When two walks collide

Today, I watched two humans walk hand in hand towards a park. One clearly leading the other, with tenderness and care that one typically feels for one's own.

I was lucky that today was a holiday; lucky to be able to dwell on the ordinary gesture that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. But today, I noticed. In fact, I even allowed myself the rare luxury to stand and watch and process the emotions that made the moment whole. I liked how I felt.

And so, I lingered behind. They walked on. There was something captivating about the moment; a certain novelty even 'cause the walk was a rare one - the slow shuffle of feet; the gentleness with which one hand held the other; the concern the leading human felt for the other because of the other's fragility; the casualness of the stroll; the unrushedness of the moment; eyes fixed downward on the road rather than on the destination; and the deafening silence that enveloped the postcard scene.

After an eternity of about 4 minutes, they noticed I wasn't with them. They stopped and turned to look. The curiosity in their eyes so clearly distinguished from each other. One was more fierce and meant 'hurry up already'. The other simply meant 'I need you, err... don't I?' I ran ahead and caught up with them. Our trio continued the walk in silence.

Come to think of it, I don't remember my Dad walking me to the park, even though he must have. A fleeting thought crosses my mind - 'Will my babies remember the many walks I do with them on a daily basis?' I hope they do. And even if they don't, I'm glad to do them and just be in the moment with them. Our evenings are usually beautifully ordinary with Hope (my 4yr old girl), running ahead and  asking me to walk on only the red lines and jump over the yellow ones; Zen (my 1.6yr old boy), looking at the evening sky and being beyond thrilled at spotting his 'Moo' and 'Ta' (moon and stars); Hope, falling down, picking herself up and wondering out loud which of her friends would be in the park that evening; Zen pointing out to the 'Kaws' (birds); Summer busily wagging her tail and sniffing everything en route. And while I'm replaying these moments in my head...

We reach the park. The two humans continue ahead. One leads the other up a short flight of stairs. I watch their hands. One, firm but now wrinkled; the other, chubby and eager. One, frail; the other, fragile. It's interesting how the strong hands that once led me are now leading my little guy. My dad. My son. Grandpa (Gampa) and his li'l Zen.

Zen seemed to enjoy his leisurely walk with his well-matched buddy. I think he enjoyed that Gampa took small, unsteady steps just like him; that Gampa didn't rush him and took his time too; that Gampa noticed the Kaws and funny-shaped 'tones' (stones) like him. 

Have you noticed how similar our parents and kids can be, although at the opposite ends of life's timeline? How one goes from taking care of you to being taken care of, while the other goes from being taken care of to well... caring for you? How one goes from being independent to dependent, and the other, the other way around? I guess it's just the stillness of the moment that triggers the thought. But I love how I'm the essential link between the two and yet, they carry on perfectly fluidly, indifferent to me and the visual antithesis they're painting before me.

My memorabilia

The fresh Monday morning air that is programmed to throw me into the week’s rigmarole, did anything but that. On other days, it successfully forces my visual senses to awaken, scares my early morning dreams away and hurls away any reminiscences of a laid back, enjoyable weekend—faint memories of which return, thanks to the tingling taste of caramel custard at the back of my throat—yes, I fell asleep on the couch while gorging on some fabulous caramel custard that was carelessly doused in cream; in fact, the dessert bowl stayed carefully tucked somewhere in my blanket.

No, this time I’m not yet rambling. This write is still about something from yesterday!

A trip down memory lane often makes me light-headed. I twist in my seat, cringe a little. The fingers are frozen in motion, almost like a spastic attack. The smiles become uncontrollable, goose bumps surface, and often, tears well up.

I hate making this trip. Not because of any fright to face the ghosts of the past, but simply because of what a confrontation with those bitter-sweet memories can do. Thawing them would mean reaching out into those dark corners that have stayed undercovers for so long now, almost extinct from human memory. But then, these voyages, yes that is what these are, voyages—stir you from your convenient seat by the window, with that warm coffee mug tightly clasped, watching the raindrops trickle past the window sill. There’s something so soothing and mesmerizing, and yet so discomforting about the moment—la nostalgie!

