Of losing someone

It takes a while to realise why you are dying everyday.

It takes a while to appreciate that you are living everyday.

It takes a lifetime to realise that you had lived.

- for some, like me, it is true.

When I say, we die everyday - I do not by any means want to be prophetic or scientific. To someone very dear to me, who left, and yet lives, whose loss makes me numb, yet a voice inside me cries out loud to speak, a me that I hate, a me that cannot feel the pain, a me that feels the pain, but does not know what to do, a me lost...for evryday you die...and with each passing day...it takes away one more part of you, to someone who had been a part of who I am today...in this non-existent cyberspace I share my tribute to you for being a part of who I am, I pray for your soul to rest in peace, a place where no one knows who you are, but I know that this is the only place where I can bare my thoughts and live your loss...

go away you memories, for I cannot do justice to you
go away you footprints, for I fear your existence in my memories
go away you, the one behind the shadows, for I refuse to know you
go away, for I am far from what I used to be...
 
*no comments please.

The arch-villain

He did not know how it had happened.

He was born in a world of disparity, betrayal, greed, anger and violence. His failure to blend in to his world made him feel unwanted. He adopted himself to his surroundings. He learnt the tricks of his world easily, juggling with emotions, fending off the smiles, nurturing the anger, and worked his way to adulthood.

They were all disappointed in him. They were disappointed because they could never subdue him, corner him or attack him. They saw the despair in his eyes, dishonesty in his demeanour and lies in his smiles. They knew it all too well, they lived the same life themselves.They were disappointed that he was playing their game better than them.

He never knew when it had happened.

He remembers the unfamiliar uneasiness at night, at times the fake smile that pained his lips, the half-hearted nod that creaked his neck, the thoughts that propped themselves up from the depths and he assured himself that it was all good. He does not remember when it all went away. He does not remember when it all became too comfortable. He did not realise that a part of him had drifted away.

He never knew that it had happened.

Life to him was always a choice between the first or the last, the best or the worst. From the promise of a lifetime to a one night stand, he could sail through it all with same amount commitment or sacrifice. The amount that is just about right to get him the best or the worst at that point of time. He remembers the bus driver who used to pick them up for school everyday. He was always punctual, very careful and took pride in his duty. He would remember every child by their names, help them get into the bus, ensured that their parents picked them up from the bus stop before he left. The judicious bus driver annoyed him.

"Can I get you something?", she asked.
 
He looked up from his desk and frowned. What is she still doing in the office, he wondered. "Go home, Sheila! Goodnight." He dismissed her.

He stared at the screen. A happy family smiled back at him. A wife, two daughters and a house. How often does a man need a soul to make it all work? The thought never crossed his mind.  He does not care if he needs one. "I won't be home, tonight. Got some work to finish." He called up his wife. A brief pause, and the click sound on the other end.

He got up. Took the lift and went down to the car park. Started the car and sped away to 46, New Port street. He jumped all the red lights, tried to run over every single pedestrian who dared to challenge the stealth of the night and managed to screech in front of his destination. He looked up. The light on the window of the 40th floor beckoned him. He was disappointed. He took his bag, got out of the car and locked the door. He looked up. Again.

And then it happened. First he started fidgeting. Then before he knew, he was running. He was running from the window of 46, New Port street, he was running from the Pontiac, he was running from the trees that guarded the pavement, the prestigious hospital where he practised, the bigger cabin that he had envied next to his, the prized seats for the next Sox games, the family that smiled back from the screen, the books that lined his father's study, the cheerful laughter of his mother, the village clinic where he did his internship, the girl he first kissed, the twinkle of her eyes that mesmerized him, the football he first netted and the first sigh that escaped him. He ran from it all, as fast as he could, he knew if he ran fast enough it would all go away, he would be able to let it all go. 29 years, 4 months, 15 days - all of it.

"Why are you sweating?" she asked. "Never mind, you are late. Come in. We are waiting for you." He stood at the door on the 40th floor, a lifetime later.

