Resilience

                                           Resilience

It is the Fight, It is the Pain

It is the Journey, sans the Gain

The deafening Silence of memories that resound

The momentary Pause, that evokes emotions profound

The sweat beads of effort that refuse to dry

The tears that you swallow and refuse to cry

The smile you smile to keep the child (in you) Alive

The thrust it takes for the Spirit to thrive

The scars within that you proudly wear

Yet, the stomach, the resolve and the gumption to dare

The dreams, winds of Destiny blew to Neverland

The Courage with which you build new ones, with your own hand

Darkness trusts You - as a Beacon of Hope

Vulnerability seeks You - as a pillar of Strength

That is Your Life, That is the essence

That is the Story of Your Resilience

                                                                                                   

                                                                                                         - 15th May 2019

Photo by Patryk Sobczak on Unsplash

Struggles and Survival 

"This Struggle is for our Country” The Ruler proclaimed
His strength the notion of Sovereignty
His lure the mirage of Legacy
And millions became means to his end 

 The World witness to this Lunacy

 

"This Struggle is for our Religion” The Messiah decreed

His conviction the greatness of “His” God

The promise of imagined Salvation

And millions butchered each other for truths non-existent

God wondered if this was ever his Creation 

“This Struggle is for our Conglomerate” The Capitalist declared

Profits and Prosperity his rallying cry
A life of luxury that would never run dry
And millions jumped into the bandwagon of mindless consumerism

It was too late, before they asked themselves “Why?!”

“The Struggle is not the one outside” The Saint preached

“But the one within”
“Conquer Thyself to Conquer the World”
And millions embarked on a coveted journey of self-discovery

Yet, that would never be enough to escape their misery

Into this World arrived a Child

Bereft of shelter, defiant of hunger
Clad in tattered clothes, he appeared out of nowhere
For the pursuits of the World, he couldn’t care less

All he needed was some food, a little care

Legacy, Religion, Luxury, Discovery – were indulgences of a full stomach
The (in)security of Faith, would never provide him shelter
The badges of Identity would never fit on his tattered clothes

Hacks to nourish his Ego….would never deliver him from hunger

A Refugee from the World

A Refugee of the World
His World was an abundance of deprival
As the rest of us wrestled with enemies imagined,

His Life was a “Struggle for Survival”

                                                                        - 05th March 2022

The Next Door

The Next Door 

It was nice to observe that flutter of life gleaming through the blurred glass window one fine Monday morning. The window wasn't open. Blurred movement beyond it suggested that someone was finally breathing life into the house, making it a home. 

                                                      *****************************

The Next Door, had been empty ever since the pandemic struck. Nobody knew where our neighbours went. Or what happened. It wasn't that we interacted with them. We didn't even know their faces. Yet, their sudden absence seemed to allow this virus to make another point - score another goal - against humanity.

May led to July. July ushered in September. The empty Next Door didn't get our mindspace for most part. Yet there were those boring weekends -during the multiple lockdowns- when we looked out of our window into the now closed kitchen windows of the Next Door, sipping our evening coffee - and wondered what had become of the family. 

And then ruminate about the fifteen years we had spent as neighbours to multiple families. A family in which a woman my Ajji's age used to wait for Ajji to come down every summer from Mandya and then spend hours chatting through the windows. (Weirdly, they never invited each other home). When it used to be an office and I loudly (and jokingly) threatened my parents that I'd burn myself if I didn't pass Class 10 - only to attract an hour of friendly advice from the employees.. Then this family, where the lady of the home seemed to have struck a rapport with Amma, visited us once and never spoke to us again. We never got to see anyone from the last family that resided in the Next Door. The mystery continued when the house suddenly seemed vacant, one Sunday morning. 

The year turned a corner. We celebrated the New Year with whatever limited fervour the Virus bestowed on us. The Next Door continued to be empty. The Bengalurean summer which has now started announcing itself in mid-February, meant that my brother and I had to change the setting of our room quite a bit. My workstation now had a direct view of the living room window of the Next Door. A couple of pigeons played on the ledges of the window, finding some respite from the summer heat. And as day turned to night, the pigeons stood still, as still as the empty house.

                                             *************************************

It was a welcome change to notice the living room windows of the Next Door open. There was some hustle in the house as people brought in a fridge, a television, some cupboards and carton boxes  - all indications that someone was definitely moving in. In the evening, the lights in the living room were switched on for the first time in months. And the social life starved souls in our home, felt this small excitement of finally becoming neighbours again, to a new family.

We huddled every evening at coffee time to sneak a peek into their kitchen from our living room. The incandescent bulb lit up every evening at precisely the same time, but the kitchen window never opened. Our olfactory system craved for the aroma of the food that would escape at some point, giving us important insight into their food habits, from which Amma vowed to find out where they were from.

The family did begin to announce itself in subtle ways. Their terrace, that had been empty for multiple months now had shirts and sarees hanging out to dry every day. The living room window was more or less open through the day. And when I broke away from looking into the monitor to gaze at their living room window, there was an elderly woman who seemed to be sitting at the same place throughout the day. In the evenings, a couple of banian clad men sat around the elderly woman and there was small talk and laughter. 

Our terrace was Amma's favourite hangout for fresh air, as the second wave seemed imminent. From her vantage point she gathered that the family had two middle aged women - who came to their terrace to dry clothes and spices. Apparently there was a couple of times they made eye contact, but the two women didn't seem too eager to smile. "It's only a matter of time" Mother said, as we sipped our evening coffee. "See..their kitchen window is open today!" 

It was indeed. The bulb was on and the window wide open. And a few minutes later, the splash of spices into the Tava and the hiss of cooking oil was unmistakable. As our neighbours fried ginger and garlic, the tangy aroma wafted into our home. "North Indian Curry!" my brother and I exclaimed. We were as delighted as though they'd invited us to dine with them. May be that would be a reality at some point! We just had to make sure they were vegetarian!

