Just another day in paradise......

There's a sense of deja vu in all of this, no? I am reading the newspapers, which are filled with stories of the bomb blasts; stories of survivors as well as of those who weren't all that fortunate; stories of common people and of uncommon courage; of crises and of the city's remarkable recuperative spirit. But it all seems familiar; I am reminded of the stories that were published post 26-July. My dear rain-gods had been the villains then and the calamity had been a little different in nature, but the city, and the people affected, were the same. But this time around, the stories failed to move me. And no, I have not yet become a hard-hearted cynic, the kind who has forgotten to cheer the city's spirit while tut-tut-ing over the city's administration. It's just a sense of frustration, you know; the kind that most youngsters are well-acquainted with.

If you are above 40 and are reading this, hell, man, this blog is meant do do the journalistic equivalent of yanking-you-by-the-collars-and-shaking-you-real-hard. I shall leave be the below-40 gang, 'cos they haven't been here long enough to cause actual damage, but really, what the hell were the rest of you thinking anyway? As I see it, this planet has become a frightening place to live in, and shit, you have done diddly-squat to change that. Decade after decade, you have sat down complacently and seen everything beautiful or right about this planet being mauled to pieces, and have you ever so much as lifted a finger to change that? Have you? There's a water problem on this planet now, there's global warming, there's starvation deaths and wars; there's the threat of nuclear destruction looming over our heads, there are people dying due to the lack of basic necessities, there are plants and animals that are being vaporised into extinction because we are too selfish to share resources with them, there are children with incurable diseases, there's depression and there's drugs. And this is what youve left us as an inheritance. And don't even think of that age-old excuse 'I was so caught up with living, I forgot all about life' or the one about it not being your look-out. Know what, you have screwed up big time, dude. There are terrorists creeping all over this bloody place, and all bcos you folks were too adamant to admit that another point of view could exist. You think the politicians are to blame? Hell, you put them there in the first place. I am reminded of a line I read or heard somewhere, an inaccurate and less-effective equivalent of which, is 'Where were you when the last tiger was being killed for its skin?"..probably queing up to buy the thing for an astronoimcal price, would be my guess..

You can pat yourselves on the back..you've done such a truly marvellous job of destroying my planet that getting it back to its original shape seems an impossible task. Damage-control, though extensive, seems a much more feasible option, but you haven't even left us enough time, have you? You've left me a thousand things to do, and given me only so many seconds to do it all in. It seems like a mad joke. That's a brilliant gift to give to your child, a bloody, ticking, time-bomb. Hah! You kept producing children, deaf to the cries of the orphaned; you kept wasting food and water like there's no tommorrow, oblivious to the starvation in Africa; you kept initiating wars, paying little heed to the few voices that urged you to 'give peace a chance'; you kept ravaging our forests, un-mindful of its long-term consequences. You did this, and much more, and now life's come full circle. 'Cos we, who've never had a part in the carnage, shall be made to pay for your sins. It's we who'll get poisoned by the chemicals you put in the air; it's we who'll fight for precious drops of water; it's we who'll lose our plant and animal friends, and it's we who'll die of wretched diseases that have no cure. But what's the point in trying to remind you of all this? You'll be dead in a few years as it is; I guess I should spend time trying to make the world a better place for the ones you've already brought, and continue to bring, in here.

I've often had arguments about this with people, you know (and no prizes for guessing : they're the over-40's) and they keep saying how doomsday is inevitable. At the rate at which we are going, the planet will go down in a cupla thousand years. Well, dude, just wanted to let you know that it won't. That's a promise. This generation ain't all that fucked-up; ofcourse, we're still obsessed with drugs and sex, but at least we ain't as wasted as you guys were. There's hope for this planet still. You've messed it up bad, but the good thing is the salvage operation is being run by awfully dedicated people, so boo to you.

But I digress. I was talking about the blasts, and my reaction to them. The following lyrics from the song 'Fragile' by Sting, one from the 'over-40s' bunch, no doubt, but enlightened nevertheless, did move me. I shall leave you all here to ruminate over the wisdom in his lyrics :

"Fragile"

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one

Drying in the colour of the evening sun

Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away

But something in our minds will always stay

Perhaps this final act was meant

To clinch a lifetime's argument

That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could

For all those born beneath an angry star

Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall

Like tears from a star like tears from a star

On and on the rain will say

How fragile we are, how fragile we are

PS : If you've got decent knowledge of music, you'll realise that the title to this blog, is also the title of a track by Phil Collins. Again, excellent lyrics. But I don't have it in me to keep digging out lyrics for a bunch of pathetic old sods, or is it 'apathetic' old sods?

