Where did good ol' pen and paper go?

I am the type who takes long to adapt to changes. 

I don't like it when one picks up the pen from my desk and never returns it, somehow the Reylonds company had managed to make one customised pen for me, and now it's gone...I have to get used to a new one!! 

I also don't like when my neighbor's kid glances through my newspaper and folds it in a different way before I open the paper. Yes, am a meanie...but I do like to see the headlines first on a newspaper. I do not open the television with my morning cuppa, I read the good ol' newspaper.

I do not like when I receive a text message from Indian railways reminding me of my train timing, this was not supposed to be like this, I was supposed to check the ticket, calculate the traffic time and plan my travel. I don't like this. 

Psst...I hate it though, these days, whens they miss sending me the text.

I think, if there were a Tech goddess, which I strongly think that there should be one, considering the close to crore gods and goddesses that we have, would have been really pissed with me at my resistance to carry a cell phone. I remember my mum had a cell phone in 2000s, I reluctantly got my first cell phone in 2006. Tech goddess, tried her best (yes, it's a she, very persistent, you see) to lure me to the cell phone world, and finally, when I gave in, must have had a party by launching smartphones :(.

We will talk about that experience in a while. 

Then came the ages of social networking, Orkut came jumping around, scrapping and sh******** all over the cyberworld. Peer pressure pushed me to Orkut and I found many people 'Checking me out' every day!! I felt popular, wanted...amen! I hated getting used to the social norms to follow in Orkut, but nonetheless I managed to scrap. Then Orkut just became intrusive, I shunned it, took a sigh of relief, no more pressure, till a friend sends an invite to make my face available on a book. 

We will come to that story in a while too.

So the point I am trying to make is that I do not like change. I take long to get used to that. I remember my dad used to be all hyper, at the start of every month, lining up all the bills that he had to pay, tracking all the details in his diary. A friend forced me to do auto-debit for my phone and landline bills, I hated him for long. Mum, on the other hand managed to get her land tax, electricity bills, all paid online :(. 

I believe, that's also a trick of the Tech goddess, finding an ally in the family and thereby making inroads to the non-believer.

Amidst all of these shameless invasions of technology, I, of course, took up jobs, that predominantly took me more and more away from the ol' ways of doing things, of pens and papers and increasingly towards the bytes and pixels. I can never talk tech lingo (you know the chants to worship the Tech goddess), but I managed to stutter my way through. I learnt strange ways of communicating through pings and beeps, through cartoons and stupidly smiling faces, I learnt that you can really control your expressions when you communicate this way. I also learnt that I am going increasingly bad at behaving in real life with people and that I get terrible pain in my hand whenever I try to write on paper with a pen for long. However, my left hand seemed quite useful, as I punched my way through the QWERTY key board...I became ambidextrous.

So, while Tech goddess was at her fag end of celebration by introducing the smartphone, I decided, by now, getting quite ambidextrous with QWERTY key board, that I need to move away from the alphanumeric ones (that's the only reason for me getting a smartphone, no other reason, you can understand how challenged I am) and buy a smartphone. More challenges awaited me as I surfed the smartphone market. It seems they all come with a touchpad, touchpad only, and you really have to look hard for phone with a keyboard to punch on.

So the Tech goddess, wasn't just stopping at taking the pen and the paper away, she now wanted to take the opposable thumb away too, thereby taking us back to the world of the apes, where finger tips did wonders. A change I refused to take in, till now, can't promise though.

While the book with many faces changed their interfaces like the girls in their pre-teens, I continued in my struggle to make the most out of my smartphone, downloading some of 'this' for Android and some of 'that' for Android. I wandered through the book on my smartphone, I 'liked' and I 'commented' instead of s...crapping. While doing all of that, I realised that a bigger and wider version of this smartphone has also entered the world, they are spreading themselves like wildfire, every other chair in the airport lounge is hunched on them, every other palm is trying to hold them, every other finger tip is recording videos on them, every other shoulder is sporting a bag with them. 

I sigh again...only a while till it gets on to my palm :(. One with a keyboard to punch on, I tell myself, my saving grace...to write while I travel, to note down quickly while I observe, yes I do need one of those, I repeat, but with a keyboard to punch on, I reassure myself.

I have difficulty adapting to change....I do.  

