There is almost a sepia touch to the memories I have of the day when apocalypse hit America ten years ago. It was a pleasant evening, or so I remember, and my day was winding to a close. The lazy twilight across the horizon was such a misleading precursor to what lay ahead.
I have this uncanny habit of surfing through TV channels at the speed of light. And while that evening was expected to be no different, my dead heat race with TV channels was aborted as I stumbled upon Channel 29 on my TV list – NDTV.
The words were clear, the message was loud. America had been hit by terror, not once but twice in a span of seconds.
The horror sight of two planes crashing into the gigantic towers was there to stay; the wails of those witnessing destruction-in-motion were there to remain; the dance of death around the epicenter of life had been choreographed to haunt us for years.
For once, I’m sure most Americans wouldn’t mind the Alzheimer's syndrome if that’s what it takes to Ctrl+Alt+Del September 11 from their memories.
The sight of men and women freefalling from the twin towers in their miraculous bid to escape death could easily account for the scariest sight ever witnessed by the human eye.
What were they thinking on their flight down the towers to Ground Zero? Were their regrets, were their silent farewells?
In those 10 seconds before gravity did them in, was there a man saying a silent sorry to his wife for cheating on her; was there a woman saying ‘I’m proud of my children’; was there a 20-something whose lips whispered ‘I love you” one last time; was there a fearless sturdy man admitting to himself for the first time ever ‘I am scared’.
Between the top of the tower and the ground below lay a limitless expanse and in that vaccum of infinity, many words must have been said, many tears shed and many smiles broken. And in all of this, there was a larger acceptance – the acknowledgement that death is as much a reality as life is.
For me, the day enhanced the value of life. Now, I’m more aware than ever that what comes across as another day in my life may just be the only other day I have with me.
It’s only a moment you’d take to say sorry; only a moment to say I love you; only a brief second to say Thank you. On September 11, 2001, they had their ‘moments’ in their last flight down the WTC. You and I may have none -- for if climaxes were written according to plan, life would have been way too predictable.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Tears that will be remembered for years
It’s not that I always engage in a discourse on my life. Too often I have shied away from opening the dark shades that shadow my past. But, you probed deep and gave me no inch to escape.
At a moment when I was supposedly strong, in rhythm and comfortably in my zone, you got me to divulge matters close to my heart. And as I spoke, your lips began to tremble; as I recalled darkness, the light around you turned dim, and when my tears came knocking, your eyes moistened and glistened with emotions. They turned red and you cried, you did what I had been dying to do for ages.
In your tears, I sobbed my tragedies, in them I vented my long-drawn anger; I experienced freedom, I saw relief. Through that twinkle in your tear-laden eyes, you stripped me off my inhibitions and set me free; your weak moment empowered me; your sense of emptiness gave me a rush of fulfillment. I was in a trance, I still am.
Decades later, when this piece is revisited, I hope it reminds us of a certain Saturday when facades were broken and hypocritical walls demolished.
And, for what got you to cry, the question is a mystery for now, and is likely to remain one forever!
At a moment when I was supposedly strong, in rhythm and comfortably in my zone, you got me to divulge matters close to my heart. And as I spoke, your lips began to tremble; as I recalled darkness, the light around you turned dim, and when my tears came knocking, your eyes moistened and glistened with emotions. They turned red and you cried, you did what I had been dying to do for ages.
In your tears, I sobbed my tragedies, in them I vented my long-drawn anger; I experienced freedom, I saw relief. Through that twinkle in your tear-laden eyes, you stripped me off my inhibitions and set me free; your weak moment empowered me; your sense of emptiness gave me a rush of fulfillment. I was in a trance, I still am.
Decades later, when this piece is revisited, I hope it reminds us of a certain Saturday when facades were broken and hypocritical walls demolished.
And, for what got you to cry, the question is a mystery for now, and is likely to remain one forever!
Monday, March 14, 2011
To the 20-somethings I met in Mumbai
Last week, I left a cold Delhi in anticipation of a warmer Mumbai. Away from the chill, my expectations of warmth stemmed from the excitement of meeting my sister after a long time.
There was a job to be done yes, but then there were larger rewards to redeem. Meeting my sister by the Marine Drive was perhaps the high point of the trip. My heart swelled with pride to see how a little girl, shy and scared, whom I left there a year ago, had graduated into a confident world beater. Brave and tall (metaphorically here, she's about 5 ft only :p) she stood strong, yet kept her childlike innocence intact. Meeting her friends, however, turned out to be the most embarrassing of interactions. Knowing that the brother-sister secrets I shared with her were secrets no more accounted for a ripe blush on the cheeks. Jokes notwithstanding, I must confess: those energetic kids made me feel secure and reassured that my little child is in safe hands.
The following day heralded a challenge and I set off for the battlefield early in the morning. And while the battle in its entirety may not merit a mention here, an individual with common aspirations surely does.
