Like a barber’s chair that fits all buttocks

“A chair,” I said.

“We have many, but before we can sell you one, we need to know about you,” he said, as respectfully as his training could possibly permit.

“A comfortable one, is all I need.”

“Of course, sir. But you are still talking about the chair. We need to know more about you to show you what might be most appropriate.”

“I must say, I do not understand.”

He ushered me to the southern wall of the showroom. I thought, perhaps the comfortable chairs were kept there.

“You are new at this aren’t you?” he asked, in a manner that did not expect a response. I was not sure how I should have answered that question. I chose truth.

“No. I have bought chairs before.”

“I doubt it, sir. I believe you have seen many chairs and chose a few, but you have not bought a chair, ever. For those who have bought a chair, always qualify the chair. Executive, chairman, boardroom, and such.”

“I did say, comfortable, didn’t I? That should qualify as an appropriate and useful adjective.”

“That still qualifies the chair; it does not qualify who will sit in that chair.”

“How does that matter?”

“It matters the most, sir.”

“Ok, I’ll be sitting in the chair.”

He smiled, took me to a section of the showroom where there were many chairs. He invited to me to test some of them and pick one. I asked a few questions about the material of the chair. Some were flexible-nylon, some breathing-cotton and he mentioned some unpronounceable material; I realised that the difficulty in pronunciation was directly proportional to the cost of the chair. Then, there were features; lumbar support, swivelling, height adjusting, arm-rest-adjusting and such.

“This chair feels good,” I said.

“Good choice,” he responded with practiced professionalism.

“Wasn’t that difficult, was it?” I asked.

“No, sir.”

“Spit it out man. The sale’s done. What were you thinking all this while?”

“A chair sir, unlike other furniture is not just a piece of furniture. It has more meaning than its structure.”

“How come?”

“People take away things with them when they leave, but they never take away their chair. A chair therefore retains the value of the person who occupied it. But never the value of that person; but the meaning of what that person represents. A new person may occupy the chair and at that time; the chair transfers the received meaning to the new person. And so it proceeds. The actual chair may get replaced due to wear and tear, but the meaning remains. The chair becomes the icon for the person. In time, the person matters less and the chair matters more. If you follow politics, you will understand what I mean.”

I smiled, and said, “This is a personal chair; there are no people around me to make that meaning; I understand what you mean, but it may not apply to me.”

“There’s a sanctity to a chair by virtue of where it is; behind which desk it is.”

“Yes, I agree. The chair and the desk have more value than the person who occupies them right?”

“Yes, and more. I have sold chairs for many years. First-hand and second-hand. After a while some chairs become sad. They miss the first occupant who gave them their reason for being. Sometimes the second or the third occupant; anybody who gives meaning to that chair.”

“I’ll take this one, let’s finalise the price.”

Back home; nylon-sheathed chair with lumbar support is what I sit on, and think about the incident. At once, humans, by virtue of who they are, lend meaning and authority to the chair. Then, the chair takes over and lends that meaning to the human who then occupies it.

And we are confused about who deserves the respect; the chair for the received meaning, or the person for the transferred meaning.

PS: Title taken from “All’s Well that Ends Well,” Act II. Scene II, by William Shakespeare.

Backseat Adventures

For a while now, I have been taking photographs from the inside of a rickshaw and exploring the nuances of the rickety travel across city streets.

This is just one of the views, for a wider exploration see the entire set. Beyond the visual, one-way conversations, there are those that involve people.

It all started with the rickshaw-driver asking me if the day was still a holiday, considering the low evening peak traffic. I said, I’d expect that people would be back at work; enough time to nurse their hangovers (alcoholic and otherwise), and added, it’s a good thing that the traffic is sparse; I’ll reach home early. No, he said, it’s a bad thing, he’d struggle to get fares.

One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.

Smaller bits of conversation ensued regarding driving sense, road quality, politics and such, and I was about to give up the conversation as the usual rickshaw banter. He was talking of being a part-time rickshaw driver. Politeness as well as curiosity made me ask him, what his day job was. He laughed, and said that I’d laugh too, if he told me. Since I was on the edge of walking away from the conversation, I said, I’d respect it if he didn’t want to tell. I could now get back to checking my mail.

“Have you heard of IPTA?”

“What?” It sounded like ITTA when he first said it and all the honking and acceleration by trucks on the flyover was not helping.

“IPTA – Indian People’s Theatre Association,” he elaborated.

“Of course, I know IPTA.”

He seemed surprised that I knew IPTA. “My day job is with IPTA.”

“What do you do there?” The default profession would be an actor, but I wasn’t going to stereotype.

“I am an actor and a writer,” he said, and went on to explain that he was an assistant to a writer, and picked up roles when he could. A brief history of IPTA was narrated and the bad influence of money on art was investigated in some detail.

“You could join mainstream and make enough money, films, television, enough avenues out there,” I said, in some part, defending the 100-crore club.

“I am not in it to make money, I want to stay true to my calling,” came the incorruptible reply. “I make enough money for me to sustain and watch movies.”

A Wednesday (2008) was cited as an example of good film-making. Titanic, and Inception got special mention. I asked, if he had seen In Time (2011). Yes, he said. Star Movies. Nuances of conceptual art were discussed. People’s over-reliance on mindless entertainment was lamented. Mumbai’s ability to make billionaires of beggars was lauded in spite of its heartlessness and bad food; unlike Kolkata, where he was from. Vincent Van Gogh featured as an artist who died without experiencing appreciation while he was alive. The role of the audience and the performer was surgically explored – the inter-dependency was confirmed.

“Two hundred rupees,” he said, as I reached home. We both felt that the traffic should have been worse and the conversation longer, but some conversations are beautiful when they are short, unplanned and have an ending.

Rush-hour traffic is a good conversation-enabler.

A Teachers’ Day Bouquet

For those of you who may missed these few posts and for those that may want to read them again. A collection of posts over the years about this day and about teachers.

The Concept of Geography

A Teacher for President

Happy Teachers’ Day

Statistically Speaking, Ms. T.

Wishing all my teachers a very Happy Teachers’ Day!

