The stained shoulders of the white shirt

The movements of those feet were in complete sync. Most of them had no idea about other’s style of walking. But, they moved in perfect sync. Like a march past on 26th of January every year. I was also a part of it and somewhat satisfied and surprised with the ease with which, I carried it off. Being away from home for more than 9 years, I was not sure if I was still brisk enough to walk with the same calmness and the momentum as they did.

It was a set of four shoulders of some 20 different men playing a game of Kho Kho in the middle of National Highway no 10. One slight push from the back, a few words in the ear and he left his place, that place filled by another one.

I noticed a bunch of rooms erected like a mismanaged hard on a piece of land smaller than my cup board next to that gate which despite being huge wasn’t welcoming. They saw us coming and remained seated. I found it disturbing, but what else they could do? Sharing the wall with a crematorium takes its toll on people’s mindset. I think that was justified.
I crossed that gate after a long time. I mean, long time, since I carried someone through it. The air was heavy. It made me sink in the ground by two inches at least, but that wasn’t bad enough. It actually felt better to be at the same level as the other three. I wondered, if should try doing it next time someone dies. It made it easy to walk through that air that smelled of death. I was, I think proud of myself to perform my duty seamlessly, but there was this emptiness that didn’t let that emphatic euphoria stay for long.
The weight of a burden on your shoulder is far more easy to take then to take the weight of a dead. A weight that is being transferred to you through some randomly knitted bamboos. The red stiff ones.

As they crossed the gate that promised to lead people to heaven without consulting Led Zepplin, they all went berserk and ran in various directions. As if running for their lives in Carmageddon. Just that, there was no car there to splatter them to pieces. In fact, they all slogged to find some logs. The stairway was going to be made in a record time.
Soon, the air smelled of freedom. Freedom only the clerics can guarantee. One of whom stood in front of me, smoking a beedi and counting money in his head, he was going to ask for. The price of providing freedom to the dead.

On the way back, I asked my cousin, if I behaved fine according to the old men. He said he was just 24 and shrugged.

I again had to be 12 stories above the ground at 10 in the morning. So, I had to leave with a sense of loss and satisfaction of not disappointing myself at a critical time like that.

The sun was setting behind some dunes and the sky looked like the color of the bamboo. That blood red color, that was still there on both the shoulders of my white shirt.

आओ कुछ कदम और चलें,
भरने उन बादलों को अपनी मुट्ठियों में,
उस चिनार की गीली होती झुर्रियों को celluloid में उतारने |

उस फैलती सफ़ेद चादर में खुद को लपेटने,
नंगे पैर उस हरी काई पर उड़ने |

आओ कुछ कदम और चलें,
उस खाली पिंजरे में कुछ खुशियाँ छिपाने,
उस सूखे लालटेन को धुंध से जलाने |
उन ठुकराए घोसलों में एक आशियाँ बसने |

