If I ignore it, it’ll go away

I’ve been feeling a certain amount of shivering since past one hour and a DD filler has been doing   re-runs in my mind, जाड़ा लग कर आये बुखार तो समझो मलेरिया का है प्रहार. However, since there is no bukhaar so I guess I am safe. Trying to emerge from this world of self-indulgence, I just concluded that if I’ll ignore it, it’ll go away. And This has set me thinking.

When was the first time that I learnt this approach and adopted this attitude?

I can vividly remember that I was introduced to the power of ‘ignoring’ as an attempt to save me from the ‘atrocities’ of my elder brother. When I would approach my parents with a sullen face complaining about the troubles the big guy was causing me, I’d be met with a reply, ‘don’t pay attention to him, that ways he won’t enjoy his prank and eventually let it be’. A very sound advice indeed, but one which seemed pretty lame and biased (against me) then. Those issues were mostly resolved with me crying at the top of my voice and him receiving a good bashing at the most and a good scolding at the least. All because I preferred to ignore the ignoring act altogether.

As I grew up, this attitude slowly seeped into my character towards taunting peers and road side loafers. However, the internal resistance towards the ignoring act remained and it was done more as a compromise than a problem solving (cum avoiding) approach. Had I been privy to Mr. Nash’s insight on people at that time, then probably the internal resistance might have lessened by some degrees. However as the circumstances were, the ignoring act did save me unnecessary frictions every now and then.

As I grew up further and gained financial independence, the confidence level required for executing the ignoring act reached newer heights. In fact nowadays it often borders on being arrogant. I must admit that its true worth is now understood in greater details and this tactic is often a life saver. The only trick that remains is in identifying those situations which truly call for this stance.

However, one application of this approach is still a grey area. How much of this attitude is justified in connection with ignoring health issues cannot be said until and unless the subject is either cured out of ignorance or grieved sufficiently to come out of it.

So, while still pondering over the correctness of my action, I guess I’ll continue ignoring it unless either it or I go away.

Incidentally I do feel pretty cured at the moment. :P

A Wheeled Vision

I want to write about a significant transformation from recent past, but life’s so intertwined that it becomes difficult to cut a long story short! So, as usual, let’s start from the start.

My laziness; this is one endless topic, but the only reason that it finds a mention here is that some four months back I started reading a book, which I am yet to finish. In the opening chapter, the author wrote ‘In a car you’re always in a compartment, you’re a passive observer and everything moves boringly in a frame’. He was trying to emphasize upon the connection with one’s immediate surroundings that can be enjoyed better while riding than driving. Though I thoroughly agree with the sentiment, yet of late  I have discovered a different connect in this regard; one that is formed through the windshield and depends more on the choice of seat than anything else.

It took me all of four years to gather just enough confidence to climb into the driving seat all by myself. And whoa! A whole new world was waiting for me right outside the window. Everything remained the same, yet felt so different. Same old routes were now heading in a different direction. Same old landscapes had new spectacles to exhibit. Even the honking cars and huge trucks seemed atypical. The fact remained that none of them had changed, just my viewpoint had.

The view through my windscreen was magnificent, not because I was driving through the best of terrains, but because ‘I’ was driving. Independence tastes so awesome and the flavour was enhanced further by the fact that I had achieved what I was beginning to think of as ‘impossible’. This tiny step had opened up new forums for my ever-thinking mind. The floods of thoughts that ensued were overwhelming enough to set the practical half worrying. Even a hundred meter of lonely stretch on the road was sufficient to get my mind (and eventually the car) drifting in all possible directions. In recent past, this had been by far one of the most sought after experience that I was struggling for. Once on the road, I saw the fellow cars as the senior more experienced lot, found the SUVs to be intimidating, thought about the bikers as the free birds and realized that trucks & trailers were the most courteous travelling companions.

Of course, in due course of time many of these generalizations have been replaced by more generic classifications, but the most persistent feeling has been that of enthrallment. These twenty minutes of driving in the morning are so refreshing that despite all the honking and chaos on the road, they instill in me just enough joy to start the day on a high note. And for the records, I even found ‘my first’ traffic jam quite delectable!