Statistically Speaking, Ms. T.

 

I remember her name clearly. I am not going to post it.

She was our statistics lecturer. She had a pronounced rural accent when she spoke English – the medium of our instruction. Some of us – who had studied in English medium and believed that we understood pronunciation and sentence construction better – used to make fun of her, after her lecture, at the college canteen.

It has been a while. Twenty-odd years; when I was twenty-something. She taught us the basics of statistics and some complex methods of using data – in the context of computer programming. I remember one influence distinctly. Our journals used to be checked sheets. To this day, I work better when I work with checked sheets. Now you know, why I like Rubberband Products. (No, I am not being paid to say this) Of all the things a teacher can influence us, she had an impact on the kind of paper I like to work with.

I seek those kind of writing pads, but they are rare.

Statistics was a holy subject for me, when, I was trying sincerely to understand what makes a computer work. If it was in our syllabus, it had to make sense – because according to our syllabus and objectives, we were destined to write the software that would change our lives. Like all of us, I held lofty objectives and visions of changing the world to make it a better place. We were at some point in the year, dealing with Near Sets, I recall – and I was wondering if I could use Near Sets and the Five-colour Theorem in developing a colourful  rubber-band algorithm. (It really does not matter if it makes sense)

The rubber-band algorithm requires you to write a code that enables you to ‘draw’ a line at any angle and of any length. The mouse was not an input device, then – we had to make do with the arrow keys. If you are still confused, think of a line that you drag-draw in PowerPoint. We were required to write code for that to happen. 

She said, “That’s out of syllabus – and in any case, you do not have colour monitors.”

“I could test it on Prof. Datar Sir’s Computer?” (Only our CS teacher had a colour monitor and 20MB HDD. It was a super computer for us.)

“No. It’s out of syllabus,” she insisted.

My statistics teacher was a gold medalist from Pune University. The fact that she was an OBC, highlighted her achievement. I never wanted or want to take away the achievements from her, but I wish she was more receptive to my questions.

I am, recently, dealing with a situation that is looking to optimise human resources based on the density of users to define an optimal investment to help run a specific process. (Yeah, jargon and all – that’s not important) Not much from her lectures and learning is lost. But, if she had taken a bit of time to satisfy my curiosity – even if it was ‘out of syllabus’ I think, it would have helped me in what I am doing today – to solve a real problem.

And yet, when I am working and solving this problem, I cannot but help thinking of her. Most of us had written her off, because we believed she had got the job because of reservations that were rampant, then (and still are). Yet none of us considered spending time with her and seeking the knowledge she had.

It is unfortunate, that we had categorised a teacher by the manner in which she got her job, rather than what knowledge she had to offer us. Nothing, I am almost sure, has changed her life significantly. My classmates and I, however, have lost much. At the very minimum, we have lost contact with her. Today, our work and client requirements need us to extract the fundamentals of our education – unfortunately we wasted an opportunity because we were influenced by petty politics (Mandal Commission happened when I was in college and I say it with much regret; that I was carried away by the rhetoric.)

A young student may have the facts to develop an opinion; but often, doesn’t have the context.

I miss you, Prof. T, and I wish I had then, the inclination to learn more from you. I wish I had maintained my identity with you as a student, rather than the imposed hierarchy that our ex-prime minister Mr. VP Singh defined. It is unfortunate that I have to Google almost everything that you taught us, and remind me of what I already know.

It’s too late, after all the ridicule we bestowed on you; for what it is worth, I am sorry.

In that late morning lecture when you introduced us to Null Hypothesis, I was perhaps, far away, imagining of a date with the girl who sat on the third bench in the second row. The girl is long lost and married to someone I don’t know, but I am now having a torrid affair with Null Hypothesis.

Maybe I did pay some attention to that lecture.

I am proud of some work that I have done recently, and for what it is worth, let it be known, I owe it to you.

Wax Has to Melt

We all have dreams.

Well, most of us do. I am not talking of those abstract blobs of irrationality that we usually cannot control when we are asleep. I am talking of those that we live when we are wide awake. The kind, when they are the most lucid when we are in a classroom where the lecturer wishes to be elsewhere as much as we do; or in a meeting where everyone except the person who has convened the meeting, knows that it’s a waste of time. What goes in our head during such events is a mash-up of dreams, thoughts, ideas, plans – and they seem to effortlessly slide on a plane which defines what we really want. And as tangible that plane is when we dream – soon after – it becomes an abstraction of nothingness as we are sucked into our deigned zombie-like activities.

Today is a special day – and my love-hate relationship with milestones notwithstanding, I am happy.

A year has passed after a certain event – and I am able to discriminate where I stand vis-à-vis where I thought I stood, once upon a time. This GPS-kind of activity has not been easy. Enough shock, hurt, pain has been encountered and endured before finding the absolute location of where I am. There has been much difficulty in letting go and even more difficulty in denying the questioning brightness of the truth that has harshly scalded my eyes. The asking heat, without malicious intent, asked me if I would confess that I was living in the wax-world a-la Indraprastha; I said I was not. I fought it for a year.

It’s slow, but I see the wax melting.

And those grandiose images of false comfort burned down to their bare element. The bright light smiled, I think, as if saying – I was always on your side, but I had to sit on the other side of the table – because you were gone for far too long, and lost to me. I would have preferred to sit with you and look together – but we were looking in different directions. Therefore, I had to confront you, said the wise light.

“I am glad, we can now look in the same direction.”

As I stand where I am bereft of the wax palace, I wonder. It must have been the light that, with its heat – melted the opaque walls so that I could see beyond.

It’s late now, and what I see is an even darkness. I stand where an impressive palace once stood. I see nothing of the grandeur that once made me believe I was king. I find myself on the top of a hill here, though. Alone. But I feel the breeze that the faraway sea brings and finds its way through the valleys to where I stand. It has a gentle sting. It does not matter that the wax structure is no more, because, soon, it will be morning. I know one thing: I will see more than I ever did.

And, I will see clearly.

