The Bridge That Transforms

There is a bridge, which owns the responsibility for the transformation that I go through on a daily basis. There is a creek underneath, which clearly demarcates the two lives that I juggle between. And there is a part of me, which silently believes that if only I could cross that bridge blindfolded, perhaps I would be spared from the pressures of duality.

Last Saturday, I woke up to the realization that Diwali festivities could no longer be extended any further and it was time for me to be on my way back to Gandhidham. The true affect of that journey started to seep in gradually, as the train traded green fields of Indo-Gangetic plains for the undulating topography of the north western region of the country. As the temperatures continued to rise, my happiness continued to fall at a subconscious level.

I was sad to be leaving home, but I was happy to be reaching home as well. The only part I was not really looking forward to was the re-starting of the routine I had happily fled from in the name of Diwali. However, even though my heart was silently monitoring the conflicting emotions fighting amongst themselves, it didn’t deem it necessary to trouble my happily engaged mind about it. Not yet that is.

I reached home and since it was a not a Sunday, thence, there was this automatic understanding that I had to rush to office. Consequently, there was an urgency of getting through the mandatory routines of a homemaker ASAP. One of the major benefits of being in a pressured situation is that it makes one forget about all other impending issues. Thus, the office worries (read the second life) got another push to stay in that remote corner of my mind, which is fitted with the strongboxes of the highest quality. They simply didn’t stand a chance to start troubling me.

Having fulfilled the compulsory duties, I was left with no other valid reason to lengthen my leave any further, so I started the ride to Kandla. However, since I had dialed up my Maa’s number, so mentally, I was more at Lucknow than elsewhere.  Sadly enough, it was a working day for Maa as well. As a result, the call ended sooner than later. After putting the cell phone back in the purse I lazily looked outside the window, to realize that the car was just stepping on the ‘bridge’. I could feel the hustle bustle of the city life and make out the dense skyline. While I was busy observing and absorbing the scene, suddenly without any prior notice, the skyline changed.

There was no way in which I could now ignore the rising tank farms and the spanning salt pans in front of me. The port cranes loomed dangerously in somewhat near distance. Abruptly, the scene outside and the thoughts inside went through a whirl wind. The safety vaults unlocked themselves and all thoughts pertaining to all the pending (and probable) issues started to rise. The worries, the stress, the angst, the feelings of not achieving the self designated targets, of not fighting enough, of helplessness, of lack of understanding, all got into a cat race to reach the top. Suddenly, I was a ball juggler trying to do the act with 20-30-40 (and counting……..) numbers of balls, and the balls were continuously falling on the ground and dying like droplets of rain falling on a parched earth.

The site of those tank farms was a sufficient reminder. If the morning routines had seemed tough, then I was in for a reality check. The morning was just a clip, the film was about to start. I started to make a mental list of all the documents I had delayed processing in the name of Diwali. I began to recollect, without much effort, all the devices which were seeking my attention when I wished them sayonara. Also, all the mails, waiting for their replies started thrusting their ‘flags’ right in my face.

My ‘daily’ second life had started.

I had crossed the bridge that transforms.

A Sunday Breakfast

I cooked sandwiches for breakfast today; nothing special, just kheera, pyaaj & tamatar and bread. I know I am a very lazy person and my indolence reaches its crest when it comes to accomplishing any housewifely chore, especially cooking. Anyways, so I ended up plating 4 sandwiches for breakfast and it so happened that one of them consisted of the first and the last slice of the loaf.

As we sat devouring the bread, the special one managed to find me. Now, charms of these two slices are well established to all the bread eaters. These happen to be the not so soft, thicker than the rest, with lots of crumbs falling apart kind of pieces, which are difficult to incorporate in most of the dishes. As I chewed and chewed and chewed this particularly lucky piece; a ‘Happy – Sunday’ scene from my childhood days flashed before my eyes.

Back then, a regular Sunday started with an episode of ‘Rangoli’ on television, and all of us around the dining table, a pot of tea at the center and a packet of bread to go with it. What I remember most vividly about those mornings  is that whenever we’d be on the verge of finishing a packet or starting a new one, Mumma would always intervene saying that ‘Leave the Last (or the First) slice for me, I really like it’. And naturally, we always did exactly the same. As I think about it, I am not too sure whether our reaction was due to our love for Mumma or because it was an easy solution to ‘the despicable slice’. However, the end result was always the same. In due course of time, the last/first slice became synonymous to Mumma’s plate in my mind. However, today as I sat munching that special piece, a question popped up in my mind and I wondered, ‘Did Ma really like this? This?’

There are some things which just get registered into our mind without us weighing them on their logical merit. This ‘bread slice’ thing was a similar case for me. After 27 years of existence, this was the first time that this doubt surfaced so evidently in my mind. Of course, I understand that we as individuals have very diverse tastes, likes and dislikes; but even then, there are certain things you’d never expect anyone to like and enjoy willingly. Nevertheless, today, that sandwich made me examine my Ma’s intent behind her fondness.