Of a ‘Broke’n Existence

Of late I have found myself precariously positioned at the edge of bankruptcy, every month-end. It’s been a while and I must say being broke is possibly the best education on life, economy and relationships that you can get for free. Learned the ‘penniless’ way, these lessons may just make you wiser.

Lesson 1: ATM

There is some way, I don’t know how, the ATM machine senses your state. It’s almost like animals sensing their inevitable perils and going into the death hole (aka Madagascar 2). As you approach the ATM machine, it cringes at your sight and wishes that you do not shove that useless plastic card through it. But you are desperate. Granted that you have not checked your bank balance for fear of the inevitable, but then there are those moments when you just have to hope for the best, you hope as you may not have hoped before for a better exam result or a nod from that special someone, as much as you hope for some despicable figures to show up on the Account Balance screen. The ATM machine is also poised to resist insults. This is how the whole scene unfolds:

• The one before you grabs his handful of paper and walks away.
• The ATM machine nods in pride.
• You put your card in the slot.
• It refuses to take it.
• You try again.
• It reluctantly takes it.
• You enter 200.
• It reluctantly spits the notes out.
• You try to grab those ‘precious’ notes.
• It tries to hold on it.
• You snatch it out.
• You win!

Moral: Do not give up. At the end of innumerable insults, you will have your moment worth 200 bucks.

Lesson 2: Economy

We crib. We crib all the time on inflation, on price hike, on cost of living, on Congress government, on corruption. When you have been broke for a while, and you have resigned to it, you learn a lot of lessons on economy:

Lesson 2a: Interest is the money that bank pays to the customer for keeping their savings in the bank

Your learning: Load your fridge in good times. In lean times it might pay you interest through some long-forgotten cheese block, some ‘refusing to rot’ vegetables and semi-fermented curd. Who cares? Curd is rotten stuff at the first place ;).

Lesson 2b: Barter is exchanging goods in place of currency

Your learning: This one is a gem. Barter a coffee for a smoke, barter a good deed for a café late, barter a working from home with a 9-hour online status on office communicator (don’t sleep in the name of working from home) and save auto fare.

Lesson 2c: Assets-Liability=Net Worth

Your learning: Get real. You rent an apartment, you rent your furniture, you pay your maid, you pay fare to reach office. Believe me none of these are your assets. All are your liabilities. Your net worth is zero, get real, my friend.

Moral: Economics does make you burn midnight oil when it is part of your college curriculum, but when you are broke is when you crack all the theories of economy.

Lesson 3: Life

You look at life in a completely new way. You are a lot more open, accommodative and observing.  You realize that there are options, it is all not that bad. You also appreciate options that you overlooked before. Did you know that there are half litre pouch packs of vegetable cooking oil? Or that old newspaper is selling at Rs8 per kg that you can request your building’s guard to sell old newspaper and adjust towards the electricity bill for the month? Or did you know that at your despicable situation, your cook may not hesitate in borrowing a couple of tomatoes from the neighbours’ to cook your lunch? Such is bliss.

Moral: You are never out of options. At all roadblocks in life, get broke and you will find your way out.

Lesson 4: Relationships

Well, they say you know your true friends in bad times. Wrong!! In your bad times, you get to know yourself the most. Friends more or less are always trying to bail you out of the situation, it’s you who springs surprises at yourself. For example, you suddenly realize that you are really not that fastidious about that special brand of coffee or that you can in fact eat semi-fermented curd. You also realize that you can count really well to put together the dimes to pay auto fare or that you have never ever been so happy when you finally see the bank account refilled.

Moral: Give being broke a chance, you will know yourself better.

Relationships

Relationships are always counter intuitive. You think you know its going in one way, bang it comes and bites you where it should not. Let me also make this humble observation: Relationships are not between humans only, they are between you and objects, you and narcissism (your and your near and far ones), you and that particular pot hole on the road, you and that rotting apple in your fridge, you and the morning alarm, you and that dream that pokes your conscience every now and then. 


Let me elaborate with one of the very first relationship that you encounter at the start of your day - with the throne. The throne, usually accommodates as much assault a human body can conjure up and takes it all in its own stride, without much complaint. But what do you do in return? Your girlfriend puts the seat down (or vice versa) and you (for no fault of the throne here) slam it back up with such fury that Prudence trembles.


Lesson 1: Relationships don't believe in give and take. They are, in all probability, mostly about take.