                                                   **************************************

Slowly but surely, we grew accustomed to their presence. There were no smiles or greetings yet. But there was an unspoken familiarity that brewed as tacitly as the second wave. The younger of the two men seemed to be well versed with the Dholak. During the weekends, we would unexpectedly hear a couple of rhythms and our feet tapped the floor in silent appreciation. In the evenings, they would switch on the television and Bollywood melodies from the nineties and the early millennium would provide a good break from the monotony of work related calls. Though we never spoke to each other, it was now mutual knowledge that we would casually look at each other's windows, as though acknowledging the presence of the other family. I rather looked forward to the evenings, when their kitchen got active and the spices got frying. The aroma was a welcome appetizer. For some reason, their living room light remained switched on throughout the night. I would realise a couple of months later, that the light radiated the warmth of company and presence and I had grown rather used to it.

                                                  *************************************

It came as a bit of a surprise to see that their windows were still bolted tight, one Wednesday afternoon. The situation in Bengaluru had started going south again. The increasing frequency of ambulance sirens and the increasing intensity in the cacophony of news anchors meant that the Virus was pulling the system down all over again - albeit more resolutely than last time. The silence at the Next Door was not a welcome sign at all. We were not friends. We didn't know their names or their town or anything that would make us their acquaintances. Yet, they were our neighbours. A part of us started working all on possible theories as to why the windows were boarded up and all signs of life vanished overnight. A part of us was disappointed that their disappearance now meant that even the pretence of a social life now ceased to exist for us. 

Our evening coffee was again full of speculation. Amma walked the terrace, always looking for some sign that would betray why the family went missing. If only I had acquainted myself with the Dholak guy who seemed my age, we could have shared numbers and he would probably be just a call away. My call of concern would probably pave way to a lasting friendship between the families. We would eventually exchange BisiBele Bath and Paneer curry through the windows.

                                             ******************************************

The Friday morning a week later put an end to our speculation. The windows of the Next Door were wide open. Something was amiss though. The elderly lady wasn't seen at her usual place, staring at our room. The television wasn't switched on. The kitchen windows were open too. Yet there was no hissing garlic and ginger spice. The ladies seemed to be hurrying from the kitchen to the living room and back. 

And sometime in the afternoon, I saw the older of the two men sitting near the window. His head bald. His eyes tired and a little empty. He didn't seem to mind my staring at him at all. It was a while before one of the women pulled him away from the window and closed the window in a hurry - lest we notice their collective sadness. Amma came back from her terrace walk in the evening and told us that the family had perhaps washed all clothes they had and hung them out to dry. All of it pointed to only one event. 

For some reason, we felt sombre. Throughout the next day, we spoke in hushed voices. Our television was on only at minimal volume. We wanted to know more about what had happened, understand how the elderly woman had passed. Be of some support to our neighbours. But we only knew them...and we didn't know them. As I went to bed that night, I could see that their living room light was switched off around eleven. It was probably kept on throughout the night in earlier times, because the elderly woman had wanted it to be that way.

                                        *********************************************

We woke up Sunday morning to find the windows boarded up all over again. In the television and newspapers was news of the impending lock down that would kick in from Monday. Visuals of people scrambling for beds and oxygen brought back last year's anxiety all over again. Images of people leaving the garden city in hordes left us speechless. Perhaps amongst the latter were our neighbours. 

When I went to bed that night, I stood by the window of our room and looked at the living room windows of the Next Door. The closed windows and the darkness beyond was definitely a void -a void from the loss of company. And weirdly, company that we never completely acknowledged. 

The pigeons came back to spend their night on the ledges. I would initiate a conversation with the family once they returned.

                                                                                                          - 19th May 2021

   

Let The Travels Begin!!

                                              ....Let The Travels Begin! 

The rising sun, the setting sun,

The sea, beaches and sand                                                                       

The breezy nights and those roaring tides

Humility and awe, did the Ocean command

The soft scent, the leather bind

Plots that thicken with Time

Words woven into delicate artistry

With Prose and Poetry sublime

Hills and mountains with God in their abode

A hue of green and white - waiting to enthrall

As mystique and magnificence walked hand-in-hand

I realised I'd always feel small

Lives that spring to life before my eyes

I allow them to hold my hand

Their joys, sorrows and trepidation become my own

As we journey to their promised land

A different people, a different culture

A different language, cuisine and tradition

I embraced the unknown as if it were my own

Always a sojourn steeped in realisation

Their wisdom stroked and the conscience stirred

My canvas would always be white,black and grey

The pages held a mirror - as I struggled to accept myself

But the stories moved on, much to my dismay

"Come to Me" beckoned the World outside

"Come to Me" urged the World within

The Rucksack and The Book would  always stand by me

It's never early to say "Let the Travels Begin!"

                                                                                     - 22nd March 2021    

Stories Of Death

Stories Of Death

"A well lived Life....looks forward to Death. A painless, sudden death. No suffering. When people around you don't feel you are a burden, financially or otherwise."  Ajji kept reiterating every time she got a chance. Her ever growing snow-white hair that she massaged with hot coconut oil filled in a coconut shell, dentures she had started using after making more than full use of her permanent teeth and her now cataract free eyes that she used to read news on television - betrayed anything but her age.  For us, listening to her talk about Death was almost a ritual every year when we went to the village. It evoked mystique, a sense of awe as she narrated how people from the family met their maker, and Ajji's timelessness. She remained constant across births and deaths - transcending generations - and perhaps would continue to.

                                                             ***********************

" I always sensed Death closing in on your Father" Ajji told my Mother, for the umpteenth time. It had happened thirty five years ago and the emotion had been sucked out of the incident long ago. For someone like me, who had never seen my Mother's Appa, Ajji's narration seemed to paint a picture of my Grand-Dad's death, just like other incidents painted a picture of his life.

"There was something ailing him mentally for quite a few months. He had lived a happy life. Sons and daughters were doing well. That premature death of your brother....may be" Ajji said, looking at my Mother. The mention of that premature death still tugged at our heartstrings - though we hadn't seen our uncle. 

"He probably had a premonition of his Death the previous evening. And it was all over...next morning"  Ajji said, her tone respectfully sombre. We had heard the story multiple times from her and also from my Mother. But we fell prey to the mystique, as always. "What happened Ajji...?" I asked, as the rest of the audience waited in silence.

"I suppose he had a minor heart attack that evening...almost as if Lord Yama was preparing the noose and was trying to find out how tight or loose it needs to be. He complained of severe chest pain. But by the time we reached him, he had recovered. 'I almost thought I'd die alone' he said, sobbing. I think he knew he'd die. But he didn't want to die without anyone by his side..." Ajji paused for effect, we thought. But we could see that there was a drop of tears at the corner of her eyes. It was unusual, but it didn't stop her flow.

