My Shining Star

My dear ammava,

Your photo now adorns the wall. The one in which you listen keenly to a speech by a comrade of yours, your beloved red flag fluttering in the background. A framed picture of you smilingly feeding your granddaughter sits on the table. But your chair remains empty, the one where you would sit, watching the news telecast or a cricket match, or reading the newspaper, your legs shaking beneath the chair in that characteristic way and an occasional cough drowning in the humdrum of the house.

The house that now resounds with the gurgles and shrieks of your grand daughter. A precocious toddler who shows anybody and everybody the university magazine, quickly turning the pages to find the one with your picture, and announcing your name with a flourish, which I know would have made you swell with pride. And when she grows old enough to question me about the person behind the picture , I wonder what I shall tell her.

Shall I tell her about the times I held tightly on to your shirt as I sat in the backseat of that old scooter and you drove me to your home along the rickety roads or shall I tell her about the black board that you got us which was our priced possession for many years ? Or how you would take us to your ancestral home and show us the huge pond that you swam in? Or should I tell her the many stories that you would tell us, about how you would walk miles to your school in your childhood and how you never wore slippers?

How shall I describe to her , the man that her grandfather was ?

Shall I tell her about how you always had faith in me, how you would keep telling me to write the IAS examination! You overestimated my capabilities, but that very confidence in me gave me the impetus to do a great many things. You would tell my mother not to restrict me from reading the great many books that I was addicted to when she would complain about it. You always believed in me, convinced that someday I would reach heights. How shall I describe to this little girl about the uncle who never once failed to remind me of my worth?

Or maybe I should tell her how her grandfather commanded respect. I would see my mother seek your opinion in everything and my father address you affectionately, yet talk to you respectfully. How my naughty brother would obey a firm word from you, but not my mother’s many warnings. How you were the absolutely and final word for many things. Yet never have I seen you raise your voice or exert your authority, except in that subtle way.

You were always jovial with us, kids. Joking about how my father, though years younger than you had more grey hair, and always smiling. Why! You especially relished reading Balarama, that children’s magazine for which a tug of war would often break out between you and your younger daughter.

We grew up, but remained kids in your eyes.

Or should I tell her about the deeply principled man that you were ? Dedicated to the cause that you endorsed , never once haggling for a higher position in the party . You carried every position and responsibility given to you with élan, and helped a great many who deserved it , and was firm in rejecting the undeserving.

Your grand daughter will not remember that rickety Maruti car, which you drove to receive me , unfailingly , each time i returned from Chennai. I would walk along the platform in the knowledge that you would be there to receive me and we would walk together to the car. You would ask me about the weather in Chennai and what I ate during the travel.

Last time I answered those questions, I never once thought that you will not be around to ask them again. I never imagined that you could possible disappear from our lives and remain a photo on the wall. Death was never a reality to me before you taught me that final lesson.

Many thronged your home as you lay in that glass box covered in a red cloth, everywhere except your face, which seemed exceedingly pale. They covered you with wreaths and garlands while we sat around in vigil.

They day many important people came to your funeral, but I never noticed…for nobody was as important for me as you. They organized much commemoration meetings in your name and several people paid tribute to you as we listened.

You are a memory that is most alive.

And when your grand daughter asks me, I shall tell her that you are a shining star.

A beautiful star in the clear dark sky.

HATRED

I do not know if this is going to qualify as readable material. But considering the fact that the only readers of this blog are one’s parents and few doting cousins, I suppose I can use this for therapeutic purposes.

Hatred. I wonder if the people who use this term actually and truly understand the complete meaning it implies. I wonder if they can relate to the dark and heavy emotion that is defined by it. Do they really understand the intense feeling it evokes?

I did not.

Several events in the recent past have made me intensely dislike a person. Even the sight of that individual makes my blood boil with fury. Every feature on her face, every word of hers fills me with a mad desire to slap her right across her face. I look at her and I can see only hypocrisy and fake-ness. Every time I look at her, I get intensely reminded of her cunningness and manipulative nature. I cannot bear to even stand for a moment, the show that she puts up in public, for I see through her so clearly. It sends a shiver down my back when I see the unfairness of her actions.

