FAILING NANAK

Many years back when I last stopped at this rare Dhaba on Sultanpur Lodhi-Kapurthala road, it was operating as one joint. Now a partition in the front verandah indicates two shops. Brothers doing what it appears is the natural thing these days – getting divided.

As I wait for a cup of tea, I catch up on whatsapp messages. There are few messages in ‘Kisan Ekta’ group. This is a group that was formed by my village boys last year to discuss, inform and participate in the farmers movement. It also has been my portal into what does the rounds of social media in rural Punjab. Last night it was the clips of the person attempting sacrilege at Golden Temple, clips of gathered crowd banging on the doors of gurudwara committee baying for his blood and the bloody images of the dead body. There are a few new videos this morning. One is discussing a PIL that asks all pension and perks of politicians to be removed. Then a video starts with a young man beating someone whose hands and legs are tied. After a few seconds the camera turns to someone who starts speaking of how they have caught another person attempting sacrilege. He narrates the story, and the beating continues in the background. The sound of traffic passing by fades. The words of the speaker in the video fade. Only the ‘lathi’ in the hand of one who appears a young handsome turbaned boy swings and meets a young helpless tied young body. Over and over again.

Main us bare apshabad sunda haan,

Usdi pat rakhan layi,

Hathiyar chuk lainda haan,

Usdi pat meri muhtaaj nahin.

(I hear impolite words about him

To keep his honor

I take up arms

His honor doesn’t depend on me.)

The five minute long clip shows the tied man being brutally beaten as the speaker, the granthi of the Gurudwara, narrates how they caught this man early morning and how the ‘sangat’ should reach the place immediately, of how they will not hand over the person to police and of how the religious heads should come and give this man punishment as per religious code and conduct.

Usdi gall karan wale,

sareyan nu sunda haan,

Pujari vidwaan chele yodhe,

Bas ose nu hi nahi sunda.

(Those who talk about him

I listen to them all

Priests, scholars, followers, warriors

Only to him I don’t listen)

This clip is from somewhere in Kapurthala. A short distance away from where I sit and sip my tea. I check the local news. People have ‘listened’ to the call of the ‘priest’ and have gathered at the village of this incident. Police is there as well. The person is still in captivity of the ‘sangat.’  One key Kapurthala road is already blocked. I remember the roads all over Punjab getting blocked a few years back the day of another sacrilege and following police action. I pay for my tea and turn my car back towards home, towards Sultanpur Lodhi, towards Nanak’s town.

It was a day of celebration at Singhu. The sangat was organizing a Nagar Kirtan. The tractor-trolley-tent township was cleaned and decorated as best as possible and everyone was in a positive, cheerful mood. Few friends from Delhi had come that day. We were walking along the lanes of this place of resistance, a place of hope, a place of pilgrimage, when a young girl carrying a small poster with Sukhpal’s Main Te Nank passed by. I stopped her and asked her if she had read the poem on the poster. She said no. I requested her that she should, and I requested her father who was standing next to her that he should read this with her and explain and understand.

I wish I could hit a pause button over Punjab and like that little girl, ask all of them to read Sukhpal (if not Nanak).

The road runs parallel to the solitary train track between Kapurthala and Sultanpur Lodhi. Mostly local trains use this track, with an occasional Jammu Tavi. In 2019, on the occasion of 550th birth purab of Nanak, the one room railway station of Sultanpur Lodhi was renovated and a grand hall built. It played religious movies during the Gurupurab celebration. It was meant to be a reception area of the new station but time stands still in that empty hall now. A new train was started on the occasion from Sultanpur Lodhi to Delhi, aptly named Sarbat Da Bhala. The one time I travelled by it, it took 20 hours for a journey of 8 hours. I was told that it was an isolated incident, and that train usually was on time. In another four hours it will be the ‘right’ time for Sarbat da Bhala to cross from where I am right now. But from where I am right now, it seems Sarbat Da Bhala is now ‘forever delayed.’

Oh aap taan kuch vi nahin,

Na Musalmaan Na Hindu Na Sikh,

Main hi kuch banna jaroori samajhda haan.

(He himself is none

Not Muslim, Not Hindu, Not Sikh

But I think it is important to be one.)

I have driven about a mile when I see a familiar face standing by the road. I slow down and stop, and  reverse about ten meters, roll down the window and greet Bhullar Sahab.

A soft spoken, erudite, well reasoned and well seasoned card carrying communist. That is Balwinder Singh Bhullar. One of those associations made at the Kisan Morcha. It was an easy association to make from the very first meeting and fireside discussions at Singhu border early January 2021. He is district president of Kirti Kisan Union and a state committee executive member. I spent hours listening and debating communism with him. My notes from those long discussions with him only carry three points. “Since we want privatization, why don’t we privatise governance.” “Khanda saadi virasat hai, lal jhanda saadi siyasat hai.” “Communism is sarbat da bhala.” Despite the red blooded comrade that he is, he is easily likable.

Discussions with Bhullar sahab turned to debates many times, but reason never left the room (or the trolley in this case). The same wasn’t always true of the flag-carrying-stalwarts of the ‘right’ or the ‘panth’ there. One evening a day or two before the 26^th January (the one that could have been!) I found myself among a few youngsters eager in their energy to ‘capture Delhi.’ My boring laments of sticking to what the SKM leaders decide and keeping the morcha non-violent proved a bit too much for one of the group. ‘Aida dadha rakheya, eh kaaton rakheya, sharam karo, Singh Bano.’

A surprised Bhullar sahab steps inside the car. His greeting is warm and his smile sincere and affectionate. He was waiting for a bus to go to Sultanpur Lodhi. It’s only a ten minute drive at my usual speed but with Bhullar sahab and an opportunity for news on SKM I drive slower. On enquiring how is rest and break after morcha, he replies like only a true red could. “Morcha khatam nahi hunda. Kisani Sangharash sampooran inquilab da ik pada si.’ For him the morcha is never ending, the fight an ongoing continuous endeavor. The distance goes by fast with Bhullar sahab. As we reach the bounds of Sultanpur Lodhi we cross Gurudwara Sant Ghat. This is where Nanak appeared three days after disappearing into Kali Veyin. The history board at the gurudwara says his first words after he reappeared were ‘na koi Hindu, na koi Muslim’. The question that no one asks, or answers is – did say he say there is a third?

Oh veyian vich dubda hai,

Khanabadosh ho janda hai

Main osdi bani da gutka fadda haan

Booha dho ke baih janda haan.

(He drowns in rivulets

Wanders from place to place, becomes omnipresent.

I hold the book of his hymns

And hide behind a closed door.)

‘What brings you to Sultanpur Lodhi?” I ask Bhullar sahab as I near the place where he has asked me to drop him. I should have guessed the answer. ‘Inquilab.’ He is here to deliver copies of December 21 issue of their magazine ‘Inquilabi Sada Raah.’ I ask for and get a copy. He walks away, on his continuous endeavor.

The link road to my village is next to Gurudwara Ber Saheb, the place where Nanak sat under a Ber tree and meditated on ‘His’ name for nearly 14 years. I navigate the Sunday crowd, greet those serving chai langar to passing traffic, and exit for the link road. The Darshani Deori to the Gurudwara is on the link road. As I cross, I glimpse at the white structure where we bow in Nanak’s name.

Usde aakheyan rab nu ek manda haan,

Rabb de bandeyan nu ek nahin samajhda,

Udaasiyan karan wale nu,

Main udaas kar ditta hai

(He says and I believe God is one

God’s creation mankind, I don’t treat as one

The unweary traveller of all directions

Is melancholy, worn down, with my actions.)

‘It has been a long wait for justice.’ ‘Hundreds of cases of desecration and sacrilege and no culprits have been punished.’ ‘It’s the system and government that has let us down, these deaths are their responsibility.’ ‘The system and government has failed us.’ The list of arguments and justifications is long.

I enter the last stretch of road before reaching home. Somewhere nearby the lathi swings, somewhere the swords are raised, and the jaikaras issued, the pitch and fervor reach a crescendo and a question goes unsaid, unheard - ‘Haven’t we all failed Nanak?’

Main usda Sikh hon di koshish karda haan,

Oh mere Nanak hon di udeek karda hai.

(I try to become his Sikh

He waits for me to be Nanak.)

(at Singhu - December 2020)

Genies Don't Wait

The twelve-inch black and white Onida was switched on and volume kept to a minimum as everyone else slept. The TV will not be switched on this early in the morning too often in its decades’ long existence. Dipak Patel bowls the first over and Srikanth being himself holes out for a duck. Ten years old, he had never owned a bat till then (other than the cloth washing bat ‘thaapi’ that his mother had) nor he will own one later, but after the 1992 cricket world cup spirit of Imran Khan called him and he announced that he wanted to be a cricketer.

The parent’s day at school is over and he says bye to his mother at the gate. She walks the half kilometer to DC chowk, saving five rupees that the rickshaw would have charged. As she limps to her bus, he puts the ten rupee note she had just given him in his pocket and runs to his hostel dorm where boys are busy going through the goodies’ parents have left behind for them. One of them has a lot of fancy chocolates. ‘My uncle in merchant navy got these for me. He earns lacs every month.’ When school principal asked him what he wanted to do, he announced proudly, ‘I want to make a lot of money.’ Although he never set foot on one, at that time merchant navy ships called him.

