Choosing Death

A girl I used to know when I was 12 killed herself earlier this year. I heard about it from other people who had known her as a grown up, as an individual, as a student, a woman, with dreams and ideas of her own. She was chronically depressed, I heard, and kept sinking deeper into this state. Finally, she ended her life. In a strange way, I was affected by this. Just because I had sat next to her at school for some 4 weeks, I felt that I had known her. I was taken aback that someone I had once known, however little, could have been determined to stop living.

One hears miraculous stories of survivors in extremely adverse conditions. One hears of miracle babies. One hears of people starting to believe in God because they, or a loved one, escaped death. And then one hears of people who would rather opt out.

What drives them? A woman in the block next to where I live set herself on fire a few nights ago. It was quickly hushed up and all I have now heard is a rumour that she died in hospital. Then of course there was the horrific visual of a man in Karimnagar, A.P., who jumped off a building after threatening to do so over several hours, hitting the pavement in full view of the press and the police and lots of bystanders. (I'm not even going into how worryingI found media attention to the story, as if having filmed him was a scoop, an "exclusive".)

The page 3 of the main newspaper is very different from the page 3 of the supplements. These page 3 people of the main newspaper are usually rape/murder victims, people who have been robbed, or people who have killed themselves along with their own families. The reasons for such murder-suicides are many---debts, illness, anger, drunkenness, shame. I can never even begin to imagine the despair that drives such an act. I am thankful to the powers that be that I don't (and never should) have to. But all the same, it is sobering to think that the life we celebrate with birthdays, with laughter, with love, with prayers, blessings, presents, family, friends, dreams and hopes, should, in some cases, be a burden that needs relieving at any cost.

"nirmal anand ke liye"

As a kid, I remember watching Khoobsurat many many times over, each time fascinated by the fantasy song, "kayda kayda". It was a child's dream come true on screen....snowy mountains where you could scoop off the snow and it would be icecream in your mouth, candy hanging off trees, ready for plucking, and tasty drinks like colas and coffee on the tap. And being asked, "kayda kayda, akhir fayda?" A good way to question discipline, and authority, at any age!

A little older, I caught the movie again, this time enjoying the rhyming dialogues spoken by Rekha's family (the cook, asharfi lal, who makes masoor ki daal!"), and the draconian matriarch in the other household..the two forming perfect foils for each other with Rekha as the saucy rebel, ploughing on regardless of Dina Pathak's glares and stern comments, winning all hearts.

Then again, and this time, I was taken by the references to "nirmal anand"--- those 2 magical words with which she lures the suppressed family into delicious rebellion. I heard somewhere that the movie was a criticism of Indira Gandhi, and the imposition of emergency and how it took away people's freedom. Interesting idea, although I have never discussed it in detail with anyone.

Another movie, very different, that I have loved was Abhimaan. Beautiful songs and a very, very real situation turned into a movie that can bring on introspection. My heart breaks each time a traumatised Jaya Bhaduri finally bursts into tears thinking of her lost baby as she stands beside her husband on stage towards the end of the movie.

Hearing of Hrishikesh Mukherjee's passing away brought on deep nostalgia for movies I have enjoyed, again and again, over the years. Catching the opening credits of a film while channel surfing, if I missed the film name but saw Hrishikesh Mukherjee's name on it, I would remain on that channel, often informing family to come join me for classics like Chupke Chupke, Guddi, Golmaal, Bawarchi, Anand and so many more. Memorable characters, very well etched, a great plot, absolutely clean humour playing on people's fears, insecurities, irrationalities, eccentricities, and making fun of all of us, here was a man making films that invited everyone to enjoy some nirmal anand without requiring any suspension of disbelief or parental guidance.

To be able to leave behind laughter in the world is a great achievement.

