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'.

Ever untitled :)

Why does my urge to write at its strongest when I am not in the best of my moods?
Has writing got anything to do with the rush of adrenalin? For that matter, has adrenalin got anything to do with the worst moods?

In past 1.5 years of blogging and of over a decade of writing diaries, one feeling has ruled for more than 90% of the times. On an average at least 3 times a day I find issues I would like to write about. But the ones which actually take the shape of alphabets from vague hues are the ones penned on an impulse - like the present article.

The tussle that ensues between the impulse to write and the mind unwilling to write about frustrated emotions is very interesting for a third party onlooker, (However, being caught up amidst the chaos is not the best position to watch). Consequently, a thousand 'gems' die at the foetal stage itself. One day I realised that the list of 'draft' posts was much longer than that of the published ones. I felt so abashed at my inability that on yet another impulse I deleted the list. That was a classic case of 'na rahega baans, na bajegi bansuri'.

Anyways, my list and moreover the ideas are once again piling up. Ideas are like dust - you can never wipe them off completely, you'll wipe a portion and it will simply be replaced by another set. The only tangible benefit of penning such thoughts is that it allows one's soul to be freed from the frustrated mind. But then, there is a huge disadvantage as well. Reading such articles at a later stage always make me feel stupid about my behaviour, sad about the situation and immature at the reactions.

Interestingly the 'not so good moods' have a lot of variety to offer. There are times when I'd be really angry, almost like having a fit; thoughts compiled under such situations would be highly incoherent in flow as well as grammar. On other occasions, there would be moments when I'd be deeply hurt; compilation of thoughts is a rare process under those circumstances, however, if at all it happens, the outcome is bound to be melancholic and can get subtle at times. The worst of all the scenarios is when I feel absolutely helpless and there is nothing that I can think of to improve (or remove) the conditions. The end result in these cases is a ranting; comparable to the outcome of a blown off safety valve; these articles are of the worst variety, they are just a collage of facts, like a sensationalized news report, even though they might be high in content, but they are very low on substance.

Infact, even the articles penned during super exicted and chirping mindset tend to get incoherent at times, but the overflowing happiness seems to hide the damage pretty well. All in all, the best articles are the ones written with a balanced mind, and a peaceful scenario (which explains why there are such jewels are extremely rare). The most difficult aspect about a penning session is giving direction to the article and seeing to it that it reaches a conclusion. After all even though ideas are never-ending, yet articles cannot go on forever.

Presently, I am simply not able to understand why this untitled piece has been written in the first place? What is it all about – a description of different articles that I write? I seriously cannot name it, can you?

Annual Celebrations & Perennial Nonchalance

Time: 09:00 hrs

Date: 15.08.2011

Place: Garden Swing

It had stopped drizzling a short while back, clouds and sunshine were busy in their usual duel thereby benefiting the earthlings. Patriotic melodies resounded yet again and 'desh-prem' was once again call of the hour. Beloved 'tiranga' manifested its presence via all possible media. Cell phone inboxes and facebook walls were flooded with Happy Independence Day wishes. Nationalism ruled and with every agency trying to strike the best deal out of the prevailing sentiments, commercialism ruled as well.

I myself had done my bit; by playing one of my favourite Independence Day tracks. As I swayed on the swing, absorbing the environment and allowing the patriotism to strike the right chords inside my heart, I could feel something not so right about it. Struggling hard to figure out the nagging thorn, my mind searched through each one of the 15th August spent in past.

I remembered my pre-primary years, where on every eve of I-Day and R-Day, we painted the tricolour on white sheets. Our teachers added the finishing touches to the flags by drawing the 24 blue spokes. The next day we would hold the flags high and march around in unmatched steps looking as cute as tiny tots do. Though these painting sessions ended with the onset of primary education, yet holding a tricolour high on those days remained a high point throughout my school days. What was to be the fate of those venerated sheets of paper after the patriotic surge had subsided fell under my mother's purview. In those days, I never allowed myself to be burdened by such lesser causes.

Playing out loud 'desh-bhakti' numbers, attending flag hoisting ceremonies at school (and some times at my father's office), watching the 2 p.m. I-Day special movie on Doordarshan, quite summed up the physical activities I indulged into on a regular I-Day. It was followed by an unyielding demand to be taken on a sight seeing tour of the city in the evening. The beautifully decorated government buildings made them quite a sight. All these acts made me feel that I-Day was something special, something to be cherished forever. However, the charm of I-Day was not a consequence of these activities. These pursuits simply added to the flavour. The most prominent feature of the whole affair was the fervent enthusiasm that came from within. And yes, now I had nailed the nagging thorn, the enthusiasm was not as fervent now as it used to be.

