A Rainy Day

Alleviated humidity, rolling somber clouds and the calm that precedes the on-lash of the rains are all tell-tale signs of an oncoming downpour in the city. For those of us wishing for respite from the infamous heat, the rains come as a sign from the heavens, letting us know that our prayers are being heard and answered. For those of us who live in low lying areas however, such as yours truly, the rains garner a mixed response. While I would love nothing more than a lower temperature to cool off the heat waves of summer, along with a soothing breeze and dust free streets, wading through knee deep waters with the uncertainty of where (or on what) my foot lands on somehow doesn't hold the same alluring charm for me as it does for others.

While certain sections of the populace long for afternoons where they can jump into puddles, frolicking merrily with splashes of water going here-there-and-everywhere, I long for afternoons when I don't have to fiercely pray for vehicles to slow down when it comes next to me, "unknowingly" throwing earth tinted wetness onto my clothes. The fear of my footwear slipping off my feet and washing away into the murky unknown of the city's "famed" drainage systems, surprisingly, does not bring a smile or an effeminate naive giggle to my lips. I'd like to keep my rubber-soled sandals, thank you very much, especially since the city's electrical wiring systems are known for their intimacy with water.

Water may be the elixir of life, but I'd prefer mine processed through a Reverse Osmosis Plant. Having said that though, the environmentalist in me does usher in the rains to fill our empty underground coffers, nourish our eutrophicated lakes and flush out the putrid (and aggregated) wastes from the city's only river, bringing reason to cheer and hoot.

Maybe someday I won't have to buy water to use. Who knows? Someday in the near future, the showers that bless the city will not be acidified and burn my innards, but rather, they may prove to be sweeter than the liquid from the Fountain of Youth. Coleridge's "Water, water everywhere; but not a drop to drink" may even fall into oblivion with respect to the city...

Or maybe that's just my Utopian dream...

The inconsistencies of Being Indian

Life in India is complex, to say the least. We're loud, brash, crass but at the same time have discernible features like being welcoming, hospitable and sympathetic. Paradoxical, I realise, but if you think about it, you will too. In a land that boasts of being rich in resources, our most holy of water bodies lies in a detrimental state, and the Ganges know I'm just being polite. Hypocritically, we believe in the idiom, " Mera Bharat Mahaan" and then inconspicuously ( or conspicuously, depending on how open your are) aspire to go abroad,study, settle in and lead the life you believe you will never be able to have in India. And yet, there's a part of you that tugs at your heartstrings, telling you to go back "home" to the place that your "truly belong to" and other such sentiments like that. I may be generalising here, and I'll admit, I'm not too fond of the action that I'm obviously setting into play, but I can't help but see life here for what it is.

Through several phases of being colonised, our country has sprung forth from the debris of an inferiority complex, naivety and the idea of " we are toh like this only", much like the springs that gushed from the hooves of Pegasus, ushering an age of awakening, awareness and acceptance for the people that we are. Despite our many incidents of fumbles, stumbles, mishaps and plain old ignorance, we've certainly come a long way without much help. Kudos to that, and I mean it with all sincerity!

However, I've realised through quite observance and reasoning that at this junction of time where we aspire to forge ahead with gusto, the crossroads that we are met with are unsettling. On one hand we have a certain section of society that believes in proving to the Western World that we are just as good as them, if not better, and thus this section marches to a different beat, ploughing their way through this Western concept of perfection by being mimetic of their customs and lifestyle. I'm sure I can say we've all been part of that bandwagon, if not for the fact that we still are. I believe that our television shows are proof.

On the other hand however, is the section of society, deeply rooted in its Indian-ness. Beginning with Gandhi, through the Tagore's, the Nehru's and the many clans of politicians that we have today, all dressed in various shades of "purity", "sacrifice and salvation" and "unity", our leaders ( or so we have named them) have been creating a didactic sense of nationality and patriotism. Unfortunately, I don't believe that they've truly succeeded. When asked to name our National Song, I know many people who would draw a blank and say "Jana Gana Mana". For the record, that is our National Anthem and our National Song is "Vande Mataram". Most people don't even stand up for the National Anthem. Almost our entire population is ignorant of the fact that the National Flag BY LAW, is supposed to be made of Khadi, and usage of any other material is a punishable offence with imprisonment and a fine. No sort of lettering is supposed to be inscribed on the flag and the flag CANNOT be used on any vehicle other than those of the President, Vice President, Prime Ministers, Governors and Lieutenant Governors of the States, Chief Ministers, Union Ministers, Members of Parliament and State Legislatures, Judges of the Supreme Court and High Courts of India and ultimately Flag Officers of the Indian Army, Navy and Air Force. But then again, most people don't even know the number of spokes on the Chakra. Again, for the record, it is 24.

