Of scattered lifes...

Life lay scattered. For some reason. In front of me. It was your life.

Your dreams I did not know. You were meant to be back where you belong. You do not BELONG where you are now. You cannot. It is not fair. I did not know you well. But I saw you smile. It was bold and beautiful. It was full of life. I saw intelligence. In your eyes. The eyes were full of life too. Is that what you really wanted? To take the life off your eyes?  If that is not what you wanted, then why did it happen to you? Don’t they always say, you get what you want in life? Then why would you ever want that? Why would you ever want your beautiful smile and the spark in your eyes to leave forever? Who decides this? And how?

You had plans. I am sure. To watch a movie? To have some home cooked food, may be? To work harder? To raise a family? It was a usual office day. Wasn’t it? You had a late shift, I learned. And you were going back home. It was simple. Not complicated. Not difficult. You must have ridden on that road several times. You are a good biker. I heard. Today, you were not allowed to finish that journey. You loved mountains, hike them, trek them, I hear. Are you at the mountains now? Are you off to some mountain and will come down. Soon. And dazzle us with your smile.

I cannot come to think of how she is. Your mother. It hurts my head. It hurts my soul. It blinds my heart with a pain, I have rarely known to have existed. It wipes off the smile of my face. It wipes off feelings of my eyes. I cannot think. Of her, your mothers. Of myself. Of today.

I cannot some to think of how he is. The one behind the wheels. Of the truck. I do not know if it was his mistake. If it was not his mistake. Is his life scattered too? The life of those near to him. Are their lives scattered too? Why? Why do we have to have so many lives scattered? Why does this have to happen?

Why didn’t you leave a few minutes late? Why didn’t you leave a few minutes early? Why didn’t you stop for a moment to watch the sun rise? Why didn’t you take a moment more to swipe out of those office doors? You would have been here? Wouldn’t you? Why will I never have answers to my Whys? Why?

Life lay scattered. For some reason. In front of me. It was your life. But it scattered my life too. For an hour. May be for a day. Could be a few days. I haven’t written anything. For months. You scattered my silence. You scattered my getting used to mode. You scattered my comfort. We all lay scattered. All, who knew you. On some level. We lay scattered. Because it is not fair. It is not right. Because it is not LIFE. It cannot be. 

*I pray for her family. Strength and courage. And sanity. And justice.

I take back my wish...

I still remember the morning. I was in a car, driving towards the airport. To go to Andamans for my annual vacation. It was a winter morning of December, 2012. Something inside me broke that day. Because she died. I wanted her to be with us. To prove that they cannot break our spirit or our bodies.

3 years later, I take back my wish. What would’ve you witnessed if you were alive today?

1.       It has no remorse for what It and the other Its did with you. It concludes prophesying that all rape victims will be killed

2.       Thousands of rapists are alive, some in jails, some in their homes, some in their bedrooms, some teaching children

3.       The prime minister meets your parents on woman safety. His government meanwhile bans what "appear to encourage and incite violence against women." Well, what are they doing to ban violence against you or me? Meeting your parents?

4.       People I know feel “India’s daughters” need to dress decently. They are highly educated, respectable members of the society. It’s interview substantiates their beliefs

5.       100s of gang rapes since that fateful night. No social change. Ironically social media is abuzz.

6.       Convicts and lawyers were paid some say while others say that this is outrageous and culling down of basic freedom. Meanwhile, in the one hour that I watched the documentary in the comfort of my apartment at least two women were raped somewhere in India. And your courage did not change that statistics, even 3 years later.

Yes, I take back my wish. Because something else inside me broke again.

Of feeling safe

So how does one define feeling safe? Being in a safe region? Being in the arms of someone who makes you feel secure? Being in the home one grew up in? Being comfortable wherever they are? Being in a place that is protected?

This is not something that I have really thought about in details ever before. But this is something that has been a matter of great significance to me in the last few days.

I am on an assignment in a region that is considered "unsafe" by parameters defined by a certain world geographically and politically more powerful and secure. I do not know what these parameters are, I do not know how these "secure" worlds define the safety that people from this region feels. Or whether they think that the people of this region do not consider their lives precious enough to be protected, their families are more dispensable and their happiness and joy more compromisable than mine.