"Edward, Sameer is here. Let's start the paperwork." She sat down. The glasses, the coats, the pinstrips nodded. A mechanical voice read out, "At 1600 hours yesterday, a pair of kidneys were retrieved from an accident on I60. Dr. Sameer Sahani confirms that the kidneys match the proposed recipient admitted in St Johns hospital. The organs are being transported to St Johns hospital and can be transplanted by 0600 hours today. Dr. Sameer Sahani will be heading the surgery..."

Somewhere in St. John Hospital's ICU a pair of kidneys were denied it's last chance. Somewhere in a bank account a hundred thousand dollars were anonymously transferred, somewhere in a house, a mother turned on her bed hoping for a donor to save her daughter's life, somewhere a soul drifted further away.

What if, he had known what had happened? What if he had known when it happened? Would that save the arch-villain? Would he have ran? The fastest race of his life? Do we? Even after we know...Or is it that the true nemesis always knows it all. What happened. When it had happened. And that is their strength and their power? - The drifted soul?

These are a few of my scary experiences...

I get 'petrified, stupefied and mortified' easy. There are many encounters and experiences that scare me to no ends. I try to preempt most of the times from past experiences, but the hands still sweat, and the heart still pumps faster.

I am very afraid every time I step into a bank. I am afraid of the one behind the desk will reject my deposit slip. At one point of time I used to keep sample filled-in forms so that I do not miss any details. However, with ever changing forms, this strategy is of no use. With the long life-threatening queues, I am scared to my wits end that the one with the power will reject my form and I have to get behind the queue again. Only the other day, I was filling up a deposit slip for some yearly investments and I asked the lady whom should I address the cheque. She says, sternly, "Madam, understand! It is your policy, must be addressed to you!" :( I felt stupid.

I am also very afraid of my maid. The good lady keeps my flat livable, cleans up my dishes with specks of leftover soap and chapati as decorative pieces on the utensils, week old dust on my balcony and I am petrified every time that I ask her to clean the dish again or to clean the bathroom. I generally avoid eye contact, ask her to do the needful and shy away to my laptop or newspaper. I feel unjust.

I am also very afraid of Indian immigration officers. They are outright mean to me. I think they plan across cities (except for the ones in Delhi - they are nice) and decide to pick on me. The other day, in haste, having already missed the boarding time, I placed my passport and immigration form on the powerful gentleman's desk, hoping against hope that I had completed the form correctly. He looks at me in utter disappointment, "Ma'am, so many passports you have, you still don't know that you have to present the boarding pass as well!" :( Believe me, I was about to. The split of a second, and I am ashamed.

I am pretty scared of the bhajiwalli (vegetable vendor) as well. She is a robust lady in her late forties. Very efficient, prompt and calculates in lightning speed. I take vegetables from her once in two weeks as she passes by the apartment. She knows me by now - but puts me right at the bottom in her customer's list. Someone who buys vegetables once in two weeks is not worth her attention and service. In my desperate attempt to gain position in her list, I order two tomatoes and one pau (250 gms) bhindi (ladies finger) extra. She eyes me with contempt, my cook expresses displeasure at my miscalculation and I stay at the same place in her list. I feel exasperated.

But the ones that steal the show are the government officials in Calcutta, be it to issue ration cards, pay late telephone bills, change names on electricity bills or issue corporation tax receipts. First of all, it is a race against time - you must be able to catch the relevant official in between his arrival time to the office (which would invariably be late because of the traffic jam) and his lunch break and his tea break to the time he calls it a day (which has to be early to avoid the traffic jam). Believe me, this is very very difficult and your query must be to the point, you must prepare a list and mark those as you progress in the conversation and you must always be prepared for lead-in questions. If you stammer, pause to think or are unsure, the clock will strike the lunch break and you are doomed. I am literally mortified by them. I prepare and I prepare and I prepare and I still mess up. :( I feel useless.