“People seem to get nostalgic about a lot of things they weren't so crazy about the first time around.” - Anonymous

I second that Mr. Anonymous. We all live off a moment, without really living it, satiating it. And before you decide to take a step back and linger on it, it’s gone, melted away like soft golden butter on a warm slice of toasted bread. So the next convenient thing to do is to dredge the pathetic past and pen down the wistful feeling. Oh overglorified pathos! The ‘living it’ didn’t seem so exciting in the first place. So the next time round, one of your annoying aunts points her overgrown, red-painted nail at you, wrinkles her forehead and advices “Childhood is the best time ever. Enjoy it”, please believe her.

It’s not only the memories of childhood or school stories, but also of friends who shared the deepest secrets, hugged the warmest hugs, and laughed till it hurt; of relationships that were so dear and seemed eternal; of surroundings that etched themselves into your life—your bedroom, or your cubicle at work ... ah! Now that one sparks a memory...

Today, I sit in this corporate cubicle, caved in on all three and a half sides. And believe me when I say I got to stand on my toes to look over it. It limits the world. It restricts the chatter of life around me. On days like these I look to my favourite accomplice for some comfort – my 30MB of music stashed away in some drive. I love the new place, I love the way it welcomed me, love the rosy aroma in the new washroom, love the people—their variety and their contribution to every emotion they conjure up in me, and the air conditioning that makes the hair on my hand stand. I love the numbing feeling and the warmth I feel when I tuck my feet on this life-size chair. I love the free snacks at 4:30pm. I love the chatter and laughter that has recently started to resound. It reminds me that life exists – that we breathe, and haven’t yet submitted to corporate suicidal silence.

That however, does not stop me from missing what I left behind ... BrainVisa! A place I love to death. The place haunts me sometimes (like the ones the good ghosts live in). The running in between cubicles, eating from everyone around, hollering over cubicles, bitching for all to hear, gossip corners all over the floor, toilet paper constantly running out, the 3:30pm chaiwala (burnt though sometimes), the security guards’ cheerful ‘good morning madam’, the parking attendant pinging you coz your car was blocking someone else’s, the regular pranks, planning on the 9th floor, oh bloody hell....I miss them all.

I’m glad I relished every moment of it during my notice period. The last day was the best! Everybody loved me—even those who on any other day wouldn’t. The day before I left I’d carefully picked out this beautiful diary. It was hard-bound; delicately designed with yellow and gold flowers. It contained 200 pages of three distinct colours—creamy white, orange, and pink. The paper had a delicate smell to it—the one of crisp recycled paper with dried leaves and flowers carelessly sprinkled across. I passed it around and asked people to jot down thoughts. Thanks to the li’l book, I’ve taken with me some of the best memories of my three-year stint at BV, though relentlessly condensed into a mere 75 pages. It doesn’t do justice I know, but I’ll take it! As people thoughtfully expressed and opined, I walked around shaking hands, and saying goodbye to even those I’d never quite worked with. I love the way we genuinely sense loss when someone bids farewell, even though as we ambled past each other in otherwise silent corridors, or then, silent elevators, we never quite cared for the acquaintance. The loss is genuine though. The void now established.

I gathered my belongings at 8:10pm that Friday night— a few stray papers, a few files, my comforting shawl, my stationary, my headset, a chart my colleagues prepared, and my diary now complete. I stared at my chair, computer, and desk—my only personalized assets. Thankfully no one noticed the weird passion for my inanimate world at BV. I hugged a few ‘sloggers’ still hanging around. I also said my goodbyes to all three cubicles in the ladies’ washroom, a mumbled one of course. I absorbed the last scene as I made my way to the third floor EXIT. One last picture taken at the reception area, a final press for the elevator, and that’s my final flight to the basement parking. I dumped everything into the backseat and drove home—one last time from my world at BV.

As I pulled out of that parking lot, and drove onto the road, I looked into my rear-view mirror. I saw lights—tail lights, street lights, shop lights, and even building lights in all colours. The people, events and smells from the past came alive. I continued to stare into the mirror, hoping to journey back into that fading kaleidoscope. But I knew then, that the next time I’d be back, two days later though it’d be, I’d be a stranger—and a complete stranger I truly was ... almost like the ghost from yesterday!