Thinking aloud

Just this evening, I bought a set of three books that dealt with topics such as the Universe, Plants and Animals, a part of the Discovery Channel’s attempt to reach out to children through print publication. I bought those books for my cousin, a bright 11-yr old, who enjoys this kind of stuff. I felt pleased with myself over the purchase; they were nice books, informative and yet, easy to understand. It was while I was browsing through those books that an alien feeling hit me; fond memories of my own childhood suddenly welled up. Now I am so used to whining about my own childhood: the loneliness, the fact that I was a mis-fit in school, the boredom, the utter adultish-ness of it all, that I rarely, if ever, look back at those years with fondness. Most times, the feeling is usually one of relief, that the childhood got over quickly, leaving me in a better position to enjoy those things that give me pleasure. And yet, with those books in my hand, different memories of my childhood surfaced, ones that had been lying buried for a long time now.

Let’s start with the Time-Life books. An aunt, who at some point in her life, had been a promoter for those books, the modern equivalent of which are the Discovery books that I had just bought, had left behind a large collection with my grandma. Every summer vacation would find me at my grandma’s place, leafing through those books with utter wonder, devouring all the beautiful pictures and words. The books were a veritable treasure-trove of information; about the stars, about the Earth, about plants, animals, under-water life. I think I made for a geeky kid, but those things really did, and still do, hold me in wonder. I loved the pictures, delicate jelly-fish being propelled forward in inky-blue water, amazingly-detailed photos of fish embryo, pictures of colourful birds and animals. I remember my favourite page in the ‘Animals’ book was the one with cartoons, trying hard to explain to a child the dietary preferences of animals out in the wild; then there were those books on outer space, making me feel proud to be part of an exceptionally beautiful planet. The books that dealt with under-water life and space held special fascination; every day I learnt something new about the universe I lived in, and the sheer beauty of it all seemed magical.

Then there were the stories. It’s funny now that I think about it, but it wasn’t just Aesop or Hans Christian Andersen back then. Granny ensured that I got to hear the bestest stories from her. Little did I realize that her stories were my first dose of the literary greats. I sill marvel at her story-telling skills: stories by Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Wilde were distilled to their simplest levels, to make for easy comprehension by a five-yr old. It was thus that I got acquainted with truly marvelous stories like Wilde’s ‘The Happy Prince’, Tolstoy’s story about the shoe-maker and the angel in disguise, Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant of Venice’ and “Macbeth’. My personal favourite was the story about how a French nobleman, ‘Sydney’ lays down his life for the woman he loves, little realizing that what was simply a love triangle for me back then, was the literary classic, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.

Next, of course, is the music. Sundays during summer vacations were spent listening to Abba, Michael Jackson, the Beetles and Boney M. Sadly, that kind of music is rare now, what with the infusion of electronic sounds in music. Back then, it was all about a bunch of ridiculous-looking people with some seriously good music. Nowadays, it’s about some seriously stylish folks with extremely crappy sounds. I remember we had a gramophone player in those days, which was soon replaced by a cassette player, which was then replaced by a CD player. Now, I listen to music on my pc. It’s become as simple, or as complicated, as that.

And finally, of course, the rains : I knew my summer vacation at grandma’s would end every year when the first rains hit the city. It became a tradition of sorts for me; I had to be at my grandma’s home for the first downpour of the season. The rains were of immense personal significance for me, and still are. I loved running out into the garden, and welcoming the rains. It was an event in itself. Over time, the welcome became a ritual in itself, something that I liked to call my rain-dance. It was my way of letting the rain-gods know that they I had been waiting for them. It all seems so way back in the past, as if I had just pulled forth memories from another life-time altogether. The rains were special, because I had somehow managed to convince myself that I was a favourite with the rain-gods too. They always did what I asked them to do; it rained when I wanted it to, and stopped whenever I wanted it to stop. It’s a heady feeling, you know, when you think the Gods were at your beck and call. I guess I was a pretty stupid child, actually believing that I could command nature. My childhood love of the rains was soon replaced by adult irritation at the way it ruined my clothes, my hair and more importantly, my plans for the day. But all of that changed two days back. It was raining relentlessly, and I decided to put my childhood faith to the test. After a long time, I prayed once again to the rain gods. It was like re-uniting with an old friend and I felt guilty that I had forgotten the simple pleasures that go with being able to stand under an open sky and getting soaked to the skin. I prayed that the rain would stop long enough for me to do what I wanted to; I wasn’t expecting much, rain-gods after all, belong to a child’s world. But then, the rain did stop. And it stopped for as long as it took me to get my job done, and when I rushed back into the comfort of my home, it started raining again. I guess the rain-gods haven’t forgotten me.