"He was reluctant to go to town and visit the Doctor. But driver Ahmed wouldn't agree. He insisted on a check up. He drove your Grand-Pa to the town. Doctor Basappa never minced words. There were no machines or sophisticated equipment at that time in Mandya. He was still the best Doctor around. Basappa calmed your Grand-Pa down and re-assured him. But he took Ahmed to the side and told him there wasn't much time left for Grand-Pa. Ahmed at that time didn't realise "not much time" was a few hours. He didn't mention the conversation to us till way later. "

My Mother took over, invariably, at this point.  "Anna came back. He looked weak. The light was already gone from his eyes. We never realised that at the time. I'm glad he had a good meal that evening. And then, he insisted on all of us sleeping in the hall, with our beds next to each other. I'm sure he knew it. Or may be, he was just scared. Who isn't scared of Death?. We felt that night was crucial. Nothing was told to us - but we had a hunch. An eerie hunch, if you ask me. And slowly we drifted to an uneasy sleep."

"I'm glad I saw him pass." Ajji said, breaking the silence after my Mother's words. "I'm not sure why. But I'm glad. And I'm sure he felt at peace that his Mother was watching him pass. I didn't want to wake up the next morning and just discover that my son is dead. It was five thirty in the morning when I woke up. I peered through the mosquito net and found his breath becoming shallow. He looked at me. I could sense the helplessness. He didn't want to go. I  looked at him. And then he relaxed. Or so I thought. The helplessness was replaced by a blank face. I'd want to imagine it was peace. I was the one to bring him to his world....I bid him Goodbye"

                                                           ***********************

" Your Chikkamma was lucky to survive her first bout with Death" Ajji said, looking at my Father now. My father was especially attached to his Chikkamma (Mother's younger sister). He always felt pained talking about her death. But Ajji would never leave him alone. "You should talk about it, for you to forget the pain. She was living on borrowed time, at any rate" she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I remember that car ride from Mandya to Bengaluru, vividly. Chikkamma unconscious. You and I on either side. I took a handful of tablets and thrust it in her mouth. Poured a bottle of water so she swallowed them." My Father started. I almost knew the next sentence. "I was the reason why she lived twenty more years."

"It's all fate. Chikkamma had some unfinished business here. She wanted to see you married and happy. Her own sons married and happy. And may be watch some soaps on the new age colour television" This last statement was an addition to last year's narration. Clearly, Ajji was improvising too.

"But she was a fighter. Every time Yama dragged her to the hospital, she found the will to give him the slip and return home. I never saw her spirit fade. Except the final time she made her way to the hospital. The look she had on her face when her sons carried her on her chair to the car - I was sure she had given up the fight. Her final journey had begun that day. What happened a month later was more a formality."

Ajji certainly seemed more emotional this year than she had been in a while. Her voice was quivering as she narrated these incidents. But then, she took a weird pride in being in that unenviable position of having seen more deaths up close than any one else in the family. 

"She couldn't have been more helpless towards the end. She forgot names and people. Quiet, sedated and sleepy in the mornings. Manic and vengeful all of  a sudden in the night. Buried feelings and suppressed emotions burst forth unhindered.  She didn't want to take all the burden with her, perhaps."

"Talk about the last day and close it Ajji" Father insisted.

Ajji smiled and stared silently into oblivion. Her cataract free eyes couldn't hide the tears. 

                                                         ***********************

It had been a month since Ajji fell in the bathroom and broke her back. Doctors gave up hope on her being able to get up and walk again. The back injury did to her what Life could never do. 

She was shifted to a cot in the hall at our ancestral home in Mandya. Her spirit held fort the first couple of weeks. She was cheerful - hoping for -and making us hope for - a miracle. "It's just a broken back. I have rich grandsons who can get a golden rod fixed in my spine." But as more and more Doctors visited her and went back with grim expressions, she started fading. 

Tears streamed silently down her face, when no one was watching. The helplessness apparent in her face and voice. She felt ashamed when anyone tried to clean her up and help with a change of clothes or adult diapers.

"So... a couple of days before Chikkamma passed" she started, one evening. We didn't want Ajji to exert herself. But then we couldn't stop her from speaking. It was all she could do these days. 

"Chikkamma saw her dead husband beckoning to her, from outside the room. I was staying with Chikkamma for the night when this happened. I'm not sure where she found the energy, but Chikkamma got out of her bed and walked to the door. Talked to him for almost ten minutes. Then she walked back and slept. The most peaceful I had seen her sleep, after she was admitted to the hospital"

All of us were stunned. Ajji had never mentioned this in all these years. My father burst into tears and left the place. It took a while for us to calm down. And as we absorbed this incident, Ajji made an other revelation. "The other day when I stopped Chikkamma's story midway, I could see her beckoning to me from the other side of the room. "

                                                   *****************************

Ajji never spoke coherently after that. It seems her mind was made up. She refused to eat from the next day. Whether it was out of conscious decision or did her body start giving up  - we would never know. Weakness overpowered her quickly and she slipped to a semi-conscious state in a matter of days. And after that she consumed only teaspoons of water.

 About a week-ten days later, all of us got used to the new normal with her. We knew it was a matter of time. But we were not ready to give up easily on her. Doctors inserted glucose drips and we found improvements in her energy levels. "You have some unfinished business Ajji" we kept teasing her. She would give us a silent weak smile. She still wouldn't talk or eat. 

Our Sunday afternoon conversations took place around her cot ever since she was bedridden. That Sunday, after a long while, we could hear Ajji's voice. "Ice Cream. I want some Ice Cream". she said. We were thrilled. A couple of us ran to get her some ice cream from a nearby store. Ajji was smiling. Did miracles really happen? We wondered.  We took turns to feed her the ice cream that evening. She relished each spoon. She even managed to say "Thank You" in English. Clearly, there was some unfinished business holding her back.

                                              **********************************

Ajji passed a couple of days later. It wasn't the sudden death she had aspired. We sat around her as her breath became shallow. Now from the stomach, now from the lungs, now from the throat and the last couple of breaths from the mouth. She had closed her eyes long ago. So we couldn't understand what she had always meant, by "light disappearing from the eyes."