Hullabaloo

This unprecedented entry comes as a surprise … yes, even to me. I linger in a genre that I have lately come to find refuge in—traffic. This sighting takes place in the midst of indescribable traffic, yet again, only establishing my recent belief that commuting today is more movement of my thoughts than of the four wheels that take me home. This one’s deep and it’s mainly to give vent to this morning’s anger.

Disclaimer: I am going to ramble on and convert that fraction of a second’s experience into an ‘I don’t know how long’ post.

It’s Monday morning. I get up like everyone else and am all geared up to challenge yet another week of rehearsed routine. Mentally numb and physically exhausted, I heave myself out of bed – an ordeal my dog simplifies with his constant face licks, drool baths, and sometimes suffocating doggy breath. A quick shower, a meticulous wardrobe selection, a steamy hot breakfast of bacon n eggs (thanks dad) and I’m running out of the house. It’s 7:47am on the clock.

I’m in the car, a little earlier than usual and therefore a little more relaxed. The usual company and easy music – this time it’s 4 non blonds’ ‘What’s up’. I’m headed to work with heavy reminiscences of things I did over the long weekend – interesting dinners, lots of guests, exciting drives, amazing music … hmmm… I’m driven to a stage of comfortable numbness with a strange mix of adrenaline-rushed moments and weighing-down fatigue. I make a stop; a rather unexpected one, one that surprises me—a church en route.

I am not the fanatically religious or ritualistic kinds although I’ve been brought up in a family that is uncomfortably tinted with tradition. I am more the spontaneous prayer maker – one of those kinds who seeks divine intervention only when life starts swerving out of control. So I stop my car, step outside and obliviously stroll into the main entrance.

The sudden calm of the dark interior enthrals me and instantly I find my refuge. It’s been a long time since anything close to religion captivated me; this time I like the feeling though it’s more for the inanimate structure rather than anything divine. I’m surrounded by this musty odour, an eerie silence, distant footsteps of probably the sacristan and a few odd humans in the front pews. There’s a cool draft breezing through, carrying with it whispers of solitude. My back feels bare. I feel the prickly stares of some scruffy beggars sitting outside the entrance. They wait there in anticipation, hoping that the good Lord showers on me the Good Samaritan essence so that I dole out a few expensive notes. I find solace in this otherwise uncomfortable enclosure. Uncharacteristically, I kneel and pray.

If I had to describe the feeling I walked out with, I’d be pensive for a while. But now in retrospect, I’d like to think of it as a subtle renaissance within me – the birth of a new emotion – not a religious one, but just one that simply nudges those who sleepwalk through an exhilarating life…hmmm… ‘la naissance’ or ‘birth’ of yet another kind…

But then there’s also the flip side of life – very simply called ‘death’.

So I’m back in the easy comfort of my car. I continue towards my destination, more by habit than by aim. My inanimate Sony Xplode continues what it is programmed to do—emotionlessly churn out anything that’s in sequence, irrespective of the mood of its listeners.

I continue to drive in the peaceful solitude. The light ahead of me turns amber and I mechanically hit the brakes. I stare ahead at the lights, watching calculatingly as the amber turns to red. Within my frame of vision there’s this regular biker. By regular I mean the kind that habitually breaks the signal. Through observation, I’ve learnt that in Pune, breaking traffic rules is a genetic inheritance almost. It isn’t a choice or decision anymore, or is it? I sense some scope for debate there (hmmm ... thought for my next post maybe...). Moving on—Of course he sees he’s lost his turn ‘cause there’s a red staring him in the face. But just like every day, he consciously ignores it. I silently admire his skills as he desperately weaves through the cars and bikes that have already begun to make their way across from the other side. Amidst the crowd, there’s this bike carrying two elderly men clad in dhotis—one carrying milk packets to a destination I will never know, and the pillion rider majestically gesticulating and chatting determinedly over the din. The two Nehru topis that I could see from my vantage point glided so smoothly in the crowd. Somehow, the two old guys made a cute sight. Mid-way, my sense of admiration is jolted and it renovates to shock! Mr. Smartass biker, while maintaining his speed despite the other commuters, rams into the two men. Of course, the impact is nothing I would ever pen down. It’s more a subconscious choice not to get into the details, rather than temporary amnesia. All I recall is a strange shade of bright pink that catches my eye amidst the havoc. The milk never quite got to that destination, the pillion rider’s chatter was never heard again, and our bright young spark who got thrown off his bike, got up in tears and stood there desperately scouring for the scratches that could somehow justify the murder. I would castrate him right there if I had the chance. Yes, I’m not shying away from expressing the first thought that crossed my mind. It is what I thought, and I can’t be bothered that it makes me any less human. I justify my savage thoughts. I saw death.