Saving Christmas (And other Festivals)

Soon, most of you will be away, and I hope you will not be checking your emails or your tweets or facebook (Facebook is almost a non-noun now, so I choose not to capitalise it) status updates. It’s a good thing, if you will do that. And, if you do insist on staying online – I hope it is all about you telling me what a good time you are having. So,

Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year.

No, I did not say Happy Holidays. Like, for example, the BBC has been doing on its channel.

The world’s changing into too much of averageness, And I will have none of it. Every specific thing that I have known – every festival is being reduced to an abstraction of meaninglessness. Hate me for it, but I refuse to participate in this politically correct (PC) charade

When it is Diwali, I will wish you a very Happy Diwali and Prosperous New year. When it’s Christmas, I will do the same. And I will wish you a Happy Id, depending on when the moon chooses to show itself. Even if it for a moment in that day, I will remember Guru Nanak’s teaching. I will wish you a Happy New Year, when the Parsee, the Tamilian, the Maharashtrain and when the Punjabi celebrates it; when anyone celebrates a New Year (I may not know your new year, that’s another thing). What the hell, if you decide a that a day in the year is a start of the new year, I will wish you then. (Just let me know about it)

I do not do Happy Holidays. Period.

I do not know what they mean. It is almost like wishing you a fun vacation. Which I will do – if you are going on a vacation. But I refuse to do it during a holiday given for a festival. If you look deeper at any festival, it is essentially a time to be with family and friends. To make merry, to connect, to eat together; to enjoy together. And each festival has a ritual, a means — a method — to be with family and friends. Some festivals have protocols. Some fun; some weird. You may not subscribe to them in their entirety, but in your own modified way, you will follow them, let go of your ego and high-practical-scientifically-oriented-thinking for those few days and just be. For most of us, these days, festival holidays, especially if they come in contact with a weekend, are a way to retreat from the daily routine. The significance of the festival is lost to us. Some may think that. I don’t, yet. As joint-families give way to nuclear families, it is the way to go. We still end up doing what we were essentially supposed to do at festivals. We are with family and/or friends and we make merry.

A few years ago when I had wished many of my customers in the US, a Merry Christmas, my colleague, who was based on the US for a while, had chided me for sending these messages. He identified a few of my customers, who were Jews and other non-Christians, and told me that it would be inappropriate to wish them a Merry Christmas. I thought about and acceded to his request and maintained the “Happy Holidays” protocol in the next few years. In my mind, however, I never ever completely agreed with him. He of course, never took the pain to remind me of Jewish festivals when I could wish them, specifically. I later asked him, why none of my customers ever wished anybody in my team a Happy Diwali? My team took the pain to explain that we would not be working for a Thursday and Friday and sent them Wikipedia links about Diwali. Apart from a few generous souls, no one ever wished my team a Happy Diwali. He obviously had no convincing answer. Most of the folks from the US, wished us a Merry Chirstmas, incidentally, in December as they proceeded to their “Happy Holidays”.

Isn’t it blasphemous to wish a Hindu or a Muslim a Merry Christmas? Or, for that matter, wish a Happy Diwali to a Christian? I do not know.

This post may be seen as the cultural incongruence we face, when working with different regions and religions. It possibly is; even, But, we need to make that slight extra effort; we need to understand that abstracting every festival to meaningless averages is not going to help us understand each other better. What will help us, is participating in each others’ festivals. I have been blessed that I was invited to a family Thanksgiving dinner, in the US, where the family kindly cooked chicken for me because they were not sure if I’d eat turkey (I did). I have been blessed that my friend from the UK has visited Lalbaug cha Raja, and participated in the Ganapati Aarti, with me at my home. I have been blessed that my friends, when they have stayed overnight at my place, have offered their morning Namaz at my home.

Most important of all, I have been blessed to have been taught to know and respect cultures around the world and that I can keep this respect alive without succumbing to political correctness. So, whether you are Christian or not, here’s wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year.

What other people believe and do, does not determine who you are. What you believe and what you do, determines who you are.

On Inspiration

There isn’t much in this world, nowadays, that inspires.

I believe that I would have remained a “tourist photographer” if I wasn’t ever exposed to a few folks who have a very different, thoughtful, and a philosophical approach to photography. My photos would primarily be of centred objects, documentary proof of my presence and flat superimpositions of family and friends against touristy backdrops. Not that there is anything disparaging about such photographs, but I believe I wouldn’t have liked what I did, after a while.

I feel blessed to have discovered Candida Höfer, and of course all the students of the Bernd and Hilla Becher school. She is an oasis of inspiration in an otherwise monotonous desert. Candida Höfer continues to inspire me, after all these years.

Enjoy!

My Darling, Angel

I was in Goa, a couple of weekends ago – with Mahendra. As one thing led to another, we talked of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (ZAMM). That is one book I never bought. I inherited it – one amongst a treasure that was bequeathed to me; one that I cherish. I did buy Mr. Prisig’s other book – Lila – and read it – even. So, while we were talking of ZAMM, I was at loss in the conversation.

Elements of that conversation made me want to access the treasure that was bestowed; and I picked up the book as soon as I returned. The book has more personal meaning for me, than its content. As I moved through the pages, I realised that I had started reading it long ago. And it struck me, why I had never crossed the first few pages. While the book isn’t about motorcycles, as such – it did make a case against cars. It was a strong statement – about the joy of travelling in a car vis-à-vis a motorcycle.

Indigestible.

Then, and now.

The last three years have been beautiful with her. Today is her birthday. We have been on many adventures together. Most of them have been pleasant and enjoyable; some risky and dangerous, even. Many friends and acquaintances have come and gone and we have been places. Some chose to look out the window; some chose to sleep all through. We have been on mountains and along the sea. We have been on the best roads and – believe me – worst roads. Mostly, I have been with my angel and my artist friend – and we have painted wonderful pictures using thoughts, ideas, and experiences for palettes, brushes, and paint.

I do not have a specific memory of every inch on the road with her; I have a collective memory, though, of my experiences and my dreams becoming real. And she has helped me — see. In a way that I could never have, otherwise.

