My window seat

After a long wait, nearly 3 years, I’ve finally managed to get a window seat at my workplace. It is a beautiful spot to be in; especially when you would like to be left alone for any reason. I am with people, and yet, in the truest sense, I have a niche of my own. My seat is such that my back faces the window. But a single side glance is enough for me to watch the traffic; the day turning to night; huge edifices, some occupied, others waiting to be occupied.

All the things I see, send some thought or the other; few do I process, fewer do I think about and only one in a zillion thoughts do I nurture and linger on with and then write about.

My favourite part of the day by the window is the transitional period, which is not for more than 5 mins, when the afternoon sun pulls on the veil of a bride, to come forward into a beautiful evening. It’s so slow, gradual, without haste, almost divine. If you follow the transformation second by second, you will notice that there is “change” happening. What? I can’t pin-point exactly the nuances.

Today, I saw the Sun going back to its’ rest. Very slowly. There was this huge cloud that unknowingly yet authoritatively came along. Not fast, not rushing. Only gently. The Sun looked perturbed; almost dejected. Even though it was setting, it wanted to compete with this vagabond cloud which tried to overpower without warning. The sombre Sun suddenly grew brighter. It reminded me of the candle that grows brighter before diminishing forever; as if fighting a battle; or rather to make a point.

The cloud was lousy; not in mood to fight. It just kept drifting, paving a smooth way for itself. It was so sure of winning, this time.

The cloud had attacked the Sun at the Sun’s weakest.

But our ol’ Sun was not to give up easily. It used its’ rays like scissors and cut through the cloud’s weak patches and still shone. Bright, mind you.

And yet the cloud continued without a flinch.

The rays were so strong, so beautiful. Any skilled, passionate tailor would wish for a fabric of these rays. Imagine running your finger on a fabric of soft rays.

In such beautiful moments, when I am at work, and sometimes distracted, I manage to catch a glimpse or two of such a sight, it makes me feel stronger that there is a God. Every loving, ever growing, ever friendly. Just there, making his presence felt in small ways and sometimes in such loud ways like piercing through the clouds. And yet, his watcher is busy watching the man-made rays of the computer screen.

This tussle stays not for long. Eventually, the sun realises that the cloud was God-sent. Just to make the scorching day a bit pleasant for all His beings. The Sun takes a bow, in the most graceful way possible and makes way for the cloud, humbled.

Watercooler Tidbits 2nd Nov 2011 - Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam

Some events that happen almost feel random and out of place. Even if you want to justify such occurrences with a “lesson-learnt” or “karmic cycle reason”, they still don’t make sense enough for one to “feel at home” or feel complacent. These events are normally very small, almost negligent, in all respects, whether duration, after effects and even impact. But the brain remembers it so well. As if, “it meant a lot”. As if, there was some learning which wasn’t assimilated. But, what?

On the contrary, the “big events” make the drama of one’s life and everything good or bad, is somehow or the other “made to associate” with. The brain commendably, links memories so tactfully that the poor thinker is never out of the vicious circle of “thinking”. That gives most of us, our favorite pass time, especially for certain people (which includes me) who otherwise don’t fancy a hobby or a skill. But those small events, those really puny moments, I don’t get those. I don’t know why they stick. You try not to think about them and inadvertently you are already thinking about them. That brings us to question if there is any real meditation possible on Earth. In the purest and truest sense? I say yes, not because I have experienced or rather embodied it, but for the simple reason (and fact) that if there is copious amount of literature documented about it, there has to be some truth in it.

This makes me wonder if anything documented, stemmed from truth. Will it be possible to trace the truth? Ever? Think about the Mahabharata, for instance. How would one find out the truth behind or in it? For now, I rely only on my conviction, which somehow never deceives me, until yesterday, when it decided to take me on a jolly good ride. The belief system I held (and I think I still hold the same) was challenged and ushered me to a place of complete discomfort where nothing I saw was known.

How did I land myself in such a situation, I keep thinking in amusement! It wasn’t so hard actually. I just watched one of Guru Dutt’s classics, “Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam”, which is otherwise a documented story. Yes, it’s “Bibi” and not “Biwi” as most Hindi watchdogs would advocate. Guru Dutt was known to be an unorthodox movie maker. He experimented with almost every aspect of cinematography. Unfortunately, most of his movies received their due only after his death, long after, the cinema fraternity actually “matured”. If one has watched any of his movies, one can see evidently, the stark contrast. But of course, every movie has its own standing and comparisons or “reviewing a movie”, is not where I mean to go. Nevertheless, reading the wiki page of Guru Dutt is recommended.

“Sahib, Bibi aur Ghulam” is about as the same suggests, about an employee (somehow using “servant” seems devoid of empathy, although correct) named Bhoothnath and his wealthy employers, the Chaudhuri couple. The role of Bhoothnath is played by Guru Dutt himself. Rehman plays the role of “Chote sarkar” and Meena Kumari plays “Choti Bahu”. We have Waheeda Rehman play the role of Bhoothnath’s wife, Jabha.

The backdrop is that of a British-ruled India’s “Calcutta”, the society torn apart by strong dogmas. Wealthy Zamindaars cheat the poor off their land, rendering the latter to be completely at the mercy of the former. The wealthy and the rich competing amongst. Different factions of rebels and freedom-fighters waging their own wars against the British Raj.

The state of women, in every sense and every spectrum of that society, was sad. The best a woman could do was to get married to a wealthy man and save herself from falling into the dungeons of filth. If lady luck smiled on her, her husband would wander “less beseeching love”.

The drama begins with Boothnath’s entry into the scintillating palace of the Chaudhuri’s. He finds shelter here and gets a job at the Mohini Sindoor Karkhana. The company makes vermillion powder, “which when smeared on the forehead by married women, made their wishes come true”. Why would this be worth mentioning? Well that would unfold in a bit. Boothnath meets Jabha (the company owner’s daughter) here and I’m not sure if it was love for him. She surely, fell for him after a few tiffs.

The first 30mins are lavishly spent on beautifully carving the background for the aftermath; the audience is left to wonder if there are any Sahib and Bibi, at all. But once the page turns, the importance of building that mindset is understood. Impeccable style of the director, Abrar Alvi.

Chote Sarkar normally returns home sloshed and is helped to his room by his personal attendant, Bansi. His wife, Choti Bahu who comes from a rather poor family, has been well indoctrinated to believe that her life is useless because of the lack of love/ attention from her husband. She decides to use Mohini Sindoor with the hope that she may be able to “free her husband” from the shackles his illegitimate lover. Thus, she approaches Boothnath, with some help from Bansi.

The first show of Meena Kumari, decked up from head to toe, brings awe not only in Boothnath but also in the audience, rendering both speechless. She looks gorgeous, even in the black and white print of the movie. Thus builds up a strange relationship of respect, admiration and slight ownership for Boothnath. He cares for his mistress more than Jabha, who he “thinks” he loves. Every wish of Choti Bahu, would be taken as his command.

To please and lure her husband to be with her, Choti Bahu decides to have alcohol, which grows into a habit and leaves her own on her death bed. She tells Boothnath to get her a bottle which he refuses at first, but then gives in to the pressure.