A candid confession: from past 4 years I had been looking forward to the national holidays as a method to save leaves and escape the confines of my office. I still feel enthusiastic about the celebrations, but the passion has begun to dwindle. Disillusionment has begun to replace dreams, negativity is eating its way into the hopeful heart, and a sense of helplessness is spreading like a cancer polluting the heart and soul. 'Iska kuch nahi ho sakta' has become the favourite punch line for every situation.

Now, my heart often questions my intent saying 'why do I remember my country only on the 15th of August and 26th of January?' It asks me that instead of flying tricolours only twice a year, why don't I work for country and try to bring about the changes that are needed. Why do, on the remaining 363 days, I take the 'Let it be' stand and am unable to produce a voice loud enough to be heard. Why do I prefer to be a passive observer of the constitutional injustices around me? Why even on the 15th of August, do I feel content by just humming Jan Gan Man in the morning and then proceed to spend the remaining day as yet another holiday? I think that I am simply scared to take an initiative because I feel that I am not well equipped and am alone in my fight; but is this the only truth? Is the only thing stopping me is this monophobia?

As I continued swinging, my heart treaded further on the path of introspection. Done with the scrutiny of carefree childhood I-Days, it was now busy analysing the mature ones, and, let me be very frank, it happens to be my most critical critic. The first finger it raised was towards the language of my thoughts. I tried to deviate it and responded that there were still 45 days for ‘Hindi’ Diwas. It had bigger issues to trouble me and therefore relented on this one. The next issue it mentioned left me speechless. It asked, ‘How much longer do I plan to be the silent passerby?’ I had no replies to offer.

Restless, I left my coveted seat and started strolling. My thoughts all jumbled were quite a contrast to the firm footfalls. I could not recall the first time when missing the flag hoisting had not raised a pang of guilt, but I did know that I have been quite irregular on this front of late. Of course, I have stopped making/purchasing my own tricolour because I am unable to undertake the responsibility of safekeeping them once the celebrations are done with. However, these were not the only things bothering me. In fact, this was just the tip of the iceberg. Attending or missing the morning ceremony doesn’t seem to make much a difference. At heart, I love my country; but then was love alone sufficient? Further, was my duty, as a citizen, limited to standing in attention to the tune of the national anthem when the tricolour flutters high, on the annual occasions and for the remaining year was I supposed to be oblivious to the issues ailing my motherland?

When I was young, I often fantasised about fighting against British for our independence. With a childish sadness I used to regret having been born after 1947. However, even then, I could sense that my country was not fully free from its woes and I made a hundred thousand promises to myself that when I grow up, I shall definitely work towards making a difference. Now, my heart jeered, ‘How more will I have to grow before putting my thoughts into action?’ I retorted that I was struggling hard to do justice to all my responsibilities, personal and professional, and that I tried to do full justice to my systems in terms of quality and longevity. The furious heart, burning with piled up frustrations, snapped back vehemently. ‘So, now doing regular office duty, for which one gets paid, also comes under the category of greatness? These are truly desolate times in that case’, it yelled at me.

The practical mind was still busy devising methods to get the heart off ‘this’ track, however, my conscience knew that I had been a lazy being. Heart and mind continued their debate for as long as they wished, and I became an observer once again. I knew which was right and which was practical and had no courage to side with either. In past, I have resolved and re-resolved umpteen times, however, my resolutions have yet not been powerful enough to bring about a change in my inertial state. Swinging or strolling, debating or distracting, I knew that nothing shall come out of it unless resolutions turned into ideas and ideas were shaped into action.

Engrossed in this mental mess, I struggled hard to come out, but to no avail. Perhaps my conscience was regaining some of its strength, however, just then I heard the main gate being thrown open. With a jerk I came back to practical realm and watched my husband returning from the flag hoisting ceremony at his office. The heart had just one last observation to make, ‘Amidst the nonchalant behaviour upheld throughout the year, at least some had not given up on annual celebrations as well.’

Musings.....