The road is a lover
You never recover
Not now or any time soon
My head starts to spin
When I think where I’ve been
Playin’ twin to an old fiddle tune, oh
As the wind chases after the moon

Through the kindness
Shown me that day
I gave him this melody
And we sang in duet
`Neath the stars in the sky
And the shadows of dancing trees

~ The Road Is A Lover; Alison Krauss & Union Station

She has opened my eyes to the world. And, now, she is all mine!

Mr. Chow

I saw Slumdog Millionaire.

I saw the Hindi version. We were five of us. I and two others worked as waiters in a suburban restaurant & bar in Mumbai. The other two worked as lathe machine operators in a shop in a suburb closer to where I worked. How we know each other is complicated; I wouldn’t want you to be entangled in that complexity. We were friends — you could say that, and let it go. Like you, I know that trying and defining friends is quite a big deal. I see friends gather every night at the place that I work.

But, yes, I saw Slumdog Millionaire.

Between the protagonist and me, there is one difference. His difficult life is speckled with adventure. Mine has been “only” a difficult life. There is, obviously one more difference. He has ten million rupees. I don’t. But, you know, I could have been him. I have learned more about this world as I served beer and poured a soda in a whiskey glass. Quiz competitions require facts, not knowledge. Except, that I did not have the sense to apply for the programme. But when you start thinking about it, there are many differences between the hero of that film and me. We are quite different — but one thing binds us together – I could have easily won a quiz like that.

This is a long story. So feel free to pause, take the beer (or whatever your poison is) out of your fridge, make your drink, and give me a patient ear.

A few kilometres north of Dharwad, there’s a village called Byahatti. There’s a good chance you have never heard of it, and I don’t blame you. It is not known for anything that you would care about. I am from that place. Twenty-two years ago, I was born there on the outskirts of Byahatti. To a mother who loved me more than anything else and a father who I seldom saw. When I think back, I seemed to be the fulfilling future of their life; a hope, almost. Lot of things transpired, which I will exclude from this personal history. But for the sake continuity, let me say that I went to school till the seventh class, I can read some English and do some basic maths. I do not how it works in the schools in the city, but, because I couldn’t see the blackboard very well, my teacher thought I was never paying attention. Much later, much much later, I realised that I had a defect in my eyes. We had a rich guy in the place where we stayed – and liked helping us poor people. He had got a doctor from a place called Bombay, which I had read of only in textbooks, to our village and had all children examined. We were supposed to look through a glass and identify letters. I was scared, at first — I thought it was a school test — but later, I found out that the doctor did not mind if I got it wrong.

I am probably rambling now, but feel free to open the next bottle or fill up the next peg. I can do it for you, you know, I work as a waiter in a bar.

Coming back to the Slumdog, my education has been very similar to his. See I wait tables. Different people come to the place where I work. Few of them are nice – they talk to me. The others, they just want me to get their drinks. Most of them don’t bother that I am around. If I haven’t mentioned it before – I don’t obviously, appear as a smart person. So they keep speaking, I cannot but help overhear. I am enriched. When they drink a lot — and even if I don’t make any mistake — they shout at me. I become the punching bag of their suppressed emotion. The captain and the manager have to intervene, sometime.

It must be my face and me.

I am short, dark, have pouting lips and I wear a geeky glasses. I have heard these words and I know what they mean. How else do you think Slumdog Millionaire got there. Not all my customers are rough drunks. Some, actually take the time to speak with me. I wonder what the difference is between geeky and dorky. I should ask that regular who comes often. He speaks a lot about computers and technology.

He was at our bar today. And he seemed to be at ease. I knew today was the day when I could ask him few things. Then a friend came along — someone I had never seen before, with him. Yes, I know who he comes here with. I also know which of his friends come with him at what frequency and leave at what time. He is a constant and the others are variables. You can always predict the behaviour of constants, and after observing for a while, you can predict the behaviour of the variables. Some leave at an exact time. Some stay back, with pressure. Some, you can sense – want to be elsewhere.

He ordered his usual, for himself and his friend. I kept a tab on his table, he has always been a good customer and treats me with some respect, even if the respect is from a distance. Every half an hour or so, I was replenishing their beer. All was good and I was waiting for the moment to speak with him.

As I served them their last beer, I overheard him and his friend put up a wager. On me. Both of them challenged each other to blog a character sketch about me. I was standing a couple of feet away from their table. They agreed that they will have a common title to a post while they independently sketch my character, and then compare notes. At first, I felt like a piece of furniture being reviewed. They paid they bill, and went away.

It is 3:00AM now. For the last 4 hours I have forgotten about them. As I lay down on this thin blanket I wonder about them. Our regular, promised to write about me as soon as he got home. His friend needed some time. I know people write things on the Internet — I have no way of reading what they write. As I look to this dark ceiling, I wonder what they have thought and wondered about me. Did they take me at my “face” value? Was I consigned to be a dork? Or a geek? Not that I know the difference. How will they ever know about my life? Is my unwrinkled face able to tell a story of a lifetime? Do they know of my ambitions that have been diluted as much by the soda I serve to the guests here? Do they know my mother? Will they say how much she loved me? How much I miss being away from her? Aspirations? My wages? What will they write about? I wonder. I wonder. I shed a slow tear.

And then, I think it is just amusement for them. A way to indulge in an activity that allows them to be far away from writing a character sketch about themselves.

Perhaps, my apparently empty, mission-less, menial life is some sort of an inspiration for them. Perhaps they can fill their lives with my nothingness. As I thought of this, I smiled, turned to a side and slept well.

My life is worth more than I thought.

PS: Title of this post has been borrowed from Red Dust And Spanish Lace, the first single, “Mr. Chow”. The wager mentioned in this post is real. When the other blogger completes his version, it shall be linked. Both bloggers agreed on the title, so that we can keep our independent opinion about this character sketch.

Oh, Just a Conversation

It has been a while since someone has ever challenged my thinking, my thoughts. Along comes an old friend. We are separated by geography, but neither one of us gives a damn.

We spoke of the world we live in. We spoke of the world that will bind us to a way of living. We talked of revolutions that we need to cause, to ensure that this country’s promise lives true. It is so easy to be a rebel, with or without a cause. I can parade my slogan and make you slave to a cause by being a predator on the very emotions that you seek release from. I can penetrate your innermost sense of helplessness and be the icon of your most suppressed expression.