And then there are those orphaned memories. Little things that float about aimlessly, till you bump into them all of a sudden. Memories of the music band that my brothers and I had formed, our first song, the fights..aah yes, the fights. We fought over silly things, like the bird-plate. The bird plate was essentially a different plate; while all other plates in my grandma’s house had a floral print on them, orange flowers with green leaves, the bird plate was special; the print was that of a lovely forest with brown-red leaves and a single, colourful bird perched atop. The bird, if I remember right, resembled a colourful rooster, but that didn’t matter back then; what did matter was who ate off the ‘bird’ plate. Damn, we had so many fights over that particular plate, hee hee.

And now I know what people mean when they say they wish they could live their childhood all over again. I wish fights in adult-life were restricted to things like a bird-plate. I wish I could get drenched in the rain without a care in the world, instead of worrying that my childish enthusiasm may be construed as an invitation to rowdy sorts. I wish I could learn to read a book simply for its magical tale, without wondering if there’s sex involved, and if there is, who’s bonking whom. I wish I could listen to music simply for the lyrics and the melody, instead of looking at the videos and feeling bad about my body. And yes, I wish I were a child again.

PS : Something just struck me - lyrics from a cartoon show that I used to watch as a kid. I don't remember what the name of that particular show was (but I think it was about a city full of babies who float about on clouds and stuff) and the title track was awfully catchy; infact, I shall go ahead and declare it as the best love song on the planet. It goes :

Silamalinky dinky doo, silamalinky doo, I love you,
Silamalinky dinky doo, silamalinky doo, I luuuuuuve you. (Talk of getting straight-to-the-point)

Hee hee.

Back to Blogsville with a bang..

I haven't been to this space in what seems like ages and I swear it has started to echo in here. And no-one seems to have missed me..hmph..so much for my dedicated fan club. I feel guilty about the neglect, but I have been way too busy, learning new things at work, meeting new people, devoting time to other long-neglected hobbies..catch the drift?

Today was a welcome break. Memorial day in the US of A meant I had a long, long weekend..from Saturday morning straight thru Tuesday evening, when I'd have to report in to work again. Saturday was spent with school friends, re-living old memories, catching up on each others' lives and planning for a week-end out together. Sunday was spent with relatives..re-living old memories, catching up on each others' lives and planning to get away from each other..and Monday, I had decided in advance, would be dedicated to mia familia..just me, mom and dad spending some quality time together, something that we almost never do. And the timing was great..Dad has just opted for voluntary retirement, and finally, after sixteen years of being away from the family, was at home, with us, an event in itself. I thought this would be a great time for bonding with a man I knew very little about. Yea, yea, I knew he was my dad and all that, but I never really knew the man that dad was..for too long now, mom had been the only reference-point where dad was concerned and this seemed like a good idea to get the family together again.

I chose with care..a punjabi-dhaba-themed restaurant..one that wasn't too expensive, after all, I was treating. The venue didnt let me down, an air-conditioned little place that was trying too hard to pass itself off as a dhaba. I was impressed nonetheless..the place really didn't achieve that rustic look that the owners had obvioulsy hoped for, but they won brownie points for simply trying. Mom looked puzzled, dad looked bored..so far, so good..Dinner started with me contemplating the gigantic hull placed on the wall just behind mom..it was perched precariously..the lawyer in me was already beginning to calculate how much in damages I could sue for, if that thing fell down and hurt any of us..however, dinner progressed without any such calamity. But dinner also progressed very silently. None of that bonding thing that I was hoping for, seemed to be happening. I panicked..I wasn't gonna throw in good, hard-earned money just like that..Mom and I started talking, about this and that and I kept prodding Dad on, to get him to join us..he seemed oblivious of our existence. I let that pass; perhaps he too was fascinated with the softness of the paneer..by the time dessert came around, still no bonding had happened. I was frustrated; I told him he was simply not trying; you aren't supposed to grow bored with your family around, goddamit...you're supposed to talk and make up for all those times you weren't there. He looked puzzled..probably wondering what the commotion was all about. I grew even more angry..he had been away way too long, and now, when he's finally free to get to know us better, he doesn't even try..like hell I was gonna let him get away with that..

