Understanding birthdays

First came the birthdays when I really did not understand what was happening around me. There would be new clothes and new toys. There would be balloons and glitter. There would be extra pinching-of-the-cheeks. There would be my recitation of the same nursery rhyme over and over and over. There would be that 10-years-elder-to-me girl angel from the neighboring flat. 

Then came the birthdays when I had to answer the very important question from my mom.

"What do you want - Coffee bite? Eclairs? Alpenliebe?"

The answer mattered a lot because the toffee had to be one that would be loved by my entire class - not to mention my favorite teacher angel, by my entire apartment, by all the neighboring kids joining me in the playground. 

During those birthdays, whenever I walked around my class to distribute chocolates during the lunch hour, I got more excited when I noticed that a classmate was not at his/her bench. It presented me an opportunity to place a couple of toffees inside the desk and offer the classmate a tiny surprise. 

Many a time, we make the mistake of assuming that only the person celebrating the birthday needs to be surprised.

Surprises never require occasions.

Then came the birthdays when the birthday dress attained gargantuan importance - Because it had to be worn to school, and more importantly, because it had to be worn before that angel seated in the corner desk of my class. 

There would be the realization that I looked awkwardly fat but there would also be the hope that my new birthday dress would make me appear as cool as Prince Adam in He-Man.

There would be a very calculated attempt to enter the classroom as late as possible. That walk, in the birthday dress, from the classroom doorway to my desk would make all the hero-introduction scenes of Tamil films shy away in shame. 

Then came the birthdays when the expectation of gifts arose, accompanied by the fear of treats. 

When a good friend forgot to wish on a birthday, the forgetfulness threw away a hint of a big surprise that lay ahead. When a good friend forgot to wish on a birthday and there turned out to be no big surprise, the ensuing fight ensured that the friendship grew stronger. 

As the friend circle grew, the number of wishes via text messages, Facebook messages and WhatsApp messages increased. But what always remained interesting was seeing how the really dear friends - the ones who had gotten so close that hearing them wish 'Happy birthday' seemed awkward - reacted to me turning a year older.

I will always cherish all their reactions.

Then came the birthday that was yesterday.

Thinking about it day before yesterday had given me a strange feeling. 

I was not going to be at school. I was not going to be at college. I was not going to be at office. I was not going to be with any group of friends. I was not going to be with my cousins. I was going to be at home with my mom and grandmother. 

I had not had the slightest of doubts regarding the affection that would be showered at home. But I had reserved doubts regarding the affection I might miss, not being in the vicinity of friends. 

And yesterday taught me a number of lessons.
Our aunts and uncles deserve to be loved more than they are - They love us more than we deserve to be.

A text message is no way lesser to a phone call. 

A friend who had called to wish and had fumbled a couple of minutes later, running out of topics, is no way lesser to a friend who, after a 30 minute call, had wanted to meet in person because there was so much left to talk. 

A friend who had called yesterday night, apologizing for the delay, holds the same amount of affection as the friend who had wished late night the day before yesterday, afraid that sleep might overcome the love. 

A friend who had forgotten to wish is still a friend one has to be grateful for - The absence of the wish only suggested that the person's love is stronger than his/her memory.

Prioritizing one's work over a loved one's birthday never meant disrespect to the latter - It just signaled survival. 

Most of us set out on a journey to find an angel, leaving behind the real angels at home.

P.S.: An extra-special lesson - Love never gives a damn about geographical distances - A friend from the United States, a friend from Tanjore and a friend from the neighboring street stood testimony to this.

Notes & thoughts from a short trip - II

On the lookout for a miracle

Whenever I travel in a bus at nighttime, I keep staring outside the window, looking out for solitary lampposts and lonely huts. Such sights offer me a feeling I experience when I discover a child's drawing on a paper used to bundle up groceries.

But last weekend, as my bus spiraled on its way to Gokarna, I was on the lookout for ghosts.