As the day progresses, you make, break and revive many such relationships. That traffic signal, which invariably turns red when you are just inches away from taking that turn, the elevator that purposefully takes off just when you are half a step away from it, the laptop that reboots by itself when you are in one of the most important meetings of the day, the coffee that spills on your favorite shirt reminding you of earth's rotation, the dish that burns by 'itself' when your earnest desire to display your culinary skills is challenged, and the last smoke in your packet that nudges you to take it, and its too late to go out and get a new packet.


Lesson 2: Relationships, often form by themselves. They do not quite wait for your approval and/or your rejection. They just nudge, push, shove and make their places in your lives.


One of the special relationships that I have is with my conscience. It is that of convenience. We do not look eye-to-eye, we prefer the 'sideways glance'. Every now and then, a thought takes its form in my mind, it could be that of leaving it all and be a recluse to making it all and showing the proverbial finger to the world. I refuse to choose a middle path, my conscience nudges me to do so (being fully aware of my capabilities), but I firmly refuse: all or nothing! Result: I stay put. where I was. Billions of years ago. And 'shoo' away my conscience. 


You remember the first time you touched the base of her neck and promised you will forever hold that in your fingertips; your conscience knocks at your door at the same time, and tells you not to tie yourself down, not to promise yourself what you cannot. You, oblige to your conscience. 

From the dreams that challenged the mundane existence to the promises of a lifetime, your conscience stands in between and takes up the self-appointed role of a monitor (really, who wants that?); my advice: don't listen to it, choose what suits you the best. It is about YOU and not about that intangible conscience which surreptitiously promises some heavenly solace in some highly debatable 'after life'. 

Lesson 3: Relationships don't quite believe in reasons. They are self-oriented (not selfish) and change with time, people, place and emotions.


When was the last that you had spend your money, time and emotions on your most desirable object or subject at that point of time? That nice pair of shoes, that really awesome play station game, that purse, that piece of clothing or that dinner and the time spent together? How did that make you feel? How was that relationship? Satisfying, wholesome, defining? How many times have you repeated that with different objects and subjects? My guess: a few.


Lesson 4: Relationships are recyclable. All you need to do is hold on to the crux of the emotions that matters to you in any relationship and then apply, reapply and reinvent it.


However, the best relationship, I think is that of our observations on relationship (just as in this apology of a write-up). We all have opinions on it. We all are, in some strange way, completely bummed by it. We all, in our deepest desires, want to get a hang of it. We all, in some way or the other, are perennially running away from it or towards it (never indifferent), in some form or the other. We get into the deepest of the bonds (love, hate, addiction...whatever...note the word bond) and in our minds are continually evaluating, judging and rating it, thereby challenging it in every waking, and may be in sleeping moments.


Lesson 5: Relationships are our own doing (dreaming, imagining, building or ending it). They do not live or die by themselves, we steer them.

*****

When they steal...

At 85, she looks surprisingly young, may be around 70 or so, strong built, signature marks left on her determined lips by years of betel leaf chewing, power glasses and an warm smile. She has recently moved to Kolkata with her second son and his family: wife and two kids. In a small 550 square feet, 2BHK flat, the family lives through their daily chores, silences, nods, laughs and disagreements. She is a mother of four sons and two daughters. Almost all of them are well-established now, with their respective families, spread all over the country. She raised them well, is what she thinks at times.

At 85, she is also pretty fragile. She depends on her children to take care of her. She misses her husband, but at this stage, her children are her strengths. Her fragile health is a concern for them all. She has a doctor son and daughter-in-law. They enquire about her health regularly. They can't keep her, as they stay far off from the remaining siblings and it gets difficult to care for an elderly member in a busy city. She understands. Her elder son and daughter-in-law are eager to take her on, but the children have board exams, and they cannot afford disturbances. She will move with her elder son after the exams, she decides.

At 85, she is quite senile too. Her frequent fights with her daughters-in-law on the day's menu, on missing petticoats and blouses, on misplacing her medicines intentionally put her in their unfavourable side. We all know daughters-in-law play a significant role in accommodating an aging member in the household. She does not quite understand that. She holds her ground, and more often than not, fights tooth and nail. She makes enemies often, her undiplomatic and headstrong ways do not help her sons fight her case with their respective wives. She did not choose her daughters-in-law well, is what she wonders at times.