To ensure that I am safe and secure, I am put up in a highly secured housing complex that has electric fences running around it and manned by guards 24/7. I am driven to my work and to all my chores (including grocery shopping) by a company provided car. I am not allowed to take a walk outside my housing complex by myself and I am not allowed to travel outside the capital city. If I am in a shopping mall, I am accompanied by my driver always, pushing my shopping cart around or taking me to the ATM to withdraw money. I depend on the driver on the route he chooses to drive me to office or to drive me back. I am not allowed to drive myself around or take any form of public transport. If I need to travel to remote areas for project work, I need to take prior approvals and will mostly be driven by my company provided car.

I have never felt so unsafe in my whole life...

With all these security measures taken to keep me secure in this region for the duration of this project, why is it that I feel so unsafe?

I tried to analyse this observation further. I have done my bit of travelling. I have been to unknown places all by myself for the first time. I have been to precarious situations and managed to get myself out of those. I have travelled at night, by myself, in train compartments through foreign countries where I did not even understand the language. I have walked through dark lanes in some notorious parts of my country and have managed to come out unscathed. I have travelled at mid-night in NY tube with drunk hobos. Was I plain lucky all those times? Was I foolish to have done that? Did those experiences teach me nothing but the fact that I am an idiot to have found myself in those situations?

May be, yes. But may be, just may be, I survived all those situations because I allowed my natural instincts to settle in. My inherent sense of survival was sharp and vigilant and that made me feel confident and secure about my surroundings. I do not have that now. If today I am attacked on my way to office, I will never know how to get myself out of the situation. I will simply be dependent on my driver. 

So truely what makes someone feel secure? Not the fact that they are in the arms of their loved ones, but the fact that they know they have the option to protect themselves in their own way if required? Not the fact that they are living in a secured complex, but the fact that they know their surroundings and can find their ways out of it? Not the fact that they have financial security but the fact that they know how to use it?

I have always tried to look at life and the experiences that it offered as opportunities to know myself better, to appreciate this life that I have and to be a better person. This is also an experience that I have never had before. I would like to think that at the end of it I will get some positive learning out of it. But for now, I hope, I do not end up being paranoid so much so that I do not feel secure anymore once I am back in my natural surroundings and lose my basic instincts of survival.

Are people who live here not happy? Are the kids who go to school everyday or the youth who go to the discotheques do not feel secure? When is it that you feel safe? And when is it that you do not? Should one really allow someone else or some set of procedures to define their respective safety and security? What are your thoughts? Please share.

*I typically refrain from writing vivid personal experiences in my blog. But this is an observation that's been bugging me and my blog is the only place where I let out anything that affects me, so please bear with this ranting if you find yourself here.

They sigh...

He rests his trembling hands on the table. The veins form a complex network of tributaries and distributaries. Some throb for seconds, uncontrollably. He tries to steady them. The satin tablecloth lies under his fingers, wrinkle-free, cold. He glances at the flowers in a small vase kept on the table, the cutlery and the dishes. He looks around; the tall pillars, the crystal chandeliers, the immaculately decorated chairs, the hushed conversations, the measured clinks of forks and spoons, the mild Bach, the suits and the designer clothes. He tries to steady his hand further.

A kid comes running to him. Plate full of scones, poached eggs, muffins and croissants. Places it in front of him. “Grandad, eat some.” He smiles nervously. The items on the plate look foreign to him. More plates pile up. Noodles, miso soup, muesli, salads. More family members join the table too. A lady in her well-kept clothes says, “Papaji eat some paratha”. He looks at the plate. Slices of paratha (Indian bread) that look quite dry and hard and a bowl of sambhar. He tries to tear one piece, dip it in sambhar and takes a bite. People around him start chatting, planning the day. The different attractions to visit, the time it will take, how best to organise.