Three years at Mumbai office were over. HR asked him where he wanted his next posting. ‘Some place like Brazil or Caribbeans,’ he joked a wish. Five years later as he submitted his resignation, having been to more countries than his wish but never Brazil or Caribbeans, his then boss looked at him questioningly. As a longing, of soil, of words, called him, he answered, ‘I want to go home.’

A few days back, as he lay in his bed, on the threshold of sleep, (and on the threshold of the fifth decade of his life), he heard her voice.

‘Your three wishes.’

He knew the voice that called. He didn’t know the answer.

‘I need to think,’ he said.

‘Genies don’t wait,’ the voice said.

In the dreams that followed he was a young boy chasing dreams.

Of prayers and wishes...

It is a comfortable sofa and he has his feet up on the center table. As the movie finishes, he switches the channel to news.

“In this video you can see the police beating the farmers who were protesting their evacuation from the plot. The farmer couple consumed pesticide and are now battling for their life in the civil hospital.”

He changes to another news channel.

“Amitabh Bachchan and Abhishek have tested positive for Covid. They have mild symptoms and have been admitted to a top hospital in Mumbai.”

He opens his twitter account and posts.

“Get well soon Big B. Our prayers and wishes are with you.”

 

Finding Memories

Up till this moment...

titled as - Finding Memories
signed as ...Mithrandir...

who introduced himself as...

'Once upon a time,

When the poems had a rhyme.

There lived a lonely man,

Under the tree, across the river.

At long it came to pass,

On his way to mountain lake.

Was it black or green as grass,

He crossed a waiting snake.'

When I die...

When I die, will you know?
When I die, who will know?
When I die, will you mourn?
When I die, who will mourn?
When I die, will I die?

(notes from a client meeting @BP office in Baku, Azerbaijan, 2010)

No Man is an Island

The door is closed to keep the sounds of the world (a sleeping world at this time) out. The windows are shut to keep the bugs and mosquitos (all fully awake at this time) out. The curtains are drawn (to keep ‘them’ eyes from looking (these are looking all the time, despite the time it may be). The walls meet each other at the perfect angles the engineer designed these for. The roof is white compared to the creamish color of the walls. The floor is the shining light-cream ceramic tiles. Shining but silent. Imported but now converted. The tubelight illuminates (despite the thoughts that are flowing) what otherwise will be a dark room. The mirror on the right side of the wall, right as the man sits on the bed with back to the wall which faces the wall with the tubelight, reflects the pyjamas and trousers hanging on the hangers nailed to the door. There is a phone on the night table next to the bed. This phone is his connection. With ‘them’ all. Nothing breathes, except the person who types (and the fan that obeys the switch). Nothing lives except the short lived thoughts. He has been on this island for a long time now. He has been this island for a long time.

And then the phone rings… ‘them’ attachments are calling…

The Vanishing Act

A friend’s girlfriend gifted him Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Elephant Vanishes’. What was she thinking? Maybe she did not mean to do ‘the act’ at the time. Maybe it was just a ‘good’ book being carefully selected for the guy of the moment. In any case, intentionally or not, planned or not, the vanishing act happened.

Personally, when it comes to ‘judging’ a book, when required to ‘comment’ on a book, I have got a very limited skill set. Qualifying a book as good or bad is hard task for me, providing a literary and critical review is still something that I can only do in my head. Whether the book is worth the time and effort of a person, in simple terms of yes or no, I can say with some certainty. But then again that will be my take on the book and generally the trend has been that there aren’t many takers of my takes (digressing to avoid the unavoidable thought that popped up just now and referring to the Supreme Court verdict – there will always be enough keepers for any ‘keep’ no matter whose ‘keep’, plus what about all the men who are kept? anyways…).

Coming back to books, let’s take, for example, Chetan Bhagat. He made himself ‘someone’ with five points. Infact got more than five points for the effort, which he deserved to an extent. So, I would say the book is worth the time and effort. Now, from there it all goes downhill (not that downhill is a bad direction all the time but for the Holy Ganges and Chetan Bhagat it seems to be the case). ‘One night’ was certainly not worth the night of effort I put. ‘3 mistakes of his life’ was my second mistake. However, the title of the second book seemed prophetic when I read his third mistake ‘2 states’. Did you notice these numbers in the titles of his books? I just did! Something to do with being an engineer? Maybe. In any case, what my ‘opinion’ on my senior’s oeuvre (to use the fancy word) would be – first book worth your time, other three – let them be his mistakes only.

And yet, to emphasise again, this would be my take. Your take, opinion, view, perspective, thoughts, whatever we may call that may be different.

But we are moving away from the vanishing act. Before Chetan takes another para (all my sympathies are with him in regards to the ‘3 Idiots’ fiasco) let me get back. The object here was not to discuss any particular author or a book, it was to look behind the object of gifting a book and the vanishing act that is not foreseen, forethought, foreplanned (if that is a word!), etc. etc.

I know a guy who gifted two books to this girl he saw, went around, was friends with for a while. Let’s just say that it was me. That way we can look at it more closely. It was to be their (our, I should say) first meet and there was quite a build-up to the meeting. Not knowing what to buy (for some reason I was sure that one needed to get a gift) I opted for a safe option - get her a book (it would be a gift as well as some sort of statement that I am into books, if you know what I mean). But picking a book was not easy. It can’t be the ‘Love Story’, too obvious and the poor girl dies as well. It can’t be a thriller – it’s a gift for a girl. It can’t be a classic – too much of propriety involved there. It can’t be Wodehouse- no propriety there. It can’t be ‘Gone with the wind’ or ‘A Suitable Boy’ – come on who gifts someone they want to say they like or love or something of the sorts, over a 1000pages of such small font!! So after racking my brains for a long time I decided that the book has to be one that I have not read. The ones that I have read will always have something against them. So, out of the few books that I could recognize and had not read ‘Love in the time of cholera’ stood out. Haven’t you seen Serendipity? And Garcia was supposedly a ‘good’ writer.

Big Mistake. Never ever gift a book if you haven’t read it. Plus, if you think about it, even in Serendipity the-girl-who-gets-the-guy is not the one who gifts this book to him, it is the-girl-who-does-not-get-the-guy who gifts that book. But we don’t really pay that much thought when the things are going alright. It’s afterwards that we sometimes focus on our blind spots. The last word of book is something that I should have seen. ‘Forever’ is a tough promise to keep.

After spending half an hour on the treadmill thinking about this whole gift-a-book thing I am still not sure what book can make an ideal gift. At least if one is not sure where that particular relation is heading. There are many harmless ‘good’ books around. I know for sure many girls give many a harmless sort of gifts to keep the advances in a check and also not giving the poor fella a firm negative. Maybe guys do something similar as well but I am not sure their minds are that developed yet.

The second gift (book that my friend gifted) was the kind of book that makes for quite a harmless gift. Infact it works as a proper gift even if it is a meeting gift or parting gift. The title was something like “In the midst of a winter”. Story of some young boys playing baseball and there was a lot of snow involved in the story. I have long forgotten the story. But this was a book I had read before. It was a book about keeping faith. Now that is the kind of theme that’s OK. But how we can say that we want a harmless gift at the time, it’s the benefit of hindsight that isn’t such-much benefit after all.

Some library went bankrupt across the seas in some country. They auctioned the books. One container full of the books found its way on a ship bound for India. At the auction in Bombay a bookstore from Pune got the container load and these books were found one day on a Pune roadside. I remember three books that I bought (there may have been more). One of these was “In the midst of a winter”. Where is it now? Somewhere ‘in the midst of a winter’!

I read “Love in the Time of Cholera” long after life had moved on in more than one way. I think The Elephant Vanishes would have been a much suitable gift.

I sit on the top of the hill and look down into the elephant house where they have chained the elephant of hope. Its keeper is present there next to it, reality they call the keeper. As I sit there I see strange happenings that the town will hear about in the morning but not know how it happened. The thing that I will not share with anyone, afraid I won’t be believed. Till of course I find a reason to do so (maybe write a story about it). The elephant of hope is tied with a steel chain to the concrete post (as usual). Reality the keeper brings water for hope, puts some leaves on its side, the last rituals before its time to rest for the day. But as the elephant of hope drinks the water ‘the thing’ starts happening. I was thinking about her for some reason when I am brought out of the trance with what is happening down in the elephant house to hope. As if in a continuation of my thoughts of her, the elephant of hope starts diminishing in size. As hope shrinks the keeper of reality stands there adjusting the leaves as if nothing is out of the ordinary. And then it is done. Only the reality and the chain that had held hope was all that remained.

It was the vanishing act I could tell no one about.

PS: The Elephant Vanishes is a ‘good’ book and worth one’s time (in my opinion).