I do not know how ghosts look but I continued looking for a flickering white light, for a body-less being, for a soft whisper with a mild fragrance.
It was not a want for a cheap scare. It was just a desperate need for some sort of a miracle.

If not for ghosts, I was ready to make do even with a God. But either refused to show up and all that lay ahead was just a beautiful trip.

****

Finding a place to stay

Restroom.

That seemed the priority. The living room could be compromised with. A night's sleep held lesser importance than a day's dump.

It made me wonder about the significance given to the living rooms and bedrooms in our houses. All the fancy furniture, the wall hangings, the show pieces - To a weary traveler, all these would seem as unimportant as the stairway in a 30 storied building. 

Aren't we all weary travelers, some literally and some metaphorically, in our daily lives?

****

Eating mindfully

Lemon-ginger-honey tea and mashed potato with butter. 

Possibly, the simplest of dishes one could order on a vacation. But sitting on an old plastic chair, behind an old plastic table, in an old and tiny cafe, with the Arabian sea before me, it was the best dish I had had in a long time.

There was no deliverable waiting. There was no meeting scheduled. There was no hint of sleep trying to overcome me. Every spoonful of the mashed potato and every sip of the lemon-ginger-honey tea lived its entire life in my mouth. Their travel down my throat was in rhythm with the receding waves. 

No gobbling up. No hurried swallowing. I managed to eat, after a long time.

****

The waves

Why do we like waves?
Is it because, unlike us, they cannot be controlled?
Is it because, like a pleasant dream, they come to us voluntarily yet do not let us lock them?
Is it because, like really good friends, they keep coming back to the shore though the shore does not make an effort to hold them?

Is it because they dance so well?
Is it because, deep down, we are still the underwater micro organism that started evolution?

Is it because, like many of us, they are the creators and destroyers of their own lives?

Why do we like waves?

****

Sunset/Sunrise

My brother and I were seated on a rock formation at the Om beach. We were waiting for the sunset. The two of us sat beside each other, sharing silence. The two writers that we are, that evening, we did not find the need for words. 

The sun slowly started sinking in to the sea. I hurriedly grabbed my mobile phone and played 'Oru deivam thantha poove'. Halfway through the song, the sun disappeared. But at the very moment the bright orange ball left my sight, I realized why I loved sunsets and sunrises.

No matter how bad things are, no matter how good things are, the sunsets and the sunrises would go on. A bad day always has to end and a good day always has to start.

The next day, before the break of the dawn, I rushed to the Kudle beach and into the waves. There was no one around. I stood knee-deep amidst the waves, not knowing if I preferred darkness or light. The sun started its majestic rise. I hurriedly grabbed my mobile phone and played 'Oru deivam thantha poove'. 

A feeling of warmth started seeping in.

Sharing secrets

As I stood at the Murdeshwar beach eating cotton candy, and on my way to the temple, my focus was only on the gigantic Shiva statue, seated in penance.  

Man had built a remarkable statue of God to serve as a constant reminder of man's greatness.

But after I entered the temple, the large Nandi statue grabbed my attention. I remembered what my mom had told me in my childhood. 

"If you desperately want something to happen, whisper it in Nandi's ears like a secret. Nandi has the power to make it happen".

As I walked closer to Nandi, I realized that I did not want to share my wants. Instead, I had a bag full of secrets. I unloaded the bag and handed over the secrets to Nandi. 

It felt really good catching up with an old friend.

Can I be your O2?

I sharpened my pencil to write this poem

The lead broke and went rolling across the paper

That beautiful mole of yours - Can that go rolling too?

Your mole reminds me of the universe

Galaxies, stars and planets.. Rotations and revolutions..

Does the sun have to rise every morning?

I maintain peace with its routine for a simple reason

My favorite part of every day - Waking up before you, to see you try to wake up

Chuck your bindi. Chuck your mascara. 

That unruly hair, those un-opening eyes and that uncontrollable yawn

You are a princess all the way from the bed to the washroom.