My light turns green. I can’t move. I can’t feel the warmth of my breath anymore. My heart skipped a beat for sure. Mom turns to me and asks if I’m alright. I nod.

I can still feel the cold steel pricks of death that penetrated my Getz’ metal exterior. The constant honks behind me urge me to put the car in gear. I do so. I can’t stop; or do I choose not to? I drive past the scene, as people begin to hammer, beat, and kick Mr. Smartass. Given their intensity, I think they killed him too. I would never know. The revenge is justified in my head... or is it?

There’s this eeriness lingering in the car. It’s the feel of death. I roll down my windows, as if to release the spirits within. I shudder. A minute later, the pink memory turns to black—a colour with which I associate all things evil, bad, and ominous—death too. I need air—some good clean fresh air.

So to you, my dear reader, would this post make you think twice before you break yet another red? Think hard. My savage thought of castration still stands.

Yet another day

Another day down, as the clock of life ticks on. Another one of those ‘hollow’ days. Are there others like me out there who live out days with the burden of shallow nothingness on their backs? Well, I shall rant about it, for a few minutes, in my virtual sanctuary.

I walked into my workplace – usually a fun-filled, careless, carefree, yet productive zone, festooned with the regular elements that make Brainvisa what it is. It seemed like the regular day, one of its lately consistent disguises donned! I grabbed my li’l plastic cup of coffee and yummy eggs spread on browned tomatoes—a piping hot breakfast I would have loved to gorge on within the comfort of my dimly lit kitchen. I had to pack it though, because of my dredging inability to leave the house at 7:45am. I did finish every last scrap of it in front of this mindless illuminated screen with the soundtrack of Grease playing in loop through my headphones.

Work’s been a disaster these last few days. Not in a dysfunctional way, but more in a ‘I didn’t DO anything today’ kinda way. The feeling almost makes me want to become Michael Jackson and Heal the World for a day. Yes – although it’s much too further a thought to provoke, provoke I must. I don’t want to turn around on the shore I’ve walked and see an empty serene scene—with nothing in it but …uh…. stillness, you know? I want to see, well….so much more! ... “….Maybe a wedding in progress. The bride in an off-white gown tinged yellow, the glow, which coupled with the perfectly timed sunset, reflects on her beautiful shoulders and cheeks, as she laughs candidly beside the man she’s always loved. She, laying down her bouquet of white and yellow roses tied with a flowing golden curling ribbon, walks forward for her first dance, her husband smiling eagerly as they walk toward the centre. The crowd waiting expectantly for the romantic slow dance. But the couple, nonconformists that they are, step up the wedding celebration with practiced moves to ‘You’re that one that I want’ (grease OST – yes, I’ve been listening to it all morning!). Definitely miles away from the anticipation of the crowd. But, it’s done well. Music, cheer, fun and excitement fill the air, the thrill of which I feel as goose bumps rise on my skin. Balloons and snow spray I see in the distance as the sun finally sets and elusive amber lights fade in to submerge the darkness. It’s a beautiful sight – everything is aglow! Le festin est sur mon chemin!!! Now that’s the life I want to see as I walk away. Oh so profound! The mind sniggers as I type.

