Renew

It’s a good deal to have a birthday in December. You start thinking about the year ahead for yourself and write about it. By the time you publish it as blog, it’s new years and people relate to it. September ends, October’s drunk, November rained, but December stays. For some reason, most of us get stuck in a loop for about 5 minutes trying to introspect. Trying to reckon what happened so far, and what we must work on anew. Some of us abandon that thought and retire into blaming the time of the year and telling ourselves that the new year shall somehow be a fresh start and wash away our troubles.

“You’re 23.”, says the doctor, in a tone that suggests you should have been older before you were diagnosed. You’ll smile at his offer of medicines, saying “Say no to drugs, doc”. Some events change you.

Miss Schulz speaks at length on TED, on why not to regret regret. Mr. Cash’s vintage voice says he’d do it all over again, a million miles away. That allows ourselves to carve for ourselves a middle path, using some regrets to change things while dousing the rest to reaffirm our constitutions. So choose carefully, what you wish to change. It’s the holidays, and it’s the time to wear a hat and be merry. But when the wine is over, and the snow settles, you’ll have yourself to reckon with.

Me? I’ll raise my arrow a tad bit northward. The bike’s come a long way. She’ll get some new tires, shocks and brakes. Like turtles, we dig out the hippies in us. I’ll find myself a beach, and look to the sea. I’ll remember you all; whether you are living oceans away, engrossed in your overtly busy work lives, getting married, or raising a toast.

Come,
let’s live;
our separate lives,
together.

P.S: If all that was a little too deep, fret not. Miss Lenka says everything’s okay.

Mukesh cries alone.

Mukesh sat on the curb of one of the busiest streets of Bangalore. At the far end of the road was a huge house, with flashy cars and busy men, and a signboard welcoming a certain Prathibha Patil. Of course, he didn’t know the last bit, since he was illiterate, or that it was the Raj Bhavan. All he knew was fear. He was scared as hell, and was in shock. Of course, he didn’t know the last bit. Shock is a fancy emotion; simpletons don’t have it.

He sat beside his Golgappa basket now. There was a loud cry. It would’ve torn the sky apart if this was poetry. It was doused mercilessly by the blaring horns of the multitude of motors that sped by. Mukesh had just survived a harrowing ordeal. He was threatened at knife-point by a stranger, who took away all the money he had. He was scared the stranger would kill him. He was now certain his Ajman would kill him. Crying till he died, therefore, seemed like a reasonable thing to do. At least the gods would hear him.

A bike stopped in front of him and left. He didn’t know it. He was crying in the darkness of closed eyes. There was a sense of safety there. A few moments later he looked up at the hand that held him. He cried anyway. What’s to be scared of? He dies tonight. I spent the next ten minutes trying to figure out his story though his gulps and sobs. I tried to understand why he thought he would die tonight. I told him there’s a decent chance he wouldn’t.

I understood the meaning of a hundred rupees. It could change somebody’s life. Mukesh wanted to run away. I knew the feeling. I tried to reason with him, without deciding for him. He probably needed someone to hear his heart out. After a long rant with words he shouldn’t have learnt, the catharsis did him good. Mukesh had stopped crying.

For a long time, I beat back the feeling to reach into my pockets and hand him some money. I asked him, instead, what I should do to help him. He asked me the money. I could have been the hero and saved the day. I could have restored his faith in God. After all, everything ends with a happily ever after. I asked him instead, if it would really help him beyond tonight. He wondered if there even was a “beyond tonight”. I chose to tell him the realities of life. Its ironic that a software engineer earning a lot of money was talking about life to a guy who lived on the streets robbed of his earnings. It didn’t feel good.

I was angry that a city of thousands would let a child cry on its streets. I was angry that the big rich men at the end of the road were getting off their fancy cars to be busy about something a lot of policemen care about, while a child was threatened at knife-point just yards away. We talk about a Bangalore that welcomes all and a Bangalore that cares about other people it lives with. Have we become an indifferent people? I did not see anyone stop the whole time I was there. Nobody would have stopped if you were on the streets either. Unless of course, there’s a camera and a Facebook page involved. We live in tough times. Every night I spend on the streets of Bangalore, I see it become a Mumbai. I hate the fact. I hate the fact that we let hundreds among us cry to sleep; hungry, lonely and scared. I hate that we let ourselves hide behind our own walls until we find that we’ve lost we could’ve had. I hate that we make movies about holidays in Spain and teach out kids that angels will save us. We welcome white men with garlands and palaces and step on vermin that make up our streets. We are a proud, principled people, patriotic and polite. We care, we love everyone equally, we stand on our feet, we do all the right things, we help out, we stand apart, we believe in god and we’re all supposedly happy.