Change of job and strangeness of events in Boothnath’s life, make him go away for a while to another city. When he returns, the once, most-talked-of, beautiful palace he had seen, vanishes in thin air to house a grotesque structure. The times had changed. The people once smitten by the wealth of the Chaudhuris’ had turned their backs and gone looking for better pastures.

Chote Sarkar was now bed-ridden and Choti Bahu was still an alcoholic. Her state was pitiful and yet she looked lured by the false hopes. She asks Boothnath to help her find a certain sage who could cure her husband, which Boothnath readily agrees to.

They take a carriage one night, when her brother-in-law sees them both and thinks that they have an illicit association. He orders his henchmen to kill Choti Bahu. On the way to the sage, Choti Bahu tells Boothnath her last wish; to dress her up like Goddess Laxmi when she dies and smear lot of Sindoor on her forehead, before the last rites. Just then, the henchmen stop the carriage, beat up Boothnath and kill Choti Bahu.

Several years later, Boothnath, now married to Jabha, returns to the fortress, only to find the skull and bones of his Choti Bahu.

Most songs in the movie are quite popular even today. But the only one that really struck me was “Piya aiso jiya mein …”. This song amplifies the veil of illusion that Choti Bahu draws over herself to make her believe that she shared a loving relationship with her husband. It’s an unhappy outcry of sadness.

It is indeed a tragic story, certainly not recommended for the faint-mind.

On hindsight, all I remember is a woman’s angst for her husband, for his attention and love, well portrayed by Meena Kumari. She struggles till the end. Boothnath is a person who thinks he loves a girl (Jabha) but cares and literally owns his Choti Bahu. He has a love for her which is not intimate in nature, but the kind which brings about a maturity, immense respect and profound sense of understanding.

He sees Choti Bahu not as an attractive, good-looking, wealthy woman, but more like a woman who in struggling in her own world of DOs and DON’Ts; trying out ways to “win her husband”. Does our society understand such relationships? Is it mature enough to let be a man and a woman, without naming the relationship? Well, we need to see who makes the society; which is we. So can we, individually, think of a bent of mind which sees everyone with respect? Or are “they” all the centre of our gossip and jokes?

The relationship between Choti Bahu and Bhoothnath is certainly beyond the understanding of an average person. Our paradigms are made so well and fool-proof that we falter even when we have to imagine a loop-hole. Also, when some of us see the loop-holes so clearly, we choose not to speak because of the fear of being the odd-one-out. We have a hard time accepting opinions which don’t match with ours, thus alienating “the maverick”.

Boothnath was very much human and thus his expectations burgeoned without even his knowledge. He had a sense of ownership towards his mistress which didn’t do well for him. But on thinking deeper, the ownership is not like the one most relationships boast of, where possessiveness sprouts and relatively suffocates either of the parties. This ownership just wanted the well-being of his mistress, at all times. It was like an expectation which had no grounds but was there because of the innocence of the character who thought that his authority would bring her back to her sense.

When one hears the title of the movie, undoubtedly, the mind conjures a story where the “Bibi” and “Ghulam” have an illicit relation. Once again, the thought of meditation needs more assessing and questioning. Why? Because, when we can’t move away from our pedagogies, how can we even think of moving beyond them and embody a self, mature enough to meditate.

It is strongly recommended that the one watching this movie should make an attempt to think, rationalize and ponder on the issues touched by the movie. “Some issues may not hold true today”, one may say, but I strongly suggest, you think closer and contemplate if the issue exists no more. If the contemplation brings one in conflict with oneself, there surely is some “healing” required.

Watercooler Tidbits 19th Oct 2011 - Gandhis’ and prejudices

It’s been two days since I have had no work. The idle mind has these sudden bouts of work-hunger. I don’t know what to do. Somehow, things seem to be moving slow. I resort to writing now because I have been reading quite a bit since yesterday. What I read was probably one of the main reasons which compelled me to write. 

It all began with an article on Rahul Gandhi making rounds on the FB. It accuses him of allegedly raping a girl and keeping her and her family in captivity for several days. How far it is true, is something worth investigating. Like the chemical organic reactions, one article led to another. I further went on to read a bit more about his background. After reading a bit more, I found him quite a dull personality, almost a misfit in the “Gandhi-Nehru dynasty”. At a certain parliament session, someone in the newspaper remarked that he lacked the confidence and the commanding tone, expected of an offspring of this dynasty. May be, I am expecting too much. Why should a child be like his parents? So much of pressure on the poor chap, a billion pair of eyes banking on him, to get a high from anything good or bad uttered.

I further read about one of the politicians who could make me turn my head. Indira Gandhi. The contents on the web are copious and there’s only one line in which I could describe the lady. “You can hate, you can love her. But you just can’t ignore her.” I wouldn’t want to be very vocal about my opinions about her. Although, I would like to mention that she is someone I like and admire. From what I read, she came across like an extremely dominating personality but with her own set of insecurities. It seemed, from the material that I read, that she saw her insecurities evidently but put up an extremely strong front to the public, so much so, that most people who hate her, are in reality, somewhere, envious, I guess. Reading about her, makes one look at the self. How is she different from any other person around?

She is accused and uttered profanities, at for the Emergency she had declared on the State. I wasn’t born then, but given a chance, would have liked to experience what it means to have an unquestionable, almost autocratic rule in the country where most civil rights are revoked. Khushwant Singh, a known, maverick author, is one who still supports Indira Gandhi’s decision to declare the Emergency. He supports his case well, with chosen words. He mentioned how the turn of events of Operation BlueStar was a shock to Ms.Gandhi, as well. But to be open to a different set of probabilities with a blindfold (of any faction) on is not something that would help one to think further on the subject.

Further, I read about Feroze Gandhi; better known as Indira Gandhi’s husband. Reading about him was a complete pleasure. From the material I read, he seemed to be a courageous man who had the spine to stand against Jawaharlal Nehru, his father-in-law, thus jeopardizing his personal life. He was almost abandoned by the Parsi community for trying to nationalise the Tata group since it had reached a monopoly in the country. A simple wiki page on the man, not many words and no high drama, but words enough to point out the actions worth remembering, such is his story.

After reading about all the Gandhis’, aforementioned, reading further about Mahatma Gandhi could only, in a way, complete the circle. It was shocking to learn that the Mahatma at one time did nurse feelings of a fanatic racist against the Blacks, whom he openly, referred to as “Kaffirs”. The imprisonment in South Africa though, brought about a change in the person behind the persona. He turned rather sensitive to all sentient beings. Many people have criticized him for not proactively “saving the lives of Bhagat Singh, Rajguru and Sahdev”. Until today, I had known the same fact. But truth or knowledge (or do we call it Wiki-truth?), comes to those who seek it and I was destined to be of different opinions, as of this day. He did try “commutating the death sentence given to the trio.” I had always respected the Mahatma and the revelation increased my respect further. Many factions still think he should have probably tried to avert their death sentence. But somehow, the consideration that the trio belonged to a different school of thoughts (“Freedom through violence and by force”), contrary to that of the Mahatma, is never taken into account, in spite of which, the Mahatma had put in efforts to reduce or alter their death sentences. On one side, they hate the Mahatma “for promoting himself as the Hero” and on the other, they still expected him to be “the Saviour”. All the weblogs and articles I have read about him are in entirety, just people’s interpretations, which are indeed, biased at most times. Thus, my perceptions, since are based on these facts, are not all first-hand.

This makes me smile, in wonderment.