Turkmenistan

An early morning flight more often than not implies a round-about mid-night wake-up alarm. And the company driver was stricter than one would find usually and deposited me at the airport at 2:30 for a 4:30 flight when in this airport a 4:00am check-in would have been well ahead of time. Most likely they fly a single digit number of flights from this airport in a whole day. As was the case I along with two other company employees found myself sitting in departure area with plenty of time to spare. I still had few chapters of David Copperfield on the other side of the bookmark and I was happy to busy myself while the two companions talked about the fishing gear they had purchased and were carrying with them on way to their respective homes.

It was a pleasant surprise to hear the driver exclaim ‘David Copperfield’ as I took the book out of my bag and started reading during one of the trips from office to the hotel. He followed that with “very good tricks, you learning?” At least that sounded like a question to me and not to be found wanting, although I was still in the early stages of the book, and not knowing that this David Copperfield will not be doing any tricks, the kind my driver was talking about, I smiled and just nodded. Another person in the office happened to know the author and commented at David Copperfield being very famous book of Charles Dickens. I was getting a little impressed with the local knowledge of Charles Dickens. Very unexpected for Ashgabat. Maybe it was just that the drivers had never seen a Sardar/Sikh before but they all wanted to make some conversation. Only problem was their limited vocabulary of English and my complete and utter ignorance of any of the languages they could speak. The book in my hands offered a one-two line conversation which kept them happy and which I did not mind. Maybe they all talked about this strange looking guy and also discussed the book as it was strange the way they all talked about it. But then I had it. This third guy made me suspicious that it was not the same David Copperfield they were talking about. “David Copperfield, very famous”. And that’s when I had to take help of the life-saving google and the mystery was solved.

It has been nearly three months since the last line on this article was written. The trip to Dubai seemed to have pushed the Turkmenistan entry really back in the pile of back-log. The article was to talk about “the crazy girl” and to some extent about the wanderlust of Punjabis. Yet, I only managed to get myself to the departure lounge and solve the mystery of David Copperfield. Any-what-how-ever, it is time.

It was a surprisingly cheap flight (USD19.00) from Ashgabat to some town close to Balkanabat. The three-months-delay side-effects. The names have slipped out of the, by nature very erratic, memory. Still. It was a two hour long flight. Decent planes. Alright service. Apparently a part of the propaganda of us being a very developed country was to allow the poor to fly. They could make a return trip (equivalent of Delhi-Bombay trip) costing equivalent of six kg of apples!!! Apparently, who need good food when the flights are subsidized? Anyways, after the flight the ride to Balkanabat was another two hours and one hardly crosses a living thing the whole way. It may be called a beautiful landscape if it was not so empty or maybe it was somewhat beautiful because it was so empty.

We reached Balkanabat and were soon close to the final destination, Schlumberger base (office, workshop, camp all in one enclosed area). I was in the state of being in and out of sleep, neither here nor there, by the time we reached close to the base. The driver made a sound which I heard as “the crazy girl”. I thought I saw a girl standing on the right side of the road. But, I was not very alert and after a few hundred yards or so we turned right and entered the company base.

It is an excellent place considering the out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere location. The camp (or living) area is very well maintained and a lot of water is wasted every morning and evening to keep the place green (the general landscape lacks the green element as well). Room, canteen, office, workshop, office, more workshop, more canteen, more room, some office again and on and on. Few days went by before I realized that I have not stepped out of the base. And another few days went by before I actually went out. In any case, one evening I did step out of the base.

The base is right next to the railway lines and as one steps out the railway station is visible about a mile straight ahead. It has a very Indian rural railway station look. Only the yellow signboard with station name seemed missing. And then there were cows crossing the lines, just to add to that feeling of recognition. So after giving a fair share of attention to the railway station and the cows and the surroundings in general I walked ahead and turned left. The company base is one side of the city. Rest of the city was now straight ahead and was flanked by a hill on the other side. Zoom to the max and click. One just can’t help being a tourist.

As I walked towards that mountain I passed many heaps of discarded metal, concrete and all sorts. Place looked like a junk yard. There were dogs on the road. Dogs with a GRRRRRR in their throats and sufficiently large bodies to make you look behind left or right every now and then. A guy sitting next to a door waved acknowledgement. I nod and move on. People here in this part have not seen many sardars. Their reactions vary from normal to highly abnormal. Girls giggle, sometime even laugh, boys try to keep a straight face but find it difficult and can’t help nudging their friends to catch a look of the specimen. Children start pointing at the funny fellow. The best or rather the worst has been a little boy of seven or eight turning back, finding a very different face in front of him, shrieked and ran to his mother. I try to keep a straight face through all but mostly I can’t help smiling, though many times this annoys me as well.

As I walked I realized that on the left side of the road, some distance ahead, there stood a girl. Slim, average height, long hair and with a very long chain in her hands which she was swinging around in circles. Coming nearer one could see that she was talking and being alone it meant she must be talking to herself. ‘The crazy girl’ I suddenly remembered. I tried not to look/stare in her direction and kept walking straight ahead. At the first round about I looked in all directions, found the roads to be too long to be conquered, and turned back. As I turned back I noticed the girl again. She had few dogs around her. Remembering the GRRRR I was a little apprehensive for the girl. But she seemed not to mind the dogs. They all looked quite peaceful near her. A little puppy was limping towards her. She (for some reason) took a break from the chain swinging and saw the puppy limp towards her. She walked forward and picked the puppy and went and sat on the roadside. After a minute or so, she let the puppy go, got up walked back to her place and started talking to herself and swinging the chain. I kept moving straight ahead and passed her. As I crossed the group of dogs I realized that little one that was limping was not limping anymore.

I came out of the base in the evenings once or twice again and the girl was there. From a distance I could see that her company of dogs was always around. On the day I left for Ashgabat we left early in the morning. She was not there. The dogs were all sitting here and there sleeping, tails tucked in, drooling tongues, GRRRR in their throats.

And after few days, an early morning I found myself sitting in the departure lounge of Ashgabat airport waiting for my flight to Baku reading David Copperfield with two other Schlumberger colleagues on their ways home discussing the fishing gear they had recently bought. It must have been 30 minutes or so since I started reading that I was asked a question in a language I least expected for the place I was at. Generally, they say that Punjabis are found everywhere. I have tested this hypothesis and found that to an extent it was true but not always. For example in Baku in nearly six months the only sardar I have seen is when I look into the mirror. Same was true for Turkmenistan. No sardars here as well (apart from me of course). Hardly any Indians for that matter. Baku, though, does boast of some Indians. In any case hearing, “beta koi pani di botal hai” at Ashgabat airport was a surprise and I looked up from my book and found a sardarji standing next to me. An old man, with hardly any black in the beard, wearing a kurta pyjama and a distant look in eyes. He was asking for a water bottle, an empty one to be precise. It was early morning and it was his time for the bowel movements and in his world they need water afterwards, toilet papers don’t suffice. It was quite a request.

In ‘Tales from Ferozeshah Bagh’, Rohinton Mistry, tells a tale of an Indian who goes to Canada. This particular Indian finds it hard to “take a dump” on the western style commodes. He can only do it squatting. This leads to a lot of embarrassing situations and in the end he decides that he can’t become westernized as he can’t do it the west way and packs up everything and decides to go back to India. on the flight back (most likely before the flight takes off) he eats something which causes some stomach trouble and the toilet of the airplane didn’t allow him enough space to squat and in the end he, one way or the other, succeeds in doing it the west way. But by that time he is already on his way home.

Why I mention this here? No reason in particular. And I did not think this when the gentleman asked me for the bottle.

I did have a water bottle but it wasn’t empty and I did not want to give him the drinking water I had carried along. Had he been somewhat younger I would have just rubbished the request. But here was an old man, truly Punjabi and desi by nature. Travelling to or from some part of world where he clearly did not belong. What were his reasons? I do not know maybe even he himself don’t know. Maybe, just because it was ‘the thing’ these days. Going to Kaneda, Jurman, Amrika. The wanderlust doesn’t leave space for reasons.

I told him to wait and went to the canteen in the lounge, asked them for an empty bottle and the lady there was kind enough to fish one out of the heap of bottles in rubbish bin. This I passed onto the gentleman and he was on his way to ‘relieve the pressure’ from his life. ‘Bahar jana’. That is what we say back home. For both the things, taking a dump and travelling out of our country.

I looked around and found that the sardarji was not alone. I noticed a group of over twenty Punjabis, men, women, boys, girls, sitting in a corner. Turbans, flowing beards, Punjabi suits, duppatas. To avoid the usual situation of having to make a conversation with my own type I busied myself with the book and did not look left right up or back till my flight was announced.

Five Years

This entry in gone by Dickenson-Austen era may have been titled with use of word vanity or pride or any other near synonym. But I will just let it refer to the very obvious of titles and try to hide (or maybe not) the self indulgence of the entry in the lines instead. I may not have written this entry had it not been for the small email on the group and that got me thinking on doing a slightly larger version of ‘the thing’ and in the process get back to blog world after a reasonably long gap. Anyhow.