Yes - I get 'stupefied, mortified and petrified'.

Of Borrowed Thoughts, Feelings, Stories and a lifetime...

*** Warning: This post is a result of a psychotic attack - heavily philosophical and rather Utopian***

When I was a child, I was mesmerised by the stories of Nil Kamal and Lal Kamal. There was a LP record in the house that I used play on the gramophone and instantly transform myself into the world of demons and princes, magic and battles, wins and losses. It was a story of how princes won over demons and how the gold stick would wake up the princess from her long sleep. When I was in my early teens, I was intoxicated by the men in Bengalee literature. They were dreamy, argumentative, headstrong and difficult. They made conversations easy, they made love less romantic. I took parts of authors' imaginations and made those mine. I judged their writings and adopted thoughts that became mine. Their outlook inspired my ideals and believed those were mine. Are my ideals borrowed?

I have never witnessed a war. I have never witnessed a catastrophe. I have never seen deserted roads dotted with torn shoes, broken promises, shattered glasses and leftover lives. The closest I have come to life being affected is the curfew era in the 1980s when the state government declared curfew to combat the tribal uprise in my home town. Yes, roads were empty after 8 PM, people rushed home, we bolted our front doors, the members of the house kept some form of weapon handy (it could be a bettlenut cracker; don't laugh, we are Bengalees), and we huddled together on the back porch in front of cracking coal while our guard from Bangladesh narrated stories of riots and terror. Once in a while in the morning, we would hear about a dead body found floating in the nearby canal, but we were never allowed near that. Today, I watched a much discussed film - The Hurt Locker. It took me to the celluloid streets of Baghdad where people peeped out of their windows as 'elite' US Army squads attempted to defuse bombs on deserted roads. Roads bearing the mark of a generation torn apart, faces etched in surrender and structures propping themselves up - tired and distort by the continuous assault. I have never witnessed a war. I have just watched them, in films and in documentaries. I write about them, the words I believe are mine. Or are these borrowed? From the Hurt Locker? Or the Casualties of War?

Ever since I have started to think, which would be as late as 18 or 19, I have always wanted to visit my father's birthplace, Narayanganj, Dhaka, Bangladesh. I wanted to see the village (or whatever it might have transmogrified into) in search of my roots and to find a sense of belonging. For someone like me, who cannot call any place a home anymore, it is in such hopes I fool myself. I read 'Ekattorer Smriti' (a book on civil war in Bangladesh in 1971) and I believed nothing will be left of my father's ancestral home. I still dreamed of one story buildings, green pastures, the Ganges from family stories and painted a picture. A picture borrowed from hopes, stories and desires.

A very dear friend of mine faced the tribulations of life bravely to carve a place for her in this world. As she narrated her story to me in a late June afternoon, I experienced love, faith, loyalty, heartache, anger, struggle, and courage. She inspires me to believe in myself. I know I have borrowed a lot from her.

We all have our own little place in this world where we have our thoughts, beliefs, values and loved ones. A lifetime of memories and incidents. It makes me wonder how much of our stories are our own? How many such actions that we have taken are our own? How many times has it happened in our lives that after we have done something or thought of something that we have paused for a while and felt this has been done before. Or have wondered if, my friend, mother, father, sibling or spouse had inspired me to do that. Is that mine anymore? Or is it borrowed, copied and 'customised' by me to suit me?

As I embark on yet another year and a decade, it makes me think if all our stories for generations have been stories of borrowed thoughts, feelings, expressions and actions - in parts or in whole? And if that is so, is that what we call existence?

"These are a few of my favourite things..."

In a lifetime of innumerable springs and chilly winters, as in my case, you do gather some of your favourite things that makes you smile. How do you gather those favourite things? Well, unknowingly, mostly. Do they get dusty? Yes, sometimes they do. But then you do take them out once in a while, polish them and get comfort at the knowledge that they are there. 

