A Walk to Remember

The biggest side effect of a restless mind is one of blinded priorities. My current to-do checklist boasts of an avalanche of work staring at me in the face. And, therefore, by no means should I allow myself to indulge in a leisurely hour of random moorings. But, when there is a voice within keen to be heard and a thought inside seeking ventilation, you can’t help, but submit.

I often wonder if there’s a premium that we put on emotions? The answer, either ways, explains how much we open ourselves to two extreme possibilities: of either building a fortress and preserving our inner selves within its lonely walls or letting ourselves in the open and J-walking on social highways almost certain to be run over by hurt and pain, sooner or later.

I have always been a great advocate of the safer option – of staying within the foreclosures and keeping any possible infringements at bay. This is a choice that lays down clear terms and conditions: “I’d be happy to know who you are, but would request you to abstain from knowing who I am!

But, this philosophy does make room for exceptions; this frontier does open up to a few. And there is not one reason alone that explains this exception: these are individuals who inspire confidence that they’d heal you when you come back wounded from all the pretence of social conventions, they’d evoke a heartfelt laughter when you are tired of pasted smiles, and revitalise the life within you when all seems lost in your quest for emotional security.

You take a chance because these people open you to the beautiful possibilities that you never imagined before -- they are the encouraging pat on your back on a discouraging day, the warm hug on a cold day, the dope of belief when disbelief raises its ugly head.

Opening up to these exceptional few, however, does eventuate into a slight compromise on emotional safety – it may not be a J-walk on social highways, but it’s surely a stroll by the roadside, one that is safe, but not secured enough.

These people also do run you over sometimes either because they drove recklessly and rammed you on the safe road berms or, perhaps, you walked into their driveway when the signal was green. The reason could be either of the two or both, but when you do get run over, it invariably hurts – a tad bit more I suspect, because emotional hurt is new to you.

I was walking on the safe berms blinded to the possibility that I’d ever get run over. But, I did – was it the recklessness of the driver who deservingly entered my life or was it the careless stride of the pedestrian within me. Irrespective of the answer, that stroll in the most emotionally vulnerable territories handed me more joy than what I ever got in years of safe confinement. And while the stroll down the highway continues, for what it’s been so far, it has indeed been a Walk to Remember.

This time when I'm home

This time when I’m home,

I will rewind to a decade ago,

And redo the life Shillong gave me a chance to know.

I will wake up early and face up to the pure morning chill,

And do everything that 10 years ago, was part of my normal drill.

I will undertake that walk across the green expanse,

And trek up the hill to hear birds put me in a trance.

This time when I’m home,

I will reopen my cabinet, and glance through books on Maths and grammar,

And go visit the school auditorium to recall my first speech – one of nervous stammer.

I will walk onto the school cricket field and in the ‘catch it’ wails of those there,

Will recall the last-ball victories and first-ball ducks lodged in memory somewhere.

This time when I’m home,

I will lighten my burdened spirit in the Cathedral’s silent hour,

And meet the blind ‘beggar’ outside, who strums magic on his aged guitar.

This time when I’m home,

I will give my mother my ears,

And let her vent the pent up emotions of five distant years,

I will do everything to add to her glee,

Be it gardening with her or making her a cup of warm tea.

This time when I’m home,

I will retire from the maddening race and pause awhile,

And let life walk with me, instead of chasing it across the leisurely mile.

In their eyes, each day they see a Dark Night Rise

It was one of those afternoons in Mumbai – the rain pelting down the rooftop, the sun mired in a lost tussle with the clouds while the winds wrestled for the right direction. It was a day – bane and sterile – incapable of arousing any single thought, let alone inspiring the idea of an entire blog.

And it is with that unexciting texture on my mind that I entered the multiplex to watch Batman’s escapades to save Gotham. And while the movie promised much, I got value for money even before the movie began.

The unending sequence of ads on the gigantic screen was followed by the 52 seconds that most beautifully captured my imagination. This was the time of the National Anthem, but with a different touch.

Those participating in the rendition were children, the likes of which had never seen the sun rise or heard the birds chirp. They were kids, presumably in their early teens, living a life, parts of which God had discounted at their very birth.