I have never known this intense feeling before.

It is like a dark cloud that hovers over my thought just bursting to break into furious rain.

It is a strange energy that takes over my senses lending them a fierce-ness that I have never known before.

It is like an angry wave that lashes against the shore, never satisfied and retaliates again and again.

It is like the burning fire that devours with unfulfilled hunger.

It is like the restless chatter of a madman.

It is like the energy in a clenched fist.

It is like the sparkle in the eyes of a wild beast.

It is like the redness of blood.

Hatred. It is the evil energy that clenches your chest in a most frustrating manner. It is that weight that you just cannot manage to lift. It is frustrating and obsessive and passionate.

It is the poisonous apple in the garden of Eden , a bite of which shall put you to eternal agitation .

A bite and you are chained , like me , weighed down with the heavy knowledge of hatred.

I crave for an antidote.

Innocence , I offer a tear on your grave.

Two States

I was wandering along the lanes of landmark , picking up many books and promptly putting them back , for fear of bankrupting one’s parents. My dedication towards this cause can be understood from the fact that I have once finished an entire novel standing amidst the book racks in Landmark , shifting from foot to foot. I was about to embark on one such venture when I noticed a small crowd around the new-arrivals counter mostly composed youngsters. In a venture to find the cause of this excitement , I managed to squeeze through the rather boisterous crowd to find a small red book staring at me . Two States , it said. The back cover stated its price , so staggeringly low that I wasted no time in running to the cash counter , book in hand.

Chetan Bhagat , the typical Indian over-achiever , who has very cleverly targeted the hitherto untouched category of population , the city youth presenting to them stories that they can relate to , in a style that appeals to them. Two states , his latest creation , partly autobiographical , is the tale of an inter-community marriage.

The beginning of the book is set on the grounds of IIM Ahmedabad , which is where the much-hyped popular girl Ananya falls in love with IIT-ian turned IIM-ite Krish. Krish and Ananya being classmates in the liberal campus of IIM , proceed to have a rather blissful live-in relationship for two years after which they procure jobs of their choices. A rather funny account of the interview process is described during which Krish proposes to Ananya , and this is where the book takes on the tones of a bollywood movie.

But of course , marriages in India are never about the bride and the groom. Its about the groom’s immediate family , and then his extended family , and then his neighbours , and then his entire locality falling in love with the bride’s entire clan from her parents to her fifth cousin. This being quite a difficult target to achieve even if the bride and groom hail from the same community , the book revolves around the effort of the couple to bring about integration between their families hailing from Tamil Nadu and Punjab respectively.

Mr. Bhagat has described Tamil Brahmins so faultlessly that one cannot but laugh. Real life . when depicted in words , somehow is endlessly humorous. The book describes Krish’s attempt to please Ananya’s Hindu-reading , bank manager dad , carnatic music –loving , lemon-rice making mother , and future iit-ian brother. And Ananya’s struggle to appease Krish’s highly prejudiced , madrasi-hating , food-loving , loud , mother . Krish’s dad being rather a villainous character who hovers in the background.

Kanjivarams and Salwar suits , carnatic music and Bhangra , Lemon rice and Murgh masala come between between Krish and Ananya. And the combination is so explosive that the couple almost part ways, with Krish turning into a modern devdas…but for the bollywood type , super melodramatic twist in the end of the of the story which is sure to make any sensible reader cry for mercy. Mr , Bhagat , you watch too many movies.

The book is a perfect bollywood formula. It has romance , comedy and a huge , sappy-dripping with love twist …and a grand wedding to boot.

However , the subject of the book and the message it delivers addresses very real issues. It talks of the new generation of Indian youth , independent and ready to make choices for themselves. It shows the balance they strike , rooted to their families yet making their own decisions.

Moreover it is a message to every parent to let go of their petty prejudices and closed mindsets. It appeals to the older generation to understand the pulse and emotions of their children and to learn to loosen the rigidity of their beliefs to accommodate the happiness of their offsprings.

If this book opens up a new window in a parent’s heart , Mr Bhagat , we forgive you for all that melodrama in the book.