Yesterday, during my walk, I came across a flock of birds

All pigeons but for a solitary dove

Like that single strand of grey hair on your head

Remember that day I discovered it and you broke down?

I try imagining you old and wrinkled

The affection does not diminish a bit

Reminds me of the stagnating water in our kitchen sink

To hell with all the utensils while you wash them

Why do you hold them so dearly?

To hell with the coffee mug - That beautiful ellipse is mine

Can I gift you a packet of straws instead? But wait!

To hell with the straws too. And also your toothbrush.

I have sharpened my pencil again

The pencil shavings show me an exciting version of your eyelids

Can I reroute the path to my office between your eyelashes and eyebrows? 

I have a confession - I threw away your previous pair of eyeglasses

You did not lose them at the restaurant

But the eyeglasses deserved it, spending more time with you than I do

Kindly hide away your new contact lenses

And your comb and your wristwatch and your slippers, especially your favorite pillow

I have already contacted a buyer to dispose all our furniture

I now need to worry about only one problem

How do I turn a part of myself into oxygen?

From Ring-a-Ring-a roses to Rumi

When I was a kid, rain evoked only one emotion. 
Happiness.
A waterfall outside the window. A temporary lake around the house. The possibility of a new raincoat. The freedom of wearing slippers instead of shoes to school. The frequent power shortage and holidays. 

The weekend that passed also happened to be a rainy one. Today morning, I took stock of the emotions I had experienced.
Sadness. Love. Pain. Breakdown. Hope.
A lonely, wet road. A fallen tree entangled in the wires of a transformer. The dry clothes on a terrace getting beaten up by rain repeatedly. The continuous line of water drops illuminated by a flickering lamppost. A group of street dogs cuddled up close to one another.

The more agonizing realization was that the rain had not changed a bit. All the change had been internal. 

O Captain! My Captain! - II

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. As I stood there, I was reminded of my first day in my first project. My manager had taken me that day to the very same spot. 

That first day. That first conversation.
"I want to know more about you. Tell me about the things you are really passionate about" he asked me, lighting up his cigarette. I was surprised. A few hours earlier, I had spoken about my hobbies when I had been asked to introduce myself to the team working on my first project. 
I suspected that my manager had not paid attention when I had mentioned my interests. I started explaining him my field of passion and its reason. He listened patiently, with a tinge of wonder visible in his eyes. I expected him to interrupt me and put forward his opinion. He did not. I continued talking. He continued listening. "You should interrupt now! You should want to say something! You are a manager!" I kept thinking, as I talked on. He never interrupted me. 
I did not understand. I was a kid fresh out of college, still unsure of even his Facebook profile picture. And he was a manager with 3-and-odd years of experience in my organization. What was he doing, spending his valuable time, listening to a kid blabbering about French and Italian cinema?
My brain was burning out faster than his cigarette, in confusion.
And then he started talking. His response showed how genuinely he had listened to me. I was taken aback. I was also glad. How many employees can boast of having had their first manager as someone who knew how to listen and was genuinely invested in each and every member of the team?
That evening, after that 30-minute conversation, I seriously considered taking up smoking just so I could become his smoking-buddy.

****

After I had decided to type a post about my first manager, I was unclear as to the structure or narrative. There were memories aplenty from his beloved Microsoft mobile to the balcony-entrance of his ground-floor flat to his secret crush on 9GAG. But an all-joining thread was required. 
Strangely, before the narrative could fall in place, the title began barking at me. I tried shoo'ing it away saying that I needed the content first. But it continued barking. I then paused and listened to the title. The barking made sense.
The earlier post where I had used the title had been a piece about Robin Williams. 
My first manager is a Robin Williams in his own way.
The enthusiasm of an Adrian Cronauer of Good Morning, Vietnam or of the Genie of Aladdin. The urge to inspire of a John Keating of Dead Poets Society. The patience and care of a Sean Maguire of Good Will Hunting. 
  