So, it’s been five years since I joined the current company I work for/with/at. 17th Oct 2005 (seniority date as they call it). The probability of this event at that time (when I was in prime of my job hopping days-10 months with Tata and six months with EVS) on the likelihood scale was ‘highly unlikely’. But then stranger things have happened. When writing that little email the main two things that I mentioned were the resignation letter around end 2008 (which for various reasons didn’t achieve the goal it was meant to but achieved one or two other ends including stock options (yeah more money), a transfer, etc. etc.) and the experience of writing a resignation letter (having worked on the draft for three months although in the end it ended up as a one liner, no point being all nice and complicated when resigning I thought, after all the hard work on various drafts). That experience came in handy when Shyamala showed me her resignation letter and which I found out did not say what she wanted to. So, re-writing her resignation letter ensured she did get what she wanted (a transfer to India). Apart from that resignation letter mostly it’s been an alright-OK relationship, these five years have been.

But these five years have had many many other highlights and lowlights. Considering the fact that the company and the job was dream job for most of IITians during the days of job hunting I think landing this job was in itself a highlight.

Five years is a long period. This blog started almost with this job. The first entry was written while travelling from Bombay to Kakinada for the first time. And if one thinks about it I did manage to stick around a company long enough to get a business card. Five continents and 14 countries (I have kept a count), countless places (obviously I have not kept a count), and nearly through a second passport (no need to keep a count) means that the tag of the globe trotter has been partly earned (though how much of these places I have been to have I actually seen is a totally different question, a globe-trotter may not essentially be a globe-explorer).

Mind clogs up, it draws a confused blank. When one would think its five years that one has to talk about and there should be enough to write about. People can write novels on an hour’s happenings. But I guess it’s still a long time before I can bring out the happenings of last five years as a memory. It will be ‘finding’ a memory when sufficient time has elapsed. Right now there is just too much of Schlumberger in the last five years and that’s not a very good sign if I sit here on a Sunday and write about the ‘big blue’.

Though I have to be thankful to the ‘big blue’ for very many things. And the first is my first air journey. They had paid for Delhi-Bombay round trip for the interview. It’s a totally different thing that by now it appears that I have had enough of economy class. The novelty wears off and it wears off faster if you have sufficiently long legs (or the flights are long, don’t get me started on what happens if legs and flights both are long). Then there are the wonders. Atop Eiffel and the Great Wall. And the best of all the sea, the oceans. Working in the middle of the monster is a thing in itself. Many a sunsets and sunrises surrounded by the lashing waves, pure unadulterated joy. Million moons on the surface of waters. The whale jumping out of the waters to do whatever she wanted to right there in front of your eyes.

“But in spite of the passage of many years and long wandering, the pull of the home remains. No exile can escape the malady of his tribe, that consumption of the soul.” Nehru’s words bring the lense of perspective in focus, or rather takes any focus away. Every wanderer at the end of the day, month, year, season, wanderlust, turns back (or perishes in the hope of getting back). Walking down the streets of Perth and avoiding a street which is not well lit, hoping to find someone to talk in Hindi/Punjabi at the office, having to explain that only salads is not what vegetarians eat to every other inquisitive idiot, having to explain to all American junkies that baseball is not really comparable to cricket, and the Latin Americans can’t really believe that any game can take longer than 90 minutes, and among a list which includes many other ridiculous questions (oh really, the hair stops increasing in length after a while!!!), all the tiny things and details bring home the fact that ‘home’ is faraway. Yet these are momentary lapses and unsavoury indulgences in nostalgia.

Let’s try to conclude in a cheerful way. Of course one should never let out the fact that a person’s life, to use the too often used word (is it?), sucks. Actually, ended up taking a break here. It’s a serious business. Coming up with some eureka moments. Plus I don’t want to run around naked. Ah. Naked reminds me of something. After watching a game of baseball (the Drillers, Tulsa, Oklahoma) and then an hour or two at some bowling alley we headed towards the destination where most of the company trainees head during their first trip to Tulsa. A strip club. You have to agree that definitely cheers one up. That and a visit to the Hooters. So, we are in the queue to enter the club (for some reason I keep typing clud!!!), we as in the six students and our class instructor (a lady, but nothing scandalous as I found out later, these strip clubs are visited by equal numbers of both sexes). So, we were in the queue and when it was my turn they refused me entry (as I was wearing a ‘head scarf’ according to the security). Well it was nothing new in the USofA to be discriminated for one reason or the other. But this guy had a different reason. He explained that there are local gangs with the identification being the color of head scarves and they have had trouble in the past so no entry till the head is covered with a scarf. Now that’s a shame. Isn’t it? Having come so close to the Big (and some were really big as I found out later) American Dream. Although a bit (actually a lot) disappointed I put up a brave act and told the guys to go ahead and not change their plan because of me. But the treat was on our instructor and she would not let a ‘head scarf’ ‘screw’ up the plans. One of the guys in the group had a baseball cap and she somehow convinced the security manager that as long as I keep the baseball cap on I was OK. Finally, I could live those few hours of my great American dream (though with a baseball cap on).

Having read Tolkien one just can’t help but quote the master every now and then. Here is hoping that he was right when he said ‘Not all who wander are lost’.

Paranormal Activity

If I wasn’t me, if it wasn’t the belief that I am who I am, if it wasn’t the physical presence of me in the mirror, a grown up almost thirty year old (or young if you are older, what can I say) I could very well.. well what can I say... what craziness!! A normal evening with a plenty of paranormal activity.

The airport roof has suddenly developed a leak and is pouring drops of water at a rapid pace onto the plastic container, hurriedly found by a janitor, tuptuptuptuptup. It is only a minor addition to the sounds my hyper sensitive ears are suddenly catching out of nowhere since last night. Things unheard unnoticed before, are ringing bells and making me jump all over.

After delaying as much as possible and making the office hours as long as I could, it being a Friday evening and people in Perth are hardly found in office after 4:30, even Alan helped kill an hour by suggesting some socialising in the bar downstairs and the racket that the Aussie bars make drowned in its maddening roar the sounds the ears were picking up and after the inevitable could be delayed no longer I was back in the hotel room around 1930hrs.

I shut the door and hesitated a little before putting on the safety chain. Bulb on dining table was on. It usually isn’t. The AC was alive and breathing. Not the regular unnoticed prrrrrrrrrwhrrrrrrrrrr in the background it was a hurtful moan of someone in pain. Steps upstairs, right above where I was standing. The steps moved onto the roof of the bedroom as I entered mine. I put in some clothes in the washing machine and gave it a life, just to drown the sounds of the room. For a while it helped. Time to put the pot on the heater and enjoy a cup of tea. Within few minutes the sounds from washing machine started calling me. Peeeeeeeeeeeeeennnnnnnnnnnnn whistles someone outside the door in the alleyway. The boiling water hissed at me. I hurriedly added sugar and tea leaves to calm its hunger. Switched on the exhaust in the toilet to add another sound to drown the existing sounds, switched on the laptop and played, of all songs, a Himesh Reshamiya song. All an attempt to ensure the individual sounds lose their individuality and let the heart beat get back to normal. Even it, the heart, was beginning to have a sound of its own.

For a while the noise coming out of the nose of the singer helped divert the attention from the other sounds. Gulped down a cup of tea in relative peace (not silence) and afterwards did the dishes. The water swirling and finding its way to the centre of the wash basin roars, burps air at me. Amid the racket of washing machine, toilet exhaust, songs on laptop, an episode of Two and a half men on TV, I pack up. Packing is followed by eating the leftover meal from yesterday. No plans of cooking tonight. And suddenly I find myself out of all the chores to divert my attention. A drop of sweat travels down the spine and I jump to face whatever has come. It is time to bring back some normalcy.

I pick up a book and walk out of the room. A shadow walks past the door as I open it. I close the door behind me hurriedly and walk to the elevator. Stand in front of the elevators for a while before realising I am yet to hit the button. And when eventually the elevator doors open and swallow me the elevator stands still. Refusing to travel down, to ground floor, to a place where there are others, human and normal. Then I notice that none of the buttons on the elevator brains is glowing. I press G and it moves down. The doors of the elevator open to the reception and a warm breath of air greets me with the normal sounds of fellow human beings. I crash onto the lobby sofa. There are three stories left in the book. The bookmark takes me to “Cat Within”. The story has its own paranormal activity, I remember from the TV episode. I skip it and read the last two.

It all started when Sanya copied few movies onto my hard drive. Have watched few over the last week. On Wednesday evening started watching Paranormal Activity. Had to leave it by the time it reaches half way mark and watched some animation movie to calm the nerves and sleep. Planned to finish Paranormal Activity next day evening. Next day, due to some task or the other in the office the daylight disappears by the time I get back. Watched the movie anyways. By the time I am done with the movie paranormal activities had already started in my hotel room.
All these normal routine sounds that have been ignored by the ears till date start reaching my hearing system, the drums are over charged with the excitement. Washing face becomes a challenge. I am standing at an angle to the washbasin, not ready to present my back to the unknown. The angle helps watching out for whoever is about to strike. Didn’t bend my face over the basin, wash the face standing with head up and back straight, can’t risk the blow coming from above either. Was it the lights flickering on and off or me just covering my eyes with towel while drying the face?

Alone in a hotel room, with not much to occupy the thoughts, watching this movie was not such a good idea. In a company it may have been fun, but all alone a person gets too involved with the characters of a book, if well written, or a movie, if well made. And this one is for sure made very well.