PS : Amal has very kindly bestowed an award on me , the acceptance speech of which i shall be delivering shortly. Meanwhile , i request all vistors to leave a comment. Helps raise a poor , low-self esteemed blogger's spirit. Its lean time around here.

The Unbreakable Bond

The Bride looked beautiful in her traditional Garb. The groom beamed proudly at the crowd. And I sat among the crowd, straining to catch a glimpse of the couple. Around me sat my classmates, clad In Saris and balancing on high heels, longing clearly writ on some faces, while some eyes looked wishful.

Marriage – the centuries old custom that is being followed without a dispute. The simple union of two individuals that has imbibed a million new meanings since its day of conception. A turning point in the life of many an individual... it is certainly a milestone in life.

Our country has a tradition that goes back to many million years…and hence not surprisingly , our society is akin to the senile grandfather , wise with age , yet unable to cope upto the changing world around him , a grumble ready for anyone who lends him a ear. Society is that that doddering old man who desperately clings to his mental imagery unwilling to let go of his antiquated beliefs. Wise, yet shattered. Knowledgeable yet Unseasoned.

Being the predominantly Patriarchal society that we are, we give him the foremost position in our lives, look to him for approval, even regarding our most personal decisions – like Marriage. Marriage , in the Indian frame of mind , is very narrow . A marriage is pronounces successful only if the Bride and Groom belong to the community, caste and sub-caste. This clearly eliminates any opportunity for personal choice. One need only to select from the photos produced by enthusiastic relatives of Slightly balding men in their early thirties with preference given to the men , the background of whose photos sport a dazzling view of some foreign city.

The most ironic factor being that the most monstrous and hair-less fellow would begin his search looking for the proverbial “fair an slim” girl , overlooking her character . The Girl, of course, from the time of her very birth is tutored to somehow acquire sufficient color to pass of as “fair”. The Girl purchases tube after tube of “Fair an Lovely” and meticulously observes her progress in comparison with the fairness card that the cram company kindly provides, all the while waiting for her knight in shining armor.

And if She, by some stroke of luck , manages to fall in Love , she is immediately shunned by her family. The society looks down upon her as an outcaste. `Her parents become silent and empathetic receivers of Sympathy and emotionally blackmails the girl, citing the various sacrifices that they have undertaken for her sake. The mother would express with huge tears her disappointment upon the audacity of her daughter to have fallen in love with a perfectly agreeable young man, who happens to be of a lower caste. They see it as an act of great deceit. The parents are slaves to the society..and their progeny a silent victim.

Isn’t it time that we overthrew this system that is indeed a monstrous breach of human rights?

Isn’t it time that we opened the drooping eyelids of our society and dragged it out of its dull complacency?

Isn’t it time that we demand our right to exercise free will and not be treated as a social outcaste?

Isn’t it time that we widened our horizons and learned to open our arms towards the new?

I watched as the Bride coyly garlanded her love of many years , and my heart skipped a beat. And I wondered , one among the many young women in the hall , if we shall experience the same bliss that showed in our friend’s eyes as she found fulfillment in marriage.

Maybe the collective sigh that I heard was not imaginary after all.

PS : I am off for a North India Tour - Delhi , Chandigarh , Jaipur , Ahmedabad , Kullu Manali. Will be back in ten days armed with stories from all over!!

The Epidemic

If life , in its whole honesty were to be made into a movie, I am quite certain that it would definitely be a best seller. There’s suspense , and lot of comedy , a dash of tragedy and a lot of twists and turns. Some of those turns are so steep that they change the entire course of the journey.

I have been a witness to such a turn in a friend’s life. I’ve known her for the last four years , ever since she came to college as an eighteen year old first year student. Her easy laughter and wit coupled with her affectionate manner earned my friendship. She became my companion in teacher-bashing, people-teasing , weight-watching and occasional woe-sharing.

She extracted many promises before letting me into her special secret and opening her shiny brown diary to show me a picture of a smiling boy. My boyfriend, she said , conspirationally announcing his name that revealed his faith – which didn’t match hers.