He continues to chew. His hand trembles a bit, he takes a gulp of water and tries a second bite. He stares blankly at the chandelier while his mind wanders off. It was a bright sunny day if he remembers correctly. It was a Saturday too just like today. They were sitting outside the courtyard, chatting and having their morning milk. His daughter, who is sitting next to him now, was playing with her toys. There were hot parathas being served and pickles to go with those. He remembers the warmth of the plate in his hand against the cold of the cutlery now, he sighs at the measured movements around him and remembers his daughter throwing a ball at him that morning.

“Papajee you have dropped sambhar on your clothes”, his daughter admonishes him gently. He goes back to chewing the parathas, a nervous smile clings on to his lower lip. “These are hard and cold”, he thinks. Those around him are praising the breakfast spread in this 5-star hotel. They try to give him some muffin – the chocolate ones. He takes them hesitatingly. Out-of-place, too-late-in-the-day, he smiles with pride at his daughter’s enthusiasm to take him around the world, to good restaurants, good hotels, or to the movies. And then he looks away and sighs.

At what? I do not know. But I know he sighs. I know they sigh. The fathers and the mothers. They hide from their grown-up, accomplished children and they let go of a sigh. 

As a single child growing up in a middle-class joint family, I have seen my parents make many sacrifices of their small pleasures for the family’s well-being. These choices came easy to them. They sacrificed vacations, good clothes, good restaurants while we somehow in our sub-conscious minds kept a count of these all.

And then one day, all of a sudden, having dealt with our own devils in life, education, work and society, we-the children, now grown up feel this strong desire to give our parents the comfort and pleasures that they once gave up. We drag them to the restaurants and subject them to unfamiliar taste, we take them to the loud theatres and expect them to get used to the Dolby digital surround sound, in the winters of NY we take them to weekend Durga pujo or in the heat of Ajanta caves we drag them from one cave painting to the other. We send them tickets and put them in 20 hour long flights across oceans to show them the foreign land, to drive them around in the posh interiors of our automatics, we take them into the oceans and put them on city’s eyes, we make them sit through musicals and ask them to be comfortable with the soft hotel pillows. Doing this makes us feel good. Going through all this, at this age, are they really happy?

I do not have an answer. Parents to me are typically these unusual creatures who take immense pleasure and satisfaction at their children’s achievements and can do almost anything to keep their children happy and in the right path. 

But still, I am sure, they do sigh…they just hide it…but they do let go of a sigh…

Many of you reading this will recognise my dilemma. What do you think about this? What is your take on this?

Only if he knew how...

He could hear it approaching, slow and steady…He closed his eyes, braced his knees to his chest, and firmly placed the wet towel roll between his jaws. It started getting louder, the vision got blurred with streaks of red neon flashes as he placed himself on the bed and waited. Beads of sweat turned into patches of sweat as he shivered uncontrollably on his bed, trying hard not to clench his fist, bit his tongue or throw himself off the bed. He felt his skin tearing apart as the whips came crashing down on his tender arms, his eyes throbbed as the headache settled itself in between his eyebrows. He scratched at the wooden plank that guarded the windows, counted his breathes and waited for it to go away. It returned with more vigor as his father kept hitting him with a whip and his mother’s cries resonated the closed walls.

A traumatized childhood, watching his mother battered to death by a monster he called father are the reasons for his attacks tells his therapists. He does not know what the truth is anymore. The cries are true, so are the streaks of light across his retina, truth is the pain that numbs him from the whip lashes, everything else is just a blur! The faces, were they really his mother and father? He cannot recall anymore as he lies limp on the bed wet by his sweat, arms and legs disabled by the fury his own body unleashed on itself, senses torn by the flashes from the past. He will lie there for two hours, before he can get up and start his day.

A routine he now remembers for last 20 years. Decades of therapy, bottles of pills, years of confronting his past but the ghosts still hover around, they still come back with immaculate accuracy every fortnight, reap through his body, his senses and his soul. Once every 15 days, he knows that he needs to warn his colleagues, keep his calendar free, order his breakfast home, keep his phones charged and pay his bills ahead of time. He braces himself for what follows, endures the onslaught, and deals with his past on the days that follows. 

