Old times, forgotten places

Being indoors was killing me. I'm not usually an outdoorsy-adventurous kind of person; but I like my share of hiking, football, walks and travelling (more so commuting). So, after three days of studying efforts, I decided it has high time I took a little walk, nothing too fancy; just around the neighbourhood.

It's a funny world we live in. Normally, I'm a bit of a social recluse, preferring to be out when people arrive, and being in when the rest of the clan pushes off to someplace. But, while walking down the road in front of my house, I felt there was a method to my madness.

Eight-thirty in the night is not exactly a respectable time for an evening walk, especially in respectable neighbourhoods. 

It was a Monday night, so as it stands to reason, most of the people were tired after a hard day's work. The houses were quiet, with the permissible TV, of course; switching between news and soap-operas. Even the strays seemed tired. Maybe, I thought, that was the mass mood; or perhaps, it was the caffeine in my system. 

I took a turn and entered a cul de sac, the alley obstructed by trees and foliage, with a 50 foot drop beyond that. Thankfully, there was a streetlight. 

An old man lived there, many years back; and died there too. I don't remember what his name was, but he had a dog, a ferocious one. Bingo, I think his name was. Yes, I was afraid  to cycle here; almost got bitten once. The house still existed, now consumed by dust and trees and reptiles; nature claiming what was once its.

Poor Bingo. I wonder what happened to that ferocious son-of-a-bitch. 

The street parallel to ours had changed. A lot. 
I could see at least three new buildings, one housed a coaching class; but there was a building, which is as old as I am; probably older. A constant in a changing world. 

I walked further. 

I had a friend who lived there once, nice chap. He lived with his grandmother and cousins, in a lovely bungalow; my mother once said it was very Goan. Yes, even I thought so. 

We friends used to climb over the walls to enter the neighbouring buildings; it was our sport, retreat. Sort of like a Quest World. We used to get yelled at, barked at; once chased, too. But heck. We were kids. That's what kids are supposed to do. 

Today a lavish building complex stood there, still under construction, right where the Goan bungalow once stood. Not even a coconut tree remained. So much for a Goan experience, I suppose. 

Where he and his family are right now, I don't know. Until this moment, I don't think I even cared. 

They're probably at a congested flat somewhere in Thane, or a MHADA colony. Or, if fortunate, a Goan bungalow somewhere in the outskirts of Bombay; I mean, further away from where I am right now. 

The walls of the buildings were there where used to be. My hands itched, I could feel the cement scraping under my palms, the heavy breathing, the sweaty clothes. And the people yelling behind us. Just a little hop and a skip, that's all. No chance; the walls have been raised and now have barbed wire fences. A classic case of ''good fences make good neighbours'' I guess. 
Besides, I'd probably end up spooking an old couple. Not cool. 

A motorbike entered the alley, and a man disembarked. I could hear the sound of the TV from his humble chawl-like house; a 70s Amitabh Bachchan film, I think. 
God, they still air that? And people still watch it?

He was looking at me rather suspiciously. I didn't know him; he is new around here, maybe. That's why I think he didn't know me. Oh, damn. How will he? Where do I ever socialize?

He was still suspicious. Darn, I know why: there was a spate of break-in attempts here a few weeks back. A teenager in a black shirt and jeans, unshaven: a likely suspect on a reconnaissance mission. Weird how they suspect good people in their neighbourhoods. Then again, I don't quite fit the bill of a good 'neighbour' now, do I?

I quickened my pace and left for home. No point in spooking people. Last thing they (and I) want is to raise an alarm, only to discover a loner minding his business, at nine in the night. Right. 

Ah, home. Dinner was ready, but I wasn't hungry. Just thought of a blog post. I entered the gate, the strays gave a warm and welcoming look, the first one in the last half hour. I latched the gates and checked the locks once again. 

Good fences, after all, make good neighbours, don't they?