Oh, yes, I often drift off on a tangent when I think of weddings—that’s my forte you see—not the getting married part, but everything around it—to feel the satin gown as it fondles my body, walk down the envied isle, gently touch the flowers as they decorate the pews, wear the prestiged tiara, smile as I see my man want me at the altar, feel the chill of metal as the platinum ring glides over my finger …….oh…..there I go again! So yes, dragging myself back to my current musings, I needed to rant about…uhhhh…what was that????.... Oh yes—the not-so-regular happy day! The day moves on, hauled by me; almost like the little school boy who trudges along a scruffy path as he heads home after a long rough day—the tons in his backpack relentlessly adding to his already agonizing pace. A mix of fillers I engage myself with—a few random websites, Facebook, Gmail, YouTube, an enormous music collection whose rendition I can’t survive without, a little storyboarding and yes, the infinite involuntary clicks on the Send/receive button of my Microsoft Outlook mailbox. My phone contributes to few temporary moments of pleasure. It rings and beeps, defying the stupefied silence that surrounds me, insulting the monotony of the virtual deserted feel of the cubicle (‘cept for few interruptions by keyboards and mice of course). Thank god for it. With the rubberband holding it together, or without – I thank God for my phone at this point. 1 minute silence. Chat keeps me alive too. A few humans like me at the other end, try to contrive this little world of Gtalk buddies. Thank God for it. 1 minute silence. My treat scraps are running out – I still survive. Then its 5:30 on the clock. I’m losing my mind – help me breathe. I picked up my celebrity-statured pink bag and walked right out of here. Sat in my car for a whole 2 minutes – which is an eternity in solitude. The radio failed to jolt the smallest of nerves or emotions. So I drove myself home in silence, insensitive to the noisy, hounding traffic that distanced my destiny.

The car was parked. All deeds were done. I could finally caress some slumber, I breathed. The phone rang, it was mom. She wanted a meal of dal and rice prepared since she’d be late. My mind groans, not me. I ran up the stairs. I stood outside the door as the hunt for my house keys began. It’s a lot to go through you know—a small purse, a makeup vanity case, a packet holding bank and cheque books, a comb, random papers, junk, trash, etc. Found! I inserted the key in the keyhole as I heard a faint whoof on the other side of the door. I opened the door. My li’l baby doggy was already half way up, clambering over every part of me that he could possibly clamber over. His tiny whoofs, which he manages without any jaw movement still trigger my attention and amazement. My wrap, the bag and its contents, a muddle on the floor. He jumps and barks and wags his tail incessantly. My face still out of reach. He runs around the hall for a few brief seconds, hurdles over the table and is back on me. I tried to calm him, but to no avail. All his 25kgs of which he is blissfully unaware, forces me onto the sofa. Finally within reach, he starts to lick. Aaaaah!!!! Slimy, stinky, wet drool, layered on my face. It feels awesome! He’s back on his feet, errrr, paws and runs off as if suddenly hit by some stroke of lunacy, then returns with his famous football in mouth. Now that’s his famous game, if you must know. You yank the ball away from him and then throw it – ‘fetch’ is it??? yes - that’s it! He continued to jump and bark and run with glee, as I exited the scene to battle utensils and ingredients in the kitchen.
Much later, as I curled up in bed, I felt the soft paws somewhere in my blanket. I pinned them down with my feet. His head pops out of the blanket with the most adorable stare. I smiled as he closed his eyes and fell asleep, half tucked in and half out…

As I type now with a grin on my face, I realise the trivialness of a depressed feeling or a boring day. I blog it out of desperation to convey how a tiny moment of joy can transform your day… so much so that I cooked dum chicken in white sauce instead of dal and rice. And it went a long way in being appreciated. Interesting!

Here’s an appropriate lil something I found. Read on, while I drown out the few crumbs of sorrow still on my plate, with a bar of KitKat….
There can be so much joy in life,
Frequently too much to measure,
Sweet times of peaceful, happy thoughts,
And moments of infinite pleasure.

Warm rays of sunshine kissing our skin,
A soft breeze’s gentle caress,
A kind word or a friendly touch,
A quiet release from stress.

The lilting voices of happy children
As they scamper around and play,
The carefree trot of a little pup,
Help to brighten up our day.

Joy can come from the simplest things,
A smile or a tender embrace,
For life’s a great play if we live every scene
Not some jaded journey to race

a 119-second stop!