I don’t know why I chose this “path” to read about the Gandhis’. But I do realise, that I have grown a bit to have a sort of discernment of my own. I see now how I segregate people’s personal life and public life. I think the reading was important, for me as a being. I needed to look at how the facts, true or false, bring about a reaction in me, how they make me feel and what is that in me, that got offended or complimented.

A witty quote of Einstein’s says, “Few people are capable of expressing with equanimity opinions which differ from the prejudices of their social environment. Most people are even incapable of forming such opinions.” I ponder on this, self-contemplating and further trying to figure out about where I stand as of now.

Watercooler Tidbits 4th Oct 2011

Continuing from where I left, yesterday; I mean, the writing, not the contemplation. The latter sticks and grows on me now, bound to me, becoming a "hobby" I indulge in. I don't mean analysis. I mean looking and observing the ways in which I behave.

Just to be entertained for some time, I walked to the water-cooler today. Refilling my bottle was the pretext, of course. There was a group of newly joined employees; we like to them "Freshers". The talks bubbled with energy. They discussed about Pune dust and traffic, the evening hang-out and then the appraisal cycles and their managers. Some had a very chirpy way of addressing their "problems" as they call them. While other, chose to literally, drag every word they pronounced and made the issue sound like the most melodramatic epilogues to a Shakespearean poems. To each his own. I respect that. But I kept wondering about the variety of ways we approach a situation. We give so much of importance to a "promotion" or "appraisal" which means, almost nothing, outside the perimeter of the bureau. The sentence, I just formulated, made me laugh, on reading it.

Well, the water-cooler for me, right now is one of the best places to be. I get to see the behaviours that other have, in me. I literally identify myself. Sometimes, judging and other times, criticizing. The former stands like an undying love while the latter is like the joker that makes me laugh.

Today's highlights weren't the Freshers. They were actually, a couple of experience folks, discussing their chances, for an onsite. Well, the onsite, for most of us, is a big door of opportunities which we try to cash every single bit. And, every person has his or her own reasons for an onsite. All well-justified reasons.

The protocol is not to reveal names. So, Guy1 (less experienced), Guy2 ("been there, done that") and Guy3 (“Onsite, not again!”) are my best picks.

Guy1 - "I think I will tell my manager to initiate my visa. I need to travel."

Guy2 - "That's good. You should. I remember my days of struggle."

Guy1 - "Oh! Then you could help me with a few suggestions."

Guy2's accent had not changed. From Hindi, he switched to English. He pulled and stretched every word, rolling the "R"s and using more of "Well, you know..."

Guy2 - "It's all about "selling" yourself."

Guy1 - "What??? How do I..."

Guy2 puts out a "been there, done that" huff and puff.

Guy2 - "Dude! I don't mean that. We are all in a corporate world. We deal with all these big people and we need to make our presence felt. Else they will not consider you. You need to let them know what you have. Tell your manager that my aspirations are ... Use catchy words like "long term plan", "career roadmap", "resource re-vamp", "insurgence of new technology in the market", "client satisfaction", "customer handling" etc." blah blah blah

Guy1 - "Dude, you rock! Boy! I'm so glad I spoke to you."

Accent engraved in every single consonant and vowel this time.

Guy2 - "Sure man! You'll do it. Barge into the cabin confidently and grab what belongs to you."

Guy1 - "How is it at onsite?"

Guy2 - "Boy! It is amazing. We do like real fun things. And I mean, REAL FUN THINGS. I stayed there for like, good 6 months and understood the "client expectations" and got a "good opportunity to polish my managerial skills". It felt after all, I had reached a place, I belonged to."

Guy1 receives a call and excuses himself. Enter, Guy3.

Guy2 - "Hey Guy3, wasssssup man?

Guy3 - "Dude! I think I may have to travel again for a few days. They have a resource crunch out there. Damn it! Hey you wanna give it a shot? Again?"

Guy2 - "Naah! Six months were good for me, with all that work pressure and those ranting folks. May be after a year."

Guy1 returns.

Guy1 - "Hey Guy2, can we continue from where we left?"

Guy2 - "Sure man!"

Sadly for me, I was caught red-handed listening to the interesting conversation, because I foolishly laughed.

I have a few sincere friends, fortunately for me, who have shown the real picture of the coveted onsite. I want it, but I am not sure if I am ready for the entire package. Yet.

And hey, dear Managers, if you are reading this, I am kind of open to all those jargons mentioned above. Really!

TO BE CONTINUED

Watercooler Tidbits 3rd Oct 2011

"Man is a social animal" is what I have been taught since the time, I don't remember anymore. So what exactly does this statement mean. What I understand from this is that, one, Man is after all, an animal, thus savage and two, he "needs" a society with certain dogmas to lead a "normal" life. "Need" and "normal" are so relative but I don't intend to delve into those perspectives.

So, we agree, that Man is an animal and he's social. Somehow the "animal" part got me thinking more. I take a tangent now, knowingly. I think men are categorized as animals because there is some part within us which is never at peace. Obvious questions, not at peace with what, which part, why, how. Not at peace with the present state of affairs. Which part? I personally believe it's the mind but somewhere that answer does not satiate. Well, I see how I just embodied "not at peace with the present state of affairs". How, is a million dollar question which I can't answer. Why, because the mind, by our present reality, is so well trained to look into the future that the future always looks better and more promising than the present.

Anyways, a deeper thought into the discontentment, previously discussed, somehow made me think about the behaviour patterns we endorse now. Our inferiority complex, our insecurities, our jealousy! These are the outcomes of "something", "which WE THINK, we lack". The "something" which is the causal, is a Pandora's box. It is worth every nano-second to explore it, but it requires one to just "be", that is to say, it requires contemplation; which I think is the most difficult task, for me, as of now, because I prefer "the jazz" to "the silence".

Furthermore, these thoughts, very well, propel our body to have disorders, in ways, we may not like to look at. For example, eating, sleeping disorders. Well, gossip is also a disorder. How? We feed an "empty bowl" (which only FEELS empty) with the tidbits. At this point of time, I have a million questions to ask. Why, how, when. Although I just know the answers, and have not "felt" them, I shall not "papa preach".

So, gossip stays for now, as the best, cheapest form of entertainment for most of us. May be because an old adage brainwashed us to believe that "knowledge is power". If you are working for a modularised bureau, then canteen, the next cubicle or the water-cooler are the best places you would find a cue to pacify that sudden rush of "knowing" which is also called "vampire-feeding" or better yet, gossiping, for us, laymen.

A few days back, I went to the water-cooler bay, which has huge windows, in our office, to bask in a bit of sunlight, since I felt too cold because of the air-coolers. It was nice and silent. I could hear only the sound of the water-drops from the water-cooler. I stood at the window, which was tinted and showed my reflection in a bluish hue. Suddenly, two women rush there and seat themselves on the bean bags. To maintain anonymity “to respect the privacy”, let’s call them Lady1 and Lady2. The ladies begin their talk with a few giggles. They were married, I assumed, from their discussion on husbands to cooking in the morning. After a hush-hush talk on "something", they talk about their mother-in-laws.

Lady1 - "My mother-in-law is an amazing woman. She did... for us, she maintains a decorum at home. My father-in-law consults my mother-in-law on almost all matters."