The Village Fair

The Station Road usually remains calm, quiet and somewhat deserted for most of the day; filled with the sound of scattering feet and hushed (and sometimes, rather loud) voices during the morning and evening peak hours. Today, while walking down the very same road, I felt as though I'd taken a wrong turn. I looked around, past the crowds (teeming crowds, actually), and apparently, I was still at the Station road; the annual 'jatra' or fair has started, and as it has been for so many years, it is always set up at the Station road.

The earliest memories I have of the 'jatra' are the ones when I was about seven or eight years old. The 'jatra', or as we preferred calling it 'mela', translated into excitement; we were excited to ride on the carousels, the toy-train, the 'Dragon Boat', a host of other rattly rides, and cheap toys, of course, were a perennial attraction. A personal favourite of our's (me and my brothers) was the shooting arena. 'Arena' here is a very sophisticated term; in actuality, it was a small stall/kiosk, with many balloons stuck on canvas, and a rattly air-soft rifle to shoot with. When the target's three feet away, and when there's so many of them, accuracy is rather inevitable. But for my seven year old self, hitting a 'bullseye' within three shots (for five rupees, each) was quite an achievement.

Well, now in the present, the 'mela' still retained it's nostalgic charm; replete with the shooting 'arena', and many other small little shops, stalls, kiosks etc. I was here, neither with the intention of visiting the fair, nor for reliving the past; I had some important work. What it was, I'd forgotten for the full minute I stood there, just looking around; the colours, the noise, the voices...
"Three chances for ten rupees!"
"Necklaces! Bangles! And all kinds of jewelry! Starts at rupees thirty!"
"Come, see the Magic Show! Tickets for twenty rupees!"
Oh, things have become expensive. But, like always, the fair managed to remain affordable to the common-man.

Another voice distracted my attention; it was a woman's and I'm pretty sure it was a Marathi swear word...something about a pick-pocket. Instinctively, my hand reached my back pocket; yes, it had a bulge; the wallet is safe. Oh, damn, I might have to keep walking this way.
So what? One can't be too safe these days, can he?
Whether it's the streets of Brugges, or the subway in New York or London, or a fair in some obscure Indian village, there are several 'cultural universals'; the way people behave in groups, religion, faith, prayer, and yes, as this case illustrates, pick-pockets, too.

While walking in a 'mela', it is nigh impossible to resist the temptation of the variety of food on display; from hot, crispy bhajiyas, vada-pavs, to fresh jalebis and many, many other sweet-meats, of various sizes, shapes, colours...and names I haven't even heard of! I vaguely remember tasting some as a child, that too after my dad convinced me that it was good; in spite of the skepticism, I think I'd enjoyed eating them. Though I confess, I'm not too sure now; maybe, if my dad convinces me again; or if I manage to learn what sweet is what.

As the sunlight faded, the artificial lights lit up the streets, the noise got louder, and the streets got worse, with the public spilling out on the roads, (well, whatever was left of it for motorists to use); Bollywood, it seems, never loses its charm. Somewhere, I heard a Hannah Montana song playing; after a closer look (yes, I was just curious) I realized it's a jingle from some kind of a guitar toy; pink, of course. Also, I could see lots of Spider-man stuff,  Ben-10 and Transform-Robots. I won't say that I was cynically amused, because I wasn't; it's just that, globalization has reached well beyond the proverbial shores...and, I for one, am not really complaining.

On my way back (unfortunately, the work I set out for remained unaccomplished) I noticed a lady, presumably on what seemed like a tattoo stall (it was actually a plastic sheet she was sitting on, with xerox copies of many designs, and a tattoo machine). She looked at me, flexed her flabby, wrinkled biceps and pointed at one of the photos; a dragon, I think it was. I smiled, shook my head, and resumed walking.
From the sky-walk, I could see the carousels, the giant wheel and the 'Dragon Boat.' I felt a slight pat on my shoulder; in my mind, almost subconsciously, I heard a woman swearing in Marathi...'pick-pocket'. I felt the bulge in my back pocket; yes, wallet's still there.
One can't be too careful these days, can he?

