The Thinking Man

How many times do you think in love?

After the first few years of my being born — when I was thought capable enough — I was told to think. “What do you think? What do you think you should have done? Were you thinking at all? Why don’t you think before doing something?”

I don’t think I’m the only one to have been interrogated thus. If conversations and television is anything to go by, then this is representational of all of us, all through life — it’s cyclical. Heck, even I’ve thrown these lines and variants of them at others. I’m guilty, and I can’t shirk the blame. There’s no way I can, even if I would love to.

It took me ages to learn how to think. I’m still learning. But what of those who don’t think...

You don’t think about music... you just feel it.

You don’t think about being in the presence of the majestic Himalayas... you simply experience it.

You don’t think about the gushing sound of a flowing river... you just sway with it.

You don’t think about running to your safe zone/person when you need to hide from the world... you just run.

Thinking before jumping off a plane for a sky dive doesn’t result in jumping... NOT thinking about it, does.

You don’t think about removing your hand in case something’s hot (pls note... something, not someone!)... you just remove it.

You don’t think about clenching your fists when something makes you fiercely mad or happy or sad or excited... you just clench your fists.

Most importantly, you don’t think before you love someone... you just fall...

But you usually do think a zillion times before you say “I love you” to someone.

So, if for all the important things in your life you don’t need to think, or rather, you shouldn’t think... why do we learn to think at all? Doesn’t that just hold us back?

Rodin's Thinking Man in Paris. Photo courtesy: wayneconrady.wordpress.com

Summer Cleaning

(Photo courtesy: Priyanka Singh; Model: Datri Sodha)

Nandini sat folding, unfolding, refolding the little piece of slightly yellowed, rectangular paper. Her trembling hands trying to get each fold right and equidistant. Matching the corners and edges each time. It was important that the folds be just right. She was an architect. She liked symmetry. She needed symmetry. Things had to fall into place.

Behind her, the clock tick-tocked on the wall. The once bright yellow wall paint now cracked and coming off around the ceiling and the corner to the left of the clock. Nandini didn’t like to look at that wall, even though the large window on it looked out into the society’s beautiful park. The visage was always colourful. The society’s caretaker was fond of flowers and had strategically planted the trees and shrubs, so that there would be blooms of different hues all through the year. Nandini didn’t notice the white jasmines, pink, white, blue and purple lilies, and the bright orange marigolds that lined the boundary, the bright yellow of the amaltas trees breaking the otherwise green lush. She sat with her back towards the vibrant summer palette. Her ears shut to the chirping of birds and children alike.

Even the time on the clock on that wall was perpetually wrong. She never looked at the clock either; it was just there. She never quite figured out why she never got rid of it, she thought, as her fingers worked that piece of official paper. First fold. Tick. Second fold. Tock. Third fold. Tick. Hard-press the crease. Tock. A small little square. As tiny as the plastic hand of the baby doll kept atop the cupboard across the floor from where she was sitting. Raghav had bought her the doll seven years back—their first week anniversary. Nandini had LOVED it. It was so lifelike—bald head, crinkled, chubby hands and feet, wide, dreamy eyes, a cooing mouth. She had tended to it as if it were her own. Now only Raghav looked after it. That was pretty much the story of every little thing in the house that they had lovingly built together.

They loved kids. Unfold one. They’d tried for their own for many years. Unfold two. The reports lay strewn around her. She was summer cleaning. Unfold three. The doctor had said she could never become a mother. Some operation had gone horribly wrong.

Raghav’s jacket lay crumpled on her lap, as she finally opened the rectangular paper down to the last fold for the first time in seven years. A single tear trickled down her cheek and on to the receipt from the abortion clinic. He still had it. The date was a week—to the day—before their parents had miraculously approved of their relationship. If only...

(Writer's Note: This was my first attempt at fiction. Feedback, criticism, suggestions are most welcome :-) Thanks for reading!)

I must! And I will! Travel.

The good life.. coffee, beach, serenity!
(Juara Beach, Pulao Tioman, Malaysia)

I’ve been on my dream (well, almost!) vacation since the past two months (well, again, almost!). I quit my job of five and a half years to take time out and travel. I took the plunge and I haven’t looked back ever since. And it’s been every bit as fabulous as I thought it would be, and sometimes in the most unexpected of fashions.