Finished watching the movie around eleven in the night, tried to sleep, tossed and turned and listened and felt all the paranormal activity in my room, the sleep never came. The spirits or demons of the movie have suddenly entered this hotel room. When sleep deserts me for more than an hour, I switch on the light and make a phone call home (have to use the time somehow and it’s a good diversion). That kills about fifteen minutes. Another attempt at sleep ends with another phone call, this time accounting for another hour. Another attempt, no sleep and I just give up. Switch on the light and let the paranormal be. Sometimes soon after the tiredness must have taken over as I wake up to my six o’clock alarm. And then I found myself in the office and the sounds of daily work in office have no paranormal ring to them.

Things are normal only till I get back to the hotel and step inside the room.

Finished the last two stories from the book. The watch tells me it will only be two hours wait at the airport so I decide to get a taxi a little early. Leo texts saying the flight is delayed by an hour. I know the fellow who didn’t let Micah get away when he had time is trying to keep me here. I am not falling for the trap and am off to airport an hour ahead of the planned two-hour-wait-at-airport schedule. Let’s hope the demons/ghosts and everything paranormal in this room finds a new place over the weekend I am in Sydney.

That Moment

It is another of those evenings. It is dark outside, clouds hanging by since afternoon, just like that without blowing away and without pouring down, a drop here and a drop there, every other second, a calculated rate, maximising their lives the clouds hanging onto their passing existence. It was another of those days that comes and passes by, that came and went, unnoticed and without noticing.

It is a different bus, not the usual one with comfortable seats, but an old Merc mini that must have carried school children or may be still does. The seats are all cramped and the half an hour ride gives one all sort of aches. No power nap in these seats. The front seat is empty and before long I have pulled open the side door. I hop on the seat by the driver, the only seat where it is comfortable to stretch legs on this mini. Slam the door shut and put on the seat belt, the latter being a condition of employment all signed when joining Schlumberger. Pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Ready for a ride. Few minutes later it is 5:15 in the evening and the driver puts the wheels in motion.

Putting the head next to the window I let the tiredness drain into the metal. It’s comforting, the metal, the mini (with cramped uncomfortable seats at the back), the hold of the seat belt, the slow motion of the mini (still within the company speed limit of 15kmphr inside the premises boundaries, till it hits the highway), all is comforting, the untiring metal takes the tiredness away and sends weights across the eyelids, weights that bring in rest and calm. About 20 yards ahead on the right the cat lurks, next to the exit. A big black giant of a cat, restless in the evening, this evening, just by the corner. The driver hits the radio button gaining my attention for a fraction of the second. It is the usual. Some Russian/Azeri RJ with some English hop/pop/hip/pip/hap/rap. We are at the exit of the company complex. A right, down the narrow stretch for a hundred yards and another right will put us on the road to the city. The black cat is sitting next to the security post on the left. Driver nods and waves a farewell and good night to the security guard, who acknowledges with equivalent gestures and we are on our way. I am half asleep already.

Nearly ten minutes later, a nasty pothole in the road shakes me out of the lazy sleep. This driver has taken the route through the hills, the new highway, not the usual short way around the hills next to the sea. This route is longer but calmer on most days. The driver keeps the vehicle at company’s maximum allowed speed of 80 kmphr (he has signed few conditions of employment as well) but that is not good enough to keep the others on the road behind. Yet, he being the driver of this city (where all drivers are apparently crazy), he drives on left, next to the divider on the road, in the supposedly fast lane. Others have to do the honours and overtake as they wish. No one minds the trouble here. They all are giving their fair share of troubles to others anyways.

I am looking at the dog-shaped hillock in the middle of the lake. It is quite a fascinating piece of rock, carved by rains and seasons in an almost perfect face of a dog, a kind of old and seasoned looking mongrel. A side of the hillock lights up, shining with a natural brilliance.

The driver hits the breaks. He is virtually standing on the brakes. By the time I look straight the steel rods on the trailer in front are two-three meters away. Another second, maybe. Maybe less.

A toddler falling on a heater or a stove (the details are hazy). A fall from the roof top, a fractured bone and a dislocated shoulder (there was pain but he got up, slid into the bed and moaning groaning slept through the night). The cries that stopped the entire market when that desi hakeem tried to put the shoulder back in its socket. An attempt to get one point for Aravali ending up in a twisted ankle (on the other side of both the pole and the vault). Later the ball flying from the hockey stick of an angry forward of some team made it a twisted ankle and a hairline fracture.

A smooth first ride (to the city) on the scooter. A crash into a building on the way back from the city. Spoiled groceries, a crushed big-toe and a lost big-toe nail. A doctor pulling out the other big-toe nail years later (while talking to his wife who is digging into the eyes of some poor soul on the next operating table). Mem letting go of the scooter handle after being surprised by an unnoticed pothole in the streets of Moga. A motorcycle at 100+ on road from Mansa to Sanam, lost control but stayed on wheels. Mostly safe, always surviving.

Father, mother, sister, brother, few wanted relations, plenty unwanted, many friends, few good friends, some lost friends, some forgotten friends, a love on the sidewalks. A first school, a second school, an only college, a first job, a second job, the last job. Kabirpur, Sultanpur Lodhi, Kapurthala, Chandigarh, Delhi, Pune, Bombay, Perth, flight to Dubai and to Baku, a taxi ride to Salyan highway. A day spent like any other. An evening like any other. A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. The cat walking across from the right to left as gracefully as a tiger. The pothole and a bump. The rock in the lake such perfectly carved, the trailer overtakes the Merc mini like all the others. The sad and slow clouds bursting apart to give a blow to the mountains. That natural brilliance on the dog-rock. The bolt of lightning hitting up ahead on the roads. A push on a break in panic up ahead on the road. Many breaks behind it. The thunder following the bolt, drowning all sounds. The trailer in front out of motion that instant, a dead stop. The driver standing on the brakes of Merc mini. Steel rods two three meters ahead of the comfortable seat. A well fastened seat-belt. A second, maybe. Maybe less.

Does life flashes by in that last moment? Do we remember the pains and joys and loved ones and hated ones and forgive and ask for forgiveness in those last moments? Maybe, if we are lucky and go peacefully lying discarded by old age and neglect. Maybe. Maybe if you are on US1549 and plan your crash on Hudson maybe you have time and then you get a second chance, maybe you are among the blessed ones. Not many are blessed. Hollywood hardly happens in reality.

A pull-hop-slam-buckle up. Nap-bump-rock-bolt-thunder-brakes. He has about half a second to go. And half a second is only half a second long. His last words are lost in the noise of skidding tyres and crashing vehicles and breaking glass and ending lives. He watches the rods come. His last thoughts are forming the words that he will say. He could not complete what he wanted to say. “Oh Shiiiii…”. Half second is over.

Crash. Pain. Lots of pain. Angels and demons. Fatal system error. Shut down.

such person such zone

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Sing it.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

A half burned cigarette. That knock on the door.
With a little more heart, with a little more start.

Return to senderr, address unknownnnnnn.
No such personn, no such zo----ne.

A long ride, two riders, a horse, a seat belt.
Sing it for yourself and sing it for the love.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Accepted gift. Discarded beef in kitchen sink.
Sing it as a whole and sing it for your soul.

Return to sender, address unknown.
No such person, no such zone.

Conscience of a man. That fountain pool. Few lost coins.
Sing it for the sender, sing it for the address, sing it for that person, and sing it for that zone.

Return to sender, address unknown.

No such person, no such zone.

Nightmares

It was the final presentation for their final year project. They (he and his project partner, MK) had wrapped up the project somehow, not so accurately and not with the correct means but good enough to print and present. Now he was standing between the library and main building waiting for MK. It was slightly odd the way things were happening since he left the hostel for this presentation. He had fallen and nearly rolled down the road after crossing the SAC roundabout and just about managed to come up the incline with all his energy spent by the time he had crossed the sick bay. After a struggle he had reached here and was now waiting for MK. The hard bound, gold embossed final project report was like a weight in his hands. It was pulling him down. The weight was growing with every passing moment till he could no longer bear it. He had to sit down. Walking towards wind tunnel he sat on the side of the computer centre and let the weight fall beside him. There wasn’t much relief. That feeling of being dragged down by that black and golden weight remained.

Usually sitting here was a breather worth the value if not more than the missed lectures but today the place was not healing him. He didn’t get better, the feeling of tiredness in his mind and the feeling of numbness and heaviness in the body grew. Surprisingly, there was no air blowing, not a slight breeze through the wind tunnel. The usual humdrum of life didn’t reach his ears. People were walking by carrying there black and gold weights in their hands and they were all carrying heavy weights, the bodies were being dragged along at the expense of all possible efforts. It was quiet. A quiet full of heaviness, of gravity exceeding the gravity. Things were moving but not with freewill.

Finally, MK appeared at his side. He seemed refreshed. Had two coffees in his hands. Four rupees each to carry them through the final lap of this race. He handed sardar a cup of coffee and sat down and when the recently married girl from their batch crossed, with chooda and hina still gracing her arms, MK had something to talk on for next ten minutes. MK spoke but the sound seemed far away from sardar. He could hear the voice but in strange whispers. Like a bad transmission. Slow, shrieky, sharp, and sad. After a while MK did remember that they were yet to go through the slides and immediately picked up the slides and started proving to the world that this is how the world can run engines better, not even one percent convinced himself. And then it was time.