'Dad', I said, 'All those years of loneliness seem to have gotten to you. You have forgotten how to enjoy a meal with your family. You don't even bother joining our conversations.' He nodded silently, 'Yes, I know..I know' The nodding continued, and I looked at him, shocked..what!!! This wasn't what I had expected..he was supposed to say, 'Nothing of that sort..I was listening, of course I was, only, the paneer was so soft.."..not this..I let it be..perhaps I was expecting too much..leave the man be..accept him as he comes..

I stopped expecting dinner to be the success thatI was hoping it would be. I wanted to ask him sarcastically, had he enjoyed dinner..sitting with a bunch of perfect strangers? I let that pass too..I looked out of the window, stirring my already-melting kulfi, wondering if I was making things too complicated for a simple South-Indian family..suddenly, I heard him asking, 'Do you remember that holiday in Jaipur..we had kulfi there..do you remember?' I groaned..for godssake, I have had way too may kulfis in this life-time to remember where I had them all. 'No dad, I don't..I was a kid then..you don't expect me to remember such things, do you?' Obviously, he did..'You were nine yrs old. We had gone there for the winter. And do you remember that elephant you rode?'..The elephant I did remember..and felt very stupid about the excitement I had then felt..the poor pachiderm..PETA would be up in arms against me if I attempted anything of the sort now, I thought, with a smile. Hm..the Jaipur vacation, when did that happen now? Between the trips to Amritsar and Bangalore, I guess..I don't remember..There had been so many trips during childhood..running here and there..trying to squeeze the maximum out of a few paltry days of vacation..it had been a tradition of sorts then , every summer and winter would find the family headed off to some distant place..the only time dad actually managed to spend time with his family. The vacations had been largely boring for me..I would have happily traded an entire fortnight at Jaipur for one day at Esselworld. But then, I realised, these vacations obvioulsy meant something to Dad..he remembered each and every detail..where we had been, when we had been there, where we had stayed, what we did and what we didn't..It was a blur to me, it was crystal clear to him..what had obviously been just a distraction for me and my bro as kids, were probably the only memories that the man carried with him, when he left us, at the end of it all, on some self-imposed work-related exile. As time passed, we kids moved on to make memories of our own, those of our childhood being superceded by those of our first loves, our friends and our music. Dad had continued to hold on to the old ones, most of which I had long discarded. I felt guilty, for not remembering, and for not having made an effort to remember, something that I had accused my Dad of, just some while back.

Dinner ended. I paid, and we left. I didn't ask Dad whether he had enjoyed dinner..that would be a redundant question. I know I will find my answer a few years down the line, when having kulfi over dinner, probably to celebrate my pregnancy, my Dad will look at me and ask if I remember that night at a Punjabi dhaba..(he, of course, will struggle with the pronounciation for 'dhaba'..even I suck at Hindi..'Do you remember that Dabba you once took us to?'). I will smile and tell him, 'Yes dad, I do..and that trip to Jaipur when I rode an elephant and you had kulfi..'

Zaheer

I am sure that the Gods are mocking me. They are probably pointing their manicured fingers at me and thinking, "There sits the biggest fool we have yet created". I feel like crying; really, I do and the only reason I am not is because the irony of the situation amuses me so. This post was supposed to be about something else. I was hoping to bitch about my workplace. It took all of five minutes to change that. I met a college friend online. We were chatting about this and that. I remembered a mail that she had sent me some time back. It contained the ids of her two blog pages. I had already checked the first one out and was going through her second. I read her poems, wondered about her, happened to give a cursory glance to the snaps (they appeared to be snaps of some friend of hers in the States, all arranged on a slideshow). To tell the truth, it wasn't terribly interesting; so I just closed the window mid-way. All this while, we were still chatting. I happened to mention to her that I was going through her blogs. She then asked me if I had seen the college snaps. College snaps? I got curious..I hadn't seen any college snaps. She told me to visit her page again..which I did. And then I saw them. The snaps of the guy from the States had been replaced by snaps of Zaheer.

It was like someone had kicked me hard in the stomach. I was so shocked to see his snaps, for a second, I just sat there, blinking, uncomprehending, simply staring. Snap after snap showed up..Zaheer in college, at a restaurant, at a pool table..grinning, smiling, laughing. I went numb. All at once, too many painful memories came rushing out; it was as though someone had taken up a hammer and was demolishing me inside out, mechanically and with great precision. This wasn't supposed to happen. Ideally, I should never have heard of him again; infact, my absolute conviction that I'll never set my eyes on him in the future, was the only thing that had kept me going. This episode should never have happened.