As I was looking through my glass window, while my driver struggled through the traffic, I happened to observe a mother with her baby sitting inside a shanty atop a slab covering a wide roadside drain. The woman was dressed shabbily even though the white pearl neck piece that she wore was quite notable. The toddler sat in front of her and a plate separated the two of them. Though it was not in my line of sight, but the movements of her hands suggested that she was kneading flour and the baby was trying to imitate her action to the amusement of them both. A few meters ahead, in another similarly built shanty another family was having a meal. A young girl amongst them was entertaining herself by watching the traffic.

Don’t get me wrong, during this complete short episode, the human spirit and the similar high fundas didn’t cross my mind. Not for a moment did I think about the bond shared between the mother and her toddler or on any such noble theme. All that struck me was their poverty. I tried hard to imagine what they would be thinking at that moment. I wondered what would be their immediate wishes, aspirations and expectations from life.

My floating thoughts brought back the memories of an accident that occurred a few days back. A tractor trolley, laden with daily wage labourers, hit a speeding train at an unmanned level crossing. There were four causalities, four from a family lost their lives; the lone survivor was the bread earner who was now left with none to earn bread for. This made me think about the lives of these migrant labourers, who spend their days building castles for others and at nights take shelter in these makeshift shanties. Often they are people from far off ‘backward’ states who come to the cities in hopes of a better livelihood and in dreams of a better life. Do they get it? What are their limits? The least and the most they demand and yearn from life? What preoccupies them besides their daily needs (if at all they have the luxury of preoccupation)?

Indulging in such thoughts is not an issue, the main problem lies in calling these thoughts ‘musings’ and allowing oneself to glide over. Exploring further, the problem lies within me. I allow myself to raise the questions but do not allow myself to dive deeper to find the answers. The fact is that my own fake sense of honour prevents me from doing anything concrete. I and people like me need people like them, so that there is always someone available to clean up the filth we generate.

Right now, I am typing from amidst the comforts of a soft bed and an air-conditioned room. However, if fate presents before me a simple prospect of visiting one of these shanties and spending just five minutes with these people, I’ll for sure hesitate initially. Moreover, I am not sure if I’d eventually accept the offer. In all probabilities I need to broaden my mindset first, before I make another attempt to understand something about which my inner most fears tell me to be wary off.

Kandla: Through my looking glass :-)

Yahan hawa nahi dhool chalti hai

Yahan dhool dhool nahi namak hoti hai.....

I have never before come across topography as this and though many people might disagree and grumble, but I find it very enchanting.

Bright skies with patches of white cotton balls; shallow; very shallow swampy ponds on either side of the roads. The vision occasionally blocked by farms of closely built tanks. Few scattered buildings; some abandoned, some rebuilt and some unaffected by the tectonic plates underneath. The horizon displaying shades of grey, skeletons of dinosaur like cranes and of course small heaps of salt displaying shades of white and grey. This is what greets my eyes as I travel down NH 8A. My fellow companions on the highway are mostly trucks of varying stature.

A railway track crosses my path twice and on one particular occasion I found a goods train and myself taking a stroll on the road together, quite literally so. The different varieties of goods wagon that I encounter during my travels, seem to be my husband's scheme for giving me a better understanding of his job.

The picturesque landscape is made even more so by the annual migrants; Flamingos. Beautiful white coloured birds display their true colours when they take off. Strange though it seems but their feathers are a beautiful red from underneath.

Even though each and every inch of land here is reclaimed, and therefore planned, yet it gives me a feeling of wilderness. Looking at it for long seems to put me into a trance and I find myself transforming into a fly on the wall. The undulating topography, the swamps, the bushes, the soil, the salt pans, the roads, the tanks, the piping – Kandla very aptly reflects the never ending tussle between nature and mankind.

Floating through these scenes and thoughts, I am usually busy in ‘backseat photography’ and often a thought crosses my mind, ‘I feel like a princess of pre-independence days travelling in air conditioned luxuries clicking shots of ‘everyday routines’ of commoners, while the ‘commoners’ toil away in sun and dirt for their livelihood.’

However my sham royalty doesn’t last for long. As I near my destination and a particular manufacturing plant becomes more and more discerning, my driver takes a right turn and brings me to my own heaps of sands, morrum and abandoned property which had once been glorious. With a thud I am thrown back to reality and my looking glass slips inside by purse as silently as it came out when I started my short trip.