Though driving has become more of a routine now and sometimes complacency tries to seep in, however, there is a particular view which has retained its exclusivity till date. Most of the roads that I pass through are flanked by high voltage transmission towers. There is a particular left turn, where due to the discordant traffic it becomes obligatory to look into the rear view mirror before turning the steering wheel counter-clockwise. The timing in this activity is normally such that I end up looking at a giant power supply tower intersected right in the middle by a mirror reflecting everything I have left behind. 

This tower speaks a million words to me and every day I hear a newer version of its tale. Some days it’d talk about my childhood. Sometimes it’ll be about the present life. On other occasions it’d set me thinking about the different mindsets and our secret monologues shall carry on. Every day that I bid adieu to this tower, I find myself making a different excuse for not clicking it yet and yet another promise of taking a snap soon enough. Somewhere deep inside there remains a fear that our tete-e-tete might lose its magic if I tried to capture it any more than is appropriate, like a soap bubble perhaps.

Another mesmerizing moment that I enjoy truly and which I’m afraid might become the root cause of a future accident, is the deep blue sky littered with fragments of white clouds. Even though it seldom rains here, yet the kaleidoscopic clouds are always at their best and this beauty gets magnified tenfold when watched from the driver’s seat. After zigzagging through the city traffic towards the highways surrounded by wilderness, littered with trucks and reaching out towards the horizon where only ships and cranes can demarcate the boundaries between sea, land and sky, the sudden change of view is a pleasant surprise.

A typical journey would start from jostling amidst the vegetable market right outside the colony and is followed by a sprint between Auto’s, few more trucks, a decent amount of traffic trying to move in or out of the railway station and myself. After this sprint, most of us find ourselves suitably placed upon the road and moving with the uniformity of a conveyor belt. The view during this mechanized part of the journey comprises of concrete buildings on one side and an under-construction flyover on the other. However, by the time we are nearing this factory’s exit, the world’s perspective begins to change.

Similar to a child in her formative years, we are gradually introduced to wonders of this planet. The amount of concrete surrounding us decreases sufficiently to be just stroking the wheels and the sky thrusts upon us its entire enormity. Interestingly, despite its vastness, the sky never seems intimidating. The beautiful hues of blue almost always make me want to hit the brakes right in the middle of the road. Fortunately, the howling compatriots save the day for me.

The sad part about driving is that it needs me to tame the wandering mind. As a result, I no longer observe the transformation bridge; instead I am on a lookout for the speed breakers. More aware about the obstacles than the end results, my wheeled vision keeps me grounded as well. Striking a balance of course remains to be the prime concern, but independence is definitely worthy of this all, and more.

I Won't Take A Day

I won’t take a day.

I want the complete year.

I don’t want to be pampered for the sake of my gender.

I want to be treated as an equal.

I don’t want to be looked down upon, for my constraints.

I want to be respected for my strengths.

I don’t want celebrations for my mere existence. Yes, I do matter and I do make a difference, but that is limited to my close circle. And that, I believe is a personal thing. My loved ones don’t need the 8^th of March to celebrate my existence! They already have the 26^th.

Is that too much to ask?

And frankly, why this helter skelter about celebrating womanhood for a day, when we are not going to remember it till next 11 months. (Of course, the ad agencies and the marketing companies will get into their act a month before. And that is a reminder good enough.)

I don’t want to draw the attention to the extremities. I am not going to talk about exemplary ladies who have brought laurels in their fields. Nor am I going to talk about the unfortunate few, who have faced atrocities of the worst degrees, because one lot has been unusually talented and the other lot has suffered exceptional misfortune. And exceptions don’t govern general guidelines.

I want to talk about myself; a girl with a comfortable middle class urban upbringing, good enough schooling and availability of the right opportunities at the correct times. I cannot claim that life has been a bed of roses for me, but it has been manageable.

During school days, differentiation on the basis of gender was limited to school uniform and assembly lines. And that made a whole lot of sense too. It was never a basis for judging one’s potential. Sadly, this mythical world was lost along with the carefree nature of school days. (Or what could be more likely, is that I didn’t open my eyes to face the real world until I passed out from school).

As I reached college, I found myself in a place where girls were supposed to sit in the front row during classes and to stand in front of (and away from) the experiment setups in labs. The fact, that I wanted to hammer my own bolt in forging workshop might raise eyebrows, was novice to me. As is always the case, I got accustomed to the changed circumstances pretty soon (and vice – versa). By the time college life was nearing a close, I found myself to be more aware about my gender but never in a negative way

However, my first posting was indeed an eye opener. Even during the orientation training, there had been a few hints, however, I found them easier to ignore than explore. My first posting was in a department which by default spelled masculinity and I was expected to be that simple and docile girl, of which we usually read about in matrimonial ads. This indeed was shockingly new and absolutely unacceptable for a person as uncouth, headstrong and firebrand as me. (And I am sure, my true self came as a big shock to my colleagues as well.)