A few years back, when I was drifting a bit at my job, my editor had asked me “What do you really want to do?” I thought for a micro-second, and answered: Travel and get paid for it! His answer: I want to lie on a chair in Hawaii and smoke a cigar. When you have something more serious in mind, let me know.

I never went back with a “serious” answer.

Around three years later, when the plunge towards self-discovery has been taken, a few wonderful trips made, and “serious” thought to my ultimate goal in life paid, I finally have a serious answer: Travel and get paid for it! I kid you not. 

The end of the world? It did seem like it! (South China Sea)

I realize that I am not the only one with this dream. In fact, over night-long drinking sessions, coffee meets and telephone conversations this very same sentiment has been voiced countless numbers of times by too many people that it may form a sizeable chunk of the employed and even a part of the unemployed populace. But the difference between them and me is that I now know that THIS is IT! My life’s goal. It’s not a whimsical wish. Not a dream. Not an item on my bucket list. Travelling is what I was born to do. I don’t care how I travel, where I travel, when I travel, with whom I travel... as long as I am travelling. Well, don’t get me wrong... travelling does not mean continuously be on the road...I like a relaxing sojourn every now and then and DO NOT want to be zipping across the globe without experiencing anything at all (my recent trip to Malaysia made me realize that this, too, is possible! But more of that in another post.).

I know I must visit new places. I must meet a lot of different people. I must be constantly amazed. I must walk around

The coffee lady who taught me how to
make this beautiful paper star!
(Milan, Italy)

ruins and imagine the most fantastical stories that happened there and people who must have lived there aeons ago and then drift off into thinking I was one of them. I must change my mind in the middle of a trip and end up at a place I hadn’t even heard about. I must savour each and every delectable taste that this world of mine has to offer. I must know the history of these fabulous places not by reading about them or drooling over pictures others have taken, but by sitting and listening—fascinated, open-mouthed, and wide-eyed—to a person who was a stranger just 10 minutes ago right there on ground zero! I must bombard random people with my questions, sometimes with the danger of getting thrown out (more of that later, again!). 

Falling in love with a roving musician? (Venice)

I must fall in love over a riverbank or the edge of our books. I must have my heart broken when I leave, only to smile again because of that guy in the next table at the café the very next day. I must live in the moment and breathe in all the air at all the places in this world, dig my bare feet into the wet sand as the water splashes against my entire body and the waves pull me towards the vast ocean. I must relish in that panic when

Spin on a bull's testicles for good luck! (Milan)

I’m just about to give in to my urges to let go and sink, especially when I don’t know how to swim, or hang over the edge of the mountain, and slightly make a tilt in favour of gravity, when I know not how to fly...well, physically, at least. I must be alive when I know that every atom in my body is dancing to the rhythm of the world that is not just the one around me, but the core that moves this entity we call the universe. I must make friends with the stars (the celestial kind!). I must break into a dance when I feel the rhythm that just makes me want to dance (okay, so I do that already. But not always! I swear!). I must see, live, experience, everyone and everything and everywhere! I must. And I will!

I know it! I don’t know how. But I know it!

Days when working in a cargo ship and travelling across the seven seas was an economic option are not around anymore. I know. I checked. A year back, desperate to do anything to set sail, quite literally, I checked with some cargo ship companies, and turned out, if I wanted to travel with them, a trip from a Mumbai port to an African port would cost me more than INR 12 lakh! And this was over and beyond the work I was expected to do on deck! Oh, how I ached for simpler and wallet-friendlier times.