For the most of us, our call and support of the unstudied cause is our re-shares on Facebook and retweets on Twitter. Our understanding of the constitution of this country laid wayside, we are flag-bearers of an unknown colour or emblem, just a current flavour. Our dismay of a prevailing situation overcomes our sense of right. Our call is simple – an uproar. Only on the basis of an inherent outrage that we experience; yet feel completely neutered to act against it.

You see, convenience trumps right – hands down, every time they face each other. These are enemies. Staunch. They will never shake hands. A person I respect a lot, once told me: There are ethics, and then there are ethics, and then there are ethics. I suspect, he was on the side of righteousness, but he was warning me about convenience. I have yet to decipher the meaning of his statement – I believe it was multi-layered – but I hope to get there, someday.

We need to put things in perspective.

For  a millionth time – I am grateful for all my friends out there – irrespective of their ideology. They make me a better person.

A Non-Post

This one post is difficult to write: The only way I can write it is — to deny content, in the post.

This peasant of a post has only context to offer.

The emotions that wrap around you at a time when you are most vulnerable are the very emotions that cannot be expressed. If you bring your rational head above the water, you could find a few words, scourge the thesaurus, and express in words what that emotion really makes you feel.

This one, isn’t one of that.

Perhaps because it is the confluence of a million smiles and tears. And every intersection of a smile and a tear has a unique meaning, a unique context. It is almost a complete life.

Therefore I confine this one to the only higher abstraction that it is capable of.

With numerical markers like dates, numbers, counts, measurements, and time that unfortunately marks such moments. Unfortunate, because these moments within them hold a cauldron of boiling emotions that cannot be numerically expressed. Our education, comprehension and understanding however has been reduced to a numbskull slave of demanding science and unforgiving mathematics, rather than an a forgiving and an encompassing art.

I agree with you; this is yet another incomplete post!

Elementary Schizophrenia

For a while now, I have stayed away from my schizophrenia posts. People have liked them, asked for more, yet it has been a while since I wrote those type of entries. A while is defined as eleven months. I wonder now, what makes people want to read this level of abstraction, for a post that is so personal, what is it in the post that they identify with. Words. Madness. Form, or the lack of it.

There’s water shortage in Mumbai. Yet abundant flowing water finds a way to push through the walls of my house and eyes that try hard to stay dry and strong. This month, the city lakes are full, my empty heart finds some happiness in that.

Disaster movies, I think, are a round-about way of making us respect natural powers. I think they only cause further fear. Of all the disaster movies that I see, the ones inspired by water are the most boring. I hate to sit through two-three hours of watching water wet the screen. The ones inspired by fire, are another thing altogether. Fire has an ability to reduce things to nothing.

I have seen fire at close quarters. I have fought with it, and I live under no illusion that I won against it. That day however, it was fire’s nasty cousin – smoke – that I was really up against. If the fire hadn’t chosen to retreat that early morning, I would have lost some things.

I have a love for mountains that I am unable to explain. I have often heard from folks about how the enormity of a mountain or the sea makes the human look so small and insignificant. Earlier, when I did not have an opinion about it, I approved; considered it to be a an interesting thought. Not anymore. I always feel I carry the enormity of nature within me, for only I can recognise it. To look at the mountain or the sea as a separate reality is to distance itself from you. If it’s within you, you are as significant as it is.

I loved the mountains the most on 8th December 2009 at 6:44AM. I embraced it with my heart. It held me in a tight bear hug. We had conversations as we watched the wonderful view. There was no awe, just love – infinite love.

I have promised myself a drive. A long one. It has yet to materialise. I’d like to go alone this time. I hate the rules that confine driving when I am with someone. Their rules. The need to get to a place, to eat at certain places, avoid night-driving, worst – to close the windows. I love the wind in my face. I’d like to keep driving, if only to feel the wind in my face.

The smell changing every ten kilometres or so. The branches swaying in slowmo. The musical wailing as it passes through ridges, valleys and over the plains into the mountains.

But I am where I am.

We never crave for proof of life. That’s an axiomatic assumption, if there is something like that, well-supported by philosophical premises and academic arguments. Standing on the top of a mountain, watching the sea below, the wind blowing against us, to kindle the fire within, and being where you should be – that, perhaps, is the proof of life.

Gender Mathematics

A woman has to work twice as hard to prove she is half as good.

This (or something to that effect) is a soft-board pin-up I saw first on desk of a colleague, many years ago. I was amused at first on the mathematical play on the words of a socio-philosophical statement. I didn’t pay much attention to it after that for a long time. I think she removed that poster-let from her soft-board a few days later. I used to admire her work then, I still do, but unfortunately we don’t work together anymore.

I once thought of it when a friend and I were digging up old memories. I mentioned to him about that pin-up. I wondered if she was as good at her work because she actually tried doubly hard. If she did, the effort didn’t show. We didn’t know about that for sure; we were sure however that most of us who had the good fortune of working with her, respected her.

A few weeks ago, I heard this maxim again from yet another colleague whose work I have come to admire and respect. This time, it didn’t amuse me and I said that this quote was written by someone who was against women. There were back-and-forth defensive arguments from a couple of other female colleagues who had joined the ‘conversation’. It’s true, I was told, and I wouldn’t understand, because I was a man. Maybe its just me, but I felt a hint of accusation in that statement.

And that’s a premise in an argument that you can never beat, or at least, I haven’t found a counter argument for being a man.

Very recently I ended up working with three very smart and intelligent women. It was sheer pleasure working with them and be in the company of intelligence for a whole day. It was nothing short of inspiration. This misleading mathematical premise against women in the workplace has been doing the rounds in my head, since then.

Intelligence, creativity and knowledge is gender-agnostic. A workplace may not be, but environments should not affect the very basis of who you are.

And I can only feel anger and disgust at the person who coined that maxim. It may have been true for her situation and circumstance (and of course I am making the assumption that it was constructed by a woman, possibly in the inequality days). I do not know when this was written and under what circumstances. But this statement has done more damage, than it has helped women. To those who it applied to, it offered the sanctuary of covering oneself in a victim complex, but most of all it infected those who didn’t deserve this dogmatic aphorism. I know a few who escaped the clutches of this dragging thought; some did not.