MK got up and moved towards the wind tunnel. Sardar tried to pick up the black and gold weight but it seemed an effort. He struggled but could not. He tried to raise himself but the weight dragged him down. MK looked back after reaching wind tunnel and found sardar sitting where he had left him. He walked back with a concern on his face. When he was discussing the slides he had seen sardar distracted as if something was troubling his head. When MK got to him sardar raised his arm and MK pulled him up. MK picked up the final report and slides and they started walking.

The gust of wind threw him off his feet, sending him down on his fours. It had caught him unawares after such a windless day, yet the world around him was unaffected. When he got grip of himself he saw everyone else moving on, as if nothing had happened. MK stood by surprised but with an extended arm to raise him up once again. He was saying something. But it was distant. Sardar could not hear him. It should have worried him, he should have told MK that something was wrong but they had to do this. Finish this last hurdle. He was more alert for wind this time. He held on to MK’s arm. As he stepped under the wind tunnel the blow hit him again. He gripped MK’s arm harder, half hidden behind him. Nobody else seemed to notice the wind. MK continued to move forward and slowly sardar dragged himself out of the wind tunnel and out of the wind and then they were climbing the stairs next to engines lab. The presentation was next to department head’s office, first floor, second block.

They had reached the room and were waiting for the group ahead of them to finish. Another five minutes to go before their turn. Their project guide came and gave his final advice and encouragement. Why was it so quiet? Even when their guide talked sardar felt the world quiet, the guide’s voice was not like MK’s voice. It was not distant. It existed somewhere but it did not come to existence through sardar’s ears. Sardar could notice how the words were forming from the guide’s mouth, his lips were curling and giving the words shapes for sardar. He felt afraid. He should tell them, tell MK and his guide something was wrong, but what? And they had to get this project through today, if not tomorrow maybe too late. The apparatus didn’t work and they were lucky the evaluators had not come to check and confirm their experimental readings. Everyone had believed them with their results. So far. He had to do it and it had to be done now.

And then the door to the presentation room opened. Two of his batch mates came out with blood dripping from their eyes. They had wings of birds in their hands, wings bound in black and black embossed in gold. And then came a white man with a black name and red horns and then came short man with long tail, and there came a fat man with thin legs and there was a tiny little thin lady professor with her hair touching the floor and then came the sound of children crying and there came the sound of girls laughing and then came the sound of hammers and horns and there was a horse and elephant and birds and the door was still only opening and all wanted to come out and all wanted to come to him. The girl with choora and hina on her arms, the recently married batch mate crossed by and he felt MK’s pull on his arm. They were getting late and the professors inside the room were looking at him and the door was open and MK had setup the slides and he could see the title of their project and their names on the white sheet. And the rest of them, all of them that he had just heard and seen had left and it was him and MK and professors and slides and projector, and black and gold weight. MK gave another pull on his arm and slowly they moved in. The door closed on them, on him.

MK started speaking. It was the same shrill in his voice, a distant cry. Eeeeennnggggiiiinnnnnnnnee. DDDDDiiiiiiiiieeeeeessssssseeelllllllllllllllllllllll. The words reached sardar and caught him and shook him, trying to wake him from the slumber he was falling into. MK continued on, as was the plan he went ahead with the first ten slides. Ten as sardar could see the slides come and go. With every changing slide he wanted to say one, say two, say three and count till his turn came, say those words so that he can find the sound of his words, listen to them but nothing came and then it was ten on the projector and ten in his head and he knew that he had to find words and somehow speak them and tell the professors all about his project. Now it was eleven. MK moved aside. He was looking at him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. It was eleven now. He had counted the numbers of the passing slides in his head. He had tried to say the words to find his voice. He had tried but the tongue did not lift from the bottom, never twisted, didn’t touch the top of month, the lips didn’t find the shape they were meant to find, the air did not turn into the waves of sound it was meant to be and none of the eardrums felt the words that were to make them turn and turn and turn and thus make them part of the sharing, of the forming and of the listening, hearing, fading away of the sounds. And it was eleven and MK had moved aside and sardar had to say something. Something. Engine, diesel, piston, area, efficiency. Something. Direct, indirect, air, fuel, intake, combustion, power, exhaust. Something. Say say say say something. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. The seconds were coming and seconds were going. Seconds that don’t need tongues and lips and sound and ears to make and break themselves. The seconds were ticking, he could hear the ticks in his head, clear and distinct. No shrillness in ticking, it was a clear sound, one, two, three, all formed individually with unique identities. And then it was eleven. And then the slide on the projector was for him. And then it was eleven, the passing second. And then it was a minute.
Ssssssppppppeeeeeaaaaaakkkkkkkk. Along with the ticking of seconds he could hear a sound. It was saying ssssssspppppppeeeeeeaaaaaaakkkkkkk. A command, an appeal, a request, a threat. Ssssssspppppppeeeeeaaaaakkkkkkkk. He raised his head. MK’s lips were forming that sound. There was it, in his eyes, the anger, frustration, surprise, and fear. Sardar knew he had to lift himself out of this weight, the weight of the golden words, the weight of the winds, the weight of the sounds, and the weight of existence. He was in the corner. He gathered all his remaining energy and tried to make his tongue move. All he could do was look MK in the eyes and make his head move. A negative. That was all he had in him. A nod, a nod in negative. The nod saying he can’t do it, the nod saying it’s you or nobody, the nod saying help him, the nod saying that it’s only MK who can open those closed doors. And then his head fell. And then MK took over.
It was eleven and then twelve and shortly it was twenty and then it was the end, the end of the presentation. There were questions which MK answered, the professors had looked concerned but the department head made them move on. This has to be finished. And then the others appeared. With their projects and slides, and black and golden books. MK in his slow forming words told sardar that he has to answer few questions on the project only then the evaluation of the project will finish. Only then yyyoooouuuuuu will pass. And people kept coming in and going out through the closed door. The door never opened but they kept coming in and going out. Then it was over, the last of the presentations. It was time for him to answer the questions.

MK helped him up, and he was standing next to the projector. One of the professors said something and MK put a slide up. The professor’s lips moved. Here was it. The question for sardar, to take him through to the finish line. He had to catch the question and walk along with his answer to the finish line and then that would be it. He would be a graduate. End of the race. The professor looked at him. He tried the same lip movement again. Probably repeating the question for him. Sardar could not hear him and MK didn’t repeat the question for him else he might have heard it, slowly word by shrieking word and he could not tell this to MK and he could not find his voice and then they started leaving, one by one, all the professors were gone. His guide came to him and said something. He had a worried look in his eyes but those eyes seemed to say I tried, I did, and I have done so much already to keep you in this college, can’t help you get out of it, this you will have to do. It was his eyes and then the eyes were not there. His guide went out through the closed doors. MK was still there. Collecting the slides and the remains of the project. And then the dark took over.

As life came back to sardar’s limbs he tried to move. MK was still there trying to raise him to his feet and to take him to the hostel. He lifted him and moved towards the door. Sardar saw that the door was closed but MK kept moving. Sardar wanted to tell him that open the door first, you are walking into a closed door. The words never came to him and MK kept walking through the closed door. He was half out, completely out and as sardar reached the door MK felt the impact. Sardar was lying on the floor. He had hit something and fell. MK could not understand. He went back inside and tried to drag sardar out but he could not, sardar’s body did not cross the door. It has been a tough day on him and he was also beginning to feel the tiredness. He sat for a while on one of the chairs in the room and then he went to look for some food and help.

It was dark. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. Sardar lay there. The evening dissolved into night and night gave way to day. The day turned into night again and so on it continued for him. As the day would rise he could see the light come in through the door slits, through windows and with night the dark would take him in. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, he lost conscious, came back to it and lost it again. Yet the words for help never came to his lips. He was lying in the corner of the room, behind the closed doors. He could not move and he could not shout and the help never came. There were attempts to open the door. Some distant sounds reached him every now and then. He had felt that there was someone trying to open that door, sound of friends initially, probably sound of someone from his family later on but the doors never opened. The cycle of dark and light kept on and May turned into June and June turned into July.

July was the month he was to join his job. He was trying to say that someone should help him, let him out he had to join the job, he had to travel to another city, his days in this place are over. The help never came. It was mid of July and the corridors outside starting teaming with life. His shouts never came out of his throat. Noone came inside the closed doors. It was end of July. He was to get his first pay-cheque from the job he would have joined, the salary that was much needed. He cried but the tears never came, he needed the salary. His family needed it. He had the responsibilities of the loans to be paid back, of the tuition fees and the admission forms required but the words, the tears, the cries had all deserted him. August came and yet he lay there. Then there was the second weekend of the August. There was that weekend arriving, an unusual Friday passing, a Friday with more life than usual. All his batch and all the staff were out there rehearsing for the big event and then the light went out of the doors and it was night. Darkness.