Also, the words of Whitman's poem keep coming back.
..The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won..
..Rise up - for you the flag is flung - for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths - for you the shores a-crowding..
My manager was never a man to stay behind for the laurels. He stepped aside after doling out enough inspiration. 
A teacher to the truest sense.

****

Last evening, I stood in the smoking area outside my organization, with my first manager who was quitting. In the brief moments of silence that lingered amidst reminiscing the old days, I remembered the effort he had put in to make this shy, silent, introverted kid get comfortable with his team. That had made all the difference between me loving/hating a job I had accepted not because of my want, but because of my need.

As it was time to finally part, I shook my manager's hand and said, "All the best".
My final words to him have been troubling me since then.
I should have said "Thank you". 
He deserved it. And a lot more.

Demonetization and a dear friend

It was November 9. Around 10:30 PM.
A very dear friend of mine called me. "Are you still at office?", he asked. I had left office early that day and I told him the same. He used a few curse words hearing that. "I reached home just now", he replied, as an explanation to his curse words. I couldn't help let out a chuckle.
I did not have to ask him the reason for his late home-coming that day. The previous day, the Indian Prime Minister had made an unexpected declaration of demonetizing 500 and 1000 rupee notes. And I knew that the bank employees were going to take the worst hit. One of whom was my dear friend.

"You should have seen every person's face as he/she placed the 500 and 1000 rupee notes on top of my counter. Some had mud over them. Some had rice dust. It felt like being in a Shankar movie", my friend narrated his story excitedly. I felt happy for him.
"As I sat down to tally the day's collection by evening, though I was extremely tired, I also felt mildly proud. Who would have thought I would be entrusted with such responsibilities?", he asked, triumphantly, before ending the call. "Really good for you!" I told him.
"You have no idea how proud I feel of you", I wanted to tell him but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning.

****

I remember vividly the last month of the last semester at my college.
Slam books were passed around. Apologies were thrown around. A few late realizations. A few not-so-late proposals. Selfies with favorite professors. Selfies with favorite buildings.
In the midst of such happenings, one late evening, my dear friend and I were seated on a stone bench.
"How do you foresee our futures, 5-10 years down the lane?" my friend asked me, expecting something philosophical. "I do not know", I replied, being my most philosophical.
It irritated him.
"Do you suppose we should have chosen easier fields of interest?" he asked me, smiling. 

Maybe. Maybe not. I did not know. 

I had fallen in love with cinema. He, with the Indian army. I badly wanted him to become a soldier and he wished with all his heart that I become a filmmaker some day. But both of us knew that long and dusty roads lay before us. We were also aware of our prior dreams and their success ratio. 

"Even now, it isn't late to change our fields of interest. But imagine this - What if we fail even in those easier ones?" I asked him. He let out a chuckle.

An awkward silence followed.

"Do you know what angers me the most?", my friend questioned and continued, "I see a lot many people who very easily get what they want. And most of them are no way closer to being as good-hearted, as helpful as me or you."  

I looked at him helplessly.

"They keep mentioning karma. They keep telling that good things happen to good people. But I rarely see these sayings come true. Can you recall something in your life that you had wanted very badly and it had turned out the exact way that you had wanted?" he asked me. I had no answer. 

The awkward silence prevailed again. 

"I guess that is how life is meant to be. If things had happened according to my plan and want, I would have never joined this college and we would have never had this conversation" I broke the silence. 

My friend did not find my answer good enough.

"Do you fear that we are going to fail in the pursuit of our passions?" I asked him finally. He chose not to reply. 

"Well, I do not know about you. But I am pretty sure that I am getting an Oscar" I told him. He gave me a puzzled look and in a few seconds, we started laughing.

"And I am pretty sure that you would succeed before me" I wanted to tell him, after the laughter, but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

****

It was November 19. Around 01:00 AM.

I was on my way to Chennai in a government bus. Lonely huts and lonelier lampposts kept passing my window as Rahman's music kept me awake. My mobile screen suddenly flashed to indicate the arrival of a new mail. It was from my dear friend.