One less person cries tonight.

Bathos

So much to dig, beneath your smile,
Nothing to dig, beneath your cry;
Almost always,
Nothing at all, beneath your cry.

Without a doubt, there’s poetry.

Then of course, there’s an interlude.
Where nothing makes sense,
but nothing needs to.
Its an interlude, after all, and its merry:

She’ll fling her tresses the other way, and call herself July.
Talk to her:

“Take a long walk through the green,
forget the hour.
Celebrate, its your day.
Don’t turn around, you’ve had enough chances to.
Abandon sadness. Let the destitute cry.
Hop, skip, jump.
He gave you his word, that he’d stand by your words, your choices, your decisions.
Check if he’s wavered. A decent man wouldn’t.
He gave you his word, he’d stand by you.
Wait till you trip. See if you fall. Chivalry, you see.
You can twirl away, but don’t look around.
You wont see the humble soldier.
He still stands by, less humbled more soldiered.
So, never you mind.
Hop, skip, jump.
Celebrate, forget the hour.”

The interlude fades,
She’ll now paint a different hue,
It’ll take him slowly;
He’ll smile, of course.

“Fresh and blind, let’s live our lives;
and raise a toast to a future date
Don’t you remember
Vienna waits for you.”

The momentary return of a muse

In the silence of chaos,
there ran a line,
dividing the tempers and misunderstandings with a clean stroke.

Who wouldn’t take,
the olive’s smell,
while the night seemed young as day.

Pushing harder,
I took a breath,
Stretching to hold, willing to let go.

She stayed on,
Fortune’s fame,
You don’t question what’s rolling your way.

After ages of distance,
we wished good night,
For the company still brought us happiness, if nothing else.

Then again, I had rhymed.
Then again, I hadn’t.
The muse was back for a night.

Life gives you lemons

Words in my head,

Dying to be said,

Swear at me like they aren’t my own,

until I wonder if they are anymore.

John once told me to “Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a bloody big television. Choose your friends. Choose your future. Choose life.”. Words to live by, if you’ve got the will. Life has no reset button. Career does. You can smash it against a wall and when you have nothing left, you just hit it. The big, red, glowing, reset button that says “Dont touch”. The last exit on the left. The big U-turn. And when you come to it, your hand will steer you before your head or the element that’s screwing around with it.

 

Life usually gives you an odd number of lemons. Like a one and a half. Much like a rickshaw, only with gravity. Its huge enough to make you write, but small enough to make an analogy to lemons and give your most perverse reader something to laugh about. Big words wont cut it. Not writing wont kill it. Somewhere between the introspection and believing reality, you find yourself gasping for a pause button as a compromise. But nobody gives a shit if your tummy hurts when it rains. You have to get off the highway before the lorry driver calls you a roadkill.

 

Much can change in four months time. What matters is when you step out of that roller-coaster, are your screaming your heart out in the callous revelry or puking by yourself in the dirty back alley of the amusement park. Thats when you think about what happened to the stranger you took the ride with. Are they puking somewhere too, or pointing a little finger at you saying “Ew!”.

 

Perspective can shove it. It has no business if you’re trying to be honest about it. You’ll find a kinder two-faced murderer than that. So can clarity. Its over-rated, and by a mile. You can be clear about anything if you give it too much time. Conscience is perhaps the way to go. Its a much healthier friend to trust. Something that gets snubbed in the face of the pursuit of clarity and perspective. If you give it all you have with a clear conscience, if you be honest about it, if you try to do everything right, you take care to see everyone’s having a good time, then by common sense, you must end up happy, right? Seldom happens. Tough luck. Now go cry about it, I have ice-cream to eat.