Lady2 - "My mother-in-law is the most jovial lady you'll find. She cracks jokes at the drop of a hat. We are so happy when our mother-in-law is here."

Lady1 - "That is amazing. How come she is so humorous? She must have had a great life."

Lady2 - "Oh yes, she laughs at anything and everything, anyone and everyone. She is such a happy person."

Lady1 - "Wow! So when is she going to come next, to see you?"

Lady2 - "Well, that's the thing. She is coming next week" {with a grimace}

Lady1 - "So? Aren't you happy?"

Lady2 - "I am. But you know it is kind of tough for me to handle her sometimes. She instructs me to do everything her way."

Lady1 - "Oh yeah! I know what you mean."

Lady2 - "No you don't. She gets irritating and then I have a string of fights with my husband. Why can't she let me just be? Why does she have to laugh at me? Every time!"

Lady1 - "But isn't that good... she is humorous, right?"

Lady2 - "Oh come on, is that really humour, when I am asked as to why my husband should heat the milk in the morning while I get the clothes ready."

Lady1 – “My mother-in-law is the same. She cribs about almost everything about me. Including the food I eat.”

Lady2 – “Hell! One shouldn’t marry!”

Lady1 – “Yes, but you know we HAVE TO.”

Lady2 – “I know...”

Blah, blah, blah...

Marriage is a big, big question. To add to the “solved-mystery”, how difficult it is to accept a whole bunch of new relations though marriage, for both men and women. And tolerate or rather succumb to the “get-togethers”. Then, this had me wondering if I can genuinely, ever appreciate anyone. If I do, do I criticize them, after a while.

To be continued...

The story of the Red Nail Paint

The place I was born was as unknown then
As it is now to me,
You ask "So why do you decide to pen"
"If you don't know this, silly ?"
But what would I do if my mommy,
Herself had no clue.
She left me in this place named Tommy,
Hilfiger known by few!


Picked, dumped, dazzled, hassled,
Every time, opened eyes to see myself shackled
Sometimes saw no light for days,
Does the Sun really have rays?


By big glassy windows was I kept,
Laying there like a vegetable inept.
Ladies, young and clad-young, walked by,
And I kept wondering why that "Sigh".


Some thither and gave me a look, so close
At times was conscious and other times got a marijuana dose!
The good days were not to be forever, I learnt,
The separation from the counter girl, my heart burnt.


Again packed, wrapped, thrown and sacked,
Drifted in a gush, so strong, compassion lacked.
The new place had no window, no velvet to lay,
A box so cold and plastic, that I even heard a donkey bray!


As days passed, I got sure, I was here now for eternity,
Like others in the box, old, brazened, of my fraternity.


And then one day they hopped along,
Just chirpy and bubbly, like a Scottish song.
They picked me over the others and saw how I performed,
"Oh take me home, please take me now, I am perfect, not deformed."


Prayers heard at last, I was somewhere I could call home,
She was lanky, tardy and sometimes even wore dresses Chrome!
Nevertheless, I was her first and I loved it that way,
Clueless! She gave me looks but had nothing to say.


The gong had struck and she picked me to play with,
I would finally know who I am, surrendering to no myth.
When on her nails finally, my past didn't matter,
Now sunken in my truth, no change of seasons, me deter.

"What is it?"

What does one do when all of it seems fake,
No wine, no cheese will help, nor cake.
A thunderous silence within feels so real,
People around look cool, say "No big deal!"

"What is it, what is it?" I keep asking in vain,
The Unknown is fearful and something winces in pain.


The big, "real", unjust world around I see,
While one suffers in hunger, the other's on a shopping spree.
Where one endures the scorching heat, the other is basking for a tan,
One making dough by a flinch, the other only thinks of a "surviving" plan.

"What is it, what is it?" I keep asking in vain,
The Unknown is fearful and something winces in pain.

Why is the agony not affecting me enough,
Am I bad, cruel, evil and innately rough?
What is it that I am missing here, are they like "keys",
At least tell me "You can find it!", it'll bring within peace.

But no! You don't do that, I ask, "WHO YOU ARE that I speak to"
"What is it that you understand? English, Spanish or Hebrew?"
Still no reply, I am tired of finding where this is leading
I'm questioning, listening, thinking and heeding

"What is it, what is it?" I keep asking in vain,
The Unknown is fearful and something winces in pain.

The REFLECTION says,
"Look within and you will see"
"Why don't you ask, "Who is this "Me"?"
"What you see outside is all you have inside"
"It's high time! Sneak no more, don't hide"

I say,
"I don't like this answer, I am telling you now"
"I am used to logic and only to God, I bow?"
Ah! I see this bias, I accepted, since the first day,
When I "want" soemthing I go "outside" and pray?

And yet, the question lingers,

"What is it, what is it?" I keep asking in vain,
The Unknown is fearful and something winces in pain.

Marked "Sold"

From cradle to coffin, as I was told,
Life meant “surviving” till one is old.
Learning and struggling is the path to gold,
Like one had a price tag and marked “Sold”.


The basics of life were defined as food, clothing, shelter,
“Achieve this!” even if the mind goes helter-skelter.
And when one has “achieved”, it still doesn’t stop there
The competition engulfs all, even if one says “I don’t care!”


Then there is “someone” who preaches the “path to life”
“You can’t question Him; you can’t have a mental strife!”
“Money is no good, looks don’t matter; competing is bad”
“Give it all to Him, even if that makes you sad.”


One tries to make happy this end and that end,
One cheats, “survives” and lets his integrity bend.
Day by day killing the INNATE BEING within,
Just to satisfy someone “who is recording a sin”.


Then one fine morning, nothing makes sense
One looks deeper to see emptiness intense.
The powers that be deem one unsocial and unfit
One has to prove his “character” with an affidavit?


One wonders “I followed all the rules and did as “they” said”
“Why am I questioned if I take an off and once decide to be on bed”
“I “survived”; I struggled; I played blindfolded as I was told”
{The reply}
“Well, YOU didn’t question then and hence marked “Sold””

The wait for the end… Part 10

It is said that Time waits for no man. Yet, there are instances where people have said “Time just stopped right there, for me!” Time is one concept, so incomprehensible; and yet so real. There have been researches done on time; innumerable theses, philosophies, satires and even innuendos written. It has gained the status of the “Fourth dimension”. So to say, no stone has been left unturned to prove its existence. But then, why oh why, does one have to consciously think of it and only then realize its existence.

A 50 year old man never ceases to fall in love with a high power bike or a posh SUV. A woman never, and that means NEVER, feels she has grown old. I wonder how difficult it is for Time, this time personified, to prove himself/ herself again and again. Imagine the effort he/she has to put in! Then, there comes a small child that tries to light a cigarette and pretends to be an adult, and puts all the effort of Time, yet again, in the drains. But the concept is captivating. So much so, that even when Einstein had to explain relativity to the layman, he had to resort to Time as a tool. He said, “Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. THAT'S relativity.” Well, physicists have always romanticized Time, time and again.

Put aside all the jazz and the philosophy, what is time meant for a person who is waiting? What is its’ significance to him/ her? Isn’t the concept delusional sometimes? Especially when he does not know what he’s waiting for. And yet, the wait is very persistent and pertinent.