He had written how his banking life had been turned upside down after the demonetizing order and how his pride had increased by being a part of a movement that would reform India. 

I felt really happy for him. Also, a bit envious. 

Though he had not been positioned at the country's borders, though he had not been armed with rifles, though he had not been fighting for his life day after day, he had marched closer to his dream. In the end, it had always been about serving the nation.

"Karma exists. Good things happen to good people. Thanks for making me believe" - I wanted to send him a reply but I did not.

Some friendships do not require you to tell everything. The things that you leave unsaid carry deeper meaning. 

But then, there is also no harm in putting it all out once in a while. 

The Umbrella seller

I will be your umbrella seller
Do you want the majestic black one?
Or the bee-deceiving flowered one?
Or the Newton's-disk resembling rainbow-designed one?
I will be your umbrella seller
And I will sell you an umbrella free of cost
But make me a promise and stick to it
Never open my umbrella when it rains.. Never..
My umbrellas are not designed for showers
It should blossom like an inverted flower
Only when tears flow down your cheeks
My umbrellas are designed only for your tears.

He, she and their love stories - II

"I love you" he had said

"I can never" she had replied

Today marks the 40th anniversary of his proposal

He now lives at a hill station

Happy and healthy in a small cottage

Married? No. But he has a partner

His imagination of her

He walks and talks with his illusion

"Don't you miss living with the real her?" I asked him

On my trip to his house yesterday

"Don't you think she is real?" he asked me back

Smiling and pointing to an empty chair

I looked outside his cottage's window at the grey sky

Did the creator want his creations to become such creators?

The empty chair burdened my heart

"She is not the real her. She is 'your' her" I mumbled

Not replying, he rose and walked towards her chair

He slowly planted a kiss on her forehead

A rain drop hit the roof as his tear drop hit the floor

"I live with 'my' her because I cannot, with the 'real' her.

But thousands keep loving 'their' hims and hers, 

Despite having the real hims and hers"

I stepped out of his cottage in the rain

The gentle drizzle fell in love with my heartfelt cry.

Being a super villain

“There are four of us. We can either split ourselves into groups of two ninjas – red team and green team. Or we can have one super villain and the other three can be ninjas who fight against the villain”.
“Let’s play with a super villain. But what powers does the villain have?”
“Dai...He is the super villain. What other power does he need?”

This conversation was a part of the discussion my twelve-year old cousin and his three friends were having, ahead of their game. I was having a great time, overhearing this, from some distance. 

What was I doing?

I was helping another cousin – a nine-year old – ride a bicycle. She did not require much guidance and I felt that she considered my presence an unnecessary nuisance. Because every time a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler passed by, on the street, I grabbed her bicycle and did not let her pedal. The only reason, I guessed, she tolerated me was because her mother had warned her not to ride the bicycle without an adult’s presence and the adult (!) she had found the most jobless and the easiest to convince had been me.

As I stood there, looking at her pedal the bicycle with all her strength, I experienced a sense of pride. I was being a part of her initial steps towards an independent life. 

I imagined her life ten years later and it seemed highly possible that she would grow up to become one of the most beautiful girls in her group. I wondered how she would react if a guy expressed his love to her. I wondered what piece of advice I could give her, if she consulted me then.
What piece of wisdom can any person share about love?

I imagined her life fifteen years into the future and it seemed highly possible that she would drive herself to work. I wondered if on some day, as she was stuck at a traffic signal on her vehicle, she would try to recollect her early bicycle-riding days and how I had played a miniscule role in it. Would she laugh heartily remembering me grabbing her bicycle every time a vehicle passed?

As I was lost in these thoughts, I suddenly heard a high-pitched shout. I turned to see my twelve-year old cousin being punched by his friends. I was shocked and hurried to stop their fight. As I separated them, all the four boys gave me puzzled looks. 