I have been trying to get Zaheer out of my system for a long time now. I might have added 'unsuccessfully'; but the truth is, I had pretty much managed to forget about him. A busy work schedule and approaching exams leave me with no time to brood over personal matters, something that I am really grateful for; I know I wouldn't have forgotten otherwise. Zaheer wasn't my boyfriend; he's the guy I wish were my boyfriend. I had to be content with being friends. We aren't friends any longer. I guess I am to blame for that, but his attitude towards stuff in general also contributed in a big way. Zaheer and I are a reminder of all the things that could go wrong in a relationship..its a reminder of many things more, but I shall wallow in my grief all alone. At times, I feel there is hope; most times, I feel I have managed to distort everything out of proportion and all that's left is an ugly mess that no one has the courage to sort out.

I love Zaheer, in my own whimsical, irritating way. He is no longer a part of my life though. He got over me long ago..I have just started to forget about him (or so I would like to believe). See, that's the problem when you do not say proper good-byes..there's no closure and the mind mixes up what 'was', with what 'is' and with what 'should have been'. I would normally have kept kicking myself for letting things deteriorate so much, but for once, I feel we were simply not meant to be.

And I am reminded of the lyrics of the song 'White Flag' by Dido, one of my favourite artists.

I know you think that I shouldn't still love you,

Or tell you that.

But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it

where's the sense in that?

I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder

Or return to where we were

I will go down with this ship

And I won't put my hands up and surrender

There will be no white flag above my door

I'm in love and always will be

I know I left too much mess and

destruction to come back again

And I caused nothing but trouble

I understand if you can't talk to me again

And if you live by the rules of "it's over"

then I'm sure that that makes sense

I will go down with this ship

And I won't put my hands up and surrender

There will be no white flag above my door

I'm in love and always will be

And when we meet

Which I'm sure we will

All that was there

Will be there still

I'll let it pass

And hold my tongue

And you will think

That I've moved on....

I will go down with this ship

And I won't put my hands up and surrender

There will be no white flag above my door

I'm in love and always will be .

Squiddly-Diddly..the lovelorn fool..sheesh..

The death of humour

I work for a bpo now and after having spent some three weeks in process training, I realise that there is a genuine dearth of funny people in my training batch. This is bad, very bad, especially for someone like me who survives on humour. I need wit and humour the way most people need oxygen. And I love laughing, which is perhaps why I make it a point to surround myself with funny people. The brand of humour in the training rooms is restricted to those that have an underlying sexual connotation or those that are plain silly. Such jokes achieve the purpose though; everyone's laughing. And laughing real loud. But wit and timing seem to be a thing of the past.

I would like to think of myself as a funny person; but the truth is that I am not. I am the kind that catalyzes the funniness in another. It's like this : pair me up with someone funny, and I'll probably come up with whacky ideas and situations, but the actual jokes come from the other person. I contribute by laughing and the fact that people find my laughter appealing (their words, not mine), definitely helps. But I have pretty much come across a dead end in my training room; the silly jokes just continue, and while I continue to laugh (in a tone that is reminiscent of tinkling bells or wind chimes..hehe..Linda Goodman's words this time), my heart continues to grieve over the death of wit.

This post is dedicated to all the wit masters I have had the privilege of laughing with till date :

Abhi : Let's start with my brother. He's witty, real witty. The funnest moments I have spent at home were in his company. And there weren't too many of those, considering that my mom sent him away to stay with my grandma. But I always cherish the time I spend with him. He is very observant and his humour is more like the Jerry Seinfeld brand of humour (and he even cracks jokes the way he would if he were part of a stand-up routine). He is knowledgable about most things; consequently, the jokes are pretty varied as well. He's in Dubai now; yet the wit comes through even during chats. He's talented as well. So there's this cartoon strip that he's created, which was really hilarious. And a book that he's writing..a draft of which he sent me..very good stuff indeed. Shall share it all with you guys sometime soon.

Umme : My best friend. She isn't funny intentionally; it's just that she's plain whacky. And being plain whacky myself, we constantly keep cracking up on weird things. Strange things keep happening to her or so it seems. Do you guys remember that character 'Phoebe' from FRIENDS? That's Umme for you..its like she's forever on a different planet. Everytime I feel sad or restless, I just call her up and before I know it, I am giggling away to glory. Its good to have a friend who can do that to you.