Disturbed sleep, nagging headache, frequent imbalance that follow every attack had helped him define his days and nights, hour by hour, for last 20 years after that fateful night when he was 10 years old and found himself towering over a limp body sprawled on the floor. His father shouted, “Get away from her, she is dead, your mother is dead”. He remembers a sudden hit that darkened his soul and his senses till he regained his consciousness in a hospital where they said his parents were missing. “She is dead”, he had murmured. Nobody listened to him then. He never saw them again. His school friends said that they were both dead. His foster parents said they were missing.

Over the last few years he had initiated many investigations to find the truth. Often jeopardizing his own safety, but all had ended in a naught. Finally, last evening he received a call from one of the prominent investigators that there might be some lead. Struggling his way out of the bed, he wondered how soon will he be capable again to get in touch with the investigator to know more…

Fifty days since that morning, two attacks later, he sat at the window of his room sipping his morning tea. His parents were in the living room talking. Several manhunts, thousands of miles later, he finally found his missing parents, he reconstructed his childhood memories; the assault of his father’s business partners on him and his parents, the physical threats and tortures that eventually led his parents to believe that he was safer without them. He sat there, sipping his tea as he looked outside and untied the knots and let go of a sigh that he had not, for a very very long while.

He stepped in. Closed his eyes, braced his knees to his chest, and firmly placed the wet towel roll between his jaws. He crawled into his bed and waited for it to unleash. Minutes turned to an hour, it did not. It was time. But nothing happened. He called his therapist. She told him it is probably because he now knows his past, he has untied the knots. He was, therefore, free from the torment. He looked at the telephone blankly. 

He stared at his bed, his towel roll, his medicines, his routine. He had planned his life around it. For twenty years he had learned from one fit to the next how to cope and how to survive. Without it, how, he wonders, will he be able to live his life normally? Only if he knew how...

Of faith, belief and stories around you

* With much enthusiasm, she carried her bent body, crooked legs, thin arms, greying hair and tired wrinkles wrapped around a torn saree on a walking stick. She trailed behind her family members, but she carried on.

* His 4-year old son sat on his shoulders, eyes wide open, staring at the mammoth human conglomeration around him. At three in a chilly winter morning, the 4-year old was surprisingly wide awake.

* They were in their late twenties, walked holding hands, possibly making their livelihood doing menial labour jobs. Their wives followed them.

* They were members of an akhada (groups of religious sages), covered in ashes wielding their swords and spears, sporting their long hairs. They led the march, lost in their trance, playing their drums and had travelled from the foothills of the Himalayas to the mainland of India.

* While he had planned it for a while, the lens he carried, the cameras that hung from his neck and the backpack that sported his shoulders bore the mark of a long journey from some part of Europe.

The glow in their eyes warded off the darkness of the night, the warmth of their faith fought the winter chill. They were in Prayag, Allahabad, India, to observe Mahakumbh celebrated once in 12 years as the sun travels to the Aquarius sign. It is considered a very auspicious period in Hindu religion. On March 10, 2013, the Mahashivaratri day marking especially auspicious planetary alignments, close to 700,000 people gathered in Prayag to take a holy dip in the river Ganges. The legend has it that if someone takes a dip in the holy Ganges during this festival they are reborn as kings.

They travelled from far off, slept in tents, cooked their food on makeshift ovens, laughed with people they met at the festival, and sang through the night till the hour struck three when they started walking towards the holy river in the hope of achieving salvation for this life and the next. I was there simply to witness people’s faith, their endurance, their hope and it was an immensely humbling encounter for a keyboard-punching, pub-going, shopping mall-hopping, fast-cashing, armchair activist like me. I slept in the tents, ate delicious Indian vegetarian food meant to be cleansing for your body, heard their stories, walked for miles and at times just stopped and gaped at the outburst of colours as thousands of Indian women in their colourful sarees queued up at the ghats (shores) of the Ganges for their turns to take a dip.

Travelling to me is an opportunity to watch people and cultures, to learn from each culture, to enrich my existence by borrowing from theirs, to feel the rush and marvel at the unknown. Being an Indian, born and brought up in India, it took me over 35 years to finally make a 2000 kilometres trip to Prayag to witness the Mahakumbh festival. And it was, beyond question, one of the most enriching travel experiences that I have had so far.

It happened one afternoon...