Over the next fifteen days, some of us took turns to read the Garuda Purana. The paperback version was stowed away in her trunk. She had to be the one reading it when someone passed in the family. 

Did she actually see Chikkamma beckoning to her that night? We wondered. Did she know her time was nearing? Ajji always held us in awe when she was alive.......she would hold us in awe in Death too!

                                                                                       

                                                                                  -     25th September 2019

                                              

Illusion

     Illusion                      

    From the womb of a craving mind

    Feb by Hope, nurtured by Fear

    Is born the enigma of Illusion

     

    With time and Times, and the World around

    You realize, the Illusion isn't just one

    They grow with You, They grow on You

    Four colored walls and a glass ceiling

    And a mirage for a floor to plod on

    Control, Success, Love, Fame
    Mine, Yours and the Forever delusion      
    Holding on with Fear, to a World outside
    The emptiness we eventually leave behind

    Destiny, Plans, Luck, Meant-to-be
    Attempts at belief, while there is none
   Holding on to Hope, the convenience of letting go
   The Life that is.....and the one that goes by

    The content of Acceptance, devoured by the hunger of Aspiration
    Past and Future, Dictators in a commanding Collusion
    The Present wanders alone, in search of Redemption,
    The guiding Light of Truth, that lurks in the shadow of Illusion  
  
                                                                          - 27th March 2019


Bringing up 75 posts in this blog with this one. The last 25 posts have taken roughly four and a half years. But then, a lot of them have also received heart-warming responses from you. It feels great when you reach out saying you connected with the post. The post has then fulfilled its purpose! Writing is a life long project. I only hope I'm able to write more, write better and write to connect with you!     

- Alok Simha  

                                                            
             

     

Adventures in Arranged Matrimony: Hunt - Or be Hunted!!

Adventures in Arranged Matrimony: Hunt - Or be Hunted!!

"Priyanka, Anusha, Chaitra and 236 others are waiting for you...."the notification read. I was thrilled. If just uploading an incomplete profile would put me in touch with so many potential suitors, I would find the "Right One" in a couple of weeks. I quickly opened an other tab on the browser that said "Popular honeymoon destinations in Asia"

                                        

                                                            **********************

 When you don't fall in love at the right time - or rather-get someone to fall in love with you at the right time, the inevitability of arranged marriage looms large. Add to that a conspiracy from the stars (read horoscopes), a script dictated by religion and caste, and (over) enthusiastic participation from a wide circle of relatives - the stage is set for drama like never before. Only, it is happening in your own life.

I still remember the day my Father brought a hundred page note book and religiously wrote Lord Ganesha's name on the first page. "Ensure that you find a girl before this book runs out..." was his first instruction. It was then that I realized that this notebook would be his database of all profiles that were referred to us. I almost ventured to suggest that he start an Excel, but held myself back, as I'd be the one eventually maintaining it if it were to transpire to reality.

Our next task was to bring out the model in me. This involved transformations of humongous proportions: from the hygienic to the well-groomed, from the posture-less to the photogenic and from the presentable to the polished. "Please try to put on some weight" seemed to be the universal suggestion right from the distant aunt whom I got to know existed when we started bride-hunting, to the gym instructor, who suddenly seemed to take more interest in my marriage because the membership renewal was due.
"I'll make you ready for the big day Saar" he used to say with a wink every time, in broken English. And as though spurred on, I would do a couple more routines that day, than the usual.

                                                         *************************
"Let's head to the Bureau" declared Father one Saturday afternoon. We were nearing the end of an intense referral phase - with my matrimonial Resume being floated discerningly in the close circle for potential matches. This had not resulted in much tangible progress - apart from tempering our expectations and anxiety levels. My Father for one, understood that a blue tick on WhatsApp doesn't mean that his son's marriage is a foregone conclusion. I realised that wearing dark shades instead of power spectacles in a photograph, doesn't exactly improve my appeal. And most importantly, Mother started appreciating that a girl looking super beautiful in a photograph may look totally different in reality.

Once planetary alignments, Facebook profiles and MBA colleges ensured that we exhausted all possible leads in the close circle, Father decided that we had to cast the net wider. Or rather, I had to be displayed more publicly as an eligible bachelor. It was then that we zeroed in on the Bureau.

Apparently, lot of prospective grooms and brides had found the "One" in the Bureau. It had an excellent database of suitors (I was wondering if it was better than that of Father's) and provided opportunities for parents to network. It was a niche in itself because, it was still only offline with a fledgling presence online - and yet managed to attract people from all over the state.

It was a Sunday when we first visited the Bureau. Through sustained effort, I'd managed to gain a kilo plus three hundred grams - which was visible as a paunch, thanks to corporate life.(The gym instructor was insisting that I'd gained weight - where, was a different matter altogether). My Mother fussed that I wear formals;wearing a Tee would mean exposing my slender arms and bony neck. What if the girls' parents thought I was undernourished? Father complained that lack of a stubble meant I looked 24 and not 29. (This was definitely not under my control). "Behave yourself, cut your sarcasm" was the instruction I received from them as we got down from the auto. The Auto Driver's "All The Best" seemed more a smirk than a wish, as we entered the doors of the Bureau. I asked Mother if I should prostrate for a couple of minutes before entering - for good luck- but she dismissed my earnest question as sarcasm.

Ever since we started discussing the Bureau, I'd developed visions of it in my head. I'd imagined myself entering the Bureau with two jasmine garlands - one around my neck and the other one in my hand, for the girl I felt was my best match. Girls would line up on either side, waiting for me to make my choice. And the one I chose to garland would walk away with me, while her parents' eyes brimmed with tears of joy. In an alternate version, girls were waiting for me with jasmine garlands in their hands. The next moment there were multiple garlands around my neck, and I'd to figure who I needed to accept. It was my parents' eyes that were glistening with tears of happiness now.

The reality turned out to be totally different. The Bureau was one square hall, lined with benches and some chairs for courtesy. Tubelights lined the walls and a couple of fans cooled a rather tense and serious atmosphere. Anxious parents pored over files that contained data of prospective brides and grooms. Each of them, had made their own database ( I could now appreciate Father), which was in a different stage of maturity. 