आओ कुछ कदम और चलें,
उस वीराने को कुछ कहानियाँ और सुनाने |

the bottomline of desire - 1

DAY 1

It all just happened. Don’t know how it started and where it was heading to, but all I knew was, “it was gonna be one hell of a time there”. Reaching Rishi’s place that afternoon and taking that radio cab was still not enough to make me believe that I was actually on my way to world’s biggest circus of the intellectuals. Reached somewhere around midnight and the pink city looked to be quite warm n welcoming. It all felt wonderful. Auto drivers either have a NOS installed in their automobiles or they have been trained at Monza with some Ferraris. Ass was splitting in two when he dropped us to 13 Gaurav Nagar. Don’t know what Shreya’s dad does, but he got this amazing guest house, so close to Diggi Palace, it’s no joke and I even somehow got a single bed. WHOA. Great success!
Morning was quite refreshing, or maybe it was the entire feeling of attending something I wanted to since last 2 years, that was still struggling to sink in. I again told myself once I opened my eyes, “it’s happening for real. You are actually here”. Got a bit late for the opening thing of the very first day, that was supposed to be addressed by Sir Girish Karnad. Came to know, it never happened and felt blessed. It all seemed so pretty and professional at same time. Strolling around like a lost kid in Berlin Love Parade, I saw this old man in white clothes that looked familiar. May be I am not used to of seeing celebrities so close or maybe I was plain mad, that I couldn’t recognize Gulzar sahib sitting there sipping his coffee and talking to someone, took out the book and this pen and with legs trembling, went to him and just passed them to him without uttering a single word, he smiled and signed and all I could say was, “shukriya”.
Amit Chaudhury, Amitava Kumar and Nilanjana Roy were talking in baithak, bout criticism, which I didn’t understand much, but what I understood was that, Amitava Kumar is a snob. Coming out of it and roaming around, I again kept asking myself if the sitting in front of me was Rahul Bose only or some lookalike or is it some kind of mirage? Thought of letting him be alone as I was getting late for this talk by Gulzar sahib, K Satchidanandan and Arvind Mehrotra, which was worth every second. “Stutter”, the poem by Satchidanandan and “Julahe” by Gulzar Sahib were enough to forget about everything.
“Visible Cities” by Geoff Dyer and Max Rodenbeck was a lovely talk to witness, describing how its possible to find Venice in Benaras and how things work when one city overlaps other one. Loved it. As the crowd started piling up as it reached an end, I realized something good was coming up next. Rahul Bose was soon on stage and so were Esther Freud and Michael Frayn and “Adaptations” came out to be one surprise for all of us. How books are made into films or plays or films from plays and so on and so forth. Managed to use this height and got this book signed by him once it got over. It felt overwhelming as the entire cult seemed to be following my footsteps.
5 o’clock on my watch asked me to move my ass as quickly as possible to Durbar Hall where Shabana Azmi and Javed Akhtar sahib were reading some parts of, “Kaifi and I”, which Shabana Azmi’s mother has written. As they took us along the clean roads of Allahabad in chilly winter mornings of February, 1947 where her mother Shaukat met her father Kaifi for the first time and told us how the romance developed between the two which aspired him to provide a large chunk of the finest poetry this sub continent had ever seen. Shaukat Azmi had this amazing way of going into the depth of a character she had to play in movies that time, by dressing up and behaving like that at home, Shabana ji did her best to portray that and all I remember now is that I was simply awestruck with everything she said. How her mother in that time refused to wear burkha and wanted to marry a man who could respect a woman’s self belief to do something with her life.
Om Puri sahib and Sir Girish Karnad, were in front lawns by 6, where they had to read something about Tughlaq. I stood there and tried to get mesmerized by their sheer voices and tried to remember the days when I used to get thrilled by the sheer sound of one of these men decades back in, “Turning Point” that used to come in late afternoon on DD Metro. Om Puri sahib had always been this man, I loved to see on 70 mm version of media. Ardh Satya and Droh Kaal still seem to be haunting me till date years after I first saw them. “Ek palde main napunsakta, doosre main paurush aur taraju ke theek beech main ardh satya”. Took an auto and headed back home. These lines were still echoing in my head by the time I reached home. Took out a cigarette and settled in bed still trying these lines to sink in more deeply then ever.

""it is late afternoon""

i kept wonderin what was wrong.. i kept thinking if what was obvious was right or just a Total Internal Reflection of this mindset, not easy to comprehend.. not even 9 ppl out of 60, who could tolerate me?? lol.. managed 5, out of which only 1 was guaranteed since beginning.. signed some treaties n it was over.. some 18 hours ago, told her what i should have told her ages ago.. she didnt like it i suppose.. after all, not many like others to show them mirror, but again depends if u r holding the mirror horizontally or vertically.. i hated myself for what i had been all these years.. thought of you for sometime n it pacified my mind, as always.. only thing i could do, was to go out, lookin for what i promised u.. after 78 kms on odometer and 13 nurseries, still couldnt find something as pretty as u.. came back dejected and disappointed.. mind is as restless as i could ever remember.. IIMC fails to provide what i have been expecting.. everything seems to be going wrong.. you seem to be the only saving grace.. as always, came back n stared at u before it all started to look ok.. thanks.. dont know how far it would go, but you surely do make everything look easy everytime.. n i want them to be easy, ALWAYS..

Hedonist?? Me?? thats so true !!

some days back a bitch asked me, "do u have some sanity left in you?".. and gave some IDEAS bout how to be a good team mate.. this morning i get a msg n i realized, she is going to get us ripped apart this beautiful morning..

2 days back, some IIMC students got drunk, puked all over, abused everyone passing by sitting in a white WAGON R, showed the most beautiful MIDDLE FINGER to most of the bands performing on rock night, passed some comments on the opposite sex, that thankfully no one understood.. and as Reethu said, some even managed to do a ball dance on this music.. according to me, funniest was to see this guy storming out of AD MAD as he seemed dissatisfied with the only guy who had honesty to tell him that the copy he wrote for the TVC was quite disgusting..

i once thought when i came to IIMC.. mine was fluke, but m sure not all of them suck.. now when i look back.. i realize.. i was happy thinking that coz reality bites.. majority sucks with an attitude.. they eat shit, they talk shit and they behave shit.. its just that before doin that, they make u feel as if its NOT shit and u start thinking for once, may be they have got mutant powers..

