Veil

Shehanshahon ke shenhanshah, the emperor of emperors, Jalaluddin Muhammad Akbar looks down at the blisters on his feet. He has walked miles on stone and dust, in the heat of the midday sun, like a mere commoner, to this little town called Sikri, just to seek the blessing of Shaikh Salim Chisti, the revered saint.

What his heart aches for is an heir to his throne; he is till now, childless. The Sufi saint did indeed bless him, predicting the birth of not one, not two but three sons, three possible heirs to the glory of the great Mughals.

What Akbar, childless and almost broken, doesn’t know is that the son he has asked for, the son who’ll ultimately be born, proving right Chisti’s prophecy, the son whom he’ll name Salim in honour of the great saint, will grow to be an obnoxiously rebellious offspring, and when the time came, will plot his own father’s overthrow, breaking his heart in two. Forever.

Today, Akbar knows nothing of that. For he is lost in the moment, in the promise that these blisters will not be for nothing. He is hopeful, believing, content.

Slowness

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.

A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.

Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himeself from a thing still too close to him in time.

The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

Milan Kundera. Slowness.

Tea & The Sky

Dear Mani,

Though there is no point in writing letters anymore, I just didn’t know what to do with the irrepressible temptation to do so tonight. It’s been quite a dull day, all throughout the clouds have stayed overhead, the rain teasing, without any wind. The sort of day that passes without making you realize that it has. The sort of day you love and hate for the same reason. And strangely, because I don’t know why, the desire to talk to you on such days becomes practically irresistible, even if it’s only one way, only like this.

Sometimes, on such days, when I lie on the bed in the afternoon, watching the white of the ceiling above, the blankness gives way to images and memories. Images in the form of memory. Memory in the form of images. And almost always, on such days, they are of you, and one other thing.

I see the both of us, like an approaching stranger would, sitting at the chai wala near the government school, the same which gave the tea in long, over-sized cups, more suitable for beer, which always made you feel that you were only being given half of what you paid for. Do you remember?

Maybe you don’t. It’s been a long time anyway. But regardless, the image of us at that joint remains fresh in my mind, and comes again and again on such slow, uneventful afternoons.

Why, I don’t know. I’m not sure why I even remember it so vividly. Does it bring me comfort? Pain? Ache? I have no answer. Maybe it is the feeling of timelessness we felt in our meetings there that fascinates me, the joint but unspoken feel of being suspended in time, as if the moment before and the moment after didn’t exist, as if the world was restricted to the few square metres of the shop, as if the world beyond was only a fantasy of our minds, as if anything we did before and after didn’t matter, as if this was what we were born to do, to sip tea beneath an empty sky and talk about anything outside the realm of consequence. How limitless and ecstatic would it be if our lives got frozen there, beside the chai wala, with the cups of tea in our hands, all the innumerable possibilities of our lives reduced to a beautiful, complete zero!

Consequence, consequence. How powerful and dangerous can that be! Yes, maybe it was the absence of this in our meetings and conversations that still make me remember it.

Do you remember? Maybe you don’t. It’s been a long time anyway. The shop doesn’t stand there anymore. The school authorities had it removed on the grounds that many students used it to bunk classes and have a smoke. But it is there in my mind, exactly as it was then - unscathed. As it will always be, as it will always come, on such days, which, in their stillness and completeness are quaintly similar to it,

Good Bye,
Manu.

Chai Ho Jaaye!

‘Tara, chhat se kapda utha!’, shouted his grandmother, in a tone so filled with alarm that it would have sounded more appropriate if the entire house was on fire. And without waiting for any confirmation from the maid, leaving the brinjal she was slicing in the kitchen unsliced, she ran frantically to the balcony to do the needful there.

The monsoons had arrived, and to little Amir, it seemed that it rained nowhere in the world as it rained in Patna. A moment before, it seemed like a perfect, idle, hot, summer afternoon, and now, all of a sudden, all hell had broken loose. The unlatched doors banged against the walls ferociously, the clouds roared, all tree tops pointed horizontally to one direction, as if showing a stranger the way to his destination. It was perfect, sublime chaos, turning the impeccable tranquility of the entire household to over-frenzied activity in a jiffy. As Amir saw, everyone in the house was running, everyone had suddenly sprung to action.

He ran to the terrace and stopped at the door, looking at the maid who was busy picking up as many clothes as she could in one go and depositing them at the nearest dry place. No one could have been more efficient right now; she did it as if her whole life depended on it.

‘Kuchh kapda tum bhi utha lo. Khade ho ke dekh rahe ho!’, she shouted above the rain when she saw him.

‘Rehne do na. Kya jaata hai? Bheeg jayega to kya hoga?’, he replied, teasing her.

‘Kya hoga! Agar tumhari Nanima ne humko baad mein daanta to? Tum bachane aayoge?’

‘Kyun nahi?’, Amir said, smiling his most mischievous smile. Leaving Tara behind, he now walked back into the house to see what the rest were up to.

His grandmother had returned from the balcony, satisfied and exhausted, and sat at the dining table, just below the ceiling fan. The look on her face was almost triumphant, as if she had just diffused a time bomb only a couple of seconds before it was supposed to go off.

‘Kitne jaldi aaya baarish. Bhaagte nahi to sab kapda bheeg jaata!’, she said when she saw Amir, explaining the supreme importance of the task, waiting for someone to commend her for her effort.

‘Hmmm’, Amir replied and went to the kitchen to fetch her some water.

The maid returned, the clothes replaced to safety. All was still once more, the household relaxed, only the sound of rain falling outside to be heard. His grandfather, who had carried on reading the newspaper quietly all this while, unperturbed by the abrupt bout of activity the world inside and outside had been in, also came in and sat down on the divan.