At 85, she takes her regular walks outside the apartment. A diabetic, her doctor promised her good health if she exercises regularly. A modest kilometer around the apartment, every evening, is her time to reminiscence about her life so far. The clothes she wore, the food she cooked, the chores she finished, the efficiency with which she managed her household, the expenses, readied the kids for school and maintained her relationship with her neighbours. A mother and a wife, a 'home maker' and a woman, what were her proudest moments, she debates as she takes her daily walk.

At 85, she broke down. During one of her daily walks, when she was about to enter through the apartment gates, a boy in a cycle passed by and snatched her gold chain. She had no defense, she shouted for help. By then, the thief had made away with her gold chain. She somehow managed to get to her flat, got the attention of the family members and neighbours, and narrated the story minute-by-minute, umpteen times to each curious well-wisher, till they decided to lodge a police complaint. Tired, shocked, disturbed, the 85-year lies down. Next day, she walks to my mother's place and sits down. She starts crying, profusely.

"Why are you crying? Did your husband gift you the chain?", my mom enquires.
"No. I bought it with my own money. I saved money from my household expenses, and had bought it", she laments.

At a time and age, her gold chain bought from her 'own' money was possibly the only pride left in her life of senility, old-age, ill-health and transit from one household to another...Only if they knew what they all steal, the thief, the family members, and the acquaintances from her uneventful, mundane life, I hoped then.

Let this new year bring her and us all moments to be truly proud of and moments that no thief (in any form) can steal from us. Amen! Happy new year, 2012.

The illusive tiffin box

It started with the steel ones with small plastic snappers on its sides. A small top-open container inside it. It will carry biscuits, banana and may be a small sandesh in the small top-open container. I eyed with envy at the other five-year old opening her tiffin box, compartmentalized with a lovely Tom and Jerry cartoon on the lead (in my days Barbie wasn't immortalized). She had a small piece of cake in one compartment, pieces of apple in another and some noodles in the main compartment. My steel box can't hold that much - it was happy with its biscuits and sandesh, while I stared in envy.

Many many many years later, I observed with great interest, the office crowd walking in to different towers through different glass doors and security barriers, carrying along with them, different sizes, shapes and makes of small bags protecting and holding the stuff that sustains them throughout the day - little chaklis, some chapati, a bit of rice, may be a sabji. Amazingly colorful, in different sizes and shapes, the horizontal ones, the vertical ones, the ones carried in paper bags, the ones carried in cloth bags, some in plastic bags while some come with it's own carriers, the tiffin boxes proudly march through the glass doors, everyday, Monday to Friday. Some of them have a pouch to hold snacks, some bags have a pocket to hold a small water bottle, some have separate zips for each box, the list goes on.

Post steel-box days, when I was in possession of that small miraculous plastic card, I decided to erase all memories of steel boxes, and venture into the world of amazing, all encompassing, magic tiffin boxes; I started with Tupperware. I weighed my needs, my plastic card and my choices and settled for a round big box with a small box that comes inside and all of it in a round carrier with a handle. Hmm with the jhola on my shoulders, round tiffin on my hand, I marched towards my office, all pleased. In a month or so, suddenly the round bag was an obstacle to pay for my auto fares or swipe through the security nightmares in the so-called information-secure world. Also I started missing my water bottle. What do I do with it? Carry both the water bottle and the round carrier in one plastic (oops paper) bag? Or should I keep my water bottle locked in my pedestal. Eyes were suddenly inadvertently straying towards the other tiffin boxes marching through the glass doors. They were nice, easy to carry, Milton cases ensuring warm food...sigh. I continued with my round box.


Many more years later, dejected by the various permutations and combinations, I decided to go for a rectangular one. one big rectangle and two small rectangles that can hold 2 ounces of sabji or daal. I think I felt an urge to diet and got that really concise square box. Within days I had bigger challenges. This time a laptop bag, a gym bag, a rectangular tiffin box and water bottle. Lo behold, next to me, comes the colleague with his perfectly tidy tiffin bag, longitudinal, 3 containers, 2 small, one big, zip for snacks and a pocket to hold a 250 ml water bottle - where did he get it from?