And it’s to those I address this post.

Don’t. You don’t have to prove anything.

Time Travel

And I continue to look for words. (Scroll, to see the length of the post – long one!)

A quest that will forever be unfulfilled, not because I don’t have words, but because I have no idea which one makes sense, when it is most demanded.

owe |əʊ|verb [ trans. ] have an obligation to pay or repay (something, esp. money) in return for something received : they have denied they owe money to the company | [with two objs. ] I owe you 25 cents.

• owe something, esp. money, to (someone) : I owe you for the taxi.

• be under a moral obligation to give someone (gratitude, respect, etc.) : I owe it to him to explain what’s happened | [with two objs. ] I owe you an apology.

• ( owe something to) have something because of (someone or something) : he owed his success not to chance but to insight.

• be indebted to someone or something for (something) : I owe my life to you.

And I have Jack Johnson singing Belle/Banana Pancakes on my left. And a while ago I just finished watching Shikshanachya Aaicha Gho (SAG, hereafter). The first thing that pierced my head was that children, students, should not watch this film. This should have an A certificate. This is one Adult film, if I have seen one. Mahesh Manjrekar has a great capacity to touch you where it matters with most of his movies. The one thing that, I feel, he cannot control, is the Dus Kahaniayan syndrome. Somehow he feels compelled to tell a detailed story of every peripheral factor in the movie. Except for this fetish of his, I think he makes good movies. SAG, is one of them. I will not be reviewing that movie here, but will be talking about it. Obviously, I will talk about it, so risk the rest of the post at the cost of spoilers. But, be also aware, this post isn’t about the movie as such. Yet it will talk of SAG.

indebted |ɪnˈdɛtɪd|
adjective
owing money : heavily indebted countries.

• owing gratitude for a service or favor : I am indebted to her for her help in indexing my book.

I was looking for words. Before I saw the movie. After, I was exasperatedly looking for words. Because, as much as less you have them, they are the only ones capable of saying what you exactly want to say. I am a slave of words in that sense – because I prefer expressing as close as I can get to what I mean, think, and feel. I had no words. They refused to join my party. I offered them an Indian wine that’s winning awards, to no avail. I wondered why. Then I realised, I can be a slave to words, but words are slave to no one. They are open, free and available, but you have to deserve them; unless you deserve them, they don’t come to you.

debt |dɛt|noun
something, typically money, that is owed or due : I paid off my debts | a way to reduce Third World debt.

• the state of owing money : the firm is heavily in debt.

• [usu. in sing. ] a feeling of gratitude for a service or favor : we owe them a debt of thanks.
PHRASES
be in someone’s debt owe gratitude to someone for a service or favor.

SAG is a good film – that could have been 30mins shorter than the editor imagined it to be worth. What’s it about? Good Q. I can’t really say. It comes across as a criticism of the (apparently harsh) education system that prevails in India. That (apparently) shouldn’t have been in parentheses. It does prevail; the education system. Yes, we have problems. Yes students commit suicides because they are under immense pressures. There must be however, something good about this education system. There must be some reason that the IITians and the IIMians (are they called that?) are successful in a walk of life that you can put a finger on. Three years ago I talked of a dance that wasn’t hugely entertaining. In my personal opinion, we have an education system that is unparalleled; the only thing we are missing is acknowledgement of aptitude.There are careers apart from engineering, medical and accounting & finance. And people can excel in fields other than these three contrived ones. Sports – Sachin Tendulkar. Social Services – Medha Patkar. Fashion – Manish Malhotra. Politics (Pick your name, or leave it blank, who cares?). Point is, if we choose to be successful, we can be.

gratitude |ˈgratɪtjuːd| noun

the quality of being thankful; readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness : she expressed her gratitude to the committee for their support.

ORIGIN late Middle English : from Old French, or from medieval Latin gratitudo, from Latin gratus ‘pleasing, thankful.’

But coming back to SAG, to my mind, it has got nothing to do with the problems of education system that is prevalent in this country. We aren’t missing the content – we are missing the context. There is a repetitive dialogue in the movie about the multiplication of 17×7. It’s 119, by the way. Why is 17×7 important or not? What’s the context of the date of the first fort that C. Shivaji captured? Nothing really, if you are anyways going to leave the country and work for an Enron-like-company in the US. You would be better off knowing facts about the Civil War, if at all.

Why?

appreciation |əpriːʃɪˈeɪʃ(ə)n| |-sɪ-|
noun
1 the recognition and enjoyment of the good qualities of someone or something : I smiled in appreciation | she shows a fine appreciation of obscure thinkers.

• gratitude for something : they would be the first to show their appreciation.

• a piece of writing in which the qualities of a person or the person’s work are discussed and assessed.

• sensitive understanding of the aesthetic value of something : courses in music appreciation.

2 a full understanding of a situation : they have an appreciation of the needs of users | the bank’s lack of appreciation of their problems.

3 increase in monetary value : the appreciation of the franc against the dollar.

It’s always about context. Content, you see, is a eunuch, if not in context. Context gives content balls. So what’s the problem of knowing the ATP cycle by heart? I didn’t know why. Let us say I had a choice in choosing what I learnt. Here’s what I would choose: Process of making an FIR at a police station and the fact that an FIR is made in the local language, always; that when my car is dead and people are pushing it, I need to move it in the second gear; co-operative society laws; how to apply for a passport; content law, so that I wouldn’t buy a PS3 that discriminates against Indian buyers; and a million more things that make sense.

acknowledgment |əkˈnɒlɪdʒm(ə)nt| (also acknowledgement)
noun

1 acceptance of the truth or existence of something : there was no acknowledgment of the family’s trauma.

2 the action of expressing or displaying gratitude or appreciation for something : he received an award in acknowledgment of his work.

• the action of showing that one has noticed someone or something : he touched his hat in acknowledgment of the salute.

• a letter confirming receipt of something : I received an acknowledgment of my application.