I like it when the camels from Rajasthan entertain the neighbourhood children in Bangalore, their fear, their awe, their giggle and the camel's nonchalant ways. All for five bucks.

I like the 'faraway' look on a man's eyes when his driver tackles the mad city traffic, unlike the diligent ones who are mostly glued to the road, heads straight, eyes fixed with utmost sincerity as if Angelina Jollie is going to miraculously appear infront of the car and belly dance! Strangely though, even with such concentration on the road ahead, the men would invariably mess it up when they are behind the wheels, same road, same turns.

I like it when the traffic comes to a standstill as the local shephard tries to ferry his parade of sheep, goats and cows from one side to another. No body honks. I like the calm.

I like it when kids keep pulling their parents in the razzling dazzling shopping malls towards cookie man or candy stores, while the dad lustingly stares at the Apple store and the mom gravitates towards Soch. Family dynamics contribute to healthy cohabitation.

I like it when once in a while I end up in the gym, music blaring, calories burning, moving surface and thumping lungs push me to test my fitness. It is in a miserable state, I realise ever so often.

I like it when in faraway Leh, a local craftsman writes down his address on a paper and hopes that I will send the pictures that I took of him by post. I hate it when I keep postponing that.

I like it when the smell of freshly baked chocolate cake, my umpteenth attempt at getting it right, fills up the air on a Sunday afternoon. It's a different thing that I never get it right.

And when the rain comes pouring from the skies and the roads are flooded and the kids sail small paper boats and thunder rips apart the neighbourhood, I curl up under the blanket with a Rohiton Mistry and forget about the world. Yes, that sure is one of my favourite things.

D-Day comes and goes...modern India doesn't care

My day started as usual, the road was alarmingly empty, the usual school buses that ply the road in the early hours, when I go to office (irony!!!) were conspicuous by their absence. I got into an auto, Imtiaz drove me to my office. On the way, I asked him how does he feel about today? He shrugged and indicated it's business as usual. I smiled.

In the office we discussed who has what stock of alcohol. The shops will be closed till Monday. We found out that we had enough. The office deemed it necessary that we leave early. I went to a colleague's place. His wife cooked some lovely alu-posto and we chatted. On my way back, I got into an auto. Raju drove me home. On the way, I asked him how does he feel about today? He shrugged and indicated it's business as usual. I smiled. Roads were still empty.

The verdict came, the verdict was analysed, I worked from home. Mom called, "Can you go back home before 3? The verdict is due at 3.30." I said that I am already home.


For one day the media chose to leave Kalmadi alone. Voices blurred out from the television set. Another colleague, who chose to work from office said, "I am missing the Aaj Tak' drama.

The day ended.

We have moved on!! Can the media also stop, please? How many people do they need to interview to know that we've moved on? Can the politicians also stop, please?

The beer is getting warm...I had my stock ;)!

Of love, romance and being incorrigible

(c) Durba Gupta

I am a self-proclaimed, incorrigible, mushy kind of piscean love addict. I day dream profusely of my romantic endeavours and misadventures. Over the years, I have seen many of my close friends, relatives, acquaintances and myself go through this beautiful experience. When I was young, a friend once told me that love is like a cigarette. It burns out. And when it burns out, it leaves behind a heart burn ;) of a different kind. My skeptic friend is married with a kid now, after 5 years of whirlwind 'going out' with the girl of his dreams.


Being the non-conformist I had always been, I never quite paid any heed to my friend's observations. So when in schools I watched girls and guys exchanging notes, and eating their tiffin together (yes, that was romance in our days), I was pretty sure that love will come and sweep me off my feet soon. There were quite a few of us who subscribed to that 'vision'. Strangely though, none of use quite 'actioned' on it, we just hoped it would come our way.