Clearly, there was a distinction even among the parents' journeys of finding brides and grooms for their sons and daughters. There were parents who had just managed to convince their sons to start thinking about marriage and had rushed to the Bureau with horoscopes and photographs with a plan to find the right match the same day. There were parents for whom the novelty of the process had worn off and who were "going through the inevitable motions" before the perfect match came along. And then there were the frustrated ones - who had passed through the first two stages - who now just hoped that the process would end. There were the quiet ones. And some of them who were boisterous. Some one of them even acknowledged that they should have allowed their children to find the right match themselves.  I was amused at this late realization and silently wondered if the same thought was crossing my parents' minds too. Well, I guess it was too early in the day for that!

My parents were presently in the over enthusiastic segment. Father opened his precious database and wrote the date with the brand new Parker he had bought for the purpose. Mother switched over to her officious mode as she wore her reading glasses. I was soon doing the dual role of a bridegroom and a clerk. My job was to run to the store room, grab a file full of brides-to-be, hand it over to my parents. Father matched the fundamentals of the horoscopes, Mother scrutinized the profile and passed it to me for  final vetting. Nevertheless, it was cursory. If the profile passed Father's checks and Mother's eyes - we would proceed "to discuss at Home."
 
                                               
                                                              *************************

I came back home from Office the next evening to a call centre. Father's database was spread wide open on the table. He was on one side of the living room, his customary coffee in one hand and his mobile in the other. "Hello...is this Mr..? We came across your daughter's profile at the Bureau. My son's name is Alok....." he went on. And at the end of the conversation, he would write a response across the profile in his database. There were different updates - ranging from "Accepted - to send profile" "Horoscopes don't match" to "Discuss with Alok". There were a couple of cryptic encircled and crossed out profiles as well.

Mother was on her phone as well, working on the other half of the list - typically where the point of contact was the lady of the house. She would start with an ice-breaker before pitching me more formally. She would even go on to describe what my hobbies were and what I did on weekends. I was almost sure her pitch was much better than mine to any prospective match. At the end of her conversation, she reached out to Father's database. But her evaluation and update were more analytical and critical than Father's. "Tone was cordial. Seemed interested". "Down to Earth. Need to progress this further". "Great background. Alok would be interested"

Both my parents were cold calling prospects!! And their cold calling had sincerity and earnestness that I never managed to imbibe in my share of cold calling as a sales guy.The final straw was my Brother. He was busy WhatsApping my profile to parents of prospects that Father and Mother had already spoken to.

Arranged Matrimony was staring at me in the face. To find someone - I always believed - had to be my objective. The reality was turning out to be different. My family had made it their purpose to find me someone. I was used to calling it social pressure - a blind obsession. But what I was now seeing was genuine concern to help me take the next big step in life. I saw the same energy, enthusiasm and determination that I had seen in them during multiple milestone moments in my life earlier.

I looked at them with pride and emotion. The lens of irony and sarcasm through which I had viewed the proceedings till now was fast melting in the fervor to do something to help my family see this moment through successfully - without much effort. Should I grab the sacred database and start dialing a few numbers myself? Or should I call the Matrimony website to extend my Premium subscription? Or should I vow that I would visit Lord Ganesha the moment an alliance was struck?

My train of thoughts was broken by loud shouts and noise from a couple of Hi-Fives. "It's more than a blue tick, Brother" Akshay was telling me. "They want to meet us next Sunday!"

Was I Hunting.......Or being Hunted?

                                                                                                    - 3rd December 2018

Disclaimer: Events dramatised for fictional purposes

Hopeless Optimism

Hopeless Optimism

"You need to get it right only once" I told myself

And the rest-as they say-would be History

Day after day, I trudged along with Hope

That Moment of Success, still a Mystery

I smiled at faces that screamed a scowl

And knocked on doors that had never opened

Genuine efforts would never go in vain

It was a sin to be heart-broken

Burnt bridges could be rebuilt with time

And searing wounds would heal

It was just a matter of weathering the storm

And smiling through the ordeal

Success lurks in the shadows of failure

Those unworthy can never see Her face

She likes it when you are battered and bruised

But still manage to run the race

Paths that are ideal are winding and dark

Get some dreams to string along

There is always light at the end of the tunnel

And a better World awaits with the Cuckoo's song

It takes Courage to get up each time you fall

The World isn't sparing in its cynicism

But when you learn to smile and push ahead

You know you've arrived with "Hopeless Optimism"

           
                                                                                 - 26th February 2016, Sunday

Father, Son and Matters of Money

Father, Son and Matters of Money

"Done" I said, as my father sat mesmerised. He even received a message saying the transaction was complete. Only, he wasn't convinced by the exercise. He didn't feel the satisfaction of transferring money and helping his son who was in dire need. 

"Something is missing" he kept mumbling. Always.

Not that he is technology averse. But he is someone who still believes in walking the couple of miles to pay out an electricity bill at the counter. The sense of purpose he derives in setting up a separate day for paying these bills, the responsibility of  "handling cash" and the subsequent sweat and satisfaction once he successfully pays those bills and returns home - he misses them with the onset of technology.

"If you can transfer money with the click of a button, where is the value?" he wonders. And somewhere, I connect with him. Cash. The clinking of coins in the piggy bank. Or the thrill when father brought his month's salary home in a white envelope and asked us to separate the five hundreds from the hundreds and the hundreds from the tens - home felt like RBI. Mother would invariably decide how much went where - some notes into the steel container with rice, some into the wardrobe, some more into a secret corner under the cot(I assume this was the sacrosanct emergency fund). We brothers would eagerly wait for a tenner or two(depending on her mood and our behaviour) and drop it into the piggy bank.

Now, all we have got is an abstraction. Or at most, a statement. Instead of the white envelope, my father gets his payslip home. There is an excitement in his voice when he announces the figure - but he misses the envelope. However, we are a generation where our salaries are being credited to an account from the word go. We have plastic cards that melt money in a swipe. I sometimes wonder if what my father tells is actually true. The effort is the same - be it a hundred rupees or a thousand for that matter. I swipe, and the money is gone forever from the account! And in a curious way, there is a sense of detachment - I do not know how the thousand looks like or feels like. It is just a number. All too simple. A decade ago, for my father, a thousand was probably a few hundreds, a couple of fifties and twenties and tenners. The twenties and tenners were probably more valuable than the hundreds - they were results of continuous haggling with the vegetable vendor or the kirana store owner. And to part with it was an emotional loss along with the obvious monetary loss as well.