Eyeing the illusive lucrative tiffin box, with compartments and boxes to hold the necessities of survival, Monday to Friday, I cannot help but notice how deftly my tiffin box teaches me everyday how I must wriggle out of the latest revised deadline by displaying very little availability of resources as my small 2 ounce box proclaims during the lunch time, and how I must learn to politely refuse furnishing the 200th excel sheet with the same data as my square box refuses to get inside my laptop bag. The lovely compartmentalized, water-bottle-carrying tiffin carrier next to my colleague's desk always shows me how important it is never to display all your capabilities, because believe me, come performance cycle for want of development areas, they may actually want your tiffin carrier to hold a four-piece cutlery set. It tells me always to weigh my options, because once I give in to the all fulfilling notion of the perfect tiffin 'career', I will be too comfortable to get out from my desk and away from the people around me and doing what I did for many years again and again. With its inadequacy to hold enough food, my tiffin box, gives me the option to buy a tasty side dish, every now and then from the canteen showing me how important it is to test one's market value, once in a while, by updating your resume on the job portals.

The all-illusive tiffin box - you win! I will try many combinations, but will always stay away from the perfect one! In the donkey race, I shall run the slowest.

Being rejected

How often have you been rejected? In love? In relationships? By companies? By educational institutions? By friends? By your own dreams? By your own capability? And by reality? How do you feel when you are rejected?

...Perched throat, thumping heart, cold fingers, trembling voice, sweating forehead...? All of it? Some of it? I have had my fair share of rejections till now, and must confess, did not make me by any means any stronger! But then, that's just me. I am sure rejections a.k.a failure is making someone somewhere stronger. Nonetheless, my encounter with rejections started at a tender age of five, when I was ruthlessly rejected by my Art teacher (yes Bengalees start everything when they are five and their fate is decided by the time they are six) saying I was no good - I especially had problems drawing shapes, and he insisted that I will never learn.


Over these years, I have gone through a number of rejections, the insult and the agony of every rejection made me that much weaker, heavier, bitter, older and madder. More often than not, I have been rejected by my own abilities or the lack of it, you know the ones where you 'know' that you are the world's greatest singer, the most intellectual thinker and the most understanding partner that one can get with the 'funniest' sense of humor and a great 'swagger'? Turns out that you hardly have a sense of tune, you are a below-average thinker, you somehow manage to win five rounds of bridge in your whole life and that 'swagger' is just a worn-out shoe that desperately needs to be replaced. Off to the fridge for some cocoa therapy.

But it is the daily rejections that are more difficult to live with. It starts towards the end of the day, being auto rejected. If you are someone who avails the precariously balanced three wheeler that flies on the road for daily commute, would know how desperately hopeful you are as you approach the auto rickshaw stand outside your office after a hard day's work, hoping against hope that there will be a decent one agreeing to take you home for a decent fair. They are all eager, they throng around you and want to know the destination. You say it. They sneer in pity; only three kilometers?! They reject. They quote three times the regular fair and you reject. They sneer at you with more vengeance. Their eyes follow you as your try to get hold of other auto-rickshaws. They see your lonely figure, observe the rejecting herd sneering at you, and driven by their eternal obligation reject you again. You can almost feel the stare breathing heavily on your neck as you fight the humiliation and walk the distance to the next one. Yes, auto rejection hits me bad.


In today's competition, it is also often that your pride gets a beating as you try to wiggle your way through to secure a domestic help. And more often than not, looking at my flat, my bare means of living and my small tv, they reject me outright. I try to convince them that I will work on a salary revision very soon, they enquire about my job status, nod their heads, look around the room once more, again stop at my battered fridge and walk away. It is not often that your lifetime of work is rejected like that!

From being glanced at and questioned for trying to choose a particular cloth size to being adviced to dye my hair in a posh air-conditioned room to the ominous look on the gym instructor's face at my irregular cardio routine, either my financial stability, or my affordability, my looks, my thoughts or my sanity gets a rejection on a daily basis. Thumping heart and sweaty forehead, heavier and bitter, cocoa therapy, the cycle continues...

Have you heard the rain?

(C) Saptarshi Gupta

Have you heard the rain?...when it speaks to you? Have you heard the rain?...when it lulls you? Have you heard the rain?...when it admonishes you? Or, have you heard the rain?...when it nudges you to lose yourself?