The light from the windows woke him. He was alive but how and why he didn’t know. The light came to him today just like it had done every day for last three months. It was a weekend, the quiet and calm life of a weekend morning. And then he heard the bells. He heard the bells clearly. Unlike the sounds he had heard these last few months. The bell’s ringing was clearer. The ship was reaching an island. They had reached their destination. A batch of passengers was ready to disembark after their long journey. He was meant to be one of them, member of that cruise that lasted four years, he was meant to be a part of the celebrations. It was their graduation day. The graduation bells were ringing. They were calling him to life.

The bells went on. Unlike the graduation bells which sounded only for a minute, these bells went on. Then he saw the light, the bright glow of the light coming through the white curtains and glass panes. His eyes slowly took in the place and his ears heard clearly. A fire engine was close by and the lights of the city were coming in through the window. He was where he had slept, on the same bed and inside the same four walls where he has been sleeping for last three months. He came back slowly to his existence. Slowly the light glowing from the curtained glasses and glow of the city brought him back to the real world of quiet and emptiness, of an existence which he wasn’t sure off. He looked around and the door was closed. He was still behind a closed door.

He could not decide which of the nightmares was worse.

YOU MAKE ME YOU BREAK ME

You are reading this and yet you think I talk to someone else, someone who is not you. Oh why you do that. You make me and yet you break me.

It has been a long long while since you asked me how I am and more importantly how I feel? Stop wondering who I am talking to, it’s you. Oh how you break me.

When was it that we had a hearty conversation, shared a laugh? When was it that the wind blew and found us, our faces, us together? When did the world last saw us as friends? Ofcourse you know where I am and I know where you are. But then we also share that infromation about the Dead Sea. When was it that last that you, we, both of us, knew where mine, our, hearts really were? And your heart still refuses to believe that I am trying to talk to you, that I am talking to you.

When was it that we sent words to each other in the mail (call it email if you want). Oh now you are thinking we did that yesterday but there are other you’s reading this as well. Yes, yes, you. You I am talking to. You, who I wish would talk to me the way humans are supposed to. Its time you stop pretending I am not talking to you.

You called. You didn’t call. You sent a word. You didn’t send a word. You did that. You didn’t do that. If you did, what was it, was the message of that thing human enough? To make me feel I was more, more than just needed for a task. Oh yes please do ask.

We ran together. We walked together. Holding, pulling, and pushing each other on the way. Once we made each other. Once you made me. You still make me. And it’s now that you also break me.

When did we stop walking together? When did we stop being together? When did we stop living each others lives? Oh yes, now you are feeling. Yes, I have been talking you all the while. Now you are feeling the pinch.

Now you talk. Well if I can and if I must so shall you and so you must.

It’s the same questions. Ain’t it? It’s been a long time since I asked how you are. It’s been a long time since I asked how you feel. It is I who breaks you.

Oh the sound of mortality. Oh the sound of goodness gracious guilt. Oh the sound of well-preseved deeply-held forever-felt grudges. Oh my echo. Oh the sound of my questions from your mouth.

I ran with you. I called. I didn’t call. I walked with you. I sent a word. I didn’t send a word. I made you. I still make you and yet I break you.

Oh the echo.

And the walls absorb it. And the walls hold it. And the walls feel it. And the walls ask the questions. And the walls ask how I feel. And the walls ask how you feel. And the walls make us. And the walls let go. And the walls make the echo. And the walls make an echo for the echo.

I ask. You ask. And yet we don’t ask and we don’t listen.

We made each other. We still make each other. And yet we break each other.

Raising a Shit Storm

Raising a shit storm. For some it’s a very tedious task. People prefer to stay away from shit hence find it hard to do anything with shit storms. However, to some it comes very easy. Naturally, instinctively, without effort, out of habit, a routine task. Out of these, few are born to raise shit storms and few learn the art.

If there was a standard procedure to achieving a shit storm it most likely will go like this.

Find a large empty area (if there is some shit lying there never mind). Shit as much as you can. Done? No need to clean-up. Start gathering shit from nearby. Keep moving all the shit to this marked area. Yes, do mark the boundary of the area. There may be other shit piles coming up next to yours and you don’t want a shit boundary issue. Conflict of shit is hard to resolve. In fact, use some shit to mark the boundary. Depending on your mood and how large scale shit storm you want to create, and hence how much shit you want to gather, mark the area. The shape of area could be a circle, circle would be ideal, but you can make it a square, a rectangle, rhombus, triangle whatever and whichever shape you prefer. If you hate the US army you can make a pentagon. A pentagon of shit, to be used to raise a shit storm. Now that would be a classic. No shape will do just fine as well. Just gather the shit in the place. Hurry up before it dries into a hard stinking mound of good-for-nothing-shit. Is the pile good enough for the storm you plan to raise? Not yet. Rope in some help. Ask other people to deposit their shit. Compensate them if they don’t give for free. If they refuse sharing shit after compensation so what raise the next shit storm to scare the shit out of these people and then use that shit-in-the-pants to raise another storm. Go to faraway places. Collect shit. Pile up high and handsome. But hurry up. Generally, there won’t be many people refusing to share their shit. You will be amazed at how generous people are in letting you take their shit away. There will be looks that you won’t understand, strange looks as if people can’t make who you are or what you are up to, but how does it matter, keep gathering the shit. Do hurry up though.

Now comes the most significant step. Once you have collected the treasure, the mound, the pile, the hill whatever you want to call it, the shit of your efforts, stand back, relax and have a look at it. This is the result of your hard work. Maybe others contributed but you made them do it. Have a good look at all the shit you have piled. Depending on how good you are at raising a storm all may disappear by the time you are done. This is your shit pile, your creation. You are the God of this shit-pile.

Other important thing to keep in mind is to ensure you are ready for the hard task ahead. Well fed, full of energy, good enough to achieve your goal. Eat few bananas, energy bars, drugs whatever because once the storm is started you can’t stop till it is finished. Else what goes up and goes up only a small distance comes down and comes down fast to not give you a chance to move. You don’t want the shit coming back on you. Not your own shit. So, make sure you are full of energy. Ready to raise such a storm so as never witnessed before. But do hurry up.

Ready? Take a deep breath. If you are wearing your best suit, don’t worry about it getting dirty. This is the moment of your glory. This is your shit storm. Deep breath done? Hold it; treasure the air that is in the lungs. Not till the storm is done with will you be able to breathe such air. It may be hours, years depending on how good or bad you are raising shit storms.

Take the plunge.

Fill your hands, throw it up, swing your legs, kick it around, run, jump, swing, swirl, dance, let the motion take you away, loosen the body, let yourself become part of the motion, the motion that is you, the motion that is the shit flying, the motion that is you is shit flying, the motion where the shit pile ceases to exist, where it’s you and your motion and where you decide which direction, how far, where, when, how much, how big, how small, a downpour or a drizzle, where you decide how the motion is created, what shape the motion takes, you go on, no breathing is needed by your body, you open your mouth, the taste comes, you spit it out, increasing the motion, on and on, a dancer in trance, a warrior leading armies, a poet in motion, this is you, your creation, your child, you are the God.

This is the plunge that defines you. The plunge that defines your shit storm.

This would be what can be called a standard procedure to raise a shit storm. But man is smarter. And constrained as well, so he has to improvise. A poor fella will have to do it on his own. Just like this, all by himself. Create his shitty little shit storm. A man of more means can disturb a block or two. Few men together maybe able to stir a state. A lord, a king, a ruler may gather his troops and shake up few countries.

With kings it’s different, they don’t do the dance to raise the storms. They sit in their white houses, away from the stink and let the troops do the work. They are aware that when a large contingent of their troops raise shit storm there are bound to be casualities to those creating the storm as well. Some suffocating to death with so much shit around and some being taken by the storm or other warriors or the rebels. The kings pride themselves in raising the best shit storms without dealing with the ground realities of shit. And then they have to justify such large scale shit storms, the kind that go far, from one country to other, leaving stink and destruction in its wake. They claim it’s needed to overthrow the rebel shit storms, the shit storms that are directed towards their cleaner and still white houses.

The rebels. The rebel storms. The rebel shit storms.

Well a rebel can be anybody whom the kings don’t like or who himself does not like the kings. A rebel can create shit storms in many fancy ways. To be a rebel you need to be a lunatic, crazy, a person with the sharpest of the minds, a person with least of the mercies. You are up against the kings. The kings with their troops. You a rebel. You have to be smart, innovative, sharp, quick, else you don’t make your shit storm happen, the troops shit storm storms you dead.

Some smart rebels wait for the natural storms to come. Then they stuff themselves full. Eat a load of crap and when they are bursting with pressure of the shit they dare the elements, they climb the highest branches of the tallest trees and let go the pressure and the direction and power of the winds take the shit away in a storm. Engulfing unsuspecting population, enjoying the winds with a very undigested shit.

Some rebels use other peoples piles of shits to create storms. Sometimes even a king’s pile of shit. They feed a bird. They feed themselves. Both bird and the rebel are now reasonably full of shit. Then the rebel flies on the wings of the bird. He looks around. He finds the tallest piles of the shit that the king had made. He is thinking of making a shit storm of the king’s white house but that is a smaller pile. He finds two tall large piles of shit next to each other. Another rebel is on another bird. Full of shit just like him. And bang. They crash into the piles of shit. Kings shit, rebels shit, birds shit, all mixed with each other. Mixed beyond recognition. And what a shit storm they raise. The kind that raises a lot of stink.