The New Year had just passed by. Neeti didn’t expect his call. He hadn’t called her for her birthday. She returned the favor by not calling him on his. But it wasn’t that easy for her. She had to put in great efforts to control herself; so much so that she had to leave the city and go to some place far away, like a self-imposed vacation.

The first week of January is always, and will always be, full of excitement. The city sparkled with all sorts of decorations. The malls spared nothing to bewitch their scapegoats. Some offices and bureaus unsparingly gave leaves to their employees. The fervor stays till the first weekend and sometimes even beyond among the pompous souls.

Neeti had spent the New Year at the Cowasjee’s. The lady of the house, Mrs. Cowasjee, had prepared a lot of dishes for dinner and Mr. Cowasjee, for a change, contributed by smiling. “It is probably self-abnegation”, she wondered. Neeti thoroughly enjoyed their company. But flashes of old memoirs kept teasing her mind on and off. She showed no signs on her face and when Mr.Cowasjee asked her about her Year’s Resolution, she politely replied, “Uncle this year I’m going to get back all that I lost.” The answer made the old man not blink for 3 complete seconds. The look on his face was then reassuring. He replied nothing and just patted her head.

The seasoned and elderly folks have different ways of doing things. This gesture of his was interpreted in two ways by our heroine. One, she thought may be the pat was like a blessing. Then two, she felt probably the pat was the gentleman’s way of saying “I have seen the world… Been there done that.”

The entire second week was very hectic for Neeti. O’deth wasn’t keeping well and Neeti took care of her. O’deth didn’t have any room-mates and stayed alone. One day, at O’deth’s place, while Neeti was preparing spinach soup, O’deth asked her “Any updates?”
Neeti said, “I have a feeling there is, but in reality, I guess, there isn’t. A baby of my delusions, does that fit in here?”
“And Kashif?” O’deth was careful and almost whispered.
“He calls and I don’t receive.” The answer was meticulously delivered.
“Really? And he is fine with that. I’m surprised you’re still alive!” O’deth laughed at the small joke she tried to make.
“Yeah! Very funny! Come on Ody, he is a bad person… He’s a gangster.”
“No further comments darling! You’re intelligent, eh? And about good or bad, only if one’s profession decided that…”
O’deth then went on in a whisper “I wish you see through the tinted glass…”

The conversation ended but the ends seemed still loose. Neither of the girls were satisfied with the dialogue.

Neeti reached her place by 10.30pm. She threw her stuff on the table and literally pounced on the sofa. Her head was aching and her back hurt badly. Within 3 minutes, her cell phone rang almost startling her to her feet. She saw the screen. “Kashif calling…”
“Hi Kashif!”
“Neeti… aap ne mera call uthaya… Shukriya”
“God! Aap ne kyun call kiya? Aap jaante ho na main nahin aap se baat karna chahti.”
“Neeti mujhe aap se milna hain?”
“Kashif yeh mumkin nahin hain. Sorry”
“Main force nahin karunga par main chahta hun aap milo”
“Force… hahahahaa… yeh tho aap ka favorite shabd hoga, angrezi ka. Aap ka tho kaam bhi wahi hain.”
“Neeti mujhe aap se milna hain.”
Neeti burst out into tears.
“Neeti, kya hua? Batao mujhe. Usne firse takleef di kya?”
“Usne takleef dene ki zarurath tho thi hi nahin na Kashif… Mere tho dost hi kaafi the.”
“Neeti main…”
“Kashif main rakhti hun. Mujhe sone jana hain. Please”

No byes were besought. The line went dead. Neeti rushed to her bedroom and dug her face into the pillow. She cried and cried and eventually slept off.

Around 2.00 pm her cell phone rang again. With eyes still closed, she searched with her hand in various directions to locate the piece of cacophony. By the fourth ring, she received the call and …
“Hi Neeti...” It was Aman and he was almost panting.
“Aman… itni raat ko kyun call kiya? What’s the time?”
“Time… does it matter now!”
Neeti sensed queasiness and sat up on her bed and leaned against the wall.
“Aman, are you drunk?”
“Neeti mera bacha… mera shona. This is my last call baby! If you would ever call again on this number, I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed. This number will no more be mine.”
“Kyun? Are you giving up the worldly pleasures and going to Dharamshala.” She barfed venom.
“No my love. I’m not. I have a request Neeti.”
“Request! Wow! I like the sound of that word. You never do that. What is it, Aman?”
“I want to sing a song for you. One last song. Do you have the patience and the courage to listen to this one last song?”
Now this was too much to handle. Call at 2 am, a request, “last”… she was sure something unusual was happening.

“Aman… why are you saying LAST again and again? What has happened?”
“Nothing my love. Nothing. I just want to sing this song for you. Please.”
“Aman, please, tell me what’s going on?”
Aman replied nothing. Just a sigh, loud enough for the other end to hear.
Ever noticed how people build the edifice of suspense gradually with a large helping of drama.

“Last time you called and said some stuff like this. I didn’t get the head or tail of it. What are you upto? Please tell me. Aman? ”
Aman was crying by now. Neeti listened to him weep patiently and tried to calm him.
“Aman, what’s the problem my love? Tell me. We’ll work it out. We can. You know it. Tell me baby. Please.”
Notice the change in theme. From sarcasm to sincere pleads.
“Neeti its just…”
“What baby? What is it? Are you disturbed? Do you want me to come there? Haan?”
A wallowing sound and then, “Neeti I’m getting married.”
Silence. The sound of someone swallowing hard. The effect of the other panting.
Neeti broke the lull after 10 seconds.
“When?”
“In 8 days.”
Aman was still weeping.
“Aman do you know what you’re saying? Are you saying this to hurt me haan? You’re drunk too.”
“Neeti I don’t have the courage to call and tell you all this, otherwise. I need to drink to call you.”
“Well… why have you called me now? Oh yeah, by the way, congratulations. May God…”
“Neeti I’m sorry. Please. My parents and my grand mom wanted this and I just abided.”
The tone was humble. “Hmmm… Who’s the girl?”
“Haven’t met her. They chose…”
“And you said “Yes”. When did all this happen?”
“I was incapacitated. I had no choice. It happened a few months back.”
“Why are you telling me, though?”
“Neeti I want you to know…”
“Wow! Aman. And here you call me so that you don’t have the guilt anymore about not telling me.” She almost stung back.
“Neeti what guilt? Come on. We had broken up a long time back. Remember?” Aman was defensive now. Neeti noticed the change in his tone. No crying this time.
“Yeah. That is why I waited for you for 2 years. And you knew it Aman. You very well knew it. That is why this call today. Because you are guilty. You are so guilty Aman. You are so ashamed and I hear the contempt.”
“Neeti I couldn’t help it. My grand mom is not well and she wants to see me married. My parents wanted that too. And I had to do things for my family.”
“And you didn’t resist. So you wanted that too.”
“I don’t know.”

Something just died within Neeti. She felt like her body was only a vestige.

“Yes, that’s the classic answer you’ve given me all these months whenever I asked you.”
“See Neeti I want you to be happy. Just be happy okay.”
“Aman do you even know what you’re saying? You goof-up with someone and then make the person wait for you for 2 years and then just marry off…”
“Neeti I didn’t goof up. I told you that I wasn’t prepared.”
“Hmmm and here you are more than prepared. Directly for marriage. Aman I’m sorry, I’m cutting the call now. I wish you all the luck.”
“Neeti, baby please listen to me.”
“There is no point Aman.”
“I still have 8 days. I can do something.”
“Aman when there was time, you didn’t. Now, the milk is spilt. And frankly, I don’t think you have guts anymore. You need to be man enough!”