 

If you’ve had a good ride, be smug about it and smile like Jack. But look around to see if you’ve made your friend happy. If not, you’re as empty as your Vacation fund. What use is it if you cant make one person happy while you were at it? Nobody wants to write about the sad guy. Its always about the bad guy. The one with the big blue eyes. So let me give you something you really want to hear about:

Rajnikanth lied.

The Dying Pumpkins

Have you ever noticed the life and times of the pumpkin? It barely goes noticed. The Indian Pumpkin is bred in captivity so that one day it may grow up and be whacked against a stone slab for no fault of his. Year after year Mama Pumpkin and Papa Pumpkin lie through their tails when they promise a youngling of a bight future as a house-warming model. Little do they know that their fate lies mischievously predetermined by wily humans, who after months of deliberation have concluded and set in motion a set of norms which states thus:

“Any form of offering to the Big Guy on occasions such as Vehicle Puja shall compulsorily include a Pumpkin from a well groomed family and such a pumpkin so chosen for the purpose shall, at the end of the prayers be ceremoniously smashed against a hard object for kicks. Individuals may also optionally pump colors or money into the pumpkin before the act.”

Humans have considered the above to the verses of the Big Guy himself and have patted their backs for coming up with that rumour. It makes no sense to the pumpkins, however, and most of them die a very confused death figuring out what the words “smash him” meant.

More than human

Ask of me
what I can give
And you’ll have it
Before you know

Know every soul
that passes by
Fights a losing battle
Of his own

Keep the hate
away for good
We’d like some
Peace and love for now

And when you reach
the seas of gold
Dont forget
to turn around.

The mangled cries
The crooked facts
The evil faces
that you like.

The lies that stab
what’s never yours
And everything else
within your might.

They’ll hunt you down
the alleyway
The day you think
you’re out of sight

So guard your arms
and learn to fight
Or just believe
the butterflies.

Manikanta runs away

Manikanta is a 10-year old boy whose home is on the far outskirts of Hebbal. He used to study at a local school. He could not get books and writing material for school and thought it was best to quit school. A few months ago, his mother threatened him for the third time that she will kill him if he does not go to school. Seeing no better option, the kid left home without notice and ended up on the streets of Bangalore. A kind looking man picked him up with a promise of giving him computer education. Manikanta’s life seemed set. But the man used the boy for menial work instead, until Manikanta realised that he had to flee that place too. He landed up at a hostel for rehabilitation of kids, somewhere off Silk board and lived there for a while. One fine day he met a woman who was nice to him and treated him well. So he went with her to stay at her place. When he returned to the hostel to meet an old friend, he was told that the hostel was shut down. He walked back as far as he could, hitching rides from passersby in the dead of the night. On one such hitch, he met a guy wearing a blue shirt.

I had a nice relaxed Saturday evening with a bunch of friends which ended in a late dinner. I was riding back home as fast as I could that I nearly overlooked a little boy on the left asking for a ride. I took him on and had a chat with him on the way. When the conversation got too intrusive for the kid, he said he was headed in a different direction and would like to get down. I humoured him and did so, but continued with the conversation since the whole scene seemed oddly odd.

Manikanta found it easier to confess to me that he was a runaway rather than continue lying. I heard him out till he had nothing else to say. I realised that there was a good chance he was still faking everything, but he had definitely run away from home, for whatever reason. He told me he still wanted to go to school. I talked to him further and made him understand all the perspectives of his situation from every angle, and got him to analyse what his future would be in all paths possible. I let him come to the conclusion that he should do the right thing. As a litmus test, I gave him a little jazz of inspiration and etc, and offered him money. He refused. I felt happy. I left my number with him instead (from pen and paper borrowed from a passing cop) and asked him to call me after he’s made a decision of what he chose. The boy now looked like a man with a purpose.

It was time, to go home.

Survival of the Rickshaw-est!

Among the many battles raging on in contemporary India, that of the Indian commuter seldom goes noticed. The champion of this mundane affliction is not by any means the aforementioned Indian commuter; much has already been said about him and he enjoys enough limelight to leave a pack of fireflies dazed. The real hero, unsung yet unrelenting, is the Indian Road.