A crowd of eight all fighting for oneupmanship -- it was meant to be a warzone, but it ended up being anything but that. And while decibels competed for a higher pitch, a feebler voice stood out. Amid accents of varying degrees, all that I registered was that one voice — devoid of pretence and pompous show.
Hours later, when the entire world around me was jostling to cram that every inch of Indian politics and geography, she stood out – calm, serene, almost unfazed. I chose the serene company over the hustle and bustle and that marked the beginning of the few most momentous hours of the day.
Lunch followed. I masticated the delicious food, but digested something else -- her constant reprimands for being a novice at self-serving food. “You’re funny” was what resonated on the dinner table.
After a hungry stomach wiped clean the plate, it was time to wash hands. Incidentally, Mumbai’s tap ran dry on that day and water was too precious to waste on cleaning hands. “You want to use some wet tissues,” she asked.
And often i'd hear that ignorance is bliss. True to that moment, i was convinced. My lack of knowledge about the purpose and efficiency of the tissues budgeted for some light moments, a wacky mock and a few senseless jokes. And if anything, it only broke the shield of formal discomfort and granted a more informal comfortable texture to the interaction.
They say it's in the lesser striking moments that a person's most striking persona comes through. In the age of wannabes, when people wear faces to fit into groups, there was this individual with zilch pretence. "Watched the King's Speech?" I asked.
"I don't watch Holywood movies!" she replied. Between the question and the answer, there was much more than what was asked and far more than what was told. It is the pride in one's originality that shapes characters and it takes immense confidence to beat the stereotype. Kudos to you! On my scale of 1 to 10, you scored an impressive 9.
Not may people leave a lingering impression and for those few who do, every bit of credit needs to be given. As this write up draws to a close, it leaves massive space for speculation and conjecture. My two cents: Read only as much of what is written here, and not beyond!
And when the tap runs dry the next time, you know what to do. :)
There was a job to be done yes, but then there were larger rewards to redeem. Meeting my sister by the Marine Drive was perhaps the high point of the trip. My heart swelled with pride to see how a little girl, shy and scared, whom I left there a year ago, had graduated into a confident world beater. Brave and tall (metaphorically here, she's about 5 ft only :p) she stood strong, yet kept her childlike innocence intact. Meeting her friends, however, turned out to be the most embarrassing of interactions. Knowing that the brother-sister secrets I shared with her were secrets no more accounted for a ripe blush on the cheeks. Jokes notwithstanding, I must confess: those energetic kids made me feel secure and reassured that my little child is in safe hands.
The following day heralded a challenge and I set off for the battlefield early in the morning. And while the battle in its entirety may not merit a mention here, an individual with common aspirations surely does.
A crowd of eight all fighting for oneupmanship -- it was meant to be a warzone, but it ended up being anything but that. And while decibels competed for a higher pitch, a feebler voice stood out. Amid accents of varying degrees, all that I registered was that one voice — devoid of pretence and pompous show.
Hours later, when the entire world around me was jostling to cram that every inch of Indian politics and geography, she stood out – calm, serene, almost unfazed. I chose the serene company over the hustle and bustle and that marked the beginning of the few most momentous hours of the day.
Lunch followed. I masticated the delicious food, but digested something else -- her constant reprimands for being a novice at self-serving food. “You’re funny” was what resonated on the dinner table.
After a hungry stomach wiped clean the plate, it was time to wash hands. Incidentally, Mumbai’s tap ran dry on that day and water was too precious to waste on cleaning hands. “You want to use some wet tissues,” she asked.
And often i'd hear that ignorance is bliss. True to that moment, i was convinced. My lack of knowledge about the purpose and efficiency of the tissues budgeted for some light moments, a wacky mock and a few senseless jokes. And if anything, it only broke the shield of formal discomfort and granted a more informal comfortable texture to the interaction.
They say it's in the lesser striking moments that a person's most striking persona comes through. In the age of wannabes, when people wear faces to fit into groups, there was this individual with zilch pretence. "Watched the King's Speech?" I asked.
"I don't watch Holywood movies!" she replied. Between the question and the answer, there was much more than what was asked and far more than what was told. It is the pride in one's originality that shapes characters and it takes immense confidence to beat the stereotype. Kudos to you! On my scale of 1 to 10, you scored an impressive 9.
Not may people leave a lingering impression and for those few who do, every bit of credit needs to be given. As this write up draws to a close, it leaves massive space for speculation and conjecture. My two cents: Read only as much of what is written here, and not beyond!
And when the tap runs dry the next time, you know what to do. :)
Friday, February 11, 2011
A writer is dead?
A lot of water has passed under the bridge since the days you inspired my writing. Remember the time when i'd write poetry to woo you or use eloquence to serenade you, days when your smile inspired sonnets after sonnets.
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!
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