How then did they connect Jana Gana Mana like no one else had ever done? Their hands glided the air as the tune read – Vindhya Himachal Yamuna Ganga, their legs ankled up in lofty fashion to symbolise the gigantic reach of Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha; as their eyes glistened with pride at the last salutation – Jaya He Jaya He Jaya He. This was patriotism speaking through silence, this was nationalistic fervour shining through darkness.

At that moment, how many of us gasped a sympathetic sigh for the ‘incompleteness’ of their lives. A strange paradox it is, but my guess is their incomplete lives were far more complete than ours.

From what I saw on the screen, they had made those 52 seconds their own – breathing in feelings and communicating through symbols – far louder and clearer than words could ever achieve. We have been gifted the science to see and hear better than them, but they have learnt the art to feel and live better than us.

When words speak louder than action!

“It’s only words, and words are all I have to take our peace away”

This modified version of Boyzone’s famous number, to me, captures the quintessential cause of most conflict.

Often, it’s words - incisive, brutal and scathing – that germinate hurt, discord and discontent.

It’s only after war has been fought in words that battle lines are drawn on the ground. Aided by context and people, words alone push individuals to the point of no return. Often relationships, laden with years of effort, purpose and meaning, are diluted by a single moment of verbal failure.

Do parties then attempt reconciliation? Yes they do. Karpman’s Persecutor embraces the role of a Victim – apologetic and desperate – to mend the earlier errors. But, the ‘erstwhile Victim’, now the Persecutor, is, perhaps, too hurt to forgive. The Rescuer, meanwhile, is seen as an ally of the Victim and the Persecutor has little choice but to be indifferent to both.

Is indifference then the end of conflict? Or is it the beginning of the end of the relationship? While there isn’t enough theory to substantiate either point of view, I suspect a state of indifference marks a critical threshold – either it gives space for an unprecedented resurgence to the bond or, as several cases would suggest, it marks the first stanza in the dirge that echoes the obituary for the relationship.

And sometimes still, indifference is not a mediating step – rather it is an end in itself. My guess is that conflict gets most excruciating when the state of indifference attains a degree of permanence.

So, the next time you wonder why your best comrades and friends have drifted away from you, revisit the past and look for that 'one word' that made all the difference. 

If thoughts could count...

“She is gone. But, I am glad. Her struggle has ended..“

This piece could well qualify as a mistimed discourse, especially at a time when there’s enough on my plate to keep me engaged. But, a compulsive thought lingers on in my mind and I’d feel suffocated, almost choked, if I didn’t ventilate it out.

I have earned the distinction of being deep as a thinker and subtle as a writer. Unfortunately, both the attributes evade me as I give words to my thoughts. Is there a more subtle way to state somebody’s passing away or is there a deeper, more mature, way to look at death and beyond?

This piece is about a close friend, arguably the best ever I’ve had. It’s as much about the biggest loss she has suffered till date as it is about my inability to be around her in this moment of grief.

She has been a fighter, one of the best I’ve known, and she will come out of this trough. That’s my thought, my belief and my confidence. But, do thoughts alone count? Panning the last 4 years, I can’t recall any single episode when I was up against a challenge and she wasn’t around. In thoughts, in words and in actions, she was always there in every which way possible.

It’s this inequity of friendship that churns me from within. I have never wanted to be on the ‘more benefitted’ side of the Friendship Equilibrium. But, this is one of those emotional scales where she has outweighed me at every step.

As my life gets mired up in the rigour of corporate life, I ask myself how many more people will have to make do with my thoughts alone in their moments of grief. As I pray for the departed soul, I am honest in my thought; as I condole my friend, I am still honest in my thought, but the big question still stares me in the face -- do thoughts really count?

When You are Gone!

We came close before you went away;

So far adrift, even before I could say:

“Hold On;
I fear the darkness, wait till dawn”!

True that I don’t have a boastful story;

But, you heard me through your heart of glory;

Made me speak and narrate;

The travails of my struggling fate.

I opened up before you;
A fatal mistake, I always knew.
With time, my expectations grew;
And a formal distance, you drew!

Formality proved too much to take;

With you, there was so much at stake;

Slowly, with each passing breath;

The brilliance we shared was nearing death.