As I awaited for love to knock, I also judiciously observed how love unfurled around me. Every winter it used to get very foggy in the mornings where I was born. But as providence would have it, we all had to still go to our respective private tutors at 6 in the morning trying to crack the frivolities of laws of motion, organic chemistry and Poisson distribution. Private tutorials were heavens for budding romances, writing on each other's copies, playing footsies and stealing glances. There was this one boy, who had particular interest in a girl friend of mine. He would cycle next to her rickshaw every morning, wearing a traditional monkey cap and mittens. He was not part of the same tuition, but would always be there to guard her in those foggy mornings. In him, love smiled.

One of the most memorable love stories of my childhood was that of a kaku and kakima's (uncle and aunt). She a talented singer, he a tabla player. They were the silent lovers type, always a team, always together. Today when I see myself or friends around me trying to analyse every single aspect of marital discord, I wonder how those two, without so much so having any disagreement in public, led such a loved life. He would look at her and know when to stop and she would pout her lips and make him forget his argument. In them, love lived.

A certain school mate of mine nurtured rather loving feelings for another girl. They had been studying together for 18 years, but never quite expressed their mutual feelings. Years later, the boy knocked at her door and told her that he has got a job and would like to marry her. She stared at him for a while. Today, they are happy parents of a lovely daughter. In them, love dreamed.

As the decades passed by, I've seen the various incorrigible enactments of love changing and metamorphosing from emails to psychedelic parties. 'Am not so sure if that is love as I see it, but every now and then I do see his eyes following her on the dance floors, a look that is torn between longing for a long lasting comfort and momentary comfort, a stare that wants to belong and the one that wants to explore. In them, love changed.

I do not want to define love, but I see love when my cook accompanies his wife to their village to attend her father's funeral, knowing very well that he won't be paid. I see love when he takes her on occasional evening walks in the park in between work, and she smiles shyly. I see love when the untouched side of a bed awaits for someone's return, I see love when my neighbour's wife smiles proudly at her husband's vegetable garden and I see love when someone narrates their love stories with equal passion as if it happened yesterday after 20 years. I see love when a friend cries profusely over a lifetime of separation, I see love when I see the couples holding hands, eating Indian food on Devon street, Chicago. I feel love when I ...

So with so many love stories and yet so many heartbreaks, is love overrated? A friend once told me, "Love is not overrated, romance is." Probably she is right, but I stay a die hard romantic, incorrigible, daydreamer for whom love is just plain beautiful.

What are your thoughts on love?

They see so many lives

(c) Durba Gupta

They see so many lives. Enacted. Every day. In front of their eyes.


Since I was 10 or 12, I always wanted to marry someone whose profession is driving. Just the idea of distance wheezing past you was intoxicating. Travelling for miles...to new places, to new lives, to new thoughts and new smiles. The idea always fascinated me. I remember we used to take long distance trips twice or thrice every year. We would hire couple of cars and the whole family would travel. It's not that we would go to new places every time. Mostly these were much frequented places, but every time that I sat next to the man behind the wheel, his eyes glued to the road, his hands firm on the steering and air on his hair, I would see the same roads bring out surprises on every turn. And when it rained, I would pull down the window, prop myself out and let the rain peirce through. People at the back shouted. He would just smile. When the family squabbles broke out, he would hide his smile. He saw our lives.


Over the years, being a scary chicken behind the wheels myself, I have mostly resorted to the guys who see lives enacted, everyday. Although I never got to settle down with one, as my dream at 12 would go, but I had my share of many stories of those who see stories everyday.


My flight to Richmond touched ground at 11 in the night. Although it was my second trip to the place, I was a bit worried for travelling this late. But I had to be in office the next day. As I picked up my luggage and walked out, sure enough there stood a man in his late 30s with a white board that read 'Duerbar Gapita'. I knew it was me. I said, you've got the name wrong. He smiled and blamed his boss. As I settled down on the front seat, he apologised for the smell in the car. He said, his friend had an unfortunate projectile incident in the car, last night. I said it's alright. He drove down the Chippenham parkway and narrated his story of hating late night driving, hating being stuck in Virginia and that I was in safe hands, made me wonder how easily I relaxed as he wheezed past those unknown roads, took a left turn from Red Lobsters and parked right in front of my hotel. He apologised again, and wished me a good stay.