Among other, more sane options, get a corporate job that pays a LOT of money; invent a muggle-version of the floo network; become the secretary of some super high-falutin’ CEO; do super yoga and perfect out-of-body travelling; get married to uber rich guy; fall in love with a wandering musician has also been suggested!; become a flight attendant; turn back time, not bunk classes, study real hard, become smart, do research and go to conferences; better yet, invent time machine!; transmogrify into an aeroplane; ooooh, become pilot and fly planes!; swap places with S’ dad; kill only friend who is living this dream, get full-body plastic surgery and take over her life! *evil genius laughter in the background, accompanied with thunder and lightning* 

It's okay to stand alone when you know why you're where you are! (Milan)

There is the more obvious option of travel writing. Yes, for all those who’re thinking, finally she’s come down to it, well, I can say one thing: it ain’t easy! No, ironically it’s not that there isn’t enough work. Surprisingly, there is a lot of work. Alas, the past month and a half has made me realize that I have no discipline. Ahem! Yes, I’m admitting to it! I haven’t been able to sit ONE day to write out ONE piece about the places I’ve been to. Just because I have had no one to crack the whip on me. Sad. Very sad. But there it is. I can churn out a piece in 20 mins once the panic button’s been hit, but tell me to work at my own pace, and there will be no work at all!

Anyways, many deliberations and debates and furious conversations with myself later, I have not, yet, hit upon an answer. But as I said, I will travel. I will make it work for me. I might not know how, but I will figure it out!

Wish me luck! I’m going to make my dream happen! I’ll leave inter-galactic travelling for the next life, for now, or, maybe not! :-)

Endless possibilities. (Photo courtesy: Sharmistha Deb)

A different life

It’s a different life,
the one I dream of.
It’s like the rolling clouds over the verdant hills,
beautiful as they are, stark white across a clear blue sky,
still nothing but air to hold when I stretch out my hand.

It’s a different life,
the one I dream of.
It’s like the high from a joint, rolled up in a scroll.
The elusive bliss from the seamless nothingness beyond,
a neverending chase for the ethereal je ne sais quoi.

It’s a different life,
the one I dream of.
It’s the one born out of the reflection from my tears.
The thoughts unleashed like the walled river released from its bounds,
its gushing, rolling stream giving life to uncountable saplings on a desert plain.

It’s a different life,
the one I dream of.
It’s the walk on a wonderfully chilly winter morning.
Question is... is it the road that goes endlessly on, melting into the horizon
or is it the one that goes winding up to a doorstep... the doorstep I otherwise call home?

Sasi Restaurant, Kasol, Himachal Pradesh
14.30, 8.10.11

When is it enough?

I am not an activist. I am as lazy as they come. I like the finer things in life more than I like roughing it. I keep searching for a purpose in life and want to be part of something bigger, but as I said, I am too lazy. I have a lot of opinions...on things I know a little about and even on things I don’t know anything about. I will probably leave two people to fight things out between them, than interfere. I am not an activist. But I wore a black band for the first time in my life for two days—protesting the arrest/detainment of Anna Hazare. The black band was to protest the curbing of one’s right to protest, and not in support of Anna Hazare and the Jan Lokpal Bill.

On a recent Saturday, a combination of Anna Hazare recounting the freedom struggle on one of the reality music shows in the morning, followed by going for ‘Rise of the Apes’ in the afternoon left me pensive (and yes, I am aware of the unlikely combo). So…during a particularly unrealistic sequence when the apes were wreaking havoc on London while they fight for their freedom, my mind wandered back to Anna Hazare, his anecdotes from the freedom movement, the current state of governance, the rampant corruption, the general chaos in terms of the future, and I thought—when will it be enough?

Taking a stand
What will it take for me and all those like me—who are still living their regular lives with the India Against Corruption banter in the background—to get out of comfort of our daily routine and take a stand? And by taking a stand, I don’t mean shouting “Anna tum sangharsh karo, hum tumhare saath hain (Anna, continue your struggle. We’re with you)”. I mean taking an ACTIVE stand like those who are working and fasting with Anna Hazare. Now, to be honest, I am occasionally a sceptic and a cynic. Do I believe that everyone’s got an altruistic motive? No. Is everyone in the campaign clean? No. But I do think, like many others, that the sentiment that has been created by the protest is an immensely healthy change from our previous “chalta hai (everything goes)” attitude.

However, taking a stand doesn’t mean wearing Tricolour bandanas and wristbands and taking flags while you ride down the road at dangerous speeds, and blatantly flouting traffic rules. That’s just an insult to the concept of taking a stand.