3 (usu. acknowledgments) an author’s or publisher’s statement of indebtedness to others, typically one printed at the beginning of a book.

But, really, lets come back to SAG. Mahesh Manjrekar wanted this to be a movie bout the ills of the education system that permeate and allegedly threaten our future. While he may have wanted to to also talk of the implications that these have on our society; he probably succeeded with an audience like me.

As people who learn – whatever – we have only one [insert the word that I am yet to find; which is close to but not "obligation"] to the system.

To the parent.

Not to teachers or to the system; but to the parent; if you haven’t realised it as yet; the tallest pillar of the education system in India, at least, is the parent. It doesn’t matter if you have become what your parent(s) wished you to be.

What matters is that they thought that you were the one who would change the world. It doesn’t quite matter if you aren’t the Einstein that they imagined. What matters is the height of their belief. What matters is that we have to achieve only a few inches of the height that they imagined. You see, I have come to believe that they only thought of the ultimate success that we could achieve. Unfortunately they could only think in the limited context that was available to them. It was our problem – that we were pulled into that narrow context. We may not be the doctor or the engineer or the IFS officer that they saw in us. But the day we forget and become blind to the star that they saw in us; we have committed injustice to the purest of dreams and sacrifices.

Have you reached here (in the post)? I commend you. This is the kind of post that never is read. Just like the dream of a parent. Never mind the profession your parent wanted to be in; deep down; only because your parent did not know better, all he (or she) wanted you to be is happy an successful.

respect |rɪˈspɛkt|
noun

1 a feeling of deep admiration for someone or something elicited by their abilities, qualities, or achievements : the director had a lot of respect for Douglas as an actor.

• the state of being admired in such a way : his first chance in over fifteen years to regain respect in the business.

• due regard for the feelings, wishes, rights, or traditions of others : respect for human rights.

• ( respects) a person’s polite greetings : give my respects to your parents.

2 a particular aspect, point, or detail : the government’s record in this respect is a mixed one.

Talk to them if they are alive or pay homage, if they aren’t. Tell them, that their dreams and yours have become one, and they are on their way. Tell them that their dreams and yours – have understood each other. The content of the dream isn’t important, the context is – and given that they were a generation before you; they will understand.

Some messages travel at the speed of light; and they traverse universes. Say it, today.

Late in the Evening

There was a title and a thought that came to mind when I thought about this post. The title eludes me now; it may come somewhere, as I write this post. I hope.

The first thing I remember, I was lying in my bed
I couldn’t've been no more than one or two
And I remember there was a radio, coming from the room next door
My mother laughed the way some ladies’ do

Well it’s late in the evening, and the music’s seeping through.

It had to do something with posturing: the title. It was a nice word, that now escapes through the fine recesses of the mind.

But it had to do with a wonderful evening I had yesterday night, so let’s talk about that. The evening wasn’t a grand event. It wasn’t planned days in advance and there were no preparations around this evening. It was planned for the three of us and two showed up. Then we called up three others who were potentially perfect companions for the evening, but for various valid reasons, they didnt come, either.

The next thing I remember, I am walking down a street
I’m feeling alright I’m with my boys and with my troops, yeah
Down along the avenue some guys were shootin’ pool
And I heard the sound of acapella groups, yeah

Singin’ late in the evening, and all the girls out on the stoops, yeah.

It was left to the two of us to what we could make of the late evening. With withered thoughts of not having the people we would have liked to have around us, we began a slow start. There was the usual drudgery of daily dole that we could gossip about; we have learnt the heard way, that it quite doesn’t serve any purpose. After dispensing with formal gossip, we were ourselves again.

Friends.

What has become of us, we both wondered, if you allow me the guessing of his mind as I remember mine? One problem that friends face is the lack of topics. When you know everything, what’s the need to talk about anything?

Then I learned to play some lead guitar, I was underage in this funky bar
And I stepped outside to smoke myself a J
When I come back to the room, everybody just seemed to move
And I turned my amp up loud and I began to play

It was late in the evening, and I blew that room away.

We talked of how we have been interacting in the virtual worlds. What would be a good way to interact? What would be a better way to interact? What was the next gadget that would make us believe that our life was worthwhile? One thing led to another and gadgets gave way to the goodness of our lives. It took us a while. Perhaps it was the warm-up.

First thing I remember when you came into my life
I said I wanna get that girl, no matter what I do
Well I guess I’ve been in love before and once or twice have been on the floor
But I’ve never loved no-one the way that I love you

…and I love you

It took us six hours and a whole load of chit-chat to say just that — I love you, without ever uttering those words. Between friends, only three words matter; only three make sense. All the other million words that we use to converse, are pure foreplay or a tease. And a foreplay without the need for the final act. Twitter and Facebook. Email and SMS. Chat and phone-calls. When you reduce them all, all you want to say is — I love you. The Foreplay is the Act.

Richard Bach was perhaps right in saying that after God, Love is the most mangled word in the English language. I say — perhaps — only because, we haven’t stopped saying the word. Our choice of words has changed. The number of words that we use has increased. We now believe that a straight expression of emotion is uncouth; untoward. It has to be tempered. In our heads, love has narrowed in meaning.

The original title I had in mind still eludes me. So I shall title this post the title of the song that Paul Simon sung for me: Late in the Evening. For various reason, which, my dear reader, you are now aware of.

And it was late in the evening, and all the music’s seeping through.

PS: Right-aligned content in italics is a song by Paul Simon. Copyright and such belong to whoever has claimed it and owns it.

Being Free

Happy Independence Day, all you proud Indians, slightly belated, but it is still Independence Day as I write this.

Freedom has come to mean a lot more than just the notion of being self-governed. It has started gnawing the innards of the self. A mere declaration of independence does little in achieving it. And Tagore’s words resonate:

Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.

Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.

I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.

The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.

My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

– Rabindranath Tagore

This is, surprisingly, the same person who wrote, “Where the mind is without fear…”. I say surprising because, while I am not quite familiar with the chronology of Tagore’s poetry, he has obviously experienced the clutch as as well as the release.

