in vain
'Tis thinner
than air


Only suffocating


Inscrutable,
That silent shriek
tinged with my own blood.

Gratitude

Every evening a host of middle class men and women, like Angai, working in various IT companies located in and around the area where she worked would flock this spot and board one of the many large auto rickshaws, or “tempoo” as they were called, that would stand in queues waiting hungrily to ferry as many passengers as they possibly can. Woe would betide the driver who dared to fill his tempo out of turn.

Her day had not been particularly productive. The team for which Angai was working had yet again been thrown off-course because of the last minute changes in the product requested by the client when the release was only a day away. Angai foresaw another round of writing tedious code and squabbling over test cases with the testing team. She grimaced as she boarded the shared-auto rickshaw at the mere thought of all the rigmarole that was to ensue the next day.

Angai plugged her earphones and fished out her cell-phone from her handbag as soon as she managed to squeeze herself between two of her fellow passengers.

18:30
Mon 15 September

Flashed her cell-phone.

It had been exactly one year, she was reminded, since the whole Harshil incident (a disaster rather) had played out. The scars were still fresh in her memory. The entire episode ran through her mind in a split second. It was nothing short of rape: emotional rape if something of that sort exists. The lack of closure on that front had only deepened her wounds. And the next second the anxiety of the imminent work pressure glided in and clouded her mind. She broke into a smile. ”How pacy life has become; it does not even give you enough time to grieve over one concern to heart’s content and throws in another,” she thought.

A swift click on the screen of the phone and some of her favourite music started playing. The auto rickshaw would not move until it gets completely loaded. It could still accommodate two more persons, though there was room enough for only one. Angai closed her eyes trying to concentrate on the lyrics of the songs that played in her ears as the driver hollered on to invite the last two passengers.

“Mayur Vihar, Bank Kalonee, Jagatpura, Bus adda....Mayur Vihar, Bank Kalonee...”

Her musical meditation was disrupted by a jerk given by the tempoo as its engine roared, signalling departure.

“Finally,she sighed.

Her eyes searched for the two new faces to whom the departure could be credited as though to mentally thank them for it. The first one sat right opposite to her on the wooden plank that was fitted between the main seating space and the driver’s cabin so as to accommodate more passengers. She was a girl of about nineteen, or so Angai guessed. She wore a pretty nose ring and was perhaps returning home from college. Angai’s gaze shifted to the gentleman on this girl’s right, who was the last of the passengers to sit in the tempoo.

Angai was surprised to see this last entry, and quite pleasantly so. He was a young man easily in his early twenties. ‘Delicious’ was the first word that popped in her head as she surveyed this gentleman, and she bit her tongue, ashamed at the impertinence of her language.

She could not be blamed entirely. The man was gorgeous indeed. He was a lighter shade of caramel, and had big almond-shaped eyes located strategically underneath his thick yet shapely brows. His face was the right mix of square and oval: A broad forehead and conspicuous cheekbones.  The lower half of his face was etched by five o'clock shadow. He was dressed in plain and formal attire. The sleeves of his pale blue shirt visibly had a tough time trying to contain the bulge of his biceps. The arms were shapely and robust.  A fine gold chain gleamed on his neck as it peeped through the space the first two undone buttons of his shirt had left uncovered. She would have inferred that this was a deliberate manoeuvre to tempt the likes of her, had it not been for his stern expressions.

His facial expressions were the most striking. He wore a pensive look. In fact he looked slightly miffed at something. Every now and then he would knit his eyebrows and gaze at some distant visual.  There was an air of restlessness and condescension about him. He was brooding on some problem, Angai conjectured. Nevertheless his expressions only augmented his appeal.

She sat there dazzled by his beauty. How therapeutic it was. It made her forget all her anxieties and allowed her to appreciate this fine specimen of male physiognomy and anatomy. There was something so extra-ordinary about him that it made her giddy. And this had not happened for quite a long time. This beauty was potent and she was virtually high on it. It’s one thing to see attractive people on bill-boards and TV screens; it’s a totally different thing to observe beauty at close quarters, and that too at unexpected time and place.  In the former there is an element of incredibility accorded by the virtual distance that subsists between the observer and the object of appreciation; in the latter, however, the close proximity heightens this sense of incredibility. How ironic, she observed as she reflected upon the aforesaid thought.