Online banking, mobile banking, wallets and related applications make our lives terribly simple and relegate paper money into the background. While we revel in the ease of transactions, father still remains skeptic. His debit card pin remains carefully hidden in his shirt pocket, on a soiled piece of paper that has existed forever now. We have never been able to convince him to adopt net banking. He religiously makes that bank visit once every two months to get his passbook updated. While I put it to a certain inertia in embracing technology, I can't help but feel there is an attachment with the bank and its people that he cannot forgo.
"My account has been with the bank for thirty years now" he says proudly. He knows quite a few people there - from the manager to the clerk. "And I never find the bank visit tiresome. You have to work hard to manage money." It is quite a sight to watch him analyse the bank statements in the passbook and match them with his own monthly expense chart  - which is usually a piece of paper. Though we are better off than we were a couple of decades ago when this practice actually started, father carries this exercise on with fervor, a passion bordering on obsession. "It is because of this discipline I was able to afford your education without a loan" he declares, the pride evident everytime. I try to coax him to use one of those money management applications or atleast a spreadsheet, but he hears none of it.

The dissonance doesn't end there. While I find myself browsing every available option to invest and grow my money - from stocks to mutual funds to what not, father finds peace in depositing them in the bank. "Why the risk? You should always play safe with money" he suggests. I candidly admit to him that I want to be rich overnight and retire at forty. And then he starts off...with what is to be gained by working for those extra twenty years.

Through all this, I manage to hold my father in awe by showing how efficient I am when I pay bills through one of those mobile wallets, getting a handsome discount along the way. But my show ends there. It is always him that wins the conversation, with stories of long lost relatives who slept on mattresses whose insides were stashed with cash!






 

The Lost Cricketer

                                   The Lost Cricketer

Cricket Ajja died of a massive cardiac arrest. When we went to his home to see him one last time, it was what we had expected. There was a Kookaburra in his right hand, his first two fingers still firmly on the seam. His old wife was saying he was describing the 1999 World Cup semi-finals between Australia and South Africa, when he suffered the cardiac arrest. A fitting end it was........

                                                 ....................................................................

None of us knew what Cricket Ajja's real name was. May be his wife knew it, but true to her husband's wishes, she never revealed it. Everybody called him Cricket Ajja. He was grandpa to all of us cricket hungry folk in the neighbourhood.  He had always been there for us.

Cricket Ajja always talked with great pride about the day he was born. Even as the worried midwife struggled to get him out of his mother's womb, it seems Cricket Ajja's father was busy scoring a century (against whom was a detail he conveniently forgot, every time). His father returned, being awarded man-of-the-match and placed his bat in Cricket Ajja's hands. And Cricket Ajja's fingers had instantly wrapped around the bat. "My son will be a cricketer" decided a proud father and the journey had begun!

It was rigorous regimen for Cricket Ajja from then on. His first plaything was a plastic cricket bat. His father was his first coach. His mother had been strictly instructed to talk only of cricket at home. Education obviously took backseat. His schooling had ended in a funny way. Cricket Ajja went to the market to buy coconuts for chutney. The shopkeeper offered two for 5 annas. In a rare moment of inspiration, Cricket Ajja had bargained for three coconuts for 10 annas. His father realised education was not for Cricket Ajja.
"Maths was never my strong point. But my bargain that day was any day better than the calculations of those two dim witted blokes....Duckworth and Lewis! 22 runs from 1 ball! I started working on a new system of calculations that very day!" We still remembered those days when he tried to learn linear equations from us when we were school going kids. 

What enthralled us most was the story of his marriage. "I won my beautiful" he used to say emphatically. Cricket Ajja first saw his wife when we he went to play against Ramanagara Taluk. Smitten, he had asked her father. Her father, an ardent fan of the game himself, organised a cricket match between the best team in his Taluk and Cricket Ajja's eleven. If Cricket Ajja won, "I'll marry her off to you in style" her father had declared. The local team had batted first. In a massive run chase and a dream finish, Cricket Ajja finished the game with a boundary off the last ball. 

" There were multiple images running in my mind at the time. My beautiful, her father, my pride, my team's pride. Fine leg was in and long-on out. Third man was out and mid-off in the circle. I knew the bowler would try to york me, without giving me room. I shuffled a bit to confuse him. I don't know if he got confused though. In a burst of inspiration, I danced down the track and hoisted him over mid-off! What happened later is a blur! All I remember is my beautiful...smiling at me from the crowd." 

 "She is my dearest trophy" he would declare at the end each time he narrated the story.

With so much passion and talent, we always wondered why he didn't make the national side. Cricket Ajja's eyes used to get dreamy every time that question was put to him. We would never forget the way he sighed in despair.

 " Fate. I was to board the train to Delhi in a couple of hours when my father suffered a stroke. I had six brothers and a couple of sisters by then.(My father always wanted his own cricket team, the rascal!). He said ' I don't have much time. Life is like cricket my son. And you need to shepherd this team against its formidable attack' (Even on his deathbed, he could speak metaphors!).

I knew nothing else to earn a living, but could not desert my siblings. There ended my longing for international cricket. I had to buckle down and weather the storm that was thrown at us once my father died. I was like a top order batsman shepherding tail-enders. Every time I ducked a bouncer, life had one more up its sleeve. It took a couple of decades for the track to ease. And by that time, it was retirement time".

Through all this hardship, Cricket Ajja's passion for the game never withered one bit. He was amongst the volunteers for the first test match at the Chinaswamy stadium in 1974. During weekends, he umpired many local matches and even gully cricket at that time for a rupee or two. Though his reflexes slowed down and his cricketing ability declined with age, his cricketing brain was sharp as ever. Along with this was his appetite for statistics and a photographic memory. 

Once TV became commonplace in the 90s, Cricket Ajja became famous. He had this special gift of watching the game on TV and remembering every bit of it - from the scores to the field placements to the commentary. For those who missed the match on TV due to office or other errands, Cricket Ajja would narrate every bit of it - along with pieces of commentary on the way.

We would sit mesmerised as he described the India-Pakistan World Cup quarterfinal in Bangalore. Cricket Ajja would tell anyone who believed him that he had predicted Aamir Sohail's dismissal the next ball, after he chided Venkatesh Prasad. Even 10 years after that famous win, we would sit around Cricket Ajja as he narrated the epic battle, as though Sanjaya was narrating the Kurukshetra to Dhritrashtra. "Waqar Younis breathed fire that day...but Sidhu was relentless. Even Gods were watching the game from the heavens..India could never lose" he would add his own touch of romance to the story.

