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.”