Of what’s gone, a courteous friendship did survive;
Perhaps, it was always destined to come out alive.
I have gone back to being who I was in the past;
But, Thank You for making me the person in the little time that did not last!

April 24: Sachin, Shillong and me!

Life often is about the dual existence of opposites – of people, of situations and circumstances. As I resolve to pen down the moorings of a disturbed mind at 2.22 am, be warned that this piece will only contrast further the co-existence of those opposites.

I logged onto Facebook around 9 am on April 24, 2012, and was taken aback by a deluge of collective prayers for a certain Little Master. “Happy Birthday” could almost qualify as the second national anthem today, endorsed by everyone in the virtual social space. This virtual space is markedly distinct in terms of age, race, community and, often, nationality.

But, today it seemed bound in oneness by a certain 5 ft 5 inch Mumbaikar, critically acclaimed as the demigod of the modern world. For when he trudges onto the field, Gods of all forms – Ram, Jesus, Prophet, Guru Nanak, et al – are kept busy by prayers coming through from various people divided by caste, community and race. 

Strangely, the man in point plays cricket -- a game which is played within the confines of 22 yards and one that is limited by boundaries. Clearly, the mass madness shows that the boundaries are only in the ground, not in the mind. The birthday of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar alone wouldn’t inspire me to write at this unearthly hour. He has been documented in every which way possible, and my eulogies will hardly contribute   to Sachinayana – an epic that is the handiwork of each of the 1.23 billion crazy Sachinomaniacs.

I am more intrigued by the duality of life. So, here is a date -- April 24 – that united the country with the same fervour that a certain August 15 or January 26 does. And it is on this very day that a small section of this united nation saw a contrasting manifestation of divisiveness. By all measures, Shillong is a peaceful town nestled in the abode of clouds called Meghalaya. I have lived a good two decades in the what the British termed as ‘The Scotland of the East’, and can vouch for all my money that its progressive mindset is the envy of several towns, cities, and metros.

Here, the poverty ridden don’t ask for alms, they earn it by playing you a certain musical instrument. You could falter in your diction in a conversation with the Taxi driver who would amaze you with the proficiency of the English language. And you may quote parallels, but only Kolkata comes close to matching Shillong’s plurality of regions, religions and language. Land in the city in October and the Durga Puja celebrations would mislead you to believe that Shillong is part of West Bengal. Fast forward to December and Christmas festivities, the cakes and cookies, would remind you in a subtle way that Shillong is the capital of a Christian state. Three months on, and it’s Holi -- the colours dilute every inconsequential boundary and drape all communities in the same mix of green and blue.

What then happened on April 24? The media will tell you that it was a conflict between two sections of the society, the government would, perhaps, approve of the claims. But, as someone who by all means prefers calling himself a Shillongite, I am sure beyond doubt that the conflict is more individualistic than collectivistic. It is the intolerance and immaturity of a couple on this side and a couple on that side of the community frontier. And if I may hazard a guess, much of what’s happening has the backing of certain ulterior political interests.

By no means is the arson, the bloodshed and hatred representative of a breakdown of collective maturity. This is a city that’s been a melting pot of true diversity and my guess is that the majority sentiment will prevail and peace will be restored sooner than later. In situations like these, Sachin-like demigods will have to emerge from the common ranks, take the lead and restore sanity amid the madness.

To a city that’s made me who I am, I sign off with a wish in my heart and a prayer on my lips. Khublei Shibun!

To Shillong, with love!

Where the hills are green,
And the waters crystal clean;
Where the sun rises to the sparkling spring;
And humming bees weave a charming ring;
Where every second person I meet;
Calls me by my name to Greet;
To that vibrant March Spring, I belong!
To that heaven on earth they call Shillong!

At Slip stood our Wall!