A Pocket Full of Pennies

From the rattly ‘ol ferry,

rollin’, pitchin’ in the sea,

being thrown off balance,

he stood in awe,

beholdin’ the sight of the City.

Made of dreams, thoughts, 

and ideas, so bold;

Built by the labour, blood

and sweat of a great too many;

Cast in shafts of concrete, steel,

and glass;

Spread out, uneven,

a jagged, geometric skyline,

silhouetted dark,

against the settin’ sunlight.

Lightin’ up, after dusk,

are lil’ sparks,

of incandescent light bulbs,

and fluorescent, too;

A thousand yellow-blue eyes staring,

cold, yet comforting.

A place, where,

a pauper could dream,

of being a prince;

Yes, oaths he’d have to make,

inked in blood, toiling in sweat;

Revering the grandeur of the City,

only to break,

or make himself, into what he wishes to be.

Yes.

That day would come;

But today, on this rattly ‘ol ferry,

his heart is filled,

with the weight of dreams;

though his pocket's filled with just pennies.

The sweeper

A wisp of smoke,

rises from the dying embers

of last night’s fire;

formless, in the hazy morning fog.

Hard bristles,

scrape the cemented pavement;

stroke after stroke,

a sweeping rhythm, echoing in the alley.

Dry leaves, 
swept like a tide,
melting in a sea of brown-red hues
of the autumn fall;

Dust rises,

mingled with smoke,

suspended in motion;

an artistic cloud, of harmless pollution.

The sweeping ceases-

a discomforting silence;

‘til the hard bristles scrape again;

stopping only

when the sweeper wipes the sweat 
-off his wrinkled temples,

ruffling his grey hair.

Holding the broom firmly;

elegantly, sweeping the pavement,

as the morning rush gets in…

only to drown

the sound of the hard bristles,

sweeping the cemented pavement…

Righteous Kill

The bright lights, from the fireworks so splendid, 

light the night sky, when the old year ended!

The light illuminates only that what you choose to see, 

forgetting the recesses, darkened by your insensitivity.

What great hopes, then this New Year brings!

Living a life filled with dreams; pretending to be Kings!

Justice, it seems, ne'er quite witnessed a new year,

She's still blinded; it's falseness that we now revere.

Truth be told, fairness remains, thought just a sliver,

The lies will crumble; all it takes is just an arrow from my quiver.

The will of God? No, He doesn't care; never has, never will;

I am justice now, and you will fall. This is, after all, a righteous kill...

New Year, New Beginnings and the Same Old Story.

The year's almost come to an end, just seven hours left, to be precise.
Some are getting ready for parties, dinners, night-outs and all the things that people like you and I would like to do on a night so special. It's all perfectly normal.

So, is there a catch? Sadly, if you might say so, there is. There is always a catch.
Of course, this year has been great for so many of us, and for others, not that great. Well, good, bad, and shades of grey apart, the point is, we're so quick to dismiss out misfortunes in the hope of a better tomorrow. Then again, hope is something we all cherish, no matter how dark the times; it gives us a sense of reason, destroys the futility of life, makes us believe that there is a tomorrow, and that it is gonna be better than today, or perhaps yesterday. All that's perfectly normal. I mean, even I allow myself that little bit of delusion.

What I have a problem with is the fact that we can never fully come to understand and respect the 'tomorrow', or in today's very special case, 'the new year'.

'End of the World in 2012 Conspiracy' apart, there's a lot that we're just forgetting. Not on purpose; that would be understandable. But by sheer, shameless neglect.
Am I cynical? Of course, I am. You can appreciate the fineness of life only after criticizing and demeaning it.

For example, resolutions. There is no bigger lie on earth that we've invented than New Year Resolutions. It's just to make ourselves feel better (yes, that includes me, too. No matter how much I try, I am human). We feel better for all that we haven't done, and for all that we're not going to do.
Moralistic reasoning apart, some resolutions do work out. Not because it has the auspicious stamp of a 'new year', but for the simple fact that it's a change we accept. We might lose those extra kilos, we might ask the person we like out, we might become super successful, super rich, super intelligent and class toppers. But the truth remains, the world will still be a lousy place. Of course, we'll be liberated from that mess; now that's for someone else to resolve, isn't it?
Sadly, they never quite do get resolved.