In the two weeks since that Saturday, and a week since this “movement” started, I have been truly moved to take a stand once—when Anna and his supporters were “detained”. I didn’t do much. I’m not moved to great shows of protest easily, so I did what I still think is an elegant (and admittedly convenient) way to show my protest. I wore a black band on my arm from the time the arrests happened till the time the confirmation came that Anna will be leaving Tihar Jail. Then, to satisfy my curiosity and check out the Ramlila Maidan energy that I’ve been hearing so much about, I headed out there on Monday—Day 7 of Anna Hazare’s fast. (Check out the slide show if you’re interested in the images and my reactions to what I saw there, or click here.)

Ground check
To be honest, I wasn’t moved by any feeling of nationalism because of being there. But the marked change in the way people responded to each other did move me indeed. Considering the huge crowd, all the jostling, there wasn’t a single cross word, or impatient sigh, unintentional elbowing was followed by instant apology from both parties, elders were treated with utmost respect, people going out for a sip of water would return with several water packets for everyone (without being asked to!). THAT was what I loved. (What I didn’t love was the absolute filth outside the Maidan.)

What matters?
This post isn’t about discussing the merits or demerits of the Lokpal or Jan Lokpal bills, but about what moves us to react and how we react. Honestly, I think the movement wouldn’t have picked up this much momentum so soon had the government (or Delhi Police, if you’re buying the official story) not arrested Anna Hazare and Co. That’s where it hit people the hardest—when their right to protest/expression/dissent was under duress. They threatened to take away our voice and THAT was unacceptable. Plus, the Anna Hazare camp has appealed to reason rather than sentiment, which would explain the mass participation by the middle class and above.

Over the past week, the media has made it impossible to move past Anna Hazare. Is that a good thing? Maybe not. There are other things that are happening too, but it isn’t necessarily a bad thing either. This is an important movement and should be given its due. And considering our propensity to let the media guide our attention, at least there is no way our focus can waver at the moment.

Anna Hazare is the face of the movement, and not the movement itself. People are not on streets because of Anna Hazare. They are there because the issue he has raised has tapped into a groundswell of discontent that already existed among Indians irrespective of caste, creed, economic background…political and bureaucratic background might have been an exception though. As long as people realize that and remember it even after this frenzy of a movement is over, all this would have been worthwhile. The “Anna team” has to realize that blackmailing the government on the back of Anna Hazare’s failing health and the impending violence that might happen if something happens to him is not the right way. There HAS to be compromise on both fronts.

When it matters to me
But what of those of us who haven’t taken up the cause actively yet? I will and can speak only for myself. I don’t know. I know had Anna Hazare not been released, I would have been moved to take a more active stand than just wearing a black band. That’s because the government’s action threatened to affect ME. So basically, that’s what it boils down to… When it affects me. That’s when it will be enough.

That's probably why Irom Sharmila's protest against the Armed Forces (Special Powers) Act isn't as popular as this one. Or Medha Patkar's (and don't roll your eyes at this) Narmada Bachao Andolan hasn't garnered consistent fervour of this kind. They are just not enough for me (or us?) to not care about my job and walk down Rajpath with a candle, shout out slogans, bug every official I can till my voice is heard. I am yet to reach my breaking point, which, in my opinion, is not exactly a good thing. I admire those who have gone out of their way to work for a cause bigger than their personal circles. It’s something I aspire to do, but there is time yet, I suppose.

A chance meeting with an unknown Indian

(Photograph courtesy Souveek Bhattacharjee)

Would you have ever thought of comparing Kumbhakaran, Ravana’s brother, with the late Walter Hudson, the fourth heaviest person in world (according to Wikipedia)? I would never have of thought of it, even as impolitic as it would be. But then, this guy did just that!

We wanted to take the bus, but decided to polish off our ice creams first. I hadn’t taken the bus in while and we had an hour to get back, so I didn’t mind. Around five buses, two ice creams and 20 minutes later, we rued letting the first two buses go, because not a single #73 came thereafter.

It was 12.45 on a hot March afternoon and I simply HAD to get to work by 1, so the moment I spied an auto, I ran towards it with reckless abandon—hailing and shouting on the way—much to the amusement of my colleague and the others at the bus stop.