Dear Rahul Sharad Dravid,
As you retire from the Gentleman’s Game, my guilt overrides me as I make these confessions.
1. I never enjoyed watching you bat. Like several other Indian fans, in most matches, I was awake and glued to the TV when the likes of Tendulkar and Sehwag were exhibiting their mastery, but timed my sleep hours for the time you came in to bat. You could never keep me awake with awe-inspiring lofts and pulls. But you let me sleep -- sleep with a reassured peace that you were around, standing as the Wall when our other heroes were falling by the bullet!
2. I never missed you when you weren’t around. Each time, a Rohit Sharma or a Virat Kohli came onto the scene and people got chatting about giving these new blokes a chance, I joined them in the clatter. When the question arose on who should make way for these young turks, I thought of you. You can’t hold me guilty for believing that I wouldn’t miss you. You never left the scene to make me miss your absence. To play some 93-odd test matches on a trot since debut, you hardly ever gave us a chance to see an Indian team without you.
3. You had no say in the team. I remember how they shuffled your batting order and gave you the gloves in the run up to the 2003 World Cup. You were never asked, it seems, but just told. Why for once did you not tell the powers-that-be that you are a test cricketer of repute, why didn’t you ever throw your weight around? May be, because when others were looking to preserve their careers by taking centrestage on Indian pitches and hiding backstage on foreign batting tracks, you chose to risk your lifeline. Each time they gambled with your career, you came out with a fortune.
4. I am one of those myopic Indian fans who held a grudge against you each time you dropped a catch, unmindful of the fact that no one in the history of the game has more catches to his credit than you. I have cursed you for dropping the few, have I thanked you yet for the hundreds you held?
5. I think of Lords and remember a certain Saurav Ganguly, I think of Taunton (1999 World Cup) and remember the same name; I flash my mind to the Eden Gardens (2001) and remember a Very Very Special player and when I probe deeper, I can only think of Tendulkar’s 186 against New Zealand in Hyderabad. Where were you when these feats were being achieved? History tells us, you were right there. You have always played the neglected hero, but history is kind enough to record your heroics. Years later, generations to come will remember you as the last puritan to have played the Game of Cricket.
6. You never believed that charity (of runs) begins at home. When your contemporaries were hogging the limelight on sterile Indian pitches by tonking 200s and 300s, you most often had little time, just about enough, to complete a century. But, when the same players went abroad, their appetite for runs dried. Their 200s and 300s ceased, but what remained constant was you, and your willow making the 22-yards your own. To have the highest batting average for the country in Test matches won overseas elevates you to greatness. At least now, let this nation of cricket fanatics take a bow!

You faced 31,258 balls, the highest in the game’s history, to amass some 13,000-odd runs, the second highest in the game’s history. May be it just never occurred to us that you were busy at work too, while your other colleagues’ natural brilliance stole the show.

As the press conference in the Chinnaswami Stadium drew to a close today, it perhaps brought a shocking closure for several cynical and thankless Indians. At 39, you have learnt to deal with fans like me; I am not sure whether, at 25, I have learnt to deal with the absence of a selfless man like you.
At No.3, you will forever be mera No.1 . Stride on Gentleman, you will be missed!

To the old woman I met this afternoon!

Dear Granny-like-stranger,
Nearly 11 hours after we met, I am thinking of you. The images flash by as I recall you stumbling with the beyond-capacity weights on your shoulders. From the time you asked me to help you board the bus, till the time you left, I was looking at you very intently.
Your hands had twirled itself into wrinkles, eyes sunken into an endless gorge and your bent posture made me fear the helplessness of old age I would encounter 50 years from now.
I think of the several spineless young men who were standing beside you. They offered no help despite being half your age and twice your strength. I think of you and wonder if you did not have a family, a son or daughter? No child worth his salt would let his mother shoulder such physical burden in the winter of her life. Were you an unfortunate exception?
A lady of your age had no business testing your endurance with such physical activity. You must’ve lived through several battles in your glittered life; your body must’ve taken several blows. But, why is your physical fight still on in the last lap of your life?
As I meander towards the end of this piece, I am faced with a plethora of mixed emotions. I wish I had spoken to you for a while longer, understood what brought you to this pass at the fag end of your life. Life isn’t cricket, is it? The last few overs here shouldn’t be ‘slog overs’ as in the game of bat and ball.
But, you seem to be playing the slog overs. And it’s a colossal shame for people of my age, if parents of your age have to bear the titanic burden on their shoulders and brave it out in the sun.
As you stepped onto the bus, I stood behind you fearing you may fall. When you turned around and thanked me with your gracious smile and blessed me with that benevolent look, you touched a cord somewhere.
When I saw you this afternoon, we were strangers. Now, the reflective story of neglect has turned you into a fable for me. Signing off with a hope that the bus dropped you ‘home’.