A day in the life of anyone who has had the privilege to go through M.G.Road these days will stand to testify the enormity of the plight that one is challenged with, first thing in the morning. The Indian Road has and will always present an unassailable face of hell to people day in and day out, and prides itself with big names in its casualty list. You would think its easy to be the bad guy. But day after day, the Road has to constantly reinvent itself to come up with new challenges to the general public, who are known to get used to anything, no matter how horrendous. The only reward being to joy of watching the look on the face of the most cheerful morning-person when there’s too much muck on his face to smile.

M.G.Road in the mornings is nothing short of a Dangerous Dave adventure (extrapolated to 2010 standards), replete with its own twisting caverns, bumpy landings, trees out of nowhere, (not-so-precious) stones on the way, water to be avoided (both on land and that falling on your head from crevices in the metro roof), all accentuating the already joyous journey filled with cheerful fellow commuters and the ever-awesome cops. On a good day, you’re blessed with a back-ache from last night. On a better day, you’ve got the cherry on the top, the frosting on the cake, the big buildup, the show-stealer, the irreplaceable auto-rickshaw. Those things seem to be the only things unabated by the phenomenon. The only way out of the mess, of course, is to mimic that barbarian driving style. I’m sure Raiden had it easier in Mortal Combat!

This is not a one time thing. The Road has to keep it going till the end of the day when the commuter has already had his share of hell. Distressing him now would be nothing short of a miracle. Uncannily, the Road steps it up at night. It calls on its favours with Mr. Rain who willingly obliges, pouring on to the already wretched caverns a life of its own. The ride is now thick with numbers, emotions, perils and mudtraps. And if thats not enough, some random chick will find out, that the only way to cross the road is to wail and run across it with her arms in the air. Not killing her, is the bonus level. And if you manage to get through all this, you will find out that all those cops that dig your wallet while the sun shines, have taken an early off and all the signals are haywire. This sets the scene for the rickshaws to tear away their benign costumes and show the monsters that reside within them. They jam roads rampantly, and brake at will, refusing to take customers in totality, and making a mockery of the little sense of order that remains in that moment of madness. In their moment of jubilation, you’re left pissed, confused, looking at the heavens for mercy, contemplating living in Zurich, or buying an auto yourself, containing that road-rage, half-laughing at mad chick, checking your watch, trying to understand how dirty you and the bike are, considering bike-service (and early retirement) while still being annoyed to no extent that the day hasn’t ended yet. And then, there’s tomorrow!!

But then, its Friday! \m/

Clutter!

Four hours ago, my guitar made a faint noise. I acknowledged the love and picked it up. After playing it for a few minutes, I wondered where my plectrum was. For starters, I usually keep it near my monitor. Makes things simpler. But a monitor sits on a table, and any table comes with its share of clutter. So when I couldn’t find my plectrum, I said to myself, “Well, lets just move things around and find it. I have nothing better to do. Besides, its just clutter. How bad can it be”.

Without further ado, let me introduce you to the crux of this post. Never, and when I say never I don’t mean anything but, NEVER underestimate “clutter” to be a finite quantity. Which brings me back to the story. Yes, as most of you wise asses have gleefully guessed by now, I was foolish enough to do just that.

It started with trying to move the monitor. But to move object A from position x to position y, there must be an empty position y. And when that failed, I had to make space for moving things around. Which meant I had to touch stuff on that table that I had never seen before. And they all magically grew in size, dirtiness and demeanor as and when they felt like. Having a cold is only a part of the problem when you start sneezing because of the dust thats coming out. At this point of time I had disturbed half the monster that was sleeping in peace on my table for years. This is when I noticed my keyboard. A good friend of mine had had a rather delicious event with her keyboard recently, which provoked me to test what my keyboard contains.

(The following activity has been performed by professionals under expert supervision. Do not try this at home)

When I overturned the innocent looking keyboard, it crapped out everything you could think of right now. I think I even saw a kitchen sink! While I was trying to digest what shit I’d gotten myself into, I looked around at the mess and assessed my situation. Things were going wrong since the start and it looked like there was no way out. The monster would come alive and eat me at any instant now. I had to think fast. This was clearly not a war for humans. It was foolishness to even attempt it. So I did what any self-respecting human being would do. I turned the other way, gave a mighty squeal and ran the hell away.

P.S: In hindsight, I would propose (to one of my friends who carries our hopes of being the IISc Director someday) that a home-to-home computer/ clutter cleaning service might not be a bad business opportunity.