My seventeen year old self was sufficiently impressed with her guts and listened with open-mouthed awe her tales about love, with mixed feelings of admiration and jealousy. I saw her eyes glisten as she spoke of him and the lovely times they had together. Her eyes took on a look of fierce determination as she told me of her resolution to get married to him alone.

As seasons passed , my horizons widened , and though I often saw her wandering the corridors glued to her mobile phone , I would stop only to say a breezy hi and pass an understanding smile. I didn’t want to disturb her rendezvous with her boyfriend of several years.

She soon shifted out of the hostel , into a flat in the nearby neighborhood , with a friend. Hostel Food Sucks , she said. The warden is a pain. I couldn’t agree more. And so she darted out into freedom leaving me to hate the warden and the strict hostel timings with more vengeance.

Years passed in the blink of an eye and before I knew it , I was in the Final year and in my twenties. With a million notions about love, and excelling at the art of being judgmental. Cynical to the core , and hated by a large majority for my brutal honesty.

A six month long internship later , I met her on a slightly breezy morning. She looked hassled and rather plain. The slender chain around her neck seemed to have disappeared and her trademark ear-rings were absent. Customary pleasantries later , I asked her about him.
We broke up, she said. With an ease with which one would talk of the breaking of a mirror. I couldn’t hide my bewilderment. She merely smiled at my stunned self and answered – will of god.

I noticed several changes in her. Her incessant reading of the bible. Her constant referring to God in every conversation, however banal the topic be. Her rather preachy discourses on the love of God. Her single-minded refusal to miss her Mass on Sundays. Her new group of friends who seemed to me , a rather weird crowd who used the word God more than vowels in their conversation.

Finally she told me. Apparently God had touched her , she felt the holy spirit an she was convinced she said , that Jesus was the only God. She claimed that she now had a personal relationship with God. She had given up her ornaments as a part of her promise to God.
Suddenly everything that was normal before was a sin. And the code of conduct prescribed in the bible , many centuries ago , was her code of life.

And suddenly every other religion was wrong. She referred to the Hindu gods as Demons , created by Satan to curb the power of Jesus. The non-christian world would surely rot in hell , she predicted. She was soon taking the bible quite literally and refused to accept the theory of evolution.

Do you want me to believe that we evolved form monkeys? With such an awesome god above us, how can that be possible? She laughed. You must be a fool if u believe in Natural selection , she chided me.

She would talk of heaven and angels as if they were reality. She would incessantly talk of miracles. A man cured of cancer , a drug addict who suddenly gave up his addiction.

I could see it all so clearly . I could see the paradigm shift in her..and I could really understand how she was conceiving the world through the sieve of religion and interpreting everything happening around her as a justification for her belief.

I was stunned . I never believed that the institution of religion can be this dangerous. I never imagined that it would succeed in bringing within its clutches educated and aware people..just like you and me. I saw the strange power it held over people. Religion truly was the opium of masses.

And now I could really see the reason for all the religious wars.

Is it the social structure that the church provides that offers solace to lonely souls, only if they were to accept its word ?

Is it the inherent need of the people for security that makes them want to believe in God , and is that why they take leave of their rational minds so easily and become willing to be a part of a group and drown in the group’s principles?

Is it the need of the ego to seek justification for their decisions that makes them want to search for affirmation in every incident, is that what makes them interpret every little thing as a miracle of god?

Is it the unwillingness of people to take responsibility of their own lives, that makes them want to believe in an entity that decides their lives for them?

Religion is dangerous. It’s infectious. It is an epidemic. It will catch hold of anyone who is low on immunity.

I fear the day rationality will finally bleed to death at the altars of religion.

A day for Friendship

Today is Friendship day. An ordinary day with a nice label. Yet another occasion for introspection.

A multitude of faces crowd my mind at the mention of the word “Friend”. For every passing acquaintance is loosely termed as a friend. From a fellow traveler in the local train, to that classmate whose face you cannot recollect …everyone is a friend. Friendship has become so dilute that it has almost lost its flavor.

I have a queer belief that true friendships can be nurtured only in Childhood , before the world has had its chance to corrupt the innocent mind , which is why both my very best friends are people who I have known ever since I was a mere child.