Mixed emotions!

There are assignments pending and exams impending, there is a brutal coercion to excel and insurmountable pressure to perform -- amid the academic chaos, me writing this blog piece can easily be misconstrued as someone having got his priorities wrong. If that’s the case, so be it.

As I attempt to pen down these thoughts, I feel slightly disoriented. Rummaging through the layers of mixed emotions, let me begin with a story – A story of brilliance, fortitude and, if I may call it, a paradoxical tragedy. I met her eight years ago at school and she was brilliant, she still is. She was among the sharper brains in the class - brutal in her goal-setting; ambitious in delivering them and humble enough to keep her feet grounded amid astronomical achievements. She wanted to study medicine, she did; she wanted to be honed by the best college in the country; she did; she wanted to become a doctor, she became one; and a brilliant one at that. Each day she met hopeful people entrusting her with the task of alleviating their pain, curing them and restoring brightness in their dimming lives – she delivered on their expectations. But, she lost the battle with one patient, her last one. You couldn’t blame her for that. This patient was diagnosed with cancer and, as a doctor, she could have treated this as a one-off case that exposed medical science’s limitations. But, she didn’t, she couldn’t move on. Reason: This patient in question happens to be her mother – someone who co-partnered her dream; co-authored her success story and inspired her to take up this profession known to save lives.

In a conversation with a friend, she mentioned, “What’s the point of claiming to save lives when the one who means the most to you dies before your eyes?”; to the world she declared, “Christmas means nothing without you.”

Today, I revisited my friend’s story through an old couple at the doctor’s clinic where I had gone to get my throat fixed. This couple, easily in their 70s, was fighting a similar crisis – the wife had been diagnosed with neck cancer. As she went through her exercises in the doctor’s cabin, I saw through the transparent door how her husband, enfeebled by age, stood behind her in support.

It’s moments like these that bring me closer to life and the ultimate reality that lies beyond it.

For my friend, that one moment of separation will linger on for life; for this couple, destined to be separated, moments such as these will bring them closer as they prepare for the imminent farewell.

Life is fleeting; are we keeping pace? Are we appreciating and valuing people enough? If not, we are making a colossal waste of the little time that remains.

On a philosophical dope, I asked myself if I am prepared to face such moments and let go of people; but I shirked at the very thought. I am not as strong as those whose tales I have just narrated. If not anything else, I have leant to value people more.

And there is one thing I, for sure, will do henceforth: “Never wait for the opportune time to say that next word. For all you know, your ‘next’ may just be their last.”

Walking down the wrong path

It is 5.58 am and surely not the sanest hour to go on an esoteric overdrive. But, when has desire to express your mind been a dependent function of time.
And hence I write, inspired by an intriguing 4-hour conversation that’s not only kept me sleepless, but also awakened me to a new tangent of thought.
Is there something called a wrong path? Are right paths with wrong destinations any different?
They would have me believe that it’s not worth walking down either of the two barrels. Is the destination paramount? Does the experience of taking a walk down the wrong lane constitute regret?
Life always gives us two choices – one to subscribe to predictive behaviour, the other to be a rebel. I am a rebel of sorts. I choose to walk in wrong lanes, but not at the risk of trespassing.
Some of the most beautiful lanes have a point of divergence. I am walking down one of those paths, not alone, and it is a fascinating experience. Now, I see a point of divergence; was my path wrong only because it ends in separation.
What about the memories we made in the excursion down the lane? What about the whispers echoed on way to separation, what about those smiles we shared, the compliments we exchanged and the memories we created? Do they get divorced too at the point of inflexion?
Sticking to a path that leads you there is stereotypical, treading a path that leads you somewhere is exploratory. I am an explorer.
“Don’t walk down the wrong path. It’s not worth it!” they say. It’s better to walk down the aisle aware of consequences, than stand stationary at the edge as a preventive gesture. I am in the inertia of motion and I can’t stop walking. Let me trust the momentum to take me the distance.