She has been walking for hours now in search of life. With no cars on the road, or a gas station or even a tavern in the vicinity, the winding road next to the thick forest looms as a threat in front of her. It's especially hot for this time of the year.

She knew the moment her car broke down, that it's going to be a long day. "Hello...hello...can you hear me?", the cell phone breaks down. What a surpirse! She curses herself for not charging it. "May be I can use the car charger for the time being..." she wonders. "Nope, the battery is down...no luck there"! "What a deserted road", she panics, "how will I ever get out of here!" The road stretches in front of her like a lazy Sunday newspaper on a verandah full of sunlight...one must spend hours exploring every inch of the newspaper, there is no way out of it. The blue skies, the dry sun taunt her ruthlessly.

The day started off as usual, with her morning alarm snoozed thrice before she gave up and got dressed. The Prada handbag, the Gucci shoes and the Burberry walked out of the apartment with her in great precision. Her day looked fine too, couple of meetings in the morning, one lunch appointment and one late afternoon presentation. She decided to take the presentation off the count, no one listens after 3 PM anyways, so it was a pretty relaxed day ahead for her.

"What made me take the detour from the Interstate?" she wondered. It was her regular drive of 15 miles to the office, why did she take that turn? The trees suddenly grew closer and closer. They covered the path as she tried to walk further down the road in search of life. They started talking amongst themselves, "I am gonna take her", one said, while another one brushed its branches against her mascared face and smiled as she grimaced in pain. They conspired to pull her off from the ground to the top and then smash her off to the ground while the sun decided to burn her down. They poked her, the rocks came on her way and they threw her off her feet.

She got up, brushed off the dust and walked ahead steadfast, "I was walking on a road, how am I on this trail now? Why can't I see anyone?" she kept wondering. The wind whispered and decided on their next move. The storm came gushing by, dust, dry leaves, sand, they all blinded her, her Burberry torn, her Gucci dirty, she trudged along. They conspired, the wind, the sun and the trees. They all planned to take her down. With a force that she had never felt before, she found herself being heralded to the ground, broken twigs punctured her face, red spots blotted her Burberry,

She decided to retrace her path back to the car. One tiny step at a time, she dragged her thirsty, hungry, injured self back to the car. She figured, may be some other car will pass by and she can stop that for help. The steps that she took so callously away from the car are now the ones that she needs to remember, follow and reach her destination. She cursed those who did not respond to her many pleas, "what kind of people are they? what's wrong?"

Through the clearing she could see her car, there were few other cars around, and people have come out of their cars. "Finally, finally, I will be okay!" she exclaimed in joy! The last few steps were easy to take, she rushed to the gathering and pushed and shoved her way through. They failed to notice her. "this is my car, she exclaimed, I need help, I need water, I need rest...oh thank god! you all are here..." her voice trailed off.

The broken glasses had red spots too she noted, the Burberry was torn here too she saw. She found dust all over the Gucci, even a heel broken. The car looks wrecked,she remembers leaving it in perfect condition!! Who did that to her car? And who are they trying to take out of the car? She is right here, "Hey help me, idiots!" She shouts. Inch by inch they drag the lifeless body out of the car...she watches in great despair as her voice trails off and her eyes stare at her own body, limp, cold, red, broken and distraught.

The door bell rings. Once. Twice. She turns back. The dry winter day slowly breaks down into pieces on the carpet as she walks towards the door. The sweat dries up fast as she tries to reharse the smile and the lunch menu in her mind. One last look at the fast moving Interstate 20 outside her window as it takes away with it the car, the long walk, the Prada, the thick forest and the dry leaves...Tomorrow she will visit the depths of the Pacific she tells herself...as her 6-year old daughter walks in.

Anyone can weave a story, be a story teller, be a poet, be a dreamer...anyone can...all one needs are some windows, some faraway trees, some lonely path winding away to the distance in their minds...just some windows in their minds...and they all have a story to tell...she knows, with a smile.

Of packing and unpacking a lifetime...