Simon : A Junior College friend, who I haven't had the opportunity of meeting ever since I passed out. But we keep in touch through chats (which is, almost everyday). And his wit defies description. He's got a funny take on most things, and it's a subtle, yet effective sense of humour. He never comes up with stuff himself. I continuously have to keep prodding him on myself (probably bcos he can't hear my tinkling laughter over a chat window..;-)). He isn't funny, he's plain witty. And very sarcy. I simply enjoy talking to him.

Aarthi : An ex-colleague. I used to hang around with her constantly; we'd even go home together. She's always got that sparkle in her eyes when there's some joke that is simply waiting to burst out of her. She's enormous fun to be with. And she's at her funniest best when she has any kind of throat infection, 'cos then she gets all irritated and comes out with brilliantly sarcy jokes.

Pat : She rules in the sarcy humour category. She's a great person to be with, simply b'cos she's sure to find something or the other utterly ridiculous and the way she expresses her indignation has afforded us many laughs. Her Hindi sucks, so if she's ranting and raving in Hindi, we just double up with laughter. She's very expressive and one person I truly enjoy being with. She has a very sharp sense of humour and her take on the messy state in which most things are, has kept me in splits ever since I first got to know her.

Vivek : Ex-boss. I always thought 'Vivek' meant 'wit' and thought he had a very apt name. He later disclosed that 'Vivek' actually meant 'discrimination' and the name seemed less apt then. But still, we are talking about his sense of humour now. So let's stick to that. He is enormously funny. I must confess that the only reason I'd take any interest in office meetings was b'cos he was bound to be there and the moment he opened his mouth to speak, the fun sessions would start. I am sure he'll be reading this blog and will have second thoughts about my efficiency. But you have to know him to understand what real wit is all about. I still remember one particluar incident when we were having a grammar session for the Editors and after reading one particularly complicated sentence, he remarked " wow, there are so many 'which's in here, it seems like 'Macbeth'" (or something to that effect). I simply burst out laughing. Now do you see what I mean about his wit?

That's all for now....And a big thank-you to all for making the earth a funnier place to live in..

Smells like human spirit

On a shelf in my home, there lies a doll-like thing that my aunt had received from her ex-boss. I was a child when she had received it and because I was so fascinated by it, she let me keep it. It's a red, wooden thingy, with a woman painted over it and is divided into two halves, both fitted into each other in a way that you have to unscrew the upper half to figure out what's inside. So when you unscrew the first half, inside, you find a smaller doll. You unscrew that, and you find a still smaller doll and so on and so forth till you get to the end, where all you find is a little baby-doll. That, I feel, very neatly sums up most of the human race : layers and layers that one has to painstakingly unravel to get to the very core of a being.

On one of my rare visits to college yesterday, I happened to run into two friends, not big-time buddies, mind you, but casual acquaintances. We got talking. Later that day, in office, I was chatting up this apparently-wild girl, from whom I had always kept a safe distance (given my distaste for anything that is even remotely freaky). We started talking because I was trying to kill time and there was no one around to do it with. Later still that day(or shall I say the next day), at around 1 am, I received a call from my cousin, who had called for advice on some girl trouble. Ofcourse I spoke to many more people that day, but the conversations that I had with these four people remain in my memory, not because the people themselves were so engaging, but because they gave me the privilege of snooping around in the darkest corners of their heart. They kept telling me that they couldn't understand why they were telling me all that they were, but I understood, and smiled.

I think it's a gift, you know : to be privileged enough to enter the deepest recesses of the heart and having access to all its joys and pains, its fondest memories and hopes and its silent anguish, all of them unalloyed. Now, this 'getting to the core' business is a serious affair and not something that I am very comfortable with. Usually, I try to keep my distance from people, and even my closest friends are not allowed into the private spaces that are meant for me and my maker. Consequently, I do not expect other people to give me free acess to their core; that's when you are most vulnerable; most people build a rock-solid, invisible fortress around themselves. I have many friends who claim to understand people and their behaviour; I always felt depressed on that count because I felt I never 'knew' people. I have been the cause of quite some mess in my relationships, all because I never knew what the other person was all about. With me, its a simple logic : I cannot be bothered with figuring out who the real 'you' is; if you want me to know, let me know, or I can do equally well with any facade you may care to present. I was never interested in getting to know a person's deepest secrets; I have no use for them. I do not encourage people to come to me with their personal problems; I can barely handle my own.