She was genuinely happy. Yes, there was a sense of inadequacy she felt when she compared herself to him, but she acted wisely and did not allow it to mar the joy of those opportune moments. “What if he gets down way before I do? I can despair later,” she thought and smiled yet again.  

The game of furtive glances had commenced. Cautious not to look idiotic, she did not allow a single chance to steal a glance at this honey-complexioned co-passenger pass. However, despite of all her caution, he had sensed that he was being sensed. And now in those few seconds when Angai would not look at him (pretending to be unaware of and indifferent to his presence), he would run his restless eyes on Angai trying to figure out what exactly was going on. His expression would not change though. She giggled in her head.

Was the man in fact as splendid as Angai had perceived him? One can’t say. Angai did ask of herself the same question, and she concluded that she did not care. To Angai’s gaze he was like a canvass upon which she was sketching the man himself with the hues of her imagination and desires, and was deriving the same pleasure that an artist does in so doing.

 She felt proud of herself in that moment as she did not burden herself with the obligation of imagining a future with him. She was appreciating his beauty as objectively as she could, which was quite unlike of her. She did not care to know his name, his profession, and other such mundane details.  For her all his existence and identity was concentrated in those very fleeting moments that were passing between them and could end anytime soon. Reality was usually ugly and burdensome. The image that she had conjured of him was purely hers and she was content with it; reality could not taint it.

The only thing that could have blemished this mental portrait that Angai had painted was a voice that would not do justice to so fine a specimen. But even that apprehension was redressed as the man commanded the driver to halt the auto at the next crossing in a husky baritone. Angai beamed as he walked away after getting down. What she felt for this man at that juncture was not lust, not adulation, and far from love. It was pure gratitude: the gratitude for lifting her spirits and giving her a reason to smile made her want to get off the auto rickshaw and hug this young man.

 Soon his face would fade away from her memory, but she knew that memory of this apparently puerile incident would stay with her for quite some time.  She wanted to commit it to paper before it evaporates, but she believes that the only language she’s good with is Java script. And thus she phoned me as soon as she reached home, narrating the entire incident and urging me pen it down for her. I am glad for multiple reasons: I am glad for she was glad. She said she kept grinning throughout the way back home, and even greeted her neighbours in the elevator with warmth. I am glad she trusted me to be her confidant and entrusted me with the responsibility of narrating this experience of hers. I hope I’ve done at least some, if not complete, justice to it.

Come Closer

Come closer
I wish to whisper a secret in your ears.
Is it a secret anymore?
I think not.

Come closer.
Suspend the fears.
Believe me
I harm not.

Come closer.
Talk.
Hear.
Loosen the knot.

Come closer.
Touch.
Feel.
No difference?

So now you believe
What I'd said?
On baseless notions
Your mind had fed

We are the same
Blood and flesh
Same air we breathe
Stale and Fresh

Then why the scorn?
Why the wrath?
I know not.

We love differently
That is all.
Then why hate love
I get not.

Thursday, 29 August 2013

P.S. I Miss You

I envy the madness
That grips your lovers,
The mirth that throbs
In every fibre of their being
When they hear your name,
The ceaseless ecstasy that
Oozes out from their bodies
In form of sweat
When they dance to your chants.

They have different faces, colours
And shapes
But one identity—
Your servants—eternally and joyously.
Everything else is
False.
Everything else is
Binding.
Everything else is
Poison.

 The nectar of your love
Flowing in their veins
Surges upon being invoked
By your names.
The blissful frenzy
Augments
With each passing moment

It is potent and alive—
Yes, it has a life of its own—
Looking alertly for stoic souls
To stir and consume.

The ingenuous prey
Is caught unawares.
It all starts with
Shake of a limb.
Then the body quakes
Then tongue utters
Your name...

And the battle is lost.
You then smile
At the helpless soul
For now it has lost control
Over itself.


It is that helplessness
That I yearn.
It is much better
Than the one
That I feel now.