As I tried to delve deeper into her psyche, I remembered many more instances of her crazy preferences. She’d always pick the most blackened bananas from the lot. She’d always keep aside those roti’s which refused to rise; for herself. As a kid, I always thought that she actually liked that stuff, but now I know better. In fact, now, even she knows better, even though, she still carries on with many of these choices. Nonetheless, eventually she & I have matured sufficiently to admit & understand the true motives behind them; well most of them. However, I am still unsure about the bread slices and my search for her confession continues.

Engrossed in these thoughts, I just happened to see the clock and if we are to trust it’s hands, it’s time for me to try my hands at roti making. As I consider the proposition, I become all the more certain that I can’t repeat my Mumma’s feat in this regard, as that would end up in my eating all the roti’s that were rolled.

Archives: Death of a Donkey

Recently during an evening bakar session an interesting issue was raised; 'The similarities between donkeys and their human counterpart'.

As the discussion progressed further, I realised that 'gadha' as an abuse was actually an overrated misnomer. Donkeys are more popular as stubborn creatures and their laborious nature is usually reflected in negativity of foolishness tending to rudeness. However my friend highlighted the similarities. Well, not everyone can be categorised thus, but a few stubborn people amongst us, who have too straight a back to bend and too upright a sense of honour to modify can definitely be termed as the 'Donkey' beings.

In the days that followed I found myself pondering over those issues and soon enough I realised that I could attribute more than 50% of my daily routine acts to this donkey in me. However, wanting to project a cool non 'pappuish' image of myself (something I've been striving for since college days!), I continued ignoring this donkey for a long time. Perhaps, I had been taking it for granted. I say this because just like we Indians realise the importance of a healthy body only after falling sick, similarly, the moment I realised the conspiracy being plotted in background to strangulate my donkey, I realised its importance. To say the least it hurt, and trust me it hurt real bad.

If death is something living beings are not very fond of then I guess something worse than death can only be a 'slow' death. And this is what a handful of people were busy planning for my donkey.

Its a very hard to describe as to how it feels when the realisation begins to dawn upon a person that the whole world has set itself against him, that all his intentions are being misinterpreted and all his decisions, all his actions are being manipulated and highlighted in the wrong light. Initially, one might want to revolt and rebel, to compel others to listen and understand the correctness of his actions, the righteousness of his intentions and most importantly the genuineness of his act. But this reaction is of course impulsive and impulsive acts don't always last in the long run. Even if the person is emotional enough to take this route, he usually realises the futility of it soon enough. And then the seasoned part of the brain takes control, curbing all the instincts to do anything more vocal. This is when the real tussle begins; to do or not to do is the question to be sought. With one's heart and mind very clear on the route to take, it sure is heart wrenching not to be able to do so due to external factors. To make matters worse, these factors are not there by divine grace. These factors exist and grow because 'we' are not 'man' enough to stand tall against the flow and against the wind.

The previous statement is highly idealistic and theoretical in nature. In the practical world, intentions and will power alone are not sufficient. To elaborate further, let me make use one of the most popular starting lines from our essay writing days: 'man is a social animal'. The truth remains that we are not born martyrs and though we are born alone and leave the same way, yet there are emotional ties which prevent us from going the self destructive at the smallest of outburst. The decision to make is how small is small and when does it become big enough to take a stand!

A reader might wonder that since I’ve been babbling about genuine intentions and correct decisions then what stops me from getting them implemented and executed. Perhaps there is something lacking in the intent itself! But, hey my point remains that how much can I fight and change in spite of the external factors, from 'my position'. Standing at the bottom of the pyramid, as the odd one out (in ways more than one), I shout and shout and keep on screaming, hoping that someone will hear me someday. I don’t expect for any help, just enough support to ensure a free hand in getting the job done as per specs with a long term perspective in mind.

The donkey is willing to bear any amounts of load, doesn’t want any appreciation either, all it wants is the chance to work. Donkey being a donkey with a penchant for doing the right thing has a tendency to fall into depression when devoid of work at all. And unfortunately, this is what people around me seem to be up to. They seem to have tried all tricks from the book. Upon realizing that this one is from the old school, they have finally found a solution; even if they can't change my mind, they can definitely change me.

On days when I am low on spirits, I often think about saying 'I quit'. And just as I begin to mourn the death of my donkey, I remember some golden lines penned by Kipling 'If you can keep your head, when all about you are loosing theirs and blaming it on you'..... Ahh! Guess 'donkey' beings have always existed among mankind since inception.....So after refurbishing my spirits and giving a boost to my donkey, I usually am back to work the same ways. Quoting from something I wrote years ago, 'try as they may please, will they succeed in taming the donkey in me, I cannot say'.