Remembrance

You flash into my head
like a bolt of lightning.
Illuminate corners
long dark and dormant

You bring memories
of days warm and sunny;
memories of ease and comfort;
of walls broken down.

When you delved deep,
it always seemed natural.
Like water that flows
downhill.

Radiant, innocent, joyous, beautiful.
You are all that this world
is meant to be

You brought that into our lives,
filled rooms with your tinkling laughter;
thoughts
with your soft voice.

Your voice
still fills the spaces in my head.
And I talk to you
in my night's dreams

Images: A Series of Vases Inspired by Memories and Loss by Hadar Glick

Corporate lesson - Perception is both the smoke and the fire

In the last week I've been a ringside observer to an interesting "clash of personalities" as I would put it, politically correctly of course, in office. It brought home the first corporate lesson I ever learnt - that intentions matter not one bit. Perception is god. Not your own... but others' perception of you and your actions. No one will ever bother to talk to you or ask you if you really intended something. But they will judge you on what they perceive to be your intentions and motivations. And act on that judgement.

Funnily, while this used to bother the hell out of me three years ago, today I see the practical utility of it in the corporate sphere. In a world where everyone is playing one gigantic game of Chinese whispers, it is simply not practical to attempt fathoming the intent behind every act or, on the other side of it, trying to explain oneself. In an organisation with a few hundred people, judging on actions and consequences is not just practical but almost a heuristic necessity.

The fact that one is judged on one's actions and it's effects on the people around (on the people not the job) alone has its pluses and minuses. For the extremely political (and at the same time prudent), it's a great way to smoke screen your intentions. For the un-political and yet prudent, it makes choices and decisions simple - as long as you can get your intentions and actions to match - you don't have to ever explain yourself. It is however, suicidal for the imprudent. If you are political and imprudent, you will get caught red handed. If you are un-political and imprudent, you will be hanged, most likely without a hearing. 

Deception

29.09.2008

It is a story of a day ago...

I sat alone in the train... except for the two women in the far corner. I was on my way back from an evening out with friends – a play followed by dinner. A cab ride to the CST station and a long walk down the platform later, I found myself in the second class ladies compartment, almost empty only because it was 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening.

 

The train pulled out, wind coming in through the window grates ruffling my hair gently. My head was buzzing with a thousand thoughts – thoughts of the evening gone by, thoughts of home, thoughts of the week ahead, of my boyfriend who would be here the next weekend. As was my habit, I put on my player, the music in my ears drowning out the sounds that I did not want to hear. Two stations later, as the train ground to a halt, a woman got in and sat herself down on the seat opposite to mine. I would guess her to be around 50, long hair dyed with henna, tied up in a bun, stray wisps escaping here and there. Her eyes were rimmed with kaajal, smudged probably by a long day out. She carried a handbag and polythene and was dressed in a salwar kameez. There was nothing particularly striking about her and I would not have given her a second glance had she not tapped me on the shoulder and asked me where I was getting off. “Kurla,” I replied thinking that she probably wanted the seat next to the window that I was currently occupying.

 

Seeming satisfied with my answer, she settled down opposite me. She took out the bright yellow plastic bag that she was carrying and pulled out two garments from with. As she donned them, I realised that she was getting into the headscarf and hijaab that many Muslim women across countries wear. While again there was nothing to raise eyebrows about the fact that she was donning a headscarf, what struck me was that at her age she found it necessary to go through this pretence.

 

To my eyes, here was a woman who had been out, probably for the larger part of the day, on work or an errand or maybe a personal visit to someplace. For the part of the day that she was out, she had not deemed it necessary to wear the hijaab and the headscarf. However, now, returning home, she found it necessary to wear them.

 

I have known many Muslim women – some chose to wear the headscarf, others not to, and to me neither of these choices have defined their liberalness of thought. But why did this 50 year old woman have to pretend? And which part of her was pretending; the part that had spent the day out without the hijaab or the part that was going home with it? What compulsion suppressed her preference or desire for one state or the other? And as I saw her lie down on the seat and go to sleep, a slight furrow on her forehead, I wondered at the deception that her life must have become – a deception not so much of others as of herself; a deception that probably has now become a source of comfort for in that deception also lies choice and free will.