Personally, I don't dwell on the past. Nostalgia is one thing; keeping the past half alive, quite another. Actually, the correct phrase is, 'burying the past alive'. Brutally, and in cold-blood.
So, call me cynical or whatever you may, I think you're all murderers. You got away with the murder of your past, and will get away after you murder the future.
People you never cared for, people who receive your mocked pity, they're all buried alive, like the past. Forgotten, uncared for and simply silenced.
That's the price of a 'better' tomorrow. That's the price of your mawkish fantasies.
You can make it stop. Yes, you can. But whether or not you will, now, that is an entirely different question, is it not? The one, perhaps, you may not want to answer.

Well, anyway, happy new year! And have a fantastic 2011!

My Experiments in Conformity

Conformity, to begin with, is a term used social-psychology. I first came across it while I was researching for my project in junior college, and since then, it has been a topic of interest.
The word is used in everyday jargon almost inconspicuously, people often substituting it for the erstwhile commonplace term 'copying'. However, conformity is much more than blatant copying; that is what you do in exams, especially when the supervisor's not paying attention, and when your knowledge is absolutely zero. The best part about conformity, I must say, is that even in situations of blatant copying (such as the one mentioned above), there is conformity at play.

To fully understand the finer nuances of conformity, I have participated in some covert social experiments, of which my peers weren't aware of. Well, actually, until before writing this essay, even I wasn't aware of it. But then, that is precisely the wonder of conformity...!

Experiment One: "The Chinese Food Syndrome"
Once a friend pointed out to me, that a large number of people were buying food from the Chinese counter in the canteen. Well, he made this observation after he saw a plate of fried rice in my hand. So what is it that influences, very subtly, the choices of hungry students?
The answer is two fold.
Firstly, Chinese food tastes awesome at any time of the day, particularly in the morning when it's hot and fresh and the you get a chance to choose the best lollypops. And;
Secondly, which is a more scientific explanation, is that it's worth the 30 bucks you pay. Wait, that's not scientific, it's more economics...anyway. There is a sense of conformity as people want to stick to the tried and tested formulas (in this case, recipes), and also, they wish to try out the new dishes that the Chinese counter has to offer. Momos (which were a total failure), spring-rolls, prawns etc, there's always something new apart form the tried and tested. This is a perfect example of the normative ie in case of tried and tested stuff, as well as the informational ie in case of the new stuff everyone seems to be trying out.

Experiment Two: "The Chicken & Cheese Frankie Syndrome"
Situated right next to the Chinese counter is the Frankie counter. Well, Tibbs Frankies are still among the best I've had, but these ones come really close, with special credit to the Xavier's Press' article on the Chicken & Cheese frankie.
An article in the newsletter was a survey about the most popular food in the canteen. And the verdict clearly favoured the awesomely delicious frankie. Well, we all know how surveys are conducted, but in this case, the credibility (of the frankie, not the survey) was beyond questioning. And so, naturally, people flocked to the counter to fill their stomachs with the 'supposedly' (but, I do agree to it 99.5%) most popular item in the college canteen. So much so that, I'm thinking of telling the Tibbs kiosk at VT to introduce the 'chicken & cheese frankie'. (What? I get hungry on my way back home!)

It has been very difficult for me to fully understand the finer aspects of this experiment. And as it is with all rules, even this one has exceptions. That I shall deal with in the next part.
Until then, do try out the chicken & cheese frankie; and if you're vegetarian, there's always the Chinese counter, and maybe, they'll introduce something vegetarian in the next couple of days...!

The Path Through Un-lightenment

Diwali’s four days away, the market’s buzzing with activity, parents are out shopping with their children, buying firecrackers, sweets and all; and I’m sitting here, writing on my laptop, that too on back up power.

Why?

Well, the answer’s absurdly simple! 
Power cuts.