there was a reason why i never supported AISA mentally in last 4 years.. despite being introduced to communism at an early stage of life.. i couldnt stand this forced seriousness and a tag of being a communist and wearing and smokin the most expensive brands in market.. and today, when i buy a baret just because i like wearing it.. i m being tagged as a pseudo communist.. lol.. i dont think i care which cap Guevara used to wear and i don care to know if he was as lazy as i am to shave off his beard.. i have no option than to run away from the shadow of a figure i respected the most.. I DO NOT RIDE ON HILLS ON AN ENFIELD COZ I AM INFLUENCED (supposedly) BY MOTORCYCLE DIARIES.. neither do i have a Norton 1939, 500 cc under my ass n neither do i call it La Poderosa..

PHEW !!

i know who did it !! it was LORD VOLDEMORT..

As I settle in the front seat next to driver of my cab at 5:40 early morning today, with guilt of being late for like good 10 minutes. I smirked. I smirked on the guy sitting behind me and grinning for wasting his precious 10 minutes when he cud have reached office early and lech the girls around, some more, I smirk on myself as I could see from the corner of my eye that the dogs were getting piled up to assault me and I dodged them like “harry potter in a quidditch game” and I smirked the most hearing a song on FM where lata mangeshkar was singing, “….. wo burai kare, hum bhalai kare…” and suddenly TAJ hotel and café Leopold comes to my mind.

Unaware of the latest developments (if they have made any) bout the whole episode made me shudder as well. I heard this addl commissioner on some news channel, yellin as if he was goin to die next minute, but what he said made some sense to me. We have all the money in this God damn nation to sponsor, all paid trips to ministers and their kids and wife and sometimes (if they are lucky enough) for the maids also, to give as compensation to people who keep dying all round the year, but we don’t have enough money to buy arms and ammunition for the cops to practice once in a while. I still have this major notion that the commandos who died in last 3 days were not properly trained to meet a situation like this. I won’t be surprised if they hadn’t fired from the time they were recruited. Israel wanted to help, but as usual Sonia auntie shoved up a piece of stick up uncle Manu’s ass and he did as he was told. “NO, we can and we will”, I think was what uttered from his mouth. 5 Israelis were killed outta 7. I wish they wouldn’t have asked before doing it.

Cab driver drives as if he is also pissed off with all this, but after looking at him, my all doubts are gone. He is nothing, but drunk. I smirk again, or did I shrug?? Don’t know. I come out of cab, light a smoke and start thinking about my loveliest of them all thoughts. If I am given a sniper rifle and allowed to shoot the one responsible for such things, “WHOM DO I KILL”? As usual its too much of competition there also, CAT ain’t only thing. I would like to kill hmmmmmm raj thackrey for sure, pratibha patil, whole of BJP and Congress and CPM too, well the list wud never end, but I am restricted to current state of mind.

Kalindi, last night was trying to convince us (or may be herself that) its all BJP’s fault. Another case is with Ritika, she has a special hatred for muslims. None of them give a damn if you are a terrorist or not. One only and only cries when the assault is on muslims and keeps drinking otherwise, while other doesn’t even know how much deeply rooted is it. She believes in forwarding messages and hoping that it would help to fight againt terrorism, as mobile companies earn money as u forward ur msgs, but its ok as long as Airtel is owned by a hindu.

Opening my mailbox is no different. Forwarded mails flooding my mailbox and media at its best, showing limbs scattered, commandos dying, and saluting the dead cops, who cud have been alive, if it was a little bit more efficient hierarchy. One of the mails is from my reporting manager. As usual, I need a dictionary to figure out what she wants to say. “I think you have not to take action only by the flowchart. The long running request for "Memory-based" had been running for more than 14 hours and no action will be taken”, I look here and there trying to find someone ho went to same school, but alas. May be she went to Texas and stayed with pitbulls for way too long, before she decided to “let them live” and came here. I think it would be best to send either her or Bond (the deadliest mistake Ian Fleming ever did), to the site of action. All of the terrorists would have surrendered within hours.

When Taj was feelin heat, Modi came with a statement like, “terrorists were not from Gujrat”. How does it make any difference to me or to someone else, where they came from and from they didn’t? It happened and it kept going is what I am talking about. Advani talked about national integration and something like that, which I am sure he doesn know about, and when its now gonna be over, it has started once again. I am saying since beginning that I wont be surprised if this time also its politically motivated. I know I have more points to discard it than to accept, but I can never disrespect the image that our beloved politicians have earned hard. Most surprising of this all is the legend of Marathi Manoos, no no, its not Shivaji the great, its Raj Thackrey ( the bad, worse and worst) this time. I have no idea where he has fled. No reaction from MNS, I wish they had said that we would not allow north Indian army guys to enter TAJ, instead MARATHI MANOOS wud storm in and rip everyone apart. Then they would have separated people depending on north and south India, like US n UK citizens were the “chosen ones”.