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I realised that I infact, with all my stupidity and plain disinterest, I understood people better than most others did; the others just about manage to scratch the exterior surface; I plunge deep down with a freedom I find exhilerating. For example, let's discuss these four people I was talking about : the first is an only son who has taken his responsibilities very seriously. He started out like a normal college kid, but has graduated into a total workaholic. He's insomniac, works like crazy, is handling three businesses (and that's apart from the law course he's doing), all because he has old parents to take care of and a girlfriend he wants to marry. The marriage can't happen till he's financially stable, and so, in his attempt to get there, he's become a nervous wreck. We were discussing life and philosophy over a bottle of Maaza, and it amazed me that a person would willingly stretch himself so; such levels of self-sacrifice, I must shamelessly admit, is beyond me. But then, my thoughts on the subject deserve another post. I find it scary that someone my age works for 20 hours a day, and still manages to take time out for family and friends. And study law. The second friend is Parsi and is a little worried about her love-life. Her guy's Muslim and her parents are dead against her marrying anyone outside the community, especially Muslims. The story's a little more complicated, but let's not get into the details. The third, a colleague, was this person who had just been caught doping in office. I have no opinion on the dope culture, but I nevertheless kept my distance from this girl. But, as I mentioned, we got talking. She told me about her family : a cruel step-mom, a spineless dad, an uncaring step-brother..the works. Her mom had died during child-birth itself, so her relatives, orthodox people, always blamed her for the mom's death; so she's pretty much been floating around on her own. Her family never calls up; and now she doesn't care either, atleast that's what she claims. The fourth, a cousin, is seriously in love with a girl who already has a boyfriend, and who is expected to get married sometime next year. It doesn't help matters that she lives in Delhi, while our hero lives in Mumbai.

Phew! These are pretty common-place stories; I would normally have remained unpertrubed. But the anguish and despair in their voices got me thinking. It's often at occasions like these that you realise what a person is really about : by their actions, their reactions, their thoughts and their feelings. And these things change your perspective, you know. Now, I don't have to worry about their behaviour; I know what causes it. And it explains a lot of things. Within these four, I found a deeply spiritual and sweet person, a confused, but determined person, a person who tries to maintain a facade of well-being, but who's churning inside, and lastly, a person who's fighting against fate itself. They struck me in different ways. I dont know what will become of them. But I'll wait and watch and see life's grand drama unfolding before me.

And it seems a very good time to wish the human race 'pax et bonum'.

The wonder years

Just the other day, I was having a conversation with my 5-yr-old cousin, Ankita, who had come down from Algeria for a holiday. Anki was telling me about her school and her friends. She added rather emphatically that she simply couldn't stand one particular girl from her class, Sarah. I was curious, and asked her why; she replied pretty matter-of-factly (in a way only children can) that Sarah was all 'black-black'. I must admit I was stupefied for a second. I couldn't figure out if that child Sarah was 'black' because she was dirty and wouldn't wash up, or because she was African. I soon decided in favour of the latter. So little Anki was already into discrimination, I thought and instantly, the little, pink, innocent bundle before me became someone that I needed to discipline. I was about to launch into a self-righteous lecture on the glory of brotherhood, of mankind, of peace and harmony that I suddenly realised that my audience was a 5-yr old kid whose attention was already diverted to what was playing on tv. She definitely didn't need a sermon; her 'growing up to the facts of life', I decided, should be allowed to take its own course. Anki was spared that day, but I got thinking.

My family isn't particularly racist; we have way too many things occupying our mind to teach our kids that 'black' was bad or that 'poor' equalled scum. And excepting the influence of her parents on her ideas and her behaviour, there was only one other thing that was capable of moulding her thoughts : the tv. I think she watches way too much television (which is not necessarily a bad thing, 'cos I watch way too much television myself), but what disturbs me is that she enjoys her Star TV and its double-dose of weepy 'saas-and-bahu' serials. She's glued to that damn channel 24*7 and it has a telling effect on her. She has lost all that charm that makes kids so adorable and has become a make-up maniac. She loves her rouge and her perfumes, is into 'jhatak' clothes, can eat only junk food and thinks she's adorable when she's batting her lashes, trying to impress some imaginary guy. Now, forgive me if I sound like an old school marm, but I think kids are cutest when they try to sing a nursery rhyme out of tune, and not when they sing 'Just chill' with an accompanying dance sequence. I realise how old-fashioned I have become when she's playing pretend with me, and expects me to be a 'doctor' trying to deliver her baby. She's clear about what she wants to do : wear loads of make-up, get married and keep delivering kids. Again, I apologise if I seem to be demonising my cute, lil cus, but hey, we all had our play-house days; but it was never this close to the truth. Back then, we managed to retain a semblance of the childish even if we were trying to act all grown-up..now, when Anki tries to play adult, she does it with such perfection, it scares me. And what is worse is that she seems to be living in that 'adult' mode most of the time, and slips into the 'look-i'm-a-child-ain't-i-cute' mode only when she knows we would rather she be like that. Often, when we try to 'imitate' her and become childish ourselves, talking in what we presume is acceptable baby language, she does act that way too, but there that sparkle in her eyes that tells me that she knows we are just making fools of ourselves and all that she is doing is humoring us.