Tagore is not, or has evolved from being, the patient that Sheldon Kopp refers to when he says:

He prefers the security of known misery to the misery of unfamiliar insecurity.

So, apart from the notional freedom that we all experience on this day, there is an arduous journey we all will have to undertake before we can be truly free. Free from what? That “what” is a personal trammel that we will need to identify and cut through each layer before we can swim free to the surface and gulp in fresh air.

We are often blind to that obstacle that holds us back. We think we are free, yet somewhere our heart does not accept it. That mildly nagging feeling of slavery never leaves us alone. We walk with our heads held high, yet the thud is our heart is nervous. It is almost Matrix-ically Neo-tic where you do not know if you are dreaming or awake. And we cover ourselves with more tinsel, that perhaps may blunt the unwavering call of freedom that keeps softly beckoning.

And we get weighed down by the tinsel that promises false safety.

Yet, we want to be free.

Trust’s Altitude

Where you stand, the power of your sight, the altitude at which you stand and the power that allows you to see, is all that defines trust. Many opaques will appear before your eyes, however, before trust is possible. Opaques that stay true to the purpose of not allowing you to trust; past experience and impatience, for example. They do not blind you, they only limit the distance of your vision. Not allowing the opaques to hinder your sight (by changing where you stand) is how you make trust possible.

Trust is not blind, so blind trust is an oxymoron for me. How can you trust that which you do not know, do not see? It may not use eyes, but trust is based on a perception; through senses other than eyes. It “sees”.

Blind trust is mutant-superstition.

When you trust a person, you trust a person. When you trust God, you trust God. When you trust medicine, you trust medicine. There is no preface to it, nor an epilogue or a summary. There are no footnotes, no disclaimers. There is no condition. “As long as…” and “if” never occur when you speak of trust. There is no time-limit. It starts at a point and stops at another, if at all. There is no because that explains why you stop trusting.

Trust supersedes belief, which supersedes hope. (Though hope seems to be an exotic floating emotion.)

To seek confirmation is to violate trust. To remind is to violate trust.

Sorry, Prannoy

I am really afraid of you now. And, no I am not being sarcastic. At all. I am afraid to write about the world around me as I see it. Which is the same as what you do; only, our mediums are different. There are others in my community that are willing to stand up and tell you why you are wrong or more such things. Not me; I am afraid.

I promise, that starting today I will not watch any NDTV channel, lest I see something on it that I feel like writing about.

You see, I have huge respect for you, since I have grown up on The World this Week and your election specials. That was, of course, a long time ago. You and Vinod Dua were our champions when we were trying to get a grip on the Indian political system. We learnt a lot from you, then.

I promise, that starting today I will not watch any NDTV channel, infact, I will block it on my DTH, lest I accidentally browse through it.

There must be a word for it, for sure. I am not quite sure if it would qualify as media-terrorism or legal-terrorism. But terror has struck our hearts for sure. Bloggers around the country will have to measure each word and qualify each post before they click “Publish”. Funny, that it applies to bloggers but not to mainstream media, but I digress.

I promise, that starting today I will not watch any NDTV channel; I do realise it may harm your TRP, but then what does one blogger viewer mean to NDTV?

A Change of Religion

Posts like these will need to move to a different location. Not that they affect the genre of this blog in anyway, but these are precious, in the sense that they will need a platform of their own for them to transform into action.

My previous post has received some interesting feedback — emotional, even if it is.

In the previous post I was wondering what would fear (instead of resilience) in our hearts mean to the rest of country, especially the spineless Centre. More, an expression of, the heart crying out of the disadvantage that this city faces due to its resilience (Ironic, that in such times resilience has become a four-ten-letter word. One tight slap is due from Anumita, will take it willingly). The post was probably misleading, in a way. But then coherence wouldn’t be he hallmark of any expression in the last three days, would it?

Amit recently started a conversation on Facebook, which has the seeds of becoming something significant in the days to come. I spoke of political activism in that note. Not participation, necessarily. Joining politics is not the only answer. Being aware and active is they key. How many of us really know where we stand as citizens? Apart from our arm-chair views and our deep-hidden desire to shoot all politicians?

I am faced with a very interesting situation in the place I live. There are a few problems in the community where I reside. A microcosm of this country, run on similar precepts that keeps this country on its feet. These problems have been ongoing for a while. And now that I am residing here and becoming more aware of the intricacies of the situation, I realise why we haven’t ever been able to solve the problem.

In order as they occur to me:

One. There is no direct statement of the problem. We seem to be going around the symptoms again and again. We seem to be cursing (no, not looking to eradicate) the virus that causes the symptoms. Not even those that can solve the problem can do anything — they do not know what to solve.

Two. There is too much of noise. So much, that nothing can be heard. Chaos prevails according to choice and the reigning emotion. Any soft sane voice is drowned in the din. Anger spews out where it isn’t deserved. No one knows where it is deserved, it is just randomly spit in all directions, hoping the cause of the problem will stand somewhere in the line of fire; die.

Three. There is no participation. There will always be someone else who suffers as much, who will pick up the gun. From behind the cordons there is strong condemnation; or cheering. No one is willing to pick up the gun and go in; search the problem; shoot it down. Someone else will do it.

Four. No one wants to be the bad guy. We want cordial relations with everyone; we do not want to hurt anyone. Every person is willing to stand behind you, no one in front. Everyone agrees with you, no one is willing to stand by you.

Five. There is no knowledge of your own standing. Who are you in the community? What authority, representation do you have? What are the responsibilities of the office bearers? What is the method for communication? Decorum?

Six. Solution Fatigue. The most important one — the ability to resign to fate and manage a problem in a nuclear way. The easiest way out. Because the community cannot solve the problem, I will solve it for me, even if it is at the cost of other community members. A short-term solution. Call everything shit and walk away. Instant-ness of the world we live in is seeping into the way we look and approach and walk away from problems.

I?

I refuse to resign to fate and the possibility of someone acting on my behalf, unchecked, while I remain ignorant of my duties and rights in a noise that deafens a sane voice that works towards a better future, without fear.

I have a new religion and I follow a new book.

New Meanings

Space, environment, intimacy and depth have new meanings.