Anyways, bestowing me with a ‘namaste’ while shaking hands with my colleagues can be a matter of personal choice; not remembering my name can be attributed to having a poor memory; however, adjudging me to be a lesser mortal than my male counterpart is definitely not acceptable by any logic. 

I might not be the strongest person physically, but then manual labour was perhaps not a prerequisite of the job. Also, I might have certain ‘safety’ concerns associated with me, but that I believe should reflect more upon the society and the guys rather than my existence. I might also have ‘family’ responsibilities attached, but so is the case with the guys as well (Here, I do assume that my male counterparts are not ignoring their personal lives for the welfare of their employer). Hence, for these cases, I would prefer to plead ‘not guilty’ rather than giving others an open ended permission to undermine my capabilities as per their convenience. Moreover, if genes (specifically presence and absence of the ‘Y’ chromosomes) were to be the sole deciding factor in defining one’s competence, then life would have been so much simpler.

Thus, when these seniors and colleagues, after challenging my existence in the corporation for 364 days, suddenly decide to celebrate ‘International Women’s Day’, then things do feel extraordinarily fishy.  And that is why I won’t take a day.

Judge me for being insincere, for being inefficient, for being unintelligent and for the umpteen flaws that exist in me; but don’t go about stereotyping me for being a woman.

All I want is to be treated at par.

Regards,

A Female Subordinate & Colleague

P.S. This year, 8^th March went very peacefully indeed. Heartfelt thanks to everyone for not isolating me on this account. :)

Testing the Limits

It was never a rare or a difficult-to-gather experience. However, in my particular case, fate had been eluding me this chance since last seven years. In fact, as a friend correctly summarized, being a female is somewhat disadvantageous in these matters; mainly because, so many factors need to fall in place, before a ‘Madam’ can be declared ‘fit’ for being a ‘blood donor’.

So, when this Sunday morning, Aks casually mentioned a blood donation camp being organized in the neighbourhood, my mind immediately worked out all the statistics to evaluate my fitness. With an affirmative reply from the fitness section, I called upon all the ‘sweet-girly’ powers of conviction in order to obtain the requisite NOC from my dear hubby. Eventually, a deal was struck, but at the cost of a ‘Fast ‘. I was happy nevertheless. After all, this experience had been on my wishlist for a long time.

For me, experiencing the phenomenon of donating blood, was somehow never associated with the social welfare part of the issue. Neither was I concerned about the reported corruption prevalent in this sector. For me, it was all about testing my limits. It was all about getting a confirmation about my strength.  It was only about answering whether I could.

With all these thoughts in mind and with Aks doubting the righteousness of his NOC, we reached the venue. We were amazed by the number of cars parked outside the small wedding pandal which was serving as the camp site. There were at least ten folding beds lying on one side of the pandal, making it resemble a make-shift accident relief camp. On the other side of the pandal, two counters had been set up for registering the volunteers and for the elementary medical checkup. As I went through the formalities, many ‘well wishers’ came forward to assure me that ‘ghabraane ki koi baat nahi hai’ and ‘dariye mat’. In response, I smiled politely and tried my best to hide the curious-excited expression. It was pointless trying to explain the selfish intent behind the noble act.

Finally, as I lay on one of those beds and the sister struggled to find a suitable vein for pinching the needle, the long awaited moment had arrived. With a 350ml pouch attached to my left hand, the procedure commenced. In less than two minutes, even before I could intake the complete experience, a fellow donor exclaimed ‘bhar gaya’, which was slightly disappointing. However, just then I felt dizzy and it took all my willpower (and a lot of effort) to keep the eyes open. It was then that I truly understood the meaning of the phrase ‘to suck life’s blood’. This struggle between the mind and the heart continued for another fifteen minutes, after which the eyes were able to remain open on their own and I was back on my feet.

As I rose from the test bed, the reassuring well wishers were back at work. However, as I made my way towards the exit, there was a beaming smile inside my heart. 

Now I knew, for sure, that I CAN.

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'.