Neeti cut the line. Aman kept calling her again and again. She realized he was drunk completely. She switched off her phone. But sleep betrayed her. She sat up, wallowing and watching out of her window.

3 am and still Mumbai was awake. Her tears never stopped. All her past came right in from of her. She saw the first time she met Aman. The lunches and dinners they had. The laughs and tears they shared. Everything.

The dawn never happened for Neeti. She was awake and for once, Time made no sense. Break of dawn was just like a God’s way of physics. Her eyes were red and swollen. In that one night, her life had turned topsy-turvy. She lost weight and her face was quick to show the signs.

Even at 7am in the morning, she was at the same window; watching the oblivion. Nothing made sense anymore. The empty feeling that crept in her was here to stay and that she knew.

At 10am she switched on her cell phone. She got a series of message alerts. All were from her boss Sushant, inquiring about her absence in office.

Not a single call, from the person she waited for.

She had a bath and again sat at the same window. This time, no tear flowed. The eyes blinked once in a while, which seemed to be the only sign of life in the puny little body, sitting by the window, watching something or may be nothing, on the busy lanes of Mumbai.

She heard a knock on the door and pretended as if she had not heard it. The knocks turn louder. Gritting her teeth, she unfolded her crossed legs and walked up to the door, took a deep breath and opened it…
“Neeti…”

The woman gave no reaction or response. Her eyes met the eyes of her guest for a split second. She turned back and began walking towards her bed-room. She laid her steps apathetically. Her head tilted to the left.

“Neeti yeh kya ho gaya? Ankhein dekhin apni?” Kashif pushed his way inside her apartment. He noticed her bag lying on the sofa. The windows were open. It was all so not-Neeti.

Neeti shrugged and walked into her bed-room, sat on her ruffled bed and again watched outside the window. Kashif followed her. He was hesitant to enter her room but then realized it wasn’t the time for awkwardness and formalities. Something had gone terribly wrong and he had to know.

He sat next to her and looked at the woman watching outside;no emotion in those pretty but tired eyes.

“Kya hua Neeti? Batao. Bolo bache.”
No answer.
“Kuch nahin bologe tho pata nahin chalega na. Kuch tho batao.” He hesitantly, kept his hand on her shoulder. Neeti pushed his hand off but the human touch, sent a vibe down her body and had her tears flowing again. There was no wallowing or even weeping for that matter. Just gushing tears. Unstoppable. No sobs heard, no eyes blinked.
“Bolo… please”

“Uski shaadi ho rahi hain Kashif.”
“Par woh tho keh raha tha ki…”
“8 din mein… Usne call kiya tha raat ko.”
“Neeti… aap please matt ro… Main use call karta hua… Uska dimag thikane lana padega.”
“Abh kya fayda. Uski marzi bhi tho shamil hain uss mein.”
“Par woh itne mahine aap se… Neeti aapne do saal intezaar kiya. Aise kaise jaane doge aap? Main usse tik karta hun.”
“Nahin.” A deep breath. “Abh bas. Bhagwan ne mera kaafi mazak bana liya. Abh aur nahin yaar. Thak gayi main. Do saalon se apne aap ko roz jhoot bolti thi ki woh aa jayega. Aa jayega. Par abh jo hua hain, acha hi hua. Sach tho saamne aa hi gaya. I at least know what the reality is. Unlike before where I only guessed and wondered and hoped and…”

“Koi aise kaise kar sakta hain yaar? Neeti hum usse call karenge. Woh piya hoga.”
“Nahin. Mujh mein baat karne hi himmath nahin bachi. Isse zyada nahin bardasht kar sakti yaar main. Please.”

Neeti kept talking about random things; her tears never stopped. Kashif listened and kept cursing himself for being so helpless. A few hours later, after making sure that Neeti had her lunch, Kashif left. On his way out, he turned back and said to her,
“Neeti… Irada pakka hain? Call Karen ek baar?”
“Nahi Kashif… pakka” Those eyes spoke copious things and were confident.
“Fir Neeti, shayad abh intezaar khatam hua. ”
Neeti shot him a wide-eyed look. Those words rang.
And after a sigh, she asked, “Sahi mein?”

Kashif looked at her quizzically and in a while, left. He kept wondering about that question Neeti had posed.

7 days passed by. Neeti had made efforts to put things behind. She joined back work. Ramu and O’deth knew, from her of course, about the latest. They tried cheering her up almost every day. Kashif met her almost 3 times in a day and took her out for dinners, whenever she was willing.

That morning, Neeti woke up and the first thought that rushed to her mind was that it was Aman’s wedding day. She decided to show no remorse and fool herself every second of that day.
She took Ramu along to the Marine drive and opened her bag to display cards, dried flowers, burst balloon pieces, gift wrappers. He watched her closely. She placed a paper on the pavement and put on the stuff on it and set the entire collection on fire.

No words exchanged.

They both went then for a coffee.

6 months had passed. The trees had gained new leaves. Café bistros were renovated. The government had changed and newer promises were made. But Mumbai refused to reacted, in any way different than usual. It still continued with the same pace. Not missing a single heart beat.

One day Neeti and Kashif decided to meet up for dinner. A small, yet chic, place in South Mumbai was the venue. Neeti looked, of course, gorgeous.
“Aap ache lag rahe ho” He smiled, warmly.
“Acha” She retorted, a perky tone.

Then there was silence. An uncomfortable one, for Kashif.

A sigh and “Aage kya plan hain?”
Neeti looked at him surprised and burst out laughing.
“Kashif aap tik ho na? Kya puch rahe ho?”

He laughed too in self-pity and spoke no further. The tempo was all right. They left the restaurant with nothing to look back to.

The following day was exptremely hectic for Neeti. Kashif insisted on meeting and they met again. He asked her if she would like to sit by the sea on Marine Drive for some time. And, as expected, she didn’t reject the offer.

They both sat watching the dark sea. Huge waves hit the shore and the breeze jumped around like a peppy child. The peace was broken by the sudden ring from her phone. The number was familiar.
“Hello?”
She heard a a very deep breath followed by “Neeti…”
“Aman…” Kashif watched her face change colours.
“I made a mistake. Honey, my baby. God! I was crazy.”

He kept jabbering.
“Aman, wait! I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“My love I am sorry. I can’t live with her. I want you. Only you.”
Neeti was flabbergasted. “Aman please hang up. I can’t…”
“Neeti I love you gosh!”

Those words killed her. She had waited for two years and they came only after they lost their meaning and essence.

She heard his cries and then finally said, “Sorry Aman. Take care and goodbye.”

She cut the line while he kept pleading her.

She looked at Kashif who seemed satisfied with the current development. They both didn’t discuss it, but smiled at each other, and kept looking at the sea.