‘Chai ho jaaye!’, he cried, as always, as if the moment called for a celebration of sorts. In a way, it did, thought Amir. The rain always called for celebration, even in Patna, where there was never any scarcity of it.

Tea was brought, and as little Amir wasn’t allowed to have it yet, he sipped quietly on his Bournvita. The coming of the rains was almost a ritual, everything happened the same way every time – the runs to the terrace and balcony, the subsequent tea session, the small talk. Watching everyone have this unplanned chat, with the sound of the rain in the background, Amir felt strangely happy.

Suit & Tie

The malls. A showroom. A mirror.

I look into it, trying to judge whether the dark black trousers suit me, whether they produce awkward creases, whether the sleeves of the shirt I have on are too long, whether the shiny, black shoes I intend to buy would go well with the entire outfit.

I’m tense, a little irritated and very tired. And in between all the noise around and inside me at that moment, I stop and it occurs to me that this is the way it has always been.

And will be.

Where's the face, you ask?
Oh never mind, that hardly matters!

Your life is lost in this perpetual charade of trying to look like someone else, so much so that sometimes, you get scared of just being yourself. Trying to look like the well-dressed schoolboy when you are only a kid, being told to wear T-shirts more often when kurtas suit you fine, and now – trying to look like a prim-and-proper executive when you are at least a good one year away from actually being one.

And they do in the name of discipline. Even if one agrees to dress codes in schools and institutions, to ask someone to appear in suit and tie for an interview is totally preposterous. For once in the institution, the powers that be have the right to dictate how they want you to appear, and as a member, it is only correct that you follow the rules. But to do so when you are only applying for admission into the same is something that I don’t understand.

Isn’t it true that they are conducting the interview just to know you better, what you are and of what use you can be to their company? If the answer is yes, won’t it be more helpful for them and easier for you if you appear as you really are, be it unshaven, dirty or haggard? Doesn’t it harm the ‘selection’ process if everyone appears as if in uniform, with the same fake ‘confident’ smile, giving the same prototype ‘smart’ answers? Won’t it make things simpler for everyone involved if they decide to see each person in his own mould, his individuality shining through, and isn’t that what they are actually here for?

The whole exercise, as it stands, is a sham. It is, and excuse me if the phrase sounds a bit exaggerated to you, a perfect example of identity assassination.

But oh well, if you think I’m going to have my own way in this and play the harbinger of change, you can’t be further from the truth. The companies arrive in ten days time and you can be sure to find me all nicely dressed up in suit and tie, wearing the ‘confident’ smile, giving the ‘smart’ answers.

I

Marvin, IC tagged me again. And though he didn’t expect me to complete this one, I found it quite interesting to do so. Ah, how I love these tags! Not the substitute for the real good stuff I should be coming up with, but who cares.

I am for whom the bell tolls. At least, that’s what I like to believe.

I think alarmingly more than one should think.

I know a lot many sad PJs.

I want roses in my garden when I do have one to call my own.

I have something really special in me. What it is exactly, that I’m still trying to ascertain.

I wish I had ideas to write on and not just be completing such tags for time pass.

I hate the man without a purpose.

I miss my old grandparents’ house where I used to spend my summer vacations as a kid.

I smell good most of the time. People can’t normally tell even when I haven’t bathed for a week.

I crave for the simple rice and dal meal I used to have at home.

I search myself in everyone I see, and eventually end up disappointed every time.

I wonder if God exists, and if yes, whether he has a conscience.

I love my grandmother. She is the strongest and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I care a lot for my brother and sister. But I can never tell them that. I hope it shows.

I ache for rain all year, only to have it for a little time.

I am not many things that people think I am.

I believe in the principle ‘Live and help live’.

I dance only when I’m feeling silly. And only when I’m alone.

I sing quite well, but not many, like my mother, agree with me.

I cry “Pushpa, I hate tears. They are nothing but saline water.”

I don’t always mean to be rude but often am.

I write pulp fiction.

I win in almost all that I attempt. Because I often only attempt things in which I know I’ll win. And I know it’s wrong to be that way.

I lose my ‘usually dependable reasoning powers when I’m romantically trapped’.

I always end up confused. (Had to copy Marvin on this one)

I listen to Dire Straits when happy, The Doors when sad and Floyd when just myself.

I can usually be found on the bed, idling away effortlessly…na…effortFULLY.

I am happy when watching a Satyajit Ray movie.

I imagine myself as something incredibly grandiose in the distant future. Not that I’m going to tell you.

I tag Calvin and Jezuz yet again, though they haven’t still completed the last one I sent them.

Water

The rain comes. Uninvited but welcome, as always. The sun is down now, its almost night. The already darkening sky becomes even more so due to the cloud cover above. Everything’s hazy. Everything’s beautiful. Everything painted a dull white.

The rain has come and it’s washed everything with its colour. All white – the sky, the trees, the roads. The world suddenly looks cleaner – all the dirt washed away suddenly. It’s as if it needed the rain once in a while to purify itself.

You remove your glasses. They are the last thing you need right now. You lift your head to the white sky and close your eyes. The rain falls on your face, and for a moment, just for a moment, you feel that it has cleaned you too.

In the background, Gilmour sings –

The rain fell slow, down on all the roofs of uncertainty
I thought of you and the years of all the sadness fell away from me

The words don’t fit at all and fit just right at the same time. Combined with the rain, they produce a weird sensation, something like a cross between the most irrepressible ecstasy and the dullest ache.

And you wonder, you just wonder - could there be anything more complete than this?