For how long, we have to live in this ignorance? For whom to vote and whom to elect?
I seriously cant think of a political system made out of the trash e have right now in front of us. Who wud take decisions? PM? Who I don’t think can even go to pee without madam’s permission or Mr. Thackrey? Who loves to lick marathi asses with all his might and shoo away all the North Indian army men in taj, trident and nariman house and promise marathi people to reserve quota for them in army in maharashtra. I am pissed, I m furious, I cry, I yell, but I don’t know on whom. I look in complete darkness and I realize, its not the animals hidden in that darkness, I am scared of, it’s the darkness itself that scares me most.

Life Is Beautiful

“I’ll catch you later, Ma. Have to board the bus”, I hang up as I can see 332 approaching and my built was of no match to the crowd gearing up to make the dream come true. Moved along the crowd and soon I was on the upper deck. Surprisingly, I get a seat and soon I start enjoying the beauty lying along the roadside, the strange patterns formed by the street lights. Conductor asks something in Marathi which surpasses me like a Concorde, I take a wild guess and try to figure out what he might be asking. “J.B. Nagar”, I reply swiftly. Satisfied, he gives me a 2 rupee coin and the ticket to Kurla Station and suddenly I recall this headline I read some days back in some newspaper, screaming, “Marathi Day celebrated all across the city”.
The bus moves along the periphery of international airport and I am busy looking at the illumination along the runway and compare it with my hometown on Diwali and I am sure the airport would win with a thumping victory as far as illumination is concerned.
“O Fuck! You have to call at home”, and I start dialing the number. Mom tells me about car prices being slashed down, she being the next probable principal of her college after this “biggest mistake of God” completes her tenure, our maid not working properly and finally she starts on her all time favorite topic. “You need to be extra cautious in a city like Bombay. I heard, they killed some north Indians some days back”, “It was in Nasik, mom”, I reply somewhat irritated, but as usual she is ready with her next weapon. “Its all the same, Nasik, Bombay, Goa”, and I just smile. “A lot of people will make a fool out of you and take all your money. They are too smart. They wont even let you know”.
I know I can’t take it anymore, so I start talking about my relatives and neighborhood and feel relieved when she says finally, “I am going to sleep now. Call me tomorrow for sure”. I assure her and continue leching outside the window.
Platform is almost empty, just the way I expected. I finally stop at a place where generally I find a blind man singing hindi movie songs and making his livelihood, but he is not to be seen in the vicinity. It is actually a landmark for me where 1st class compartment comes to a halt. “Just the way, I thought”, I say to myself as the compartment’s door is just in front of me as the train stops.
This is for the first time I am traveling at this hour of the day when the guy standing in front of me, hanging on the door of the compartment, lost his grip and fell. He really lost his grip or he wanted to die, is a question that keeps on coming to my mind every now and then and I give up after struggling to find an answer after 15-20 minutes. I scan all the people in the compartment, sitting as well as standing, trying to find any similarity between them and the guy who fell the other day. After not being able to find anything interesting to look at, I start looking outside, hanging to the same pole, he was holding.
I don’t think there is any hour of the day when you won’t find people sitting on the railway tracks with a bottle of water next to them. When I started traveling initially, it used to piss me off real bad, but gave up with the advancement of time and got acquainted to the smell that was impossible to escape.
I put my head phone and press the play button. James Blunt screams into my ears louder than the thunder of the train, “Goodbye, my lover. Goodbye, my friend”. I smile looking at the phone as it brings some old memories back to me and I am getting lost in the web of the past.
The crowd yelling at me, makes me realize that the last station and my destination has arrived. “VASHI”, the board in front of me reads. It is Friday evening, so I decide to take a walk to the flat. “There won’t be any traffic on the roads”, I say in order to motivate myself not to look at the queue of the auto rickshaws standing on my left, looking at the people coming out of the railway station like the vulture waiting for the kid to die, in a picture of Sudan during the famine of’94, I saw long time back.. I stop at the paanwala and buy four Benson n Hedges lights from the money I saved, by not going by the “rick”.
I continue walking, thinking about the stray dogs on the street and the hullabaloo they create when they smell someone approaching their comfort zone, but it doesn’t affect me anymore, as I know how to handle them. After all, as most of the people say, “I am also one of them”.