I know this is going to be a controversial topic, way more controversial opinion that I have ever put down in the expressionless cyberspace. But it's been nudging me for a while to be explored and I finally am taking the plunge. Before I forge ahead with my blabber, I really want to appeal to the unfortunate folks who are actually reading this piece that I am not being judgmental  nor am I trying to paint every story using one brush, I am, but, merely curious to comprehend how this certain aspect of human relationships, that I am about to write, works. Now that I have made enough disclaimers, let me get to the point.

I have been very fortunate in my life to have had known people from different backgrounds, having weird lifestyles, making unconventional choices, courageous and chivalrous people who are living life to the fullest and some of them have been truly kind enough to accept me as a part of their lives, to allow me to witness their lives and learn from them. It is from their lives that I have drawn inspiration.

Couple of years back when I came out of my marriage, I looked back and thought that's the best I had lived, most I had loved someone, most I had fought with someone and had been as intimate as I can ever be with anyone. We knew each other for over 17 years, and that seemed like a lifetime of experience for me, good enough for one life, even after considering the high life expectancy these days.

However, soon I realised that that's not enough at all. I have half of my lifetime ahead of me, and my near and dear ones, especially my mother insisted that I get married again. That demand literally translated to me as follows: I need to pack my likes, dislikes, my nuances, my mood swings, my occasional nicotine, my love for onion, my burps and other bodily decibels, my unwanted hair growth or hair loss and my bad temper, my kohl eyes, my passion for travel, my love for life, my fierce independence and my “mild” snoring, pack all of that and put those in someone else's cupboard, toilet, bed and living room, again, in the same lifetime.

Now that is a challenge for me. How do I do that? How can I pack and unpack myself in front of someone else? Again? More importantly, this time around I need to do it in superfast speed. I do not have 17 years to slowly unpack. I have merely couple of more years to unleash a lifelong of irritable existence syndromes on to an unsuspecting soul and expect that person to give me a lifetime commitment of care and comfort, that's what my near and dear ones think I need. Hmmm...so if I am not comfortable, then what do I do? I unpack myself in parts? I always wait before producing decibels? For the rest of my life? I hide the onion in a Prada purse and eat it alone and then use Listerine? I do not share my stupidest fears and my craziest dreams? Or is it that I get into a relationship and then hope like the Bollywood movies that love/comfort will blossom someday and then I will eat my onions in front of him?

This brings me to the controversial question, finally. How does one do it? Second time around? I can understand when someone has come out of a brief marriage, an abusive marriage, a marriage that scarred them...they need healing and they can very well find their healing and their comfort in someone else. But I belong to the old school, where it takes a while to really love someone and be comfortable with their decibel-producing capabilities. How can that be achieved in super-fast speed? And believe me it is super-fast!! My mother became tech-savvy, bought herself a tab and opened up an online account for me in one of the matrimonial sites. And I have actually been told off by some of those “expressing interests” because of my ‘slow’ response. I am sure, they are all running against time, at my age and need to find that special someone and their special nuances at their earliest.

It seems impossible and unfathomable for me to really need someone so desperately in my life, that at this age and stage of my life I am ready to hide my onion and eat it later followed by a Listerine wash. So going back to the original question, how does one do it? What is it that makes them feel that it is okay to unpack themselves, share a bed for the rest of their lives with someone, someone whom they definitely do not know as well as they did the first time around? How is it that one finds comfort in fast-forwarding information download of more than three decades on to someone and at the same time process their information all in less than a year? What broadband do they use?

Jokes apart, I admire people living life to the fullest, taking their chances and fighting their odds. But I am curious to know how do they deal with this particular quandary, if they face one such? I am sure those of you who are reading my blog, have known people around you who have had similar experiences, what were your observations? Even if you haven't, what are your thoughts given a situation like this?

" You seem to me like a loner"

...My colleague said, emphatically. I immediately apologised, with a sad smile, "Sorry!" Two questions popped up in my mind as I watched the traffic zoom by while entertaining my usual vices, with two of my loner travel buddies, in Montra, Pattaya, Bangkok: 

1. Why was I apologetic? 
2. How do you define a loner?

I haven't had quite a chequered life as many, I have tried to take my decisions by myself, I have tried to execute most of those by myself, from my unconventional choices in education, work, people I had been with, people I am with, things I do or things I do not do. Is it because I always chose to be a loner as my defense mechanism or is it that I always knew that no one can possibly live with my idiosyncracies for long? Does that make me loner? Am I sad that I am one?