Unlike many of the privileged people I know, I am a victim of M.S.E.B.’s very long legacy of power cuts, or load shedding, as we popularly call it here. My oldest memory of load shedding dates back to when I was six months old. Of course, I clearly do not remember facts as they were; but my mom and grand-mom never fail to remind me of those days. (Sigh). Sixteen hours plus of no electricity, I believe. The oldest memory I very clearly remember was when my grandmother used to use her authentic, vintage 1924 kerosene lamp (not exactly 1924, but, who knows?). We used to gather around the lamp on Friday evenings; since that was the day we had ‘mega load shedding’, and do absolutely nothing. My grandmother occasionally told me stories (ghost ones and otherwise), while my mom used to cut vegetables; I mean, light or no light, we had to eat, right?

After a few years, our problem eased a bit when my father bought a Honda generator. The procedure to switch it on was complicated: first, changeover from the mains; second, tweak half-a-dozen switches on the gen-set, and at a later stage (read: late at night), driving out in complete darkness, well after 10 PM, to get petrol from a station in Ambernath (about 8 kms away). In spite of all this, life was comfortable.

When the world outside is pitch black, two fans and tubes somehow manage to provide all the luxury in the world!

Oh, I forgot to mention the best part: the monsoons. In the beginning of June, when the skies darkened with the arrival of the South-West monsoon clouds, the generator would be primed up, readied for long hours of duty, the petrol can filled up; and as back up, candles and match-sticks were kept handy. Back in the days when we used the kerosene lamp (affectionately called the ‘hurricane lamp’, for its obvious utility in times of hurricanes), preparations weren’t so elaborate. Yes, we had to add the hand-fan to the inventory list. Otherwise, it was just the same!

For some reason I don’t know, the rain gods felt very generous at times. Along with rainfall (and power-cuts), we used to get a good dose of thunderstorms. The power lines were the first casualties, innocent citizens the next.

Our woes, sadly or otherwise, didn’t end with the monsoons. The transformer, once in a while, gave a little ‘boom’…the aftermath was usually crowds gathering around the transformer, everyone yelling out for some action, responsibility etcetera, amidst all that fiasco. Nothing like a blown transformer to promote solidarity in a housing society, I say!

But, if it was just your phase that blew, then you were on your own, and at the mercy of the technician. However, I do take the opportunity to say that some of them are fine people, the ones who’re in short supply.

Fast forward to the present, after years of living in darkness (more often, in the light powered by the inverter battery), I’m here writing about my woes. Not that I’m complaining or anything, in fact, I’m not! It’s just that, like all problems in out great nation, I have grown to live with it.

A couple of years ago, there was a lot of rejoicing among the people here when we heard that the Dhabol power-plant was reopening. Finally, we expected a concrete solution to our power problems. Sadly, by now, I think you know what happened…I mean, after knowing the tragedy of the Dhabol plant in the first place, I was not surprised to be disappointed.

Today, when I look at the newspapers talking about the Tata-Reliance tussle, tariff hikes and all that in the city, I give a cynical laugh. They’ll never know what it is like to be devoid of electricity, to live by the light of a kerosene lamp, to miss all your favourite TV programmes (even the re-runs), and how so many poor souls in hospitals have suffered. There are places in India where they have power for just two hours (or not at all); I don’t think I have a right to complain.

So, should I try to assert my consumer rights for equitable electricity? Maybe I should. But, where is that power going to come from? And more importantly, who’s gonna stand up for the kind of people I mentioned earlier. Power, water, health, they lack all the necessities we take for granted.

Sure, there are solutions; solar energy is one. But, I hardly think my neighbours are the kinds to afford it.

So, um, I think I should really stop writing; my laptop’s charge is dwindling. And I don’t expect the power to come in at least another two hours.

If nothing else, these long, dark hours have taught me patience, austerity and the value of enlightenment.

Or should I say ‘un-lightenment’…?

Do say: “Let there be light (some one go switch the damn generator on!)”

Don’t say: “So, are you guys planning to buy that air-conditioner this Diwali, or what?”