Kept in the Dark

The glow from the screen of this laptop is all the light in this room. Because i am staring at the screen, i can see nothing beyond when i raise my eyes to look further than that....it's even darker, if that's possible.

my family, well actually my neighbourhood, is being treated to a candle-lit evening, courtesy the powers that be, which are powerless at present. so the sweaty kurta slowly turns into a vice-like clammy grip on my body, as i try hard not to let any one sweaty part of my body touch any other sweaty part of my body, or anyone else's for that matter. to be able to embrace a sweaty person is a sign of true love, for it can make enemies of the best of friends!

a very cute calvin strip i read showed him sitting wide awake in bed, afraid of monsters as usual, saying "i think nighttime is dark so you can imagine your fears with less distraction"! so true...in the dark everything looks more ominous, more threatening. the sky looms closer, the furniture legs are out to get you by the toes, the mosquitoes bite like they were vampire bats, and entering the bathroom is like approaching the crypt with god knows what-all waiting for you inside!

but then, somebody out there said "let there be light" and there is. and i am squinting now as i adjust my dilated pupils to the newly lit-up house. every nook and cranny looks familiar now and i am the lord (lady?) of all i survey!! off i go to that tame bathroom to wash off the grime and have a cool drink!

ciao!

It's in the Skies

How can a simple thing like the weather....something over which we have no control...have so much control over us? It governs our attire, our plans, our eating habits, and...most importantly, our mood.

I really wonder how...last year I had the misfortune to be on a really crowded Kolkata bus in June. It was office rush hour (isn't it always!) and I was in for a long ride at the end of an interesting day. It was amusing (when I wasn't wiping the sweat off my face) to watch how cranky the chip-chip weather was making everyone. An unintentional nudge, mistakenly treading on another's foot, standing too close to a hostile neighbour, all of these invited rebuke, scathing criticism, much sarcasm and contempt for the offender. In their eagerness to pass on the good deed, the rebuked went on to rebuke, and so the unhappy chain continued its way along the bus, as the bus itself trundled along through crowded streets, skirted election rallies, and took us all to our homes.

But this morning...I love everyone...it is beautiful weather. I'm in Delhi, the entire city's had a bath, the soot has disappeared, the plants on the road dividers are green again instead of a dusty musty brown, and everyone looks, well, happy. It's contagious. You get greeted with one "isn't it amazing weather?" and it just makes you smile. Our office entrance is littered with colourful umbrellas left out to dry. The dogs near my office look alive again. So I stepped in a puddle..so what!

I don't believe in astrology..the stars do nothing for us. But the skies...bless them!

A Poem by Someone Else

I know, I know, this is cheating. I shouldn't fill up my blog with stuff written by others. If it's any justification, I waited till I actually added a self-written piece before putting in this one as well. I just had to, you see. There is this one poem from a long time back that I have always loved. It's by Joyce Kilmer. A copy of it was always kept in the folder where I kept my writings, in the good old days before we started saving soft copies of our stuff and ran the risk of losing everything to a hard drive crash! So I decided, if I’m storing some of my writings online, the poem has to be there too.
Posted here with admiration and respect for the poet, and my apologies too, in case some words/lines aren’t exactly where they are supposed to be!

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast.
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray.
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Against whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

Something about Ambulances

I was in a 3-wheeler on my way back from work, tired, and feeling sorry for myself at the end of a long long day. Stuck at a forever-red light, I thought things couldn't get any worse. And just then, I heard the unmistakable wailing of an ambulance siren behind me. Forgetting everything, I craned my neck to see how far behind us it was, and if the other cars were going to make way for it. Thankfully, the light changed to green just in time and all the vehicles, in a very civil fashion (surprise, surprise!) parted like the Red Sea to make way for the ambulance. It whizzed past me, just giving me enough time to notice a woman’s anguished face at the rear window.

What is it about ambulances? My heart always stops for a second when I hear that plaintive moan which, a true testimony to Doppler, grows louder and then fades into the distance, leaving me with a prayer on my lips and memories of all the times (thankfully, only a few) when I had felt that anguish, that helplessness, that sense of despair. I haven’t ever had to ride in an ambulance, but if I ever see people at the back, I can’t help but wonder how serious the patient’s condition is, what their circumstances in life are, whether they have the sort of support system so very crucial for anyone who has family in the hospital, and whether the poor man, or woman, is going to make it.