As proof of our ignorance and blatant disrespect for any form of nationalist sentiments or patriotism, I remember an incident that both disturbed and enraged. As a part of the Independence Day Celebrations at a particular school, ( I shall not name it, obviously) a group of mothers were waiting outside the gate, busy chattering. A small skit was being performed after which the National Anthem was supposed to be sung. Let's choose to turn a blind eye to the pitiful rendering of the Anthem, after all, "their only kids". However, what brought my blood to a rolling boil was the fact that the women standing outside blatantly chose to ignore the fact that everyone else in the gathering stopped what they were doing and stood to at least a semblance of what the posture of attention should look like. Despite my profoundly strong intuition to tell these women off, I did not. I realised that sometimes things are just left alone because most often, words on etiquette fall on deaf ears. After all, everyone wants to believe that they portray the epitome of culture and good behaviour.

Despite all of this, I prefer to have a positive outlook towards our situation. At this point of time when most of us are at this juncture, we've created a safe little niched and named it the "Indo-Western" approach to social congruence and aggregation. Our mindsets are tuned to be open to everything from live-in relationships to vastushaastra. How long will this utopian bubble last? Only time will tell. Till then, hopefully, our Indo-Western tendencies don't contaminate our patriotism.

"Yeh jo des hai tera, swades hai tera, tujhe hai pukaara, yeh woh bandhan hai jo kabhi toot nahin sakta..."

Corruption at its Hypocritical Best

A few weeks back, before the whole Anna Hazare vs the Government deal, I witnessed a cop taking a bribe from a middle aged man who only had a learner's license and was driving a sedan. The driver in question, did not have his papers on his person, at the time and the cop initially pulled him over to book him for having an "illegible number plate". Starting with an initial amount of 500, the cop settled for 200 after hearing that the car previously belonged to a police officer superior to him.

Here's the thing I don't get. In a society where 16 year olds ( I'm being optimistic about the age here, I know people younger) would happily dish out 2k (again, this is the optimism speaking) for a full fledged driving license, I fail to understand the whole "Fight Against Corruption" idea. Not that I'm against it, no, don't get me wrong. I firmly believe that equal rights should prevail. Along with the ideal idea that justice should be blind and not subject to how deep your pocket is.

Where admissions are granted to not just colleges, but schools as well, on how large your "donation" is, I have several conflicting takes on the matter. Few of them too cynical to be typed in too. In a country where education is compulsory till the age of 14, why do we still ask 'Chotu' at the tea-stall for that cup of tea? Why haven't any of our writers/ directors or even actors taken up their cause? Isn't exploiting 'Chotu' a form of corruption in itself? Isn't turning a blind eye to his pitiful condition aiding the corruption process?

Selective corruption is rampant today. We believe in doing and asking for "favours". Our society thrives on "adjusting". Corruption doesn't always have to be monetary either. Isn't the propagation of misguiding information a form of corruption as well? To what lengths are we going to go for the enforcement of this "BAN ON CORRUPTION" thought process? Isn't psychological warfare then, also a form of corruption?

Are we as individuals, ready for a JUST society? Are we as a people, ready for a society that DOES NOT believe in favoritism? Are we as a nation, truly ready to accept laws and FOLLOW them, to the T? Perhaps we need to address other issues like justice, patriotism and civic sense first, before we move on to the big bad realm of corruption. Or maybe this is just my ideal concept of that Utopian society.

C'est la vie?

There's something hurtful about sitting next to someone less fortunate than yourself. If you're the person who gets depressed easily, stop reading now.

A few hours ago, I was waiting at the bus stop near Palmgrove and to my uneasiness (which will be explained shortly), there was a woman sitting on the pavement, eating her lunch. She was, presumably, a vagrant, wandering on foot from place to place asking for alms. Now, usually I'm repelled by such people, and I'll make no bones about it. I used to find them ignorant, lazy and worst of all, annoying. Today, however, was a different story.

As I watched this woman, in her shabby black nightdress with the blue rose print, carefully chew and swallow each morsel of food that she held in her bent hands, I started questioning my own ways of thinking. This middle-aged woman, with her salt and pepper cropped hair, large teeth and skin that had looked like old newspaper, made me realise how selfish and unfeeling I'd been all those years. You and I crib about the people in our life, the things that we want but can't have, the kind of places we'd like to see but can't go and worst of all, the kind of people that we'd like to turn into, but can't be. Whom would she turn to, to vent?

Today, as I watched this sad woman wash her hands with the water that she had in an Aquafina bottle, her actions pulled at my heartstrings. Here lay a woman who had nothing save the clothes on her back, the make-shift baton beside her and for now, a meal and some water  for lunch. I wondered where she'd go when it rained, or when it got too hot. I wondered where she was originally from. I wondered why she bothered LIVING, when she had no worldly connections to this material plane. I wondered about how she had the will power to walk, when it was clearly evident that her bent and broken feet, battered from the sun and harsh terrain of tar and stone, were in no condition to even let her stand without having her double over in pain.