I am sure I shouldn't be troubled by Anki; all this is just a part of the growing-up process and she'll soon make a good adult. But I cannot avoid comparisions with my own upbringing. I'd like to think of myself as a fairly-accomplished young person with no major character-flaws. I have a almost well-rounded personality, and it is easy to see why..I have been brought up by television myself. My mom and dad were both office-going people, and my Dad, especially, was being stationed all over India as a part of his work profile; so Dad was never around in my growning-up years. My elder brother was sent to stay with my grandma and give her company. So when I returned home from school, which would be around 2 pm, I would have the house all to myself till 9 or 10, when my mom returned. What did I do in those 8 hours? I saw television and read books and that's all that I did. I couldn't go down to play with the other kids b'cos then there was always that problem about locking up the doors and taking care of the keys. Cartoons were my favourite, and still are. I grew up on a staple diet of Yogi Bear, Squiddly-Diddly, Wallygator, Touche Turtle, Penelope Pitstop and so on and so forth..Oh yea, how could i forget the smurfs and Lil Lulu..If I wasn't watching cartoons, I'd be watching all the funny stuff on Star World..Different Strokes, Silver Spoons and stuff like that. The good thing about such uncontrolled access to the television was that I saw whatever I wanted to..and consequently, got exposed to more variety than I normally would have, say, if a parent was constantly monitoring which cartoon I saw. And variety always helps. Contrary to the popular notion that uncontrolled access means letting ur kid watch sex n violence all day long, giving freedom helps your child decide what she likes and what she doesn't, while acquainting her with all that exists. When I was a kid, ofcourse I would be curious about why one guy was bashing up the other, or why one guy was trying to cop a feel under some girl's shirt, but this curiosity was always overtaken by my curiosity about whether Penelope managed to escape the evil clutches of Dastardly and Muttly. Call me a bore, but I do not get turned on by sex and violence on tv (if I were a part of the sex, it would be a different matter altogether..:-)) Ditto for books. I was a voracious reader and would read anything that I happened to lay my hands on. Very often, I would end up reading essays by Aldous Huxley the moment I finished my Archie's Digest. The good thing about such erratic reading habits is that I imbibed a lot more than I would have if I was being told to read only Archies or Sherlock Holmes. To cut a very long story short, the freedom helped; I did what I wanted and figured out what works best for me, as compared to someone (mostly parents) trying to figure that out on my behalf. It's always better to show a child everything and then ask him to make a conscious choice, than to fill his/her mind with you own prejudices. And its a folly to think that children arent capable of making choices. If children were let free with an un-prejudiced mind, you'd be amazed at the number of times they chose the right over what is seemingly bad. No child loves violence or gets a kick out of seeing blood; every child does get curious about sex, but I have yet to see one that will consciously prefer porn over cartoons. However, this will happen only if kids weren't trained to to or be what is expected of them and are given that choice to do and be in accordance with who they are.

Its ok if my cousin watches her Star TV occasionally, but I'd also want her to watch other stuff : cartoons, the news, music. I'd like her to draw, paint and sing and while this seems to be a case of my expectations riding roughshod over what she'd want to do herself, it isn't. I really wouldn't want her to draw when she'd rather sing, but I'd like her to give drawing a shot anyway. Rather than stick to the straight and narrow, explore. You never know what you may find. As adults, we pass on our set of prejudices to our children; in this case, my aversion to bimbette-producing television shows. There are orthodox parents who rear their children within the confines of what they themselves have explored and found safe, and there are those who would like to rear their children within the confines of what they themselves have explored and found safe, but can't due to circumstances. It's often the latter set of parents who succeed in putting forth responsible adults like your's truly.