"Muahs!"

Oh we must... blow air kisses and give fake hugs. Else how can a page 3 gathering ever be a page 3 gathering. I happened to go, with two friends of mine, to the premier of Saas, Bahu aur Sensex and I was left highly amused by the gathering of starlets and wannabe starlets. 

The fun started right from the moment that the three of us walked into the little enclosure in front of Fame Adlabs (with the customary red carpet and camera flashbulbs). At the entrance was a suited chap handing out bright yellow flowers to all of us. "I've seen him somewhere... can't place him, but I've seen him in an ad or something," said my friend. We let the moment pass, waiting for enlightenment to strike us on the identity of the "flower" guy. 

Up in the lobby, we were treated to a never ending view of models, wannabe models, wannabe starlets and such like networking with a vengance. We, for our plart chose to divide our tasks. One of us would concentrate on the clothes, one on the shoes (I volunteered for this part since I have a shoe fetish anyway), and the third looked around for random people that we might recognise. Some combinations are worth a mention - Khaki shorts and pointy bright red heels, Something that looked like a nightie with candy pink heels and a pair of tiger print heels that made a totally stand out statement. 

Somewhere in all this observation, my friend remembered where she'd seen our "flower" guy before. "Oh! He's that chap... the one in the underwear ad!" And as she said the words, we realised, of course this was the guy from the Rupa underwear ad. From underwear ads to handing out flowers at a premier... dear me! Such are the lives of those in-between rich and famouses that throng this tinsel town - neither celebrity nor anonymous nobodies; saved from embarrassment by neither fame nor by anonymity.

And so we looked on, bemused and amused, at legs tottering on stilletoes, flashy shirts and underwear models turned flower guys till we were let into the hall. What happened there on is another story for another post.

Rocky Shores

There once stood a rock on a sea shore. The water would lap gently against its bottom, if at all, even on a violent day. Then one day the water did something strange. It hit the rock with a force that the rock had never before imagined. A few stray edges fell into the water. With time, the rock began to enjoy the waves. Especially on a warm, sunny day, the cool spray felt like the perfect counterpoint.

It began to look forward to this daily tryst with the water - it all seemed like a good game and the rock thought, "Why not have some fun while the water is in the mood for it. And after all, I am not even doing anything. It is the water that is coming to me. So why not?"

Then one day, barely a month later, the water went back to its normal self. It barely came and touched the rock. The rock stood there, bewildered, bereft, feeling alone. It had become so used to the water, its presence, its energy and vivacity that it began to miss the water. But the water seemed to have other things to do, other rocks to play with.

The rock stood there and wondered. Wondered if the water had gotten bored of the games, if the water had ever even meant anything, wondered why the water had started the game and not finished it. The rock's last question - would the water it considered a friend come back to it? Would they play together again? Would the rock get a chance to say what it wanted to?

The Unimaginable

(Two posts in a day! Congratulations to myself!!!)

Kids. The word only brings a smile to my face. Innocent, playful, cute beyond description and utterly devoid of adult manipulativeness (they do have a large amount of childish manipulativeness though!). I totally adore little kids, love spending time with them and can baby sit and play with them all day! My friend on the other hand pretty much hates them. Especially the ones whom she does not know.

She and I are similar in most ways. The things we cherish are the same as are most of the things and people we abhor. But not so when it comes to kids and babies. And so, like many other times, I wonder why?

And then the quote I put when I began this blog comes to my mind - "What is unique about the 'I' hides itself in exactly what is unimaginable about a person". So, irrespective of how well I know someone, there is something still unimaginable about that person. Something that I cannot quite put my finger on, understand or explain. And conversely, there would be things about me that seem strange or unfathomable to others I would presume.

These things make each of us what we are and keep that enigma and curiosity alive; making me want to discover more - about myself and my friends. It constitutes the journey that we as people make together, understanding more each day but never quite everything. They make for the surprises and the shocks that break the routine and the mundane; that form the memories that we come to cherish and recollect years later.

Autumn

All year a tree spends its time nourishing its leaves and fruit but come autumn, it must shed some of these leaves to preserve itself and ensure its own health and survival. Not all these leaves are dead but they are abondoned by the tree for they take up too much of its precious, and now scarce energy.