"What are you thinking?", he asked sipping on his beer. He hates beer. He was really conscious about his regular gym workouts and cursing me for having to give me company over beer and counting the number of days of workout that were going down the drain. I smiled at him and asked, "Do you think I am a loner?"

He stared at me for few seconds and said, "Well, we met through travel portals, and now we are on a DIY trip to Thailand and Cambodia with two other again from the travel portals. So yes, we all are loners."

I argued, "But then why are we travelling together? We should be travelling alone. Technically we are not supposed to be liking people's company, isn't that how a loner is supposed to be?"

My travel buddy quickly googled (yes, it's a verb now) and said, "Loner: A person who prefers not to associate with others." 

"I rest my case", I said. He continued, "But then, you are with us, or all four of us are with one another because we know it's for 7 days and so we have convinced ourselves to be a groupie for this period of time, it's an arrangement of convenience and that's it." "We are loners." he concluded, ordered another beer and I watched silently as a faraway look crept its way into his eyes.

My other travel buddy had by that time made good use of her time and was chatting away to another tourist, chances were she won't go back to the hotel with us. I probed him further, "What do you think makes people like us loners?"

He nibbled on some pork stir dry and inquired, "Durba, you know I am a Muslim, right?" I responded, "How does that matter in the conversation we are having now?" He said, "It matters".

They had a very passionate affair he claimed. He showed me a scar on his face and said he got that when he fought with her brothers, who were political goons of the land and dead against them being together. He told me that he never thought they would be together, she had always dated the hoities and toities and was extremely rich, while he was the only son of a government engineer with a humble livelihood. But she always came to him after every heartbreak, he always consoled her and one of those days, to keep her heart safe, she committed it to him. They got married against tremendous family opposition and started their lives together. While there were good days, there were bad days too he said.

"Am leaving guys" told our travel buddy from Kazakisthan. We bade her goodbye and ordered one more pitcher.

He continued how her family insulted him and his background again and again, they wanted him to shift to Dubai, he refused and wanted to stay in India to take care of his ailing parents. My mom said, he quoted, "With every responsibility comes a choice. Always make a choice that gives you a good night's sleep." He stayed back. Some way, some how, many more people started living their married life he thought. And finally, after two years, they found themselves in a mosque, saying "Talaq" in front of a Qazi. "I don't even have a paper Durba to look at that says I am not with her anymore...something tangible...nothing..." he sighs..."you see why I said I am a Muslim. I am denied that paper...with every trip I take with folks like you...I tell myself that I don't need a paper. This trip itself is a testament to the fact that I am alone."

I met him two days back at Suvarnabhumi airport, I didn't know what to say. I kept silent. He concluded, "So you see we are loners." I kept silent while I wondered whether not being with anyone is what defines or makes one a loner.

It is a trait of your character for sure, but when it takes precedence over anyone and anything in your life, then may be you are one. There are many decisions in our lives that we take because we do not have any other option. It's like that decision is staring at your face and saying, "well buddy, this is it." Do you always have a choice? I wondered, as his mom said once. And is it that one choice that makes us loners, just for today, for a month or forever?

I remember the times when my mum, having a wonderful life with my dad in that one room in a joint family, stealing those moments away from 8-10 family members and reading out aloud her favorite Shakespeare sonnet. We were barred from troubling her then. I remember someone, very close, just going out of the house and walking for hours just by himself. I remember someone whom I admire a lot saying, "...regarding space-if u don't need it in closest relationships then i think it is sheer dependence and nothing else.i am glad to be whole and complete by myself..."

Aren't we all loners at some point of time or the other? Aren't we all, what we are, because of those 'loner' moments when we confront ourselves and define our next few minutes, next few hours, next few months and next few decades of who we are or will be? Is that shameful? Something to be apologetic about? I don't know really. I won't comment on it either. I just noted, when my colleague said, "you seem to be a loner" that I said' "sorry"...in this cyberworld, I would like to conclude by sharing, again something that I always felt reaches me, effortlessly at any point of my life, a song about "I", the "I" that pushes away the rest, the "I" that faces the big hard sun...and yes, often by choice...