“Neeti aap ko yaad hain maine aap se kaha tha ki aap mujhe ache lagte ho?” That was sudden and totally unexpected.
Neeti was a bit alarmed but showed no signs of it. The herald made her prepare mentally.
“Haanji”
“Aur main abhi bhi aap ko bohot zyada pasand karta hun.”
“Okay”
“Neeti… aap samajh nahin rahe ho.”
“Yes.”
He looked the other side, took a deep breath and turned back to look at her. She was still looking at him, waiting.
“Mujhse shaadi karoge?”
She looked into his eyes. “Nahin.” Softly.
“Itni jaldi jawab dene ki zarurath nahin. Thoda waqt lelo.”
She took his hands in hers. “Kashif, aap ko jawab pata tha.”
He looked down. “Haan”
“Fir kyun?”
“Kuch sawaalon ka jawab nahin hain mere paas.” He looked helpless. His eyes could cry, if granted permission.

The rest of the evening was silently spent.

They reached her place and she invited him. He reluctantly came in and sat down on the messy sofa. The hurt was seen all over his sunken face.

She quickly made them both some tea. She broke the calm.
“Sorry Kashif”

They looked at each other. Each wondering about the other's predicament.
“Tik hain. Kuch nahin kar sakte.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hum dost tho rahenge na?” He almost begged.
“Hamesha… Shayad.”
“Yeh kaisa jawab hua.”
She smiled.

Time goes by its’ own wish and will. She understood her wait had ended when Aman called her this time. That she had meant a lot to him. And she knew that this wouldn’t be his last SOS call. Whereas, Kashif knew part of his wait had concluded but the other part was in Time’s hands. He waited and watched in complete composure.

Doc1.docx

I just realized how difficult it is to write without having a topic or subject on your mind. In fact, I’ve begun writing this in an MS Word document and have saved it by the default name, Doc1.docx. I still don’t have a title and probably may not get one either, unless I spend substantial amount of time thinking. Thank you Microsoft.

Well, if so is the case, I should have chosen not to write. I would have been better off sleeping, on this lazing afternoon or may be watching any of my favorite movies. I have the option but I still choose to write. And if you have realized, I have completed one paragraph and am about to complete the second, but still nothing particular to write about.

Why does this happen? Why does one feel like writing but have no topic? Well, the way I look at it, I see the bombardment of subjects. This week almost everything under the Sun, has found some way to be associated with me. Not that I mean to give importance to myself. It’s just the dynamics! So many things to talk about, so much so that I don’t know where to begin.

Just to give a direction to this imbecile chain of thoughts, I would like to begin with my office. We’ve completed the Sprint, as they call it. Successfully! A small luncheon party to commemorate the occasion at a nearby restaurant, followed by a gust of meaningless laughs and gags, ensured that we were, after all, a Team, a good one. Notice how the mind finds everything and everyone, good in the ‘good times’. Just yesterday, I remember, having a tiff with a senior person, from this ‘good Team’ and cursing things away to glory. I showed my brave self in front of all the staring pairs of eyes. But once home, I cried my eyes out. You see, the mind is a funny laboratory. One reaction causes another one and the chain continues, like the organic chemistry.

Nothing gave me solace. No indulgence helped.

The next morning, when I stepped into the conference room, the aura had a charm about it. It was all fine and everyone took a big part in the leg-pulling, at every random person.

Anyways, I still haven’t been able to make up my mind about office. So I shall let that be.
I just read what I’ve written so far. Alas! Still, no title, suitable enough. May be, this one is destined to go unnamed. May be, this one may never be read. Would it matter if nobody ever read it? If yes, how? If no, why?

A small documentary named “Einstein’s biggest blunder” revealed to me that his relativity theory, E = mc2, is merely three-paged. I think of this again and again and still come to a conclusion about the ridicule this revelation brings. A bespectacled gentleman in the video said “Einstein gave us many answers but he left us, the scientists, with more problems.” Even the geniuses aren’t spared. But think about the three-paged theory. I’m tempted to call it a booklet, but it would be an understatement, for booklet, of course. He wrote the most admired axiom and explained it, in a way a kindergarten teacher would explain to a three year old, the meaning of education.

This was yesterday, unlike which, today is not at all eventful. One mind-rippling thing that happened is that my Papa sent me a gunny bag of mangoes, the non-hybrid, the authentic Goan Musraad. Papa knows the best. Let’s keep it at that so I can sign off for now.

It all belongs to thee

This is my land, where I was born,
Richness of wheat, rice and corn.
This is my land where I toddled around,
No worries, no limits to me bound.
This is my land where I played hide-and-seek,
A few missing teeth and a dimpled cheek.
This is the spot I was kissed my first.
Some new feelings, then felt not nursed.
This is the land I toiled with my father,
Being a lawyer, I preferred rather.
Drenching in the sun made no sense,
And money after all covered every expense.

I chose the green notes over the greener paddy,
Being modern I thought was good and faddy.
A new home made far away from ‘home’,
In a city that looks like a posh glass dome.
A place that paid so much in dollars,
This “Independence” really pulled up my collars.
Elated was I to know I was my boss,
This life seemed full and red like tomato sauce.

It was all happening like a dream come true,
Until I was ushered to see things, without a clue.
All that was “real” seemed then, like nonsense,
I wondered what made these houses have a fence.
Was it only me alone and isolated?
Probably something was ill-fated!
The fake brilliance this city had once shown,
I could see through as the veil had blown.

It was too late to go back I guess,
This is an excuse, nevertheless.
Its’ easier after all to “suffer” and stay,
But challenging to walk out and go astray.
And yet if I go that way, once forgotten,
My land where the water never went rotten.
I see that I have to prove my identity,
As if to show I’m sane, a harmless kitty.
This is the place where I now want to be
And yet couldn’t, without paying the fee.

In spite of the affair I had with the land for years,
Why would I have my eyes not welled with tears.
The land, the water, the air was all free,
Until you decided it belonged to ‘thee’.

The worse is that I played your game with open eyes,
So how would I blame you for my own vice!

As within so without...

Nothing stands alone,
Nothing can just be.
It's all a part of One,
Open your eyes and see.

Its the same everywhere,
And yet there is doubt.
They said it long ago,
As within so without.

The innocent cat closes her eyes,
And stealthily licks the milk.
She knows she's watched all along,
Yet she refuses to belong to the ilk.

The human is no different, yes!
Evading and putting on a pout.
He knows they said it long ago,
As within so without.

Someday the sleep will come to an end,
And he would have to rise on his feet.
But the reality would be too strong then,
A smack he may not be able to beat.

But does it mean it ends right there?
As if the emptiness was a bout.
It will still resonate again and again,
As within so without...
As within so without...

The wait for the end… Part 9

What would it mean to lose one’s identity? If there is no ‘I’ left, how would a person feel? Take for example, a rich person who is famous, good-looking and leads an extravagant life. If some day he had to wake up and look at him in the mirror and not be able to relate to the reflection. He has realized the riches, looks, cars parked under the porch, none make sense. His looks are just a way to help him differentiate from the rest and are not of any meaning beyond. The big sedan he travels with and flaunts about, is nothing more than a metal box that looks after his logistics. If he is capable of seeing this and beyond, he would unmistakably notice that he has been living an illusion all the while. He tried to entertain himself; avoided looking at the real picture and instead kept garnering more and more face value. So to say, he tried to build the “I” with a car, more money, his ego, his looks.

After all, one still remains naked within the best and best of clothes. And this truth can never be changed. But is it the ultimate?

