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!