Every now and then I would board a cab where the cabbie would be busy giving me advise. Around the safe route to take, how the petrol price is increasing, that his meter is not spiked or how he hates the traffic. But once in a while, I do get in a cab, where the cabbie discusses politics. In one of my rides back to my hotel, I once had the pleasure of riding with a Singaporean cabbie who discussed in details what the Congress government can do for India, that Sonia Gandhi is very capable and that with their second election victory Congress is going to stay in power for long. It is amazing how well informed he was, unlike many of my fellow countrymen and women.

Over the years the smartest cabbies I have come across hail from the big bad charming city of Bombay where they swindle a 500 bill for a 100 bill, their cabs decorated with all kinds of felt and velvette complete with chandeliers that bump on your head in their attempts at making a home in their little fiats, to the ones who would pass on their mobile numbers back in 1999 (long before Meru culture) to be an 'on call' cabbie! They are the smartest!

But the most entertained ones, 'am sure are from our old city Calcutta, where very animated parents, lovers, siblings and friends get in the cabs and vent out their emotions through words, actions and silence that the cabbies witness everyday. I still remember, in my late school days, me and a friend got in a cab. We were discussing some book and it led to his expressing those familiar emotions for me, and I started playing the familiar game of how he deserves so much better! By the time we got off the cabbie, my friend was still not convinced; the cabbie handed us the change, smiled at my friend and said, "Dada chhere din. Oshob to rojkar byapar. Ek cup cha khan matha thanda hoe jabe." (Bro, drop it. This happens everyday. Drink a cup of tea and chill!) My friend didn't take too kindly to him :).

So if I were to interview cabbies from various cities to share their experiences, 'am sure I will come up with an extraordinary novel. May be I should try that, couldn't marry one, but at least can finish my novel (I've written the first chapter and the last chapter.) with their stories.

To the people of Leh

My prayers reach out for the beautiful people in Leh. I hope the relief measures are successful and the ordeal comes to an end soon for them. RIP for those who are no more...

She can see the rain coming...

They say. They have been saying this since she was two. Or was it since she was five? She nods her head and looks down at her arms; arms extending to a perfect set of palms. She stares at those. These palms have held the first drops of every rain that had drenched this land.

Every year when the sun hits its peak and the lands go dry, the cattle heave and the river loses its way in the sand, they all come to her. For they believe that she can see the rain coming. Rain that will wet their dry lands, give life to their cattle, and rhythm to their river. Every year, when they come at her doorsteps praying for rain, she walks out and looks up at the blue sky. Slowly the storm gathers in her eyes, spreads to the sky and then lashes down to the earth. She catches the first drops in her palms, always. Every year. This year, she thinks...cannot be an exception either.


She gets up and slowly walks out of the door. They all stand up. They always do, whenever they see her. A mild whisper spreads in the crowd, ‘She has come out!’, ‘The rain is coming.’, ‘The God has mercy.’


She cannot hear most of it. She cannot see most of them. She walks off further, into the sun. The sun... scathing the earth, scorching the cracked soil, burning the dry leaves. She looks up at it. Storm gathers in her eyes. They can see the storm in her eyes. They cheer, ‘It is going to rain!’


She stretches out her arms and brings her palms together in a perfect cup. She waits. They wait. Along with her, in bated breath. The first drop comes down and settles in her palms. Then the second and the third. She turns back. The sun beats down harder.


She holds out her palms to them. They stare back in surprise. Tears roll down her eyes and gather in her palm. One drop after another. They do not understand. Why is it not raining? They wonder. She cries, she cannot bring down the rain anymore for them. They pause.

Can they bring the rain for her? To wash away some of her tears...?

**To a lady I had met recently, whose tremendous courage built a family.


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On a different note, uploaded another set of Ladakh photos. Please click the link below to check. Please do share your comments.
 

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