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.

Thank you September 11, 2001!

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.

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!

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. :)

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!