I like to think of people as trees (moving trees!), the branches and leaves being the bonds, friendships and relationships we form with other people. There comes an autumn in our lives too, more than one in fact, we we must break some of these bonds, part ways from those who were once friends.

It is not painless though. For they are not dead leaves but real living people that one has invested time and effort in. To consciously cut someone off takes as much out of me as does making a relationship, what ever its nature, work. But the breaking off is as necessary for the heart as for the head, for I must now stand up to what I believe in. Even in a place where judgments are never made, in a society free of rectitude, I must still make my judgment and not fall prey to hypocrisy of the world that I have inhabited this past year.

The Autumn now fades slowly as the last of the leaves of the year past fall making way for the beauty of clarity and sparseness. New leaves will bloom in the springs to come.

A Veritable Specimen of the Human Species!

The silence of solitude broken by a ring,

protective shields fall away and yet cling on.

Instead of rejoicing in the free air,

there is the dank smell of fear and nerves.

There comes a time in each of our lives when we leave the home of our parents and venture out on our own; discover life, freedome, responsibility and joy of doing things for oneself.

But for every yin there is a yang. So while most people I know of my generation are self sufficient, cocky, arrogant 20 somethings (not at all a bad thing in my opinion!), here is a meek, towel wrapped overgrown baby venturing into the big bad world of business (I am making a very optimistic assumption that my new roomie makes it through the CAT).

After 10 days of complete solitude and having the room to myself, in walks this 21 year old girl with the gumption of a 0.2 year old kid. "First time out of home"!

It is abt 7 in the morning. I am still comfily tucked in bed, curled up with my little teddy, tossing n turning lazily. A corny tere liye ringtone shocks me out of the last traces of a pleasant dream. I frown and look for the source of the noise -

Daddy Dear Calling

Good Morning!

Brushed your teeth?

Had your biscuits?

Had a bathe?

Started studying?

Had Lunch?

Woke up after siesta?

Where are you?

Hows the evening going?

What's your roomie doing? Is she back? (thankfully this happens in one call and not two!)

Had dinner? Did your roomie eat?

Are you going to sleep? Good night then!

Morning Again!! (GROAN FROM THE NEXT BED!!!!)

The sister and Boyfriend also make all these calls. (Sigh! Can I kill Alexander Graham Bell? How nice the world was without cellphones!)

Little Things

A mundane trip to the chemist for a few necessities is a source of fear, nervousness and embarassment; a can ride alone to a new part of the city is unthinkable.

Where such people come from I wonder! Instead of enjoying the free air, there is the claustrophobia of nerves and fear!

5th September, 2006. 2030 hrs

CAUGHT IN ETERNITY

Water – sacred elixir. The Ganges – saviour, wiping off our sins, condemning some to a lifetime of sacrifice.

At the age of 9, my eternal worry was the next game of hopscotch or hide-n-seek. At the age of 12, only the games had changed. At the age of 12, women had lost their husbands. At an age when I had not even fully grasped the implications of that word, some women had lost it without knowing the nature of their loss. It was not a husband they lost but their childhood.

A beautiful woman with hair as white as the mane of a stallion and wrinkled skin sits on a swing in the central room of an old mud house with a tiled roof in a small village tucked in south India. The house is a paradoxical structure. It shows some signs of modernity – a toilet, a tv, the roof tiles. But for that it is the same as the house she was born in.

She has lived there for 84 long years. Brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, grand nieces and grand nephews – she has seen them all come and go. They are the breaks in her routine, the people she has dedicated her life to. She had cooked for her brothers, dressed her sisters, taken them to school, worked for their weddings, helped raise their children. But she has none of her own.

She is the eldest of 14 siblings, few now live that were born with her. She is the last link that I have with my roots, the last guardian of my forefathers’ heritage. The rest of us have moved too far, too fast. She remains a picture of the eternal in a world that like quicksand is ever changing, drawing everyone in. But she sits there, waiting for nothing and no one. Content in her faith, she brings a smile to our faces despite her loss. She is complete in her solitude, a picture, immortal, caught in eternity.