Our friendship began with admiration. I admired her slightly arrogant elegance. Her stubborn streak and righteous pride. I would try and walk like her, and would try incessantly to imitate her tilted accent. She, in turn, adored me, and put up with my sometimes ridiculous antics.

They say familiarity breeds contempt. Which should be true, because as I grew up , I formed my own niche and looked down upon that same tilted accent that I once loved. I buried myself in books and the world. Yet she was always around, like a soothing backdrop to my life. Never interfering nor threatening. And when I had to leave the town I grew up in , I , in my hunger for life , bid a cheery goodbye and shrugged off her parting tears as mere silliness.

I was so naïve. Little did I know that adult mind is the jumbled tangle of emotions where Friendship simply cannot have a life of its own, there’s always jealousy, or anger, or greed, or hatred. Slowly I learnt to dilute Friendship, everybody was a Friend. Yet nobody really was.

And each time I returned back for holidays, she’d always be there with her sparkling eyes, demanding with some authority every little detail of my life. To which I would happily oblige, for I knew she would always be on my side. Hating with a vengeance people who had the audacity to hurt me, and adoring the kind souls who I described as friends. She knew how to be absolutely honest with criticism and she also knew to be fiercely supportive. She would read me before I would tell her. Her counsel never sounded like advice.
We had several ideological differences, and endless arguments. She would scream in anger and cry in utter desperation at several of my actions. Yet, she never wavered in her loyalty. I always knew, and still know that I always have her on my side. My best friend.

I cannot think of her as separate from him. Almost her opposite. Soft Spoken and always wanting to fade somewhere into the background. Yet firm. His counsel has always been balanced and slightly bordering on being Preachy. He would tell me never to hate people and to never be impulsive. He would tell me to start on my assignments when the submissions were still a light year away. And he would constantly advice me on the dangers of being as bull-headed as I am. I always shrug him off at the first instant, but chew on in his advice later. I always know that he’ll be around to hold an umbrella for me when it rains. My best Friend.

Two apparent opposites. Him and Her. It was only destiny that brought them together 24 years back and bonded them with the sacred vows of marriage.

And together they have succeeded in the very difficult task of bringing up their difficult and absolutely annoying daughter….And in the process, becoming her very best friends in the world.

Dear Life

Dear life,

When I look behind me, you form my trail. When I look ahead you are my path . When I look around , you are a swirl of colors . You are a dissonance of noises. You are a labyrinth of emotions. An when I look within , you are a mystery.

I conspire with time and together we unearth your myriad hues. When we started out , the bright colours of innocence , of unbridled happiness seemed to define you. You seemed to extend your arms to pull me into a pool of luminous joy. You seemed a beautiful picture of hope , love and peace.

Is it out of your very bosom that clouds of anxiety flew out? Did you hide under your bright shades , the darkness of sorrow ? Who painted the wild strokes of fear upon you ? Where did the thickness of Greed spring from?

Each time I look , you seem to change your colors. Layers of paint on your surface grows thick. The experiences of humanity over the years must have culminated into the collage that you present before me. I see in you memories , tears and laughter of people I never knew.

And just when you seemed to be the most undecipherable painting , I discover understanding. The new shade that i see in you , the strange combination of all your shades.. And suddenly you make a little more sense. I now see your colours, yet they don’t intimidate me. I now dodge greed , and try to overcome fear. I see jealousy and close my eyes. You taught me to manipulate you.

Yet sometimes you take me by surprise. You hide your glow and turn murky. You take away my understanding . You challenge me. As I stagger out of the dark alley, I see wisdom. The sublime shade that revels a few of your secrets.

You have painted me in all your colours. You have given me the wealth of experience. You have sprinkled over me twinges of understanding. Yet you lie ahead , a misty veil over your face. You lure me with the unknown.

Someday I shall form another layer on you , and my laughter and tears shall form lessons to somebody else in pursuit of you. For I may disappear someday , yet you will resound in every heartbeat and every breath.

I hope to make peace with you before I leave.

Love,
Gymnast.

PS : Thanks to Tharini for the concept.