And thus the king gets a chance to justify (not that he is worried about all the justifications) and raise many more shit storms. The rebels feed the king. The kings creating the rebels. The vicious circle of shit eating shit, shit creating shit.

And you may think of many more ways of raising shit storms. But in the end it’s the stink that remains.

The end. Yes, that’s a fascinating concept. Wonder when that will be. Wonder how big that shit storm will have to be. And wonder who will be left to suffer that stink.

Yet there have been many rebels and kings and shit storms before. History is tired and its pages are full with so many great events that all shit storms and the rebels and kings who raised these don’t find a place in its pages. History has found a way, a way to remember all those who are involved in creating shit storms. Me for creating this three page shit storm, you for spending five minutes on spreading the thought of this shit storm, everyone who has raised, plans to raise and will raise a shit storm, the rebels, the kings, the troops, all, everyone of them. History has associated them all with the place which is designed to drop shit.

History has catalogued all under ARSEHOLES.

By the Caspian

Even though the way back is the first left when you get out of the office the traffic dictates you travel a kilometer right, take a U-turn and get on your right way, the way back. Some drivers have other, more complex, ways of making the journey back, but that was the route we were on that day. And it was a good route to travel in the fading lights. Travelling next to the Caspian Sea, looking at the waters to wash away the distances. Distances that are hard to describe, hard to cover, washed by the even harder to describe a distance that the waters are. A feeling of peace transcends when you look at the waters.

The house faced the sea. It was a small two-three room construction, about six feet high from the road level. The front door opened to a small platform and stairs down to the road. The three of them stood there. The eldest, about five-six years in age, stood in the corner of the small platform. The second boy was standing about a yard away from his elder brother. And the little girl, unable to decide whether to join the boys in their play or not, standing half in the middle of the door neither out on the platform nor in the room.

On the other side of the road a new three-four star hotel has come up. Hotel Ramada. It must have blocked the view of sea from the door where the children stood, if not complete definitely partially.

The eldest boy was showing his little brother how far he could pee. Maybe showing off, see how far my peepee goes. Or maybe he was trying to achieve the hard task of peeing across the road on the hotel. Getting back at the hotel for blocking their view he was trying to make the best of the projectile. The younger boy seemed impressed. Taking his lessons, in the art of making a pee-projectile, seriously. Maybe they will work hard and one day successfully pee on the view-blocking-rich-looking-no-good-to-them-hotel-Ramada. Together, both of them. And the little girl, not very sure of what was happening, slightly confused of how the peepee was making a projectile, stood at her distance. Ready to run to the safety of the house, and probably her mother, in case the boys wanted her to join in their play.

The projectile was not that strong. And hotel Ramada was safe for now. And so was the road on which we crossed between the boys and hotel Ramada after taking a right and a U turn, riding next to Caspian Sea, on way from office to city.

Five Minute 35 Seconds

It has started raining. They are predicting a snow storm over the weekend. Few days ago it rained and snow followed. Snow or no snow, strong winds ensure the place always feels freezing cold. I jog to the minibus, open the sliding door and hop in. It is warm inside. Feels better. Find myself a seat and buckle on the seat belt. It is too dark by the time office closes to be reading a book on way back. Music is the next best option.

It's nine o'clock on a Saturday
the regular crowd shuffles in
There's an old man sitting next to me
Makin' love to his tonic and gin
He say, Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes

Ticking of time is such a constant, one hardly notices. And then there comes a day when it stops. Others still don’t notice. Ticking goes on.

The lights have come on at most of the places. The way back from office to the city is through and over the top of a hill. It makes for a good view. It’s a city that never gets dark (artificial lights mostly). From top of the hill one can see every other place brightly lit. The tower (which I don’t know is for what) changes colors at its regular pace. Red, bright green, sharp blue. The cycle goes on. A red, a green, a blue. The place stays full of light all the time. Lately snow has added to the glow. Nights are nearly white.

Now John at the bar is a friend of mine
He gets me my drinks for free
And he's quick with a joke or to light up your smoke
But there's someplace that he'd rather be
He says Bill, I believe this is killing me
As the smile ran away from his face
Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place

The pot holes on the road are beginning to fill with rainwater. Maybe it’s the water from previous rain. Sun has not been strong enough past few days to dry anything. Putting face next to the window glass brings that freezing feeling back.

The place I would rather be…I believe this is killing me…. Life does so to so many, one stops noticing. Just like the ticking of time.

Now Paul is a real estate novelist
Who never had time for a wife
And he's talking with Davy who's still in the navy
And probably will be for life
And the waitress is practicing politics
As the businessmen slowly get stoned
Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness
But it's better than drinking alone

It is a good song. One song can carry one through so many different emotions and memories in such a short time.
I play it again.

The owner of the apartment was generous with the wall clocks. Put three in the house. The ticking was very noticeable, as it was very audible. When you live with the books and the walls as company, the ticking seconds are the sound you hear the most. Removed the clock from bedroom late one night. The ticking sound along with the brightness of the night can keep you awake.

It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,
And the manager gives me a smile
'Cause he knows that it's me they've been coming to see
To forget about life for awhile.

The bus has dropped us on the corner ‘Ani Duniya (New World) Market’ circle, from where I walk to the apartment (the blue buildings). Two other colleagues also get down at the same stop. Slowly we branch out into our three different streets.

And the piano sounds like a carnival
And the microphone smells like a beer
And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar
And say "Man, what are you doin' here?"

Into the elevator. Up seven floors. Fumble with keys. Hit the light button. I have reached the place that till morning will be the pit stop. I put on the song once again. Five minute 35 seconds.

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight.
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright.

Finding Memories

Memories. What we live on, what we survive on and some romantics even build themselves on. Memories are with one all the time and present themselves at various places in various forms bringing joy, tears, laughter, smiles and all kind of emotions. We do not go looking for memories, they are there and they stay there till the incidence becomes a coincidence and the train of thoughts take you there or the past flies to the present for the rendezvous.

I do not know how it happens but we do not remember everything that has happened to us. Certain incidents stay with us and most of it is lost. There are people who pen down there memories, people who write journals of everyday life and have their memories tucked away safely in nice leather bounded books to refer to whenever they feel like. Some are even lucky, like Dumbledore, they have pensieve to save their thoughts in and look at them whenever they wish. Fancy, not even need to write them. Isn’t it fun being a fictional character with all the mysterious powers.

But there are most of us who don’t pen down our lives in journals and live on what stays with us. And life moves on. Why would someone go looking for memories? Go finding memories. I have stumbled on to write something many times and each time I have this memory that I end up writing about. However, I wondered what all I remember and how far back can I trace my existence to. Hence the quest for finding memories. Just another whim. I get few every now and then. Let’s see how long can I survive this one and save it from becoming another memory. Even if doesn’t survive, next time I will have another memory to write about. Half glass full, that’s the way they taught us for SSB, the way I am yet to learn.

Where does one start? The very beginning. From the conception. That’s kind of tough on your memories. I don’t recollect anything from my own memory of first few years of my life. I have been told of certain incidents but that becomes part of memories of the time I was told about them.

If I make a timeline of memories there will be few particular periods to divide it on. First phase will be before I joined Sanink School, then 7 years at SSK, a year in chadigarh , four years in college and subsequently three jobs bringing me to the present. All have a different set of stories, a different flavor of memories associated. Most of what happened in the later stages is clear in the web of memories. What is very hazy is all that happened in the first eleven years of the life. One remembers many incidents but there isn’t a sequence which can be associated with these. Somewhere in those years lies the secret to where one is heading to, if there is somewhere one is meant to end up.

Ruskin bond remembers his early years very well. He has his grandfather’s tales, his father’s anecdotes, the world’s wars, a country’s fight for independence and many incidents that remind him of all these years, reminds him of all the details. He has a wall as his ally, the wall on which he now sits and thinks about and later on write. I have not found a wall still but I try to think and I have not found anything still but the quest for the end, the quest to lead oneself somewhere is on.
The earliest I remember is somewhere when I was around 6-7 years. It’s the 88 floods in Punjab and events just before and around it. In fact most of my initial memories are built around the rides to the school in the town and TV. Yes, television. However, if one works really hard, one can come out with many things from that time. We did not own a TV for a long time, till dad got the Canon (smallest possible black and white screen, what was it like 10”). The first TV in the village was probably at the neighbors, at the least the first I saw, the one with the collapsible gate in front of the TV screen, and then it was a TV at Sukhdev uncle’s home. What I remember most about those TVs is the beating that we siblings got on all the way back home when dad came looking for us. It was the carefree world we lived in those days. Getting ready for the future, in an environment where father tried to keep us disciplined as much as possible, which was quite uncertain for the three kids who were to hold the key to many thousands believing in healthy education of children. But that is getting way ahead of time. And ahead of myself. One is yet to jump in the past and try to bring some jewels, some moments that will help one find out if there is anything to be found out. A memory that defines one.