As I approach the shortcut between the two parks of sector-17. I see a middle aged man, with a girl, who appears to be his daughter, and an old lady, who is supposedly the mother, all sitting under the street lamp and next to the park’s periphery. It is surprising to see something like this at this hour of the day. As I continue walking and staring at the path, a voice from the same direction stops me. “May I ask, what is the time?” It is hard to find people with such a fluency and especially after coming to this city, it is rarer. “Twelve thirty”, I say, without taking my eyes off my phone and continue with my pace and my cavalcade of the three dogs following me. “Are you a Christian”? It irritates me and I feel like asking back, “Is it mandatory to be one, in order to use this path”? , but drop the idea. “No, I am a Hindu”, I reply in a way to hurt him deliberately. The look on his face, tells me that I have succeeded in my attempt. “Actually we are in problem and we want help, brother”. Brother? I am surprised to hear that, as still the previous question is fresh in my mind. I know the answer, but still ask the question, “what kind of help”? “Financial”, the reply is swift and I get it before I can finish. “I have to get my mother operated and we don’t have even a place to stay”. I want to ask the story in detail, as I know it is impossible to escape from it now, but something in me doesn’t allow me to. “Can you lend me some money”? I look at him, hoping that he would say something about returning it or continue with his “story”, but nothing like this happens. “How much”? I ask hoping that he would stay within the limits. “Do you have one thousand”? I can’t believe what I just heard. “I know it is a lot of money, but we need it. She doesn’t have clothes to wear”, he continues as he gets up and comes close to the wall. “We are from good family, brother. It is a shameful act, but she is my mother after all”. “Let me check how much do I have”, I say peeping into my wallet, even after knowing how much do I have precisely. Seeing more than twelve hundred rupee notes at the same place where they were, I feel a bit relieved and reply back, “not more than hundred and fifty”. Suddenly, I realize that out of the seventeen thousand I got as my salary some hours back, I have debts of more than six thousand and bills to be paid are somewhere around five thousand, six hundred and fifty. He seems a bit disappointed when he says, “not even two hundred, brother”? I take out two hundred rupee notes and as my hand moves in his direction to let the transfer of funds happen, a question pops up again. “Can’t you take some money from your friends or ATM”? I just can’t take it anymore. I decide to carry on with my escapade, and say, “OK. I will get you something more from my room. It is nearby only” and start to put my two hundred back to where they belong. “Give it to me and bring the rest from your room. Can you arrange eight or nine hundred, BROTHER”? I think again if I really want to help him or not. Seems as if he is doing me a favor by asking money. I hand him the money and think what to say next as he continues, “My mother is ill”, and the tears start flowing. I just wish, he wouldn’t have done that. “I’ll come back, with whatever I can arrange”. “Will you surely come, brother”? He asks in such a voice that forces me not to tell him the truth. I don’t know why, but I am behaving as if I am hiding from him and want to be out of the scene as soon as possible. I scan him from top to bottom before leaving the scene. He is dressed like a middle class man. A pair of kolhapuri chappals with a pair of grey trousers (this is what it seems like, under the influence of street light), a roughly used white-grey shirt with a HOLY BIBLE in his left hand. I don’t want to believe him, but something in me is not allowing it to happen. “If I get something, I’ll return in half an hour or I won’t”, even though I know I won’t return. “I will wait for you if you are coming back, otherwise we will leave”. It again pisses me off and this time I say it in a harsher tone, “OK. I am not coming back. You can carry on with your plans”, and I leave without bothered to hear his reply.
“A lot of people will make a fool out of you and take all your money. They won’t even let you know”. Mother’s words are echoing in my head and I fail to categorize whatever happened as right or wrong, good or bad. I don’t know if what mother said was true or not.
I look up in the sky and say, “your wish” and continue with entertaining my team of the 2 dogs following me and leading them proudly to the middle of the road, still thinking about the whole incident that took place some minutes back.
As I enter my so called “Cooperative housing society”, I can see the security sleeping with a comfort, I have not witnessed since long.
Out of habit, I ring the doorbell, with a surety that no one would open it, so without waiting I start looking for the key in the bag. Before, I could find them, Shabbar opens the door. He looks tired, but happy. I walk into my room and jumps into bed. I am removing my shoes when he enters room with an invitation. “You want to see a movie? I got this DVD today”. “Which one” I ask, even though I am sure I won’t be able to stay awake for next two hours or so.
The reply is swift. “LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL”. It makes my eyes go up and look at him. Once again the park scene comes to my mind and I smile at him and say, “Sometime later”.