South Africa seemed to be his favorite side after India. For whatever reason. May be he felt eternal sympathy for them after their exit in the 1992 World Cup. Or he was taken in completely by their fielding. Cricket Ajja was one of those rare Indian cricketers who seemed to place fielding above batting and bowling. " Save 20 runs on the field. Take your catches. They are more valuable than the centuries you score. Learn from Jonty!" he would urge us after every game we lost to Chamarajpet X1. His first heart attack, incidentally, was after South Africa exited from the 1999 World Cup, having tied with Australia in the Semis. He vowed he would never forgive Gibbs for the drop catch in the Super Sixes. A few years later, he more than forgave him after Gibbs scored 175 to help South Africa chase down Australia's 434. 

His life took a different turn when someone suggested he could make use of his abilities as an analyst. That he could render services to some local channel or write a column for some newspaper. Cricket Ajja was seen those days with Wren and Martin - looking to polish and hone his English skills. A few of us asked him why he didn't try a Kannada newspaper. " I can't describe cricket in Kannada. The intricacies of field placing, the subtlety of tactics....it won't do justice" he said. A couple of his articles made the Times of India, but eventually he couldn't cope and gave up the effort. 

Instead, he turned to description and narration full time. He would describe the greatest contests in cricket to anyone who asked, but for a fee. The charge would differ for one day games and tests. It would depend on if you wanted him to describe the match in one hour or five hours. If the game was featuring India, obviously he would charge a premium. But if the game was close to his heart, you could get it for a discount. All he would ask was a coffee before the start of narration, a juice at the end of the first innings and a meal at the end of the match. To be honest, we enjoyed living games through Cricket Ajja's description than the highlights on TV. 

Cricket Ajja plodded on till 2007. That was the year serious concerns about his health surfaced. He apparently went into a depression when India exited first round from the World Cup. He was an ardent Rahul Dravid fan and the sight of Dravid weeping had a lasting impact on Cricket Ajja. After he recovered, he spent a lot of days scouting around Dravid's Bengaluru home for a glimpse of him. Cricket Ajja's ability to describe was not at its peak anymore after that.

And as though rubbing salt to the wound, IPL started off in 2008. Cricket Ajja vehemently opposed the format, saying it would hurt the technique and temperament of budding cricketers. He even forbid our team from watching IPL. But it did not work. Slowly, people started alienating him and drifted towards the entertainment provided by IPL. People who used to flock to him, asking him to describe one-day matches from the early 90s, asked him to describe IPL games - simply because of the excitement and the adrenaline in those games. But Cricket Ajja couldn't connect with IPL at all. It was a fest of boundaries,stars, cheergirls and crackers - there was no room for cricket. He even started hating Navjot Sidhu.

The last time any of us saw Cricket Ajja cheerful was when India won the World Cup in 2011. He came to each of our homes, offering us home made Mysore Pak. He mostly remained confined to his home, trying to write a book titled "In Cricket Ajja's Eyes..." Once in a while, he would call one of us to his home to check the manuscript and edit it for spelling and grammar.

                                           ........................................................................................

" The Doctor had advised against excitement and shock, after his last attack in 2012. I tried switching off the TV in the last 10 overs. But he wouldn't listen" mourned his wife. 

Cricket Ajja had apparently suffered the heart attack after the semi-finals between New Zealand and South Africa in the recent World Cup. The excitement indeed was too much, and what with South Africa losing, the attack seemed quite imminent and inevitable.  Cricket Ajja died a couple of days later. 

Cricket Ajja was buried with the Kookaburra in his right hand and his favorite cricket bat - with which he had won the game to win over his wife. He had a strange last wish.

He wanted a particular stone in our neighbourhood wall to be used as wicket, for all budding cricketers in the area. And on that stone he wanted his epitaph. 

                                      " A Man who Lived for the Game. A Man who Lived the Game. 

                                                                    Cricket Ajja plays on."

We have resolved to make sure any kid who takes up cricket seriously, first plays on that track, with Cricket Ajja's stone as wicket. And to ensure Cricket Ajja's blessings, we make sure he gets out bowled atleast once!

                                                                                               - 10th April 2015

The Storyteller's Diary

The Storyteller's Diary

"We'll never know why people enter our lives....we'll never know why they leave. It is in these pages I preserve them..." The introduction to the diary read.

There was a bag next to the diary. It belonged to the owner no doubt. The train whistled and moved out of the station. Ten minutes later, the owner hadn't returned to claim the bag...or the diary. I was curious and turned the pages.....

Each page contained a different handwriting. The diary clearly didn't belong to a single person. Or atleast the content. I started reading, from a random page:

"The old lady still haunts me. She was  distantly related to my grandmother. Though we never spoke of her often. All we knew was that she'd come to our home once a month. She would go directly to the place where my grandmother's picture was hung, after her death. She would look at the picture intently. Then curse her for a long time. After a while, it would be praise. I still don't know why she cursed...neither do I know why she praised. But then, there was this depth of feeling when she spoke that I can never forget.....I sometimes thought she was senile....

Then that day..she entered our home. She didn't go to my grandmother's photo at all. She asked my wife to serve her food. We were taken aback. She had never asked even a drop of water. We served her anyway. She wanted just rice. No Sambhar...no curds I've never seen anyone eat with such gluttony. She ate as much as my entire family would eat in a meal. And weirdly, didn't drink a drop of water. She then massaged her stomach...I'd never seen a sane woman do that. She then looked at me intently and said 'Today....I'm satisfied'. She walked out of our home, without even looking at my grandmother's photo.

She didn't come back the next month. Or the month after that. Six months later, I wanted to find out what happened to her. Weirdly, we were missing her. Or it was more the phenomenon of her monthly appearance that we were so used to, that we were missing. I went to her home - in a village some 10 kilometres east from my place. When I asked her son, he said she was dead for more than a year now.............I barged in, not willing to believe. And there it was...her picture hung on a wall, with a death date that said it had been 14 months since she died.