Have you listened to the rain when it lightly brushes against the window of a fast moving train, grabs your hand and sprints to a place where you know you are alive. It travels through your veins and gently taps on your throbbing neck, and tells you to close your eyes. It silences the sounds of the chugging wheels and spreads through your neurons - charging up your every sense and every thought. You are as conscious as you can ever be, as the silent raindrops softly touch the glass window and take you far away to the shores of Bombay where a shy child plays his video games as his mother fights for the covetted begging spot infront of Haji Ali. The raindrops pull you away from the shores of Bombay to the first day you successfully rode your cycle and did not fall, you suddenly remember each and every turn you took that day, number of times you rang the bell, and your smile as you triumphantly got off your cycle. You glide with the drops to the open meadows, a gurggling brooke cutting through it while the trees form a canopy over your head - a place you have never been to, but a place the minute details of which you can see, feel, smell and live as the rain drops gently nudge you to lose yourself - to the time, moment and emotion that you know is the best, yet unrealistic - never ever would you feel so alive when you lose yourself, if you just listen to the rain - as it gently taps the windows of a fast moving train. Have you ever lost yourself while listening to the rains?

Then the rain comes rushing down outside your home window or balcony, and each drop brushes against the other in great fury to hit the ground, and they speak to you. Do you hear as the draindrops form a mesh outside your window, erasing everything around, and you walk the lonely corridors of white walls, masked people, green overalls, silence signs, smell of antiseptics, heavy glass doors in the hope that the one who lies somewhere in this building will fight their way out? You visit and revisit each moment, when you felt that the worst is happening in your life at that moment, when the nearest one fights for their space in the mortal world; but the rain drops get furious, they lash at you mercilessly admonishing you for living the moments of sadness all these years. The drops scream at you, push you to move away from emptying the cupboards, packing clothes and belongings, removing the sandals, the books and the medicine boxes a decade back; and revisited innumerable times over the decade. They thicken the mesh infront of your window, blocking your own thoughts, pounding on the ground erasing all sounds from where you stood alone, confused, shaken as life turned into something that you never thought it would. Have you listened to the rain, just outside your window, as it overflows your garden, fills up the roads and admonishes you to break away from what is not your anymore - a person, a relationship, a success or a failure...have you?

And then when the rain comes down on the roof, foxtrots on your senses, intoxicates your reflexes by its rhythm, the rain lulls you to sleep, it holds you in its embraces, as you pull up your blanket a little bit more and see your first footsteps with your father holding your hands, you remember the first time someone touched your soul, you feel the touch of your beloved, your heart feels big, nested in your chest as the rain whispers to your ears that you have one more day-tomorrow - or may be one more - the day after to live, and breathe and learn - have you ever allowed the rain to lull you to sleep?

From me to you...

I remember you crossing my path once in a while. I remember you bringing a smile on my lips once in a while. Yes, there were times when you would walk with me, but then, you walked your own path till we met again. I do remember you crossing my path once in a while.

It rained a lot one day, I remember. The sun was fierce that day, burning down anything that came on its way. You ignored the heat and walked with me for a while, a long while may be. You shared your thoughts with me and shared mine, yes it rained a lot that day, on my soul and may be yours too.

You met me again, and you continued crossing my path again and again...we walked together, side-by-side, under the scorching sun, the pouring rain, the moonlit nights and through foggy mornings. We parted our ways, knowing when we would meet again.

One day, yes I remember, I found you walking with me.

One night, yes I remember, I found you sleeping next to me.

One day, yes I realised, you had been walking with me for a while.

That day, yes I knew, I needed you by my side, always.

I do remember, you holding my hand tight as we circled the fire, you leading me and then I leading you, I remember your voice as you read out your vows, and I felt your glance as I shared my consent across the purdah...yes, I remember, when we promised to walk all our walks together.  

The memories are not so vivid after that. I do remember our journey together, some of it, or most of it? The dreams that were fulfilled, the bricks that made our home, the pages that we turned on lazy Sunday afternoons together, the songs that we felt in our fingertips, the rhythms that we danced to in our souls, the tiny toes that we felt in our hands, the small steps that we guarded, the nappies that we changed, the parties that you threw at my success, the trips that we took at your success - yes I do remember some of it.

But mostly I remember that night, while sitting on the terrace, I looked by my side, and suddenly realised that you weren't there. I reached out, but could not feel you, I tried to listen, but could not hear you, I tried to speak, but you could not hear, although I remember you handing me my scotch, two ice and one dash of lime - you knew my drink so well. I looked out for you again, the next day, as you waved at me on your way to office, I could not find you - that day the sun came lashing down...I do not remember any rain.