What would it take
To resurrect that naiveté?
Where did I lose it?
And when?

It is on nights
Such as this
That the loss stings.
And it stings hard.

There goes no day
When I don’t think of you.
For some you are a part
Of life;
For me you were
My life.

Why did you then, O love!
Go mute
On questions I asked?
Why did you then
Withdraw when I needed
You the most?

Was it one of your many ploys?
Was I just one of your many toys?
Who’s to be blamed, you or I?
I cannot say.
Have you pushed me farther away?
Or pulled me closer
To You?
To The Truth?
I cannot say.

We may’ve grown estranged;
We may’ve grown apart;
I can’t but admit though
“Thou art my art”

PS: I miss you.

   

Thursday, 15 August 2013

Express Yourself...

Sometimes I wonder how aptly this punch line of a telecom service provider fits our Indian life-style. Let's face it: we are inherently so effusive and expressive that at times we even forget that what might appear to us as a natural outburst of emotions might be the cause of utter consternation to the others.

We’ve all been through been through the agony of being stuck in a traffic-jams caused by the pompous baraats (wedding processions), wherein bunch of heavily decked ladies, who refuse to go easy on the jewellery and jazzy saaris despite the hot and humid tropical climate of ours, and a bunch of over-zealous men, whose dance steps even a Hrithik Roshan cannot match up to, blithely make merry all the way without caring a damn about all the chaos they are creating for the other passers-by. They keep on coaxing the other equally garishly dressed spectators to join them and add to this pool of crazy dancers as they claim the streets and roads reveling in presupposed marital-bliss of the soon-to-be couple.

What about the characteristic Indian burp that is discerned to be the ultimate marker of a satiated tummy? Let me warn you: if you do not follow this ritual of ceremonial burping then the host might pile up your plate with additional pooris and matar-paneer saying, “aap toh kuch khatey hi nahi!“. Yes, burping and spitting are our birth-rights and we will exercise them to the fullest.

It is said God can  intercept your deepest thoughts and prayers even if you do not articulate them. Huh? What nonsense? We Indians are far from being subtle. We do not like the idea of one-on-one conversations with the divine. We would rather make it a conference call and force everyone to join. What do you mean you don’t want to? Who cares? How can God hear us if we don’t croon using microphones (how I wish the quality was Dolby surround sound)? The jag-raatas are our answers to all-night parties. Of course the Goddess loves the kitschy Bollywood numbers. Why else would we decide to set holy lyrics to Pritam's and Anu Malik's tunes (whose originality in turn is equally dubious). So what if you have three mosques in the same locality? It's the right of all three mosques to inform the people about the time to pray. What, the sounds from all three mosques are overlapping making it cacophonic? So what? Deal with it! Each imam is accountable to the God for his own mosque after all.

Try and compare the eloquently mourning aunties at our condolence ceremonies, who I can bet barely know the deceased, but will wear the most melancholy expressions on their faces as if the person who passed away was dearest to them, with the placid condolence ceremonies of the west, where even the most bereaved of the family members appear gathered and composed and meticulously “suited up”  (as Barney would say).

All these situations and many more, essentially highlight our proclivity of being able to express ourselves without any restraints. It can be befuddling, annoying or amusing, but it is certainly and deeply Indian. So enjoy the madness of being an Indian and go out there and express yourself.... :)

Wednesday, 31 July 2013

A Pursuit Of Life and Death


What is life if not a string of natal travails,
For every second we’re born anew.
And every second we’re dying too.
Every moment the circle of life and death prevails.

That spate of lives we live
In that final moment before we cease.
And those innumerable deaths that we die
While we are still on life’s lease.

What is life if not prolonged death.
So many deaths packed in one breath.
Every second we die as we live
Hoping to recoup what we give—
That precious, rare, and vital potion
Which rarefies with Time’s ceaseless motion.
Alas! Recovery is impossible.

Today I am what I never was,
I am what I never will be.
Every breath is anxious because
Tomorrow it may or may not be.

But what if the truth lies elsewhere?
What if Death is not as ghastly
 As it is made out to be?
What if that moment when life does finally freeze
Is indeed the moment of redemption, the moment of release?