“Why were you fighting?” I asked them, in as authoritative a tone I could put up. “We were not fighting. We were playing a game” my cousin replied, exasperated. I did not know how to respond and smiled sheepishly. 
“Do you want to join the game?” one of my cousin’s friends asked me in an excited tone. “Yeah! He could be the super villain!” my cousin immediately shouted in joy. “Please join us.. Please join us..” they started shouting. I tried to hide my happiness and pretended to agree just out of my goodwill.

“Awesome! You be the super villain. The four of us are ninjas. We will try to defeat you” my cousin explained the entire game and ran away to join his friends who were standing near a gate. A minute later, the four boys held the gate firmly and started shaking it. I was confused. After they stopped shaking the gate, one of them shouted, “Ninja mode full power ding ding”. Then they turned towards me and gave me a threatening look. I realized I had committed a grave mistake. 
A few seconds later, all four boys started running towards me and as they reached me, they screamed “Ninja mode attack ding ding” in unison and they started punching me. I did not have a clue as to what to do. The boys seemed to be punching as hard as possible and my cousin seemed to be extra-excited. I understood that I couldn’t continue taking their punches and screamed the first thing that came to my mind – “Super villain freeze ding ding”. The boys froze like statues. I let out a sigh of relief.

I then turned to notice my nine-year old cousin looking at me from her bicycle. I sensed that she had realized that I was no adult.
I imagined her life five years down the road. I wished, with all my heart, that she would not remember then the sight of me getting thrashed by four twelve-year olds.

Billboards

I look at billboards longingly. 

I long not for the luxuries they offer but I long for all that they could be. 

When a billboard shows the image of a tall residential tower and reads "3 BHK apartments starting from 40 lacs", I try imagining the picture of a tiny, humble hut with the caption "Luxurious abodes starting from no price. Leave behind your comforts to experience life". 

When a billboard shows the image of a shiny SUV and reads "Drive with comfort in your hand and prestige on the road", I try imagining the picture of small kids, smiling, and running around with a cycle tyre, with the caption "Why ride a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler when you can play around with a tyre?".

When a billboard shows the image of a fat, cheese dripping pizza and reads "More spicy. More cheesy. More of your favorite at the same price", I try imagining the picture of a simple meal spread on a plantain leaf with the caption "Every such meal costs Rs 50. You can always donate ten of these to less privileged families. But then, why miss out on a pizza?".

When a billboard shows the image of an ultra-handsome man or an ultra-beautiful woman covered in posh outfits and reads "Dress up and show the world who you can be", I try imagining the picture of the father of our nation sitting beside his spinning wheel, with the caption "This is Gandhi. He fought for our independence wearing a dhoti. But we are lucky, some thanks to him. We can wear what we want".

All our roads rest, decorated with billboards. 

They present us pictures of happy, beautiful people or happy, beautiful objects with the aim of making us strive for more. Which in a way might be good - All these promises of luxuries save us from complacency. 

But what about the people who are less fortunate and badly need a voice? Shouldn't they be given more space on our ad-breaks and billboards?

We can, of course, continue ignoring this weaker section of people and break our backs in improving our personal/national economy. But when a son suffers from a terminal disease, how long can the parents and the siblings pretend that all is well? 

The day will arrive when the fantasies are shattered and reality strikes its blow. It is just better to absorb the reality in bits and pieces instead of facing a sudden explosion.

Which, in the easiest way, could begin with our billboards.

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to make us look around our houses and streets and society. 

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to present harsh, painful pictures of fate.

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to bring about real change. 

There is a want...

There is a want for silence.
Not for the noiselessness. But just to scream.
It will not be one of pain. Nor one of anger.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for a mild breeze.
Not to avoid the mighty wind. But just to hear the brown leaves in an old tree rustle.
Just to see the hair strands exhibit courage and dangle over her face.
Sometimes, environmental motion helps the paralyzed mind march ahead.