How does one stay alive, knowing that their presence in the world does not matter? She is neither the "aam aurat" nor is she the "kheton ki kissaan". She is one among the billions of people around the world, living for the moment with no clue about their survival. She is one among the zillions of people who have been born, who have lived and who will die, faceless and nameless as the world around them changes.

I don't know if I'm angry or depressed. I don't know what emotions I'm feeling because I neither know what to do with them, nor do I know how to push them out of me. I only know, that from this day forth, apart from the many things that life may throw at me, I'll always remember the Broken Lady at the Palmgrove Bus Stop. Does that make me grateful for the things that I do have? I wouldn't know. I guess I have tomorrow to look forward to. "After all, tomorrow is another day".

The Verb Hope

To hope is more trying than most people will allow themselves to believe. When you've lost the very foundations of that which brings you hope in your most difficult times, hoping for a sliver of light, hoping for a window of escape and hope for a more secure tomorrow can be challenging to say the least. Hope however, fails us sometimes. Human as we are, our self pitying, wasteful and wanting natures tend to push us deeper into the secluded pits of our minds, where darkness engulfs. Everyone's been there. Some of us have hit the bottom of that seemingly bottomless pit, and some of us have managed, somehow, to hang to the frayed rims by our nails.

But this note is on Hope. Not a noun, but as a verb. To hope. To wish for a better, brighter day is to hope that things will become better. To be grateful for our every working cell, for every functioning sense and for the fact that someone somewhere is looking out for us, is reassuring to say the least. But more than that, it's the feeling of hope that this shall continue, that keeps us moving.

If you're nauseated by the optimism, or forced hopefulness that these words are pushing you toward, I suggest you stop reading now.

Aren't you proof of hope itself? Isn't it a miracle that you were brought here by some hope? So what, if that initial hope falls out? Aren't you supposed to have your own hopes? Isn't that what the purpose of life is supposed to be? Life = Hope = Happiness = Life.

Is it any wonder then, why breaking a person's hope of a better life sells so brilliantly in popular culture?

A Life of Change

A life of change is inevitable. With the hassles of moving, leaving things behind, breaking things in the process of keeping them safe and trying to break things that you don't want to take with you, a life of change brings maturity. There's something nostalgic about packed bags, brown cartons and brown tape. If life came in a carton, all taped up and plastered with stickers saying "FRAGILE" and "THIS SIDE UP", I'm sure things would be a lot less eventful. It's only when you notice that the first pen that you took to school is missing, that you even start remembering how scrawly your handwriting used to be back then. Not that I'm saying mine has graduated to "Big people's scrawly handwriting".

A life of change can hurt. Sometimes more than you will ever be able to admit. It's when the realisation that there's no point wishing for things to stay the same or go back to when things were easier that you realise that acceptance can be the hardest word to follow through but still be the best for you. People come, people go. Some who are supposed to stay with you forever, end up leaving at the worst possible moment. What isn't in your hands is best left alone. Either mope, whine and never get over it, or mourn, hurt and move on.

A life of change will always be in motion. Things will peak to their worst before getting better. A life of change can turn out to be frustrating. But a life of change can also be the best thing to ever happen.

Memories of Childhood Past

It's a rainy evening and the hammering of the raindrops against my window pane make me nostalgic. The rains always do that to me, bringing back memories of my innocent childhood. Closing my eyes, I go back in time to those days when the biggest sin you could commit was not bringing your own pencil to school. Those days were many and yet, few. Friend,s at that point of time, were people you enjoyed life with, running around loose in each others' houses and lawns with not a care in the world. Those evenings of swinging upside down on the jungle gym, playing football in the cricket field close by, skating in the rink in the park and the like, seem to haunt me with a tinge of sorrow, whispering of how those days will never come back...
I remember my summer mornings as clearly as peering through crystal. Picnics on the golf course munching on chocos and sandwiches, running barefoot on the grass seem like bliss. Sunscreen was unheard of, of course at that age. I remember making daisy chains, painting tiny acorns with metallic paint and jumping into the deep end of the pool in the sweltering afternoons. I remember watching my mother daintily applying her lipstick, draping her saree for the Coffee Evenings, neatly styling her hair. I remember those evenings when my father would be searching frantically for his cummerbund for those cocktail parties. And still, I remember the wistfulness I felt as a child, wishing for those days when I would one day dress up and be a grown up to go to those "fancy" parties...
But what I remember and miss most of all from among my treasure trove of memories, are those people who came, stayed, and left during my formative years. They taught me much. They made me - ME. From my very first day at Primary School in class I B in June to my last day in Junior High School in class VII A in the month of March , my memories stay fond and close to my heart. And so the hammering dulls to a soft drumming and as I close my treasure chest, I mind not to lock it shut too tight. After all, there will come many evenings when the hammering will begin again...