I sat there, on our way, and realised we do not walk side by side anymore. Were you ahead of me, did you take a wrong turn, were you following me? - I could not figure out. I knew we were not walking together anymore.

I sat there, waiting for you to come back, and walk with me, as we took the boys to the school, prayed together, held hands and crossed roads...yes, I knew you would come back. To walk with me.

It was raining that night, a lot. I was cold and tired. I was rushing home. I should have listened to you, I should have waited for you to pick me up. I retraced the steps that I had taken innumerable times, ten steps and turn left, I counted, my stick clanked the cobbled street as the Hummer lost control, and skidded, they say. They say it blew the horn, how would I know, they say it had the headlights on, how would I see - I was still counting my next 20 steps to our door. I remembered falling down, through eternity, like the kite breaking free from the spinner wheel, enjoying its heady moments before hurtling down to the ground or like the subdued river forcing open the floodgates in a heavy monsoon and cascading down the dam walls in all its fury. They say I was holding our photo when they found me, they say I had a smile on my lips when they lifted me. I remembered falling down...I do not know how you look, I do not know how a smile looks like - I can just feel...

You took my hand and held it to your face. You allowed my fingers to trace your eyes, face, lips and tears. You held it to your heart and my fingertips felt it beat. You said, it beats just for me. Caged within the white walls, covered by the white sheets, attached to a number of machines, in my dry lips and tired heart beats, and in my numbed pain, I realised, you are walking by my side now, you were walking by my side, yesterday, and will tomorrow.

For I am, because you are, and you are because I am...

*(An attempt at fiction. Let me know how flat it fell! :)

She is...

She stood there, in front of the mirror, naked. Her hair framed her face, ever so lightly, poignantly lifting her chin as her eyes dropped. The street lights lost their way into her room through the glass windows. Carelessly glancing through her body and caressing the mounds and the curves, creating a drama. Her eyes, she felt, were tired. Her thoughts, she knew, were exhausted. Her body, she saw, was a shadow. With a broken marriage, mutilated ovaries and few desperate wrinkles etching her tired face, she wondered for a while, at the milestone of 50, how does she define her womanhood. Is she, she argued, any more a woman? 

Is it her thoughts that make a woman a woman? The famous 'caring and sharing is all about'? Or is it the relationships that make a woman a woman - the father, the brother, the sister, the son, the daughter, the husband, the lover? Or is it just the hair, the softness, the curves and the societal glances that make a woman a woman? 

She knew of a woman in her childhood, complete with the sindoor (vermilion) and the shankha-pola, who visited their house everyday to finish some daily chores. She had not seen her husband for 10 years, she did not know where he was, but she continued wearing the sindoor. Several years later, the aged lady still had the same smile and the sindoor on her forehead just as red as before. Is this why she is a woman?

She also knew of a woman, who chose to raise her several siblings after a bitter partition, fought shoulder to shoulder with several authoritative figures in the 1940's in politics and remained dedicated to the family till her last breath. Is it her tremendous courage, in a troubled world that makes her a woman?

Or was it when her best friend's husband flooded his 'facebook' page with his wife's photographs and published 'notes' for her, that she knew her best friend is a woman? Or was it when someone she knew chased her fiance' to the other side of the world to salvage a relationship is what makes a woman, a woman - the grit, the determination or the desperation? She wonders...

Is it when with a battered body, and an abused conscience, her domestic help gets up every morning to pack food for her husband and her kids makes her a woman? Or is it the calmness with which a woman handles a terribly upset client or a stakeholder that makes a woman a woman? Is she, the one who adores her husband and her child, enjoys few short-lived affairs on the side, but always walks back to the comfort of the four walls of her husband and children - and it is her discretion, her celebration of her life or her bold choices that make her a woman? Or may be when her husband of 30 years, looks lovingly at her, shares his terrible fear what if she passes away before him and her comforting him makes a woman a woman - her beauty and her indispensibility to her family? She continues to wonder.

She walks the streets alone, she buys her own jewellery, she rules the catwalk, she dominates many podiums, she destroys the demon every year amidst dhak (drums) and the autumn clouds, she stares at her tired palms bearing the evidence of years of housework, she refuses to give in, she obeys orders ever so diligently, she nurtures a dream in her heart, but she rarely dares to live it - is this why she is, who she is?