What are your thoughts on being a 'loner'?

Of misplaced Bindis (colorful dots that Indian women wear on their forehead)

They are everywhere...on the mirrors, on the bathroom walls, on the dressing table cabinet, even on the headstand of a bed. In the hotels, resorts, beds and breakfasts and even in the shacks. On the roads, ambulances and police vans...they are there too.

The first time I saw them, left on the bathroom mirror of a hotel room, I immediately thought of the story of the forehead that adorned it and the owner of the forehead that abandoned it to oblivion in a hotel room on a bathroom mirror. The forehead that adorned it will never return to fetch it, the forehead will easily replace it, the forehead that may not even exist any more. 

The misplaced bindi does not have much control over its state. Of course it is true that the ones that are misplaced are mostly the red, black or the maroon ones, so in the bindi caste system they surely come way down at the bottom. I don't think I have seen any of the ornamental bindis misplaced. So as a bindi, it needs to move up in the bindi caste system to ensure the forehead's loyalty to it. But we digress, any social revolution needs time, before that we must really first know their stories.


It is my believe that every misplaced bindi has its own story, what brought them to that place, the bathroom, that particular hotel and who accompanied the forehead. So like a fool, every time I see them, misplaced, forgotten, left, trampled, I talk to them, I ask them these questions...I want to know their stories. 

One misplaced bindi once told me that it was not the intent of the forehead to leave it on the dining chair. The forehead was having an heated argument with it's companion, one thing led to another and a slap across the forehead dislodged the bindi to the dining chair. I found it quite improbable, the trajectory, the force of the slap and the perfect placement of the bindi on the dinning chair, but I did not quite argue. If that's what makes the bindi feel comfortable, then that's the story am gonna tell every body.

The other misplaced bindi in one of the run-down motel room bathrooms told me that the forehead was in a hurry. While washing her face she saw on the mirror that she still had the bindi on, callously stuck it on the mirror, washed her face and then walked out of the bathroom, leaving the bindi on the mirror wall to talk to me, someday. I don't like this bindi's story much, it has a matter-of-fact way about it, no room for imagination, a tad bit depressing and way too practical. But again, if that's what the bindi tells me to tell every body, then that's what am gonna do.

Their love blossomed under the trees, the bindi said. "I was her lucky bindi", the bindi proclaimed. "she was wearing it the day, he asked her out." They held hands together, against the sun, the rain, the families and the society. They stood together, by it all, and then won. It was a monsoon evening, the bindi said, when they came to this resort after 30 years of togetherness. They sipped their tea on the balcony in silence. He looked at her and asked her not to go. The forehead said that she was ready. She was happy, content and ready to go. She touched his face and said, "I lived with you, I now need to go." She took off her worn-off bindi from her forehead and placed it on the balcony frame. She looked at the bindi and said, "I have all the luck that I needed all through my life. I set you free." This story made me teary. The bindi wanted me to tell every body that it was not forgotten, it was not misplaced, it chose to be there, that evening, left on that balcony frame as a witness to life and death.

Her heart rate grew faster. The strong hands pushed her, her frail body could not resist. Her saree got stuck, they ripped it and shoved her into the van. The others followed, all cramped in that van, shivering, sweating and numb. Strong hands slapped them, pulled their hair, kicked them. They endured. They knew they will be back in this van, again, few months later, and it would be the same. The bindi on the van floor told me so. I looked at it, I picked it up and carried it with me. "Why are you doing this?" the bindi asked me, "there will be more. will you be able to pick each one up?" I stay silent.

The siren blared through the traffic as the ambulance sped. She couldn't stop crying, she held his limp hand firmly, hoping that every breathe in her body goes to his, gives him life, gives him health. The siren kept blaring, she wiped her sweating forehead, walked out of the van with the stretcher, rushed to the emergency, the misplaced bindi on the road hoped and prayed for his good health. Do you know if he is fine now? the bindi asked me. I assured it that he is.

The misplaced bindis, they all have stories, I believe. They all have...