So here I am, consciously and yes, cautiously driving down this crowded road—just one of the many remorseless ones that find themselves geographically positioned on my route home. And since the drive is an everyday must-do and a rather long one, my car carries its regular supply of water, wafers and hmm…those favourite tunes. I make it to the first signal. I look around. My car still running. I see that lifeless digital contraption telling me that I have to wait another 119 seconds before I can cruise again. And so, in yet another attempt of conserving that energy resource that we’ve all been musing over and emphatically debating lately, I turn off the ignition and wait my turn. I’m silently curbing my impatience. I turn up the volume and limply sing along, barely realising that it’s Bryan Adams’ ‘Flying’, one of my recent favourites. I’m subconsciously enjoying the cool air and music my Getz provides me with, mutely content that I’m spared the pollution, endless honking and piercing stares of being yet another woman driver…

I begin to look around. There’s this cab driver adjusting his mirror, desperately trying to spot an interesting face. Then there’s this dark green Skoda, hmm… a big shot, who won’t as much as twitch (makes me wonder whether all that money kills only the little wada pav pleasures or also basic body movements ). Then I spot a pretty girl in her hmm…Honda I think...who holds my attention for about half a minute (yes, I admire beauty in all forms, with no modifications to my gender preferences). I’m slightly dead beat. I shut my eyes and calculatedly, miss a few blinks. The distinct noises, not sounds, but noises, still keeping my aural senses alive, forcing me to stay awake. I can hear the relentless honking and faint trails of conversation between folks on two-wheelers, desperately trying to make themselves heard above the din. There’s also the cop blowing his whistle somewhere in the distance, at no one in particular and for no pointed reason, but to simply make his presence felt... Knock! Knock!... I’m forced into reality. There’s this little girl, dirty, filthy and clad in rags. The few bits of tattered orange cloth cover her rather small frame. She wore a nose ring; one made from a crude wire she probably stumbled across. She had moist big bright eyes that starkly contrast her dry, muddy complexion. She intrigued me. I rolled down my window and said nothing. She puts out her hand and in a voice, so much more mature and stronger than her physical self, addresses me… ‘didi’ (not heard that in a long time…). I’m amused by the way, we in India (coz I am blissfully unaware of other regions that connote to similar usage), can create relationships at traffic signals, in a span of few seconds, with mere four-letter words, without necessarily having common ancestry. Hmmm…(smile) … and so, proceeding with my story, she asks for food or money. I reluctantly give her my wafer packet (yes, reluctantly, coz I’m just another selfish human with all my faults and failings and yes, that’s my only excuse). But that doesn’t do it for her; she catches sight of my famous, broken car mirror, lying on the dashboard and picks it up. I reach for her hand to stop it, but she’s faster coz I’m still in my motionless, pondering state. She stares at herself in the mirror for a bit, casually positioning few strands of hair and then pulling them behind her ear. I caught sight of a bright, loud orange marigold tucked away in her braid. The marigold is clean and fresh, starkly contrasting her face. She confidently adjusts her nose ring, purses her lips, raises an eyebrow, gently blinks her eyes, shyly smiles at her image, throws the mirror back inside and runs away. I’m still staring at the marigold bobbing away, dodging between cars. It’s invisible and then seen and then gone forever…Honk Honk…. Damn! Turn key, quick first gear, hand brake down and I’m cruising again, still dealing with the stares for having interrupted traffic for an eternity of 3 seconds.

I’m still thinking of the little girl, her premature adulthood and her reticent, yet dramatic performance. How different is she from me I wonder? When vanity gets the better of me, I too purse my lips, blink my ‘kajal’ed eyes, smile at myself in the mirror and yes, can even raise a single eyebrow. How come she does exactly what I do? I wear no marigold and no rose ring, but still see myself in her. Was it her demeanour or was it what she didn’t say? Was it her calling me ‘didi’ or taking my wafer packet away? I cannot know. My education fails me….yet again!

I’ve longed to see her again at that very signal and others too, but never did. Those 119 seconds (plus 3) hold my thoughts, sometimes even late at night while I’m writing my diary. And I still marvel at how in her finding her image, I found my reflection… and then my realisation… that with all my revered qualifications and superficial comforts, just like her… I’m human!