She kept staring at her 'shadow' on the mirror, the hair and the curves. May be a face muscle twitched a bit or may be there was some moisture in her eyes, we do not know. May be she wondered for a while what if she had a complete family, a loving husband, couple of kids, few children in law, membership to kitty parties, she would have felt her womanhood. Or may be she wondered, in her manicured heart and mascara-lined soul, that her setting beauty, her broken life, her failing reproductive organs and her pride in her freedom, proclaims every day that she is...

*Dedicated to many remarkable souls that I have come across in my life. So, what makes a woman a woman! Your thoughts?

Victim of Internet, prodigal daughter lashes out

I am a lavish spender and user when it comes to Internet, since the days in mid-nineties when a 10 min surfing would cost you 70 bucks (not that it does not cost this much today, it actually does, in Calcutta airport - 85 bucks/10 min - but that's another story, I digress) and when sending an email to someone in Bombay would cost less than sending an email to someone in London :). I had always managed my way to the front of the queue, get to the computer with the best connectivity and convinced the cafe owner to download the latest version of rediff bol for uninterrupted chats (yahoo messenger was bad even in those days!). From surfing the net using set top boxes and on a TV to one of the first users of those datacards back in early 2000, I have always prided myself in my 'zeal' to stay 'connected'.

Little did I know, how the Internet would silently but very effectively rob me off my sparingly available but systematically dispersed grey cells.

Cut to circa 1994, a four-year period of rushing back and forth from college at every drop of a hat. We were hostelers and lapped at every opportunity to visit home, be it sudden decision of the batch to bunk classes for durga puja, holi, chhat puja or the plague. We would head to the good old reservation counter at the station, fill up the form, stand in a serpentine queue, chat through the innumerable 'system down' time, 'lunch' time, finally reach the counter after good four hours to realise that it's a Wait List ticket, 147 to be precise. In college days, you don't have the choice of AC or first class, it is the plain old second class sleeper. So what do you do? You prepare, you know the alternate trains, you know the connectors, you know the train numbers and you make part bookings. You even know the counters from where you get reservations for different legs of your journey.

Cut to circa 2011, realised reaching the station that my train was cancelled. I was asked to go to another station to book tickets and catch a train leaving in next one and a half hour. Rushed to the other station, lost my way around, managed to approach all the wrong counters, messed up filling up the forms, learned that yet another train was cancelled, had no clue of what was the next best option, finally ended up going to the right counter only to know that the train leaves in 15 minutes (yes, when you book from the comfort of your home, you forget that there is a huge board showing train timings at the station as well) and hence online booking is closed. I returned home, comforting myself that I will log in to makemytrip and buy plane tickets to my destination...sigh, the thought was such a relief!

To be very frank, I have lost a lot to the boon of Internet! I cannot think on my feet, I cannot decide in a split of a second and believe me you, I would fail miserably if I were sitting on that coveted American Prez chair, and my Home Secretary were eyeballing me 'It's time Sir, approve the nuclear attack,' as I would invariably say, "Google please."

Let's not get that far! Today, I book my cinema tickets from home, if I do not get a good seat in one theatre, then I look for better seats in other theatres on other days. Leave me in front of a ticket counter, with a branded queue expressing their dissatisfaction at my indecision and I cringe. I fail to decide whether to choose a right aisle seat, if left aisle is unavailable, I fail to opt for the next best show, if tickets are unavailable for this one.

Cut to Circa 1995, I would have known the next show timings, booked tickets for the same and would also book tickets for another show to kill time in between. All good seats, and mind you all within the two minutes that you are allowed at any counter. Today, I pine for my laptop to help me decide...sigh.

From tickets to recipes, from the best stores to the best movies to watch, from the best gossip to playing bridge, I depend on Internet, I am at loss when I face the reality, I cannot (and a voice inside me tells 'must not') cook a decent dish anymore without checking the Internet nor 'am I sure if a certain 'Kumkum Kundapathy' is truly an old friend unless I check their profile on facebook.

I, hereby, humbly declare that my intelligence, my wit, my knowledge, my smartness have all been adversely effected by the Internet. Even the blog that I am writing - I cannot finish at one go - I have lost the capability to write fluently - you see this blogspot 'autosaves', so I take my own sweet time.

*Disclaimer: I use Internet to check spellings and whether the sentence construction is correct. I take no responsibility of the same.