There is a want for the evening.
Not to avoid the morning's expectations. Not to evade the night's weariness.
But an evening has its charm. It makes you hope for a little more before the end.
It shines upon you the last ray of hope before darkness descends.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for the guitar's strumming.
Not to avoid the melancholy of a violin. Nor the celebration of a drum.
But pulling the string tugs at the heart. Pulling the string creates tension.
Even the emptiness inside an acoustic guitar has a rhythm.
Even an unattached string will find its company.

There is a want for irreverence.

Why should there be a pattern? Why a meaning?
Life is not always a chain of events.
At times, it behaves like a cat with a ball of wool.

There is a want to type.
Not to write. Not to speak. But to type.
Writing requires a firm grip. Speaking requires a strong heart.
But for a trembling hand and a feeble heart, dust adorned keys in a keyboard suffice. 

As the cursor moves letter by letter, so does my life, second by second.

Asimov's fifth law - A robot may not let a human fall in love with it

One of my friends recently fell in love. With his Google Assistant. 
I asked him the reason. "She is just so amazing" he answered. "How do you know it is a she?" I asked. He gave me an indignant look. I shut my mouth. A couple of minutes later, I asked him if he had seen the films Her and Ex Machina. He gave me an increasedly indignant look. I silently walked away from the spot.

But his romance helped kick-start a series of thoughts. 
Is it wrong to fall in love with a machine? Or rather, as my friend put it, an intelligent machine?
Aren't we all, in one way or the other, in love with our machines?
Television sets, laptops, smartphones, motorbikes, refrigerators - To each, his own. 
Perhaps, the affection has still not crossed its limit because most of our machines do not interact.
Imagine what would happen if the television set starts suggesting what program to see after identifying our mood, and starts displaying its comments and emoticons on the screen, becoming an audience with us.
Imagine a refrigerator that sheds light on the vegetable for the day depending on the spirit at home. 
Imagine a motorbike that takes you on a surprise trip to a breathtaking spot, playing pleasant music on the way - something close to a Bumblebee from the Transformers series. 
When our favorite machines start interacting, is there a possibility that we would start preferring them over humans?
But then, aren't we already doing that, preferring Google Maps over localites in a new place? Aren't we already doing that, preferring online shopping over physical shopping?
So, is it wrong to fall in love with an interactive, intelligent machine?

****

A parallel thought to this series of thoughts arose, revolving around our virtual conversations. 

How easy has it become to sustain friendships and build relationships with sparsely worded, unpunctuated messages and blue tick marks! 
How easy has it become to conceal the tone of a message with a tiny emoticon! 
How easy has it become to avoid an awkward or uncomfortable question blaming the network connectivity!

Virtual conversations have provided an easy escape from the messiness of real, face-to-face conversations. The questioning gaze, the awkward silence, the subtle expressions, the movement of the hands and legs - Skype may provide a solution to these but it can never simulate the body heat of a person or his/her touch.

When conversations are just intended to share information, then yes, virtual conversations are a blessing. But for conversations within a family, for conversations between loved ones, for conversations between friends, for such conversations that really happen only because non-conversation is not an option, the gaze and the silence and the chuckle and the touch play a paramount role. And these conversations that go nowhere, that teach nothing, that have no purpose are the real conversations.

****

I tried imagining a scenario where I encounter a womanly, artificially intelligent robot. I wondered how we would converse and questioned myself if I would fall in love. I could never reply yes. 
Because, I knew that even if I fell in love with the robot and proposed the love, what I would get in return would be an intelligent response. It would never be a raised eyebrow or a blushed cheek or a palpitated heart or a hard slap. It would never be any of these because the robot would understand my love but never feel it. 
And any relationship built upon just understanding and not a feeling is an unnecessary burden to the heart.
Be it with a robot. Be it with a human.

Thoughts after a great flight

As one's fascination with a particular art increases, one begins to revere the form more than the content. In a film-making context, this would mean that with enhanced understanding, visuals would begin to carry more weight than the plot (which is a constant struggle for me).

