I am wandering aimlessly in my head as I am walking towards the exit of my college.
“Oye, rickshaw!”
The rickshaw takes a sharp turn and leisurely arrives at where I am standing.
“8th floor,” I say.
Blank.
Blank.
“Madam, kidhar jaana hai?”
Moral of the story:When you think the rickshawwala is your liftman, you are stuck in an everyday rut. Get out.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?
I am in Hampi. Its 7:30 pm in my watch, which means that most people in the village where I am heading, are already asleep. I am waiting at the highway hoping to hitch a ride back to the village. There is almost no light but for the paling yellow glow at the nearby teashop. The shrubbery is dense and I am trying to look as conspicuous as possible so that passing vehicles notice me.
I see several bikes zipping past me, one after another, but that does not deter my frantic waving. I am not going to spend the night in another unknown village.
After much of waiting and watching, a small carrier pulls into the teashop. The hopeful me shouts out to it and two young boys half my age pop out of the seats. After a brief spill of irrational kannada, they say, “Hindi?”
I say, “Yes yes, haan haan. Anegundi jaana hai.”
The taller one pauses briefly and states, “200”
“50”, I retort.
The one with the half tooth says, “Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
Eyebrows contorted I utter, “Kaun?”
Two blank incredulous faces stare back at me.
“Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
“Oh accha, aadmi nahi hai. Chalo abhi.”
While they look at each other, I plunk my backpack onto the vehicle. In a couple of minutes, we
are good to go.
I see several bikes zipping past me, one after another, but that does not deter my frantic waving. I am not going to spend the night in another unknown village.
After much of waiting and watching, a small carrier pulls into the teashop. The hopeful me shouts out to it and two young boys half my age pop out of the seats. After a brief spill of irrational kannada, they say, “Hindi?”
I say, “Yes yes, haan haan. Anegundi jaana hai.”
The taller one pauses briefly and states, “200”
“50”, I retort.
The one with the half tooth says, “Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
Eyebrows contorted I utter, “Kaun?”
Two blank incredulous faces stare back at me.
“Aap ka aadmi kahan hai?”
“Oh accha, aadmi nahi hai. Chalo abhi.”
While they look at each other, I plunk my backpack onto the vehicle. In a couple of minutes, we
are good to go.
My lack of youth
K and I are walking past the Shivaji Park ground trying to catch another one of those meetha paans we love so much at the Sharda Panwala, when we see an old man mounted on skates.
He is learning to skate in one of those dim yellow parking lanes. A young chap holds him by the hand every time he begins to slip. Yet he tries, slow and steady.
Whoever that man is, I love him.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Let me tell you what to do!
Let me tell you what to do!
You learnt all your life by learning what the newspapers told you, what your parents mouthed, what your friends chose, what your neighbors supported, what your music advocated, what your colleague declared, what your teacher predicated, what you heard, saw, breathed, felt.
So, now, hear me out.
Cut the distaste, leave the apathy, forget the frustration, fuck the anger.
Move on. It sounds brutal in the wake of bringing the very politicians you elected down; of putting down the very media you consume everyday.
Move on. It sounds insensitive in the time of honoring the very dead NSGs whose existence surprised you, the coming together of the very citizens with whom you were trying to compete with for jobs and admissions.
What else can one do! We are trying to be constructive here! We are learning from our mistakes! People are coming together through rallies and marches, people are caring once again and the citizen’s movement is reawaking.
I am all for it. Just hear me out on this last one.
You want to do something, change yourself, embody the values of someone who is just, sensitive and strong. Participate in the political process. Hold yourself accountable. It sounds like I am simplifying the matter – but on a basic level, it is about “being the change you want to see in the world.” Live the very exemplar in yourself.
Sometimes the strength is not in numbers, it is in the sentiment, it is in you.
I rest my case.
You learnt all your life by learning what the newspapers told you, what your parents mouthed, what your friends chose, what your neighbors supported, what your music advocated, what your colleague declared, what your teacher predicated, what you heard, saw, breathed, felt.
So, now, hear me out.
Cut the distaste, leave the apathy, forget the frustration, fuck the anger.
Move on. It sounds brutal in the wake of bringing the very politicians you elected down; of putting down the very media you consume everyday.
Move on. It sounds insensitive in the time of honoring the very dead NSGs whose existence surprised you, the coming together of the very citizens with whom you were trying to compete with for jobs and admissions.
What else can one do! We are trying to be constructive here! We are learning from our mistakes! People are coming together through rallies and marches, people are caring once again and the citizen’s movement is reawaking.
I am all for it. Just hear me out on this last one.
You want to do something, change yourself, embody the values of someone who is just, sensitive and strong. Participate in the political process. Hold yourself accountable. It sounds like I am simplifying the matter – but on a basic level, it is about “being the change you want to see in the world.” Live the very exemplar in yourself.