There’s something about ambulances that indicates that you’ve already lost control over the sick person. When things are bad enough for a person to call an ambulance, it’s like they’re already telling the hospital, "take this person, we don’t think we can do anything more right now". The shutting out of the family begins already, not with the doors that shut in your face when the patient is taken into an operation theatre or ICU that you can’t enter, but with wheeling the stretcher into the ambulance. And after that, you’re just along for the ride, praying and trying to be positive. But it’s hard.

There’s something about ambulances that indicates that you’ve lost your right to privacy already. Not for you the quiet worrying as you drive to hospital. Not for you the chance to have a few reassuring words alone with the person who is unwell. Everyone on the way turns his or her head to look at the ambulance (everyone like me, that is). Some, like me, take a moment from their busy lives to think about what you might be going through. And, if it’s any consolation, they cross their fingers and sometimes murmur the name of their god for your sake. My heartfelt wishes go out to the woman I saw in the ambulance today, and to anyone who has ever had to accompany someone to hospital in an ambulance.

The Second Coming

hello people
just to let you know that i am still alive - the posts have not been happening for various reasons. got an email from a friend urging me to write - so am going to come back to the blogworld - watch this space!
meanwhile, rediscovered a wonderful quote - taken from the epigraph to alice walker's very very must-read book possessing the secret of joy:

when the axe came into the forest, the trees said:
'the handle is one of us'.

i'll be back!

The Early Bird

I once saw someone wearing a t-shirt that emphatically stated:

I don't do mornings.

"How true," I thought, "I should be wearing that!"

Well anyways, once in a while I get into that "why waste time sleeping" phase and that's when I actually haul myself out of bed for some fresh(?), early morning air. And where is it that I go? To the park down the road from my house of course...it's the shortest way to walk, and no cows are allowed inside (well, the gate is one of those twisty-turny things that keeps out big animals, 'coz nothing can actually disallow a cow from going where it wants!).

So I was saying, I like going there because it's clean, green, and free of manure. You can walk and step where you want, tread off the beaten track, not care about the road and ---"ooh, was that a worm i just squished?"

So who/what do I meet when I go on these occasional walks?

There's the gentleman who walks because it's obviously been doctor-recommended. However, it's clear he'd rather be elsewhere...he strolls along, chatting on his cellphone with i don't know who.

Then there's the guy who I think gets rocked out of his bed each morning. He always has this tuft of hair sticking out at exactly a 90 degree angle. (More like 87, really, if you want me to be specific!) And I think as a gesture of defiance to the powers that rock the bed, he ambles! Honestly, he just refuses to step up and get going. It's like one, big, long warm-up that lasts all of 2 rounds. After which he sits and watches the kids play cricket. On top of that, he has some scowl on his face! Seriously, if I learnt to scowl like that, no eve-teaser would ever dream of giving me a second glance!

Then of course there's the sweet, old auntyji who has one leg a few inches shorter than the other. She wears special shoes, and walks on, head high. She's totally the social network lady of the park, she knows EVERYONE! It's quite impressive! And she'll walk with anyone who can give her the most interesting news...be they walking clockwise around the park or anti-clock!

But my favourite, is BRUNO...the year-old Labrador puppy dog who jumps his leash each time he sees me! He really greets me like a long-lost friend, and it's such a pleasure that I don't mind the threads that go missing in my track pants, near the ankles...it's a willing concession made for the friendliest dog in my neighbourhood!

I hate dragging myself out of bed, I really do. I suffer separation anxiety when I take my head off my pillow and know it won't go back there for at least 16-18 hours, but maybe, if the people (and dogs) around can be that interesting, and such a study in variety, I will do mornings after all!