In a corner, there was also a picture of hers with my grandmother. It had to be her. But how was it that she was in my home six months ago.........I still wonder. If she was a ghost....it defies logic....but then, she could never be human.....she still haunts my dreams sometimes...I can never confide this to my family for they'll get scared too...but yes...she haunts me...

                                    ...........................................................................................

I closed the diary for a moment. I realised it was someone else's property and placed it on the owner's seat. The owner was nowhere in sight yet. My impulse yearned for an other look. An other read.I snatched the diary into my hands and started reading.......

"I started stealing by accident. I was involved in a robbery when I was very young. My father made me climb the attic of his in-laws' home - just because only I would fit there. I passed him all the gold. In the morning, he was gone...away from my life....and my mother's. I don't know if the incident showed the way or just reinforced destiny...but I took to robbery for my livelihood. 

I never rob poor homes though. I mark my victims with care. People who're rich and can 'afford' a robbery are my targets. And I also make sure that I use a part of the money to help the needy. It eases my conscience in a way.

It was on a summer morning that I entered a house. There was a young girl playing in the garden. For over a week, I had observed the routine in the house. The parents would leave for office, leaving the girl in the care of a maid. The maid would play for some time with the girl. Then she'd go out and return after an hour. That was my chance. 

I tiptoed into the parents' bedroom. I suddenly sensed someone following me. It was the girl. She smiled innocently. I smiled back. I told her I was her father's friend from office. And that he had instructed me to get certain stuff from the house. Without further thought, I robbed the house of its valuables. It was when I was leaving, that the girl called out to me and waved at me. A sweet sign of good-bye.

That good-bye had an impact. The image of the girl waving at me has never left me. It makes me feel guilty. It reminds me of the charm, the innocence of childhood - something I couldn't experience because of my father. It hasn't made me guilty enough to quit stealing...I guess it's something hereditary. But then, I still send an envelope with some money to that house every year, on the day I made the robbery. It's not that the robbery hurt them; I feel that that particular robbery hurt me more than it hurt them. To send the money  is the only way I can relieve some amount of the pain....."

                         ...............................................................................................................................

This came from a completely different personality. The diary seemed to be a gold-mine of experiences from people in various walks of life. I couldn't resist reading a third page.......

"I was happily married for 3 years when I met him. It's just that some people..you're destined to meet them. And later you wonder why you met them. 

He was young, single, charming and sincere. No airs about him. Plain. I still can't understand what was so special about him. We met in office and our thoughts linked instantly. Our ideas mirrored each other. Our thoughts connected in a brilliant way. Naturally, we became good friends. 

And suddenly, I felt our gazes met a little too often. He'd look for me. I secretly wanted him to look for me. I'd look for him unknowingly. And when we met and talked, my pulse would start racing. I could sense his anxiety too.

I still felt there was no cause for alarm. But then, I started thinking about him at home too. My husband caught me thrice - preoccupied like never before. And then, out of the blue, he confessed. He was as sincere as ever. Admitted that he never wanted to be a thorn in my marital life and would walk out of my life with a transfer at work. I guess I melted there. I confessed too. But somewhere, I guess I wanted his presence. I told him not to take such drastic steps. That we could remain colleagues and maintain a certain respectable distance, emotionally.

He went on leave for a week, telling he needed time. When he came back, he waved at me. I went to his desk and shook hands with him. And for whatever reason, that touch sparked a sense of guilt that I wasn't able to extinguish for a long time. We'd shook hands hundreds of times. But then there was something different about the experience that day....that made it unbearable for me to even look at him.

I tried reconciling for 2 weeks. I could not. I decided enough was enough and quit the job. I didn't even look at him even on the last day. He has tried contacting me many times since then. Most times he's been sincere, apologetic. His mails, messages...all speak of how he tried to be just a good colleague...and the rest was a momentary lapse on his part......I never respond. He'll stop trying to contact me soon..I hope.

To this day, I believe him. May be, a part of the mistake was mine as well. And may be, if we hadn't confessed to each other, we'd never have been guilty. But then..would it have been right? I still feel bad for him. May be I could have handled the situation better. But then....I had to save what was already mine....the people in my world. He was just a mirage......"

                              ......................................................................................................

An old man walked in and sat opposite me. He was almost bald. He wore a kurta-pyjama and a pair of dark glasses. I didn't have the time to put the diary back in its place and was caught red-handed. 

"So.....you liked the diary?" he asked.

"Quite a bit...I understand that these are experiences of different people...." I said.

"True that."

"But how did you get them to write it for you?" I asked. Curious than ever.

He smiled. "Do you think they'll ever open up to write in a diary? Actually write in a stranger's book?"

I felt sheepish. Ofcourse not. "So....what about the different handwritings?" I asked.

He removed his glasses. I could see he was blind.

"I was born almost blind, young man. And I turned completely blind when I was 3 years. It was darkness. My mother raised me. She had immense patience. She made me touch and feel objects to understand their shape. I could never read or write. My parents didn't know Braille even existed, at that time. Now, I don't have the motivation to learn. But then, I always wanted to be an author. So....this is my book...."

"I don't understand...so these experiences...? They're not original...is it just fiction?" I asked.

"Not completely. But then they're not completely true either. I have this unique quality of getting people to open up. It's probably because I'm blind. People feel secure confiding in me. And me being an aspiring author, I never stop them. I listen to them. Record their experiences in my memory. Then tweak a detail or two and present the story in the diary."

"But then, what about the different handwritings?"

The old man smiled. "If I said I had an interesting story that could help you pass time on this rather boring journey...wouldn't you offer to write it for me? Specially when you know you can read more from that interesting diary of mine..."

Somewhere, I understood he'd tricked me to doing the writing for him, though he never said it aloud. As though by instinct, I took out a pen from my pocket.

"That's nice...you're ready already" he chuckled. The train coasted along...and so did the Storyteller's Diary....

                                                                                     - 15th June 2014


This is my 50th Post in this blog. It has been a journey of almost 5 years. It is my opinion that experience is the Mother of all writing. Thanks to people who've made me go through experiences, which have inspired many posts in this blog. I've also witnessed and listened to people's experiences - and that has been of immense value. Thanks for the opportunity. An author never feels his work is complete, until he's read by an audience. Thanks to all you readers - both regular and non-regular. The feedback, the criticism..always inspire.
"We'll never know why people enter our lives....we'll never know why they leave. It is in these pages I preserve them..."