Aman woke up with a heavy head and looked around his room. The white walls were still white. The satin grey curtains hung there with no trace of movement. The clothes lying on the adjacent dewaan, lay there, lifeless. Nothing had changed and yet something felt like otherwise. He struggled out of his bed and walked into the drawing room. The place was a mess, cluttered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, empty shells of groundnuts scattered all over and jumbo packets of wafers on the sofa, still filled with the remnants of powdered wafers. His fat wallet, thrown on the floor, jutted out a small part of a golden colored credit card. He raised his eyes brows, swore under his breath and looked away.

He walked into the other bed room and saw his room-mate asleep on the bed like a lifeless walrus, waiting for the Almighty to shower him with fragrant flowers of Holland. Aman laughed to himself at that thought and said, loud enough, “Walrus”. His room-mate opened his eyes a bit and squinted for a split second. But then went off to sleep again, this time with a huge snore.

Aman walked back into the living room and once again glanced at the dingy. He picked up his wallet and went into his room. He couldn’t make up his mind about bathing first or cleaning the place. He threw the wallet on the bed and went in for the daily ablutions. After a quick bath, he wore a pair of short and a faded T-shirt. He ran his fingers quickly through his wet tresses and set them decent. A cup of hot tea and an omelet with toasted bread pacified his growling tummy.

An hour later after reading the newspaper and checking his mails on his laptop, he stretched his arms and legs and frowned. He knew, against his wish, he would have to clean the living room, all by himself. Well, he did just that.

It took him nearly two hours to tidy the house. But his room-mate had not even moved a finger as yet. He was still asleep in the same position. Aman thought probably the cleaning would make him feel better. Lessen his restlessness. But on the contrary, he felt irritated. He called up Meeth. Meeth and Aman had been friends since Grade One in school. And yet, understood very little of each other.

“Kya kar raha hain?”
“Mahabaleshwar! Colleagues ke saath yaar. Tu bol. Kay chalay?”
“Sara ghar saanf kiya. Ye walrus abhi bhi nahin utha.” Aman swore, so Meeth could hear him.
“Walrus? Kaun bhai?”
“Lokesh re. Ani kon. Kab se soo raha hain.”
“Chod na. Sunday ke din kya karega woh. Chill kar re. Shaam ko milte hain. Wahin. Aaj teri beer party.”
“Nahin re aaj mann nahin hain.”
“Kya? ” Meeth screamed. “Teri tabiyat tho tik hain? Tere walrus ne break up kiya kya tere saath?”
“Chup yaar. Mood nahin hain.”
“Ja. Ek laath maar walrus ko aur bol teko movie leke jaye. ”
“Hmmm”
“Uff… bata kya problem hain?”
“Hmmm meko subah se ajeeb lag raha hain. Yeh kya life hain dost? Pura hafta apun log kaam karta hain. Fir raat ko pee ke soo jate hain. Weekend pe talli ho jao. Meeth, is this all life has to offer?”
“Abey ooo! Subah subah pravachan shuru kiya tune. Ramdev baba ka channel dekha kya uththe hi?”
“Meeth yaar. I’m serious. Meri life mein yehi sab hain filhaal. I have friends. I have a family, far away. I have the latest clothes. My spanking PSP. I have a nice white Camry. Nothing is lacking. Then why am I not feeling like it?”
“Like what?”
“Like… may be just satisfied… complete… like I felt with…”
“Ufff Aman did she call you?”
“Hell no! That is the problem. She hasn’t even called me. Not even once. Not even a missed call. Not even an attempt for one. 3 months! ”

Aman continued after a long silence. “I cleaned the entire house. I washed some clothes. I read the newspaper. I saw the company’s reports, checked my mails; chatted a bit with some online folks. I did everything a normal guy does on a Sunday morning. Exhausted myself! All this, so that I can get rid of the empty feeling circulating within; just to chuck her thoughts and stop this mind-yapping.”
“Hmmm. Coming there.”
“No no Meeth. I know this won’t go even if you come here. There’s only one thing that can help me.”
“Shut up Aman! You’re not doing that. Understand? Pagal hai kya!”
“Meeth I can’t bear it yaar. This is too much. 3 months is max I can tolerate.” Aman swore louder and louder.
Meeth joined in and swore too. “Do what you want man! I hate you for this.” Meeth sounded disgusted.
“Right! Call you later.”

Aman looked at his Apple iPhone and scrolled in the contact list. He knew if he would type out the alphabets of the person he wanted to call, the name would appear faster. So he preferred scrolling one by one, because that, he felt, gave him more time. He saw that the person’s name was now highlighted. Not that he needed his iPhone to remember or remind him the number. He had the number engraved on his brain. Since 4 years now.

He suddenly threw the phone on the sofa and hurriedly paced about the drawing room. He saw around if he could find some work to do. Just to prevent himself from doing what he desired the most. He saw a heap of washed clothes on his room-mates’ study table and picked them quickly. He decided to pay a small visit to the laundry man.

He picked up his house keys and wallet and made sure to tell himself to forget carrying his mobile phone. “What a paradox!” He thought. Walked down the distance and took small, lazy steps. But to his dismay, the entire affair lasted only for 30 minutes.

Here he was back in his apartment, pacing the flat, room to room. He loudly uttered a cuss and walked to the sofa. Picked up his mobile phone and pressed a key to switch on the display. It read “Neeti”.

“Enough is enough!” He pressed the call button. The first call went unanswered. He called up the second time and after three rings he heard a familiar voice say “Hello”.

“Haan main bol raha hun.” Aman quickly grimaced and thought about the stupid way he began without greeting.
“Oh you changed your number.”
“Yes. A month back. That is why I called you.” Neeti’s heart broke. Number changed a month back! “So you know that now onwards, I’ll be reachable here. Well actually, I was scrolling through my cell phone and was deleting contacts that had changed numbers. So thought of calling you…”
“Make up your mind first. Why exactly did you call? First reason or second.”
“Doesn’t matter. So you still have this number, eh?”
“Yes Aman. Confirmed. ”
“Hmmm. Good.”
Silence. Just small disturbances due to the mobile signals.
“So you’re done I guess” said Neeti to break the queasy silence.
“Yeah. So how are you?” Aman sounded very unsure of what he was saying.
“Aman what has happened? What exactly do you want?”
“Well…”
“What Aman?”
Neeti held her breath to listen to what Aman had to say to her. She guessed he would again say things that would hurt her. She had already begun preparing herself for the brutal ordeal.

“Neeti it’s a nice Sunday. I just thought of calling you. Remember we had decided to take a Sunday trip once. Please do go for that trip whenever you can, in future of course. I won’t be able to accompany you. But you please don’t stop yourself.”
“Aman, what the hell are you saying? And why can’t you come?”
“Neeti just listen to what I say. I am cutting the call now. I have some work to do.”
“Are you sure you want to cut the line? Because I think otherwise.”
“Well since I don’t have anything more to say, I’ll cut. If you have some news, then do let me know.”
“Nothing here.” The tone was sad. The words said more that they should have.

Sometimes, words don’t seem enough. Neeti thought about Einstein’s description of the telephone. He said “It’s a technology like a cat. You pull the tail in London and the cat meows in America.” She wondered how she would know about the pulling of the cat. She had heard the mews but was interested in the circumstance that made the cat take such a long ride.

Silence had again prevailed and none had anything to say.
“OK” Aman said.
“OK” said Neeti.
Neeti understood the line would now go dead. And it did.