A New View

I’d carried a book with me, aware that waiting to see the doctor can redefine the word "patient". We were taking my grandmother to see a retina specialist, for a haemorrhage in her left eye. Sitting in that waiting room, with about 30 odd patients, each of whom had some sort of an eye problem, I felt privileged in a way I had never really thought much about. I looked at the book I had so casually decided to read. My eyes, that I take for granted, my vision, which I had never had to do without, was suddenly a gift that all those 30 people were fighting to retain and recover. It was a sobering experience.

My grandmother sat there, silent, patient, somewhat mollified that she could at least see the world through her right eye, cataract-ridden but functional nonetheless, for the time being. There was a young man, accompanied by his father, mother, sister, uncle and newly-wed wife. All there to support him and assure him that the doc was sure things would be fine sooner than he imagined. There was an elderly Sikh gentleman, whose left leg ended at the knee, leaving only a hollow metal rod to go down till the shoes. I sat there weaving a story about how he may have been a gallant Sikh in battle. Who knows, I could be right. The sense of despair and simultaneous hope was all-pervasive. This was a doctor you came to when your own doctor decided he could do no more and perhaps it would be best if you were referred to the retina specialist. If you were here, chances were, things were pretty bad. But again, if you were here, chances were things might get better sometime soon.

When my grandmother’s name was called, my mother took her in while I waited outside, running my eyes over the posters and notices typical of a clinic.
All around the room were placards testifying to the skill of the doctor --- felicitations at some conference, awards at the national level for some expertise. They were reassuring to those accompanying the patients, as the print was too fine to be read by most of the patients I just described. It was a relief to know that my grandmother was in safe hands.

But I was touched by the plaque – it had been gifted, with "deep gratitude" by a lucky patient for whom "the short span of darkness rendered the light of sight brighter by far".
I sat there, musing over all the times I had ignored anxious pleas and stern commands to sit and read in better light, as I lay across my bed with my back to the light, nose buried in a book and lost in an imaginary world. Thankful in a way I had never felt before, I angled my book best to catch the light above me and started to read.

Naptime for Mr. Bond!

No no no...I am not going to write about James Bond, the guy who likes his martinis "shaken not stirred"! (Well, actually I haven't seen enough Bond movies to confirm that, but what the hell, I'll take the world's word for it!

I'm going to talk about Mr. Ruskin Bond, who looks like everybody's favourite uncle and who probably would say his favourite drink is tea!

Mr. Bond is an all-time favourite writer of mine ... few writers I have read have the gift of writing simply, unforgettably, and simply unforgettable stuff! I envy him from the bottom of my heart for the ability to write what he sees and make it look and sound beautiful.

But, I digress...a few weeks back a colleague (Vineeta, whom I must name, or she shall be most offended and shall go on and on about how we shall forget her when October 14th comes around!) and I were indulging in usual chit-chat and she narrated a story of how she was in Dehradun for a weekend and dragged her friends up to Mussoorie to hunt out Mr. Bond's cottage and say hello to her favourite writer! Well, by the time the tin-box of a mountain bus trundled its way uphill from Dehra to Mussoorie, it was afternoon. And when they located Mr. Bond's house (which, by the way, most any local of Mussoorie could direct you to) they knocked on the door in breathless anticipation. They heard the latch slip on the inside, and Mr. Bond himself opened the door!

Apologising for disturbing him and stating the purpose of their visit (simply the desire to meet him), they were heartbroken when he told them gently that the doctor had prescribed a good afternoon rest and he really couldn't chat with them for very long. [Being the sleep-lover that I am, Mr. Bond went even further up in my estimation!] However, being the gentle soul that he is (as all fellow Bond-lovers will agree) he sat up and chatted with them, autographed their books and even offered them tea! When they left, he again apologised for preferring his nap over visitors.

Some days after I heard this story from Vineeta, I happened to come across the latest Bond book -- The India I Love...and in it, glancing at the dedication page, I saw what made me smile: It simply said (and here I paraphrase):

I dedicate this book to all those who come knocking on my
door in the middle of my afternoon siesta. May they, too, discover the pleasures
of a good afternoon's rest.