Sometimes the strength is not in numbers, it is in the sentiment, it is in you.
I rest my case.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
And I am a virgin again…
I am scolding myself about why I had not been to the Madh Fort all these years. I am also grateful to that Air Marshall with a generous heart who called me last evening to let me know that there was a film shoot at the fort and it was open to civilians today. I am also berating myself for not enjoying this immense, forsaken, and dilapidated architecture and thinking about other random things.
CUT
Reality claws its way back into me as a nasal overbearing voice booms into the air. A full-size woman dressed in a sickly yellow gown with a tattoo of an eagle running into her breasts swimmingly settles into an ancient wooden bench from a 16th century British landscape. She is mouthing a ballad for an overgrown man who runs towards her dramatically and..
CUT
I am on top of the Madh Fort. I can see my city trailing the ocean. I am pure, unsullied, undefiled. I am virginal again. This city is nothing the way I have seen it ever. This city I call my own is beating to a different heartbeat that I never heard.
It is late evening and the sun is melting away into the sea. To add to my wonder and elation, it is a full moon night and the moon appears into the twilight – bright and orange. The big bunny in the moon is napping away. The lights are appearing, a flicker here and there and in a few minutes everything is illuminated. The city is like a vision. Everything that exists is a dream. A dream that the big bunny dreams.
CUT
The shot has changed. The lights are slipping away. A few shots here and there and the director wants to call it day. His assistant is screaming on the microphone, his cap twisted the other way on his head. There is a Labrador that the crew boys adore. He is creating havoc on the sets running around with the actor’s headdress in his mouth. The crew boys are running behind him. One of them catches up to him holds him tight, rolls on the wild grass with him and it is all calm again. The location has changed. The crew hastily moves down to the lower part of the fort.
CUT
There is a lonely canoe near the shore. No one to claim it. It is blue, pretty and free. The bigger boats are into the deep sea. The smell of dry fish invading every single pore in my body. It feels like me now.
CUT
The city is aflame. I can see my building. If I imagine it, I can even see my house. If I imagine hard, I can see myself. I am ordinary.
CUT
The fort is all-stone. Its rugged, its old-world, its green. There are parts where you cannot distinguish the fort from the shrubbery. At the entrance is a tree aloof and calm suspended mid air growing through the fort walls. The windows are barred and limiting like a viewfinder on the camera. The midget-sized gates are bolted with huge locks. The fort is under the control of Indian air force. No civilians allowed, but for a shoot.
CUT
Madh is happy. It is like a friendly community where beggars laugh with the locals. A group of villages, it retains and celebrates itself. Boats in the sea fishing away, middlemen trading with the Kolis is the middle of busy streets, children with bruised knees playing in alleys, young armed men from the Naval base sitting in cozy groups, women in all sorts of attires parading the streets, young underground rockers walking their stride, old men sneering at me, a huge buffalo steering traffic, hostile film vans barricading the bungalows, rickshaws which do not follow the meter, a small city within a city. Madh is untouched.
So am I.
Friday, October 17, 2008
The privilege of time
It must be around 11 am. I am sitting by the window of the BEST bus. The bus, bursting with people is waiting at a crossroad for the signal to turn green. The man sitting right ahead of me is chewing away at his paan. Let’s call him the paan man.
Finally, the green light comes on and the bus begins to turn at the junction. At the same time, the paan man decides to spit. He slightly raises himself from his seat and shoots a jet of crimson red semi fluid onto an unassuming suitably well dressed man.
Now, imagine you are that man. You are probably heading somewhere important - a meeting or office. You are livid. You are annoyed. You are fucking pissed off.
You look around you to assess the situation. You shirt looks like shit now. The vehicles are edgy and moving quick to make the most of the green signal. The bus is filled to its brim. The paan man is confused and apologetic. The only thing you can think of is to call him names but the bus moves on steadily and the paan man is gone.
This happened yesterday. It got me wondering – What does it take to pick a fight with someone? Grit? Gumption? Opportunity? Stupidity? Or the privilege of time?
Finally, the green light comes on and the bus begins to turn at the junction. At the same time, the paan man decides to spit. He slightly raises himself from his seat and shoots a jet of crimson red semi fluid onto an unassuming suitably well dressed man.
Now, imagine you are that man. You are probably heading somewhere important - a meeting or office. You are livid. You are annoyed. You are fucking pissed off.
You look around you to assess the situation. You shirt looks like shit now. The vehicles are edgy and moving quick to make the most of the green signal. The bus is filled to its brim. The paan man is confused and apologetic. The only thing you can think of is to call him names but the bus moves on steadily and the paan man is gone.
This happened yesterday. It got me wondering – What does it take to pick a fight with someone? Grit? Gumption? Opportunity? Stupidity? Or the privilege of time?
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