The auto stopped. The driver said he would take us as long as we paid the exact change. I wasn’t going to argue. Hopping into the auto­­­­ I urged him to go as fast as he could. At the first roundabout, as we crossed Jantar Mantar Road the driver wondered aloud as to why someone would name a place Jantar Mantar…possibly something to do with black magic or voodoo? Asha ma’am, my colleague, and I exchanged a smile.

We tried explaining to the man that the name had actually come from Jantar or Yantra, the Hindi word for “machinery” and Mantar is usually another word for “formula”, but in this 18^th century monument by Sawai Jai Singh, the first maharaja of Rajasthan, it means “calculation”. So, in effect, the actual meaning of the term was polar opposite to his interpretation. When we told him that Jantar Mantar was actually a collection of different kinds of mammoth-sized sundials and an astronomical observatory of sorts, he rapidly nodded his head in understanding, saying he once had a teacher in Chhapra, Bihar, who had made two dhoop ghadis (sundials) from scratch. The teacher was apparently an award-winning geography teacher at a local school in Chhapra. The auto driver recalled how the class would spend hours telling the time and figuring out how the dhoop ghadi worked.

The conversation then led to local ways of telling time and other “calculations” in the absence of fancy machinery. He mentioned how his aunts and grandmother used to use the shadow of the hut’s roof to accurately determine the time of the day and I was reminded of the immensely hilarious scene in Satyajit Ray’s Goopi Gayne Bagha Bayne (1969), when Goopi wanted to sing a morning raga but was unsure of the time, so the village head held forth his walking stick saying that till its shadow doesn’t fall on the stone lying on the road, it was still morning. This got us talking about Indian mythology and how Vidur’s running commentary of the Kurukshetra War to Dhritrashtra is similar to the modern-day satellite system (yes, all those who sat through my hour-long presentation in college, stop rolling your eyes!); similarities between the characters in our epics and those who exist now. The gentleman mentioned reading about Walter Hudson in school, who was “the heaviest man” in the world at the time, and how that’s similar to the giant rakshasas in epics, like Ravana’s brother Kumbhakaran. “People who eat and drink several quintals of food are quite like those rakshasas, hai na?” he asked us. Hmmm… a fair assessment. The driver went on about his teacher and what all he learnt for a few more minutes.

Curious about how he knew and remembered all this, we asked him about his schooling. I half expected him to say he’d studied all the way through to college, but couldn’t find work. Turned out, he had just studied till class 10. After a little more prodding, he continued with his life story. He said that after giving his 10^th Board exams, his family wanted to him to get married. Unable to argue with the elders, he reluctantly gave in, on one condition, that his future wife be allowed to study. The family grudgingly agreed, he told us, adding, they hadn’t expected him to follow through with his decision.

With a wife to support, the driver started working in the field. All the while making sure she got ample money and time for her studies. When the income proved insufficient and his wife had finished school, they packed their bags and came to Delhi. He started work as a labourer; saved as much as he could, and added to his earlier savings, he was soon able to buy an autorikshaw. Meanwhile, staying true to his resolve to educate his wife, he made sure she finished her BA Pass degree, followed by a master’s in history and finally a B.Ed. She is now teaching history at a Kendriya Vidyalaya in north Delhi. He has a 20-something son who is doing his master’s in English from Delhi University and is working as a translator for various publications. He had done his bachelor’s from one of the top DU colleges {I forget which, I’m sorry :-(}. His daughter is currently in her second year of Chemisty (Hons.) at the Banaras Hindu University.

As he drove into Kasturba Gandhi Marg, our destination, he quoted, or at least what I remember he quoted, Gandhi: “As human beings, our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world… as in being able to remake ourselves.” He couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate quote, adding: My kids and wife now tell me to rest at home and let them take over the finances, but I just tell them that as long as I am able, I want to work and fend for myself. I am not hurting anyone, I don’t cheat anyone by driving an auto. I will work till I can. What’s the use of sitting and doing nothing? That’s the root of all that’s wrong.

As we stared (and gaped) admiringly at the auto zoom ahead, it struck us both: “We should have at least asked his name”.