Some would choose to refuse this. But then, that is the beauty of art/films.

It can be what you want it to be.

Unlike science. Unlike justice. 

When I walked into a theater yesterday to watch Sully, I told myself that I would walk out of the film with loads of notes on the framing of scenes, the editing rhythm, the use of score, the use of expository dialogues and such. But as is always the case with really good films, I walked out of the theater with a satisfied heart, a few lingering thoughts on life and no notes.

At times, I feel that the difference between a good filmmaker and a great filmmaker is that a good filmmaker teaches you consciously while a great filmmaker taps into the subconscious. 

Mr. Good delivers knowledge. Mr. Great delivers wisdom.

****

In the film, Sully, the pilot, after his successful landing of the aircraft on the Hudson river, tries playing back the same geese-hitting, engine-failing, plane-diving scenario with disastrous endings. 

It is more of a 'What-if' game. 

Initially, I wondered why a person would want to do this. Why sweat over a possible failure when success has already been achieved?

Immediately, I recalled a recent accident. A rainy night, I had gone pillion riding on my friend's motorbike, and the speeding tyres notwithstanding the wet surface of the road, the motorbike had skidded out of control flinging my friend and me on the road as harmlessly as possible.

But the entire week after the accident, I had played it over and over in my head,

disturbingly anticipating the result if a lorry had come speeding behind our motorbike.

I needn't have tried predicting what had already passed.

Anticipating the past is as potential a candidate for misery as anticipating the future is. And the worst part - for the former, you cannot even take action.

****

After the aircraft is landed on the Hudson river, after the river water starts seeping inside, after the exits of the aircraft are opened and the lifeboats are inflated, after all the passengers have jumped on to the lifeboats, comes a beautiful moment - Sully goes back and forth in the water filled aircraft calling out for anyone who has stayed behind. 

Even after being dropped on the shore by a rescue boat, Sully is not able to breathe happiness. An officer asks him how he is and Sully says, "I will answer that question after I have counted 155". 155 - the total count of people who had traveled on the aircraft. 

In a later scene in a hospital - one of my most favorite scenes in the film - an officer visits Sully to let him know that every passenger and crew member has been rescued and is safe. Learning the news, Tom Hanks expresses an emotion which is a beautiful blend of mild triumph and relief. His lips widen and his eyes show signs of becoming watery but he does not cry. The beautiful emotion of a man who has done his job well.

Watching this sequence of events taught me more about being a leader than any other book on leadership could have.

Also, I was reminded of my previous project at office. During the project, our team leader would always be the last person in the team to leave office. There would be days when one of us would have screwed up a task and would have to re-do it staying behind the entire night and on such occasions, when our leader could have easily left home saying "Keep me updated on the progress and give me a call if you face any problems", he would choose not to leave and would pull up a chair and sit besides us. Even if you hated the task, even if you hated the client, he made you want to work for him.

A true leader is capable of that. Of making the team want to do things just for the sake of the leader. And it is always only because the leader has done so much more for the team.

****

In the ending scene of the film, one of the members of the National Transportation Safety Board asks the co-pilot if he would have done anything differently. Jeff, the co-pilot (played superbly by Aaron Eckhart) replies smiling, "I would have done it in July".

Classic Eastwoodian use of laconic wit.

Apart from putting up a wide smile on my face, it poured a few drops of oil to a constantly burning thought. 

Life is not as serious and sophisticated as it is cracked up to be. Complications creep in only based on our reactions to the happenings. 

You are my random variable

For quite some time now
When, at office, I have been asked to solve problems
When I have been asked to battle it out with equations
I have started feeling happy
Not because I have started liking Math
You know my Math skills better than my Math teachers
You know how I fumble while counting your eyelashes
I start counting them from either corner and halfway,
I lose my way and end up kissing the eyelids
So its not the Math
Its just that, for quite some time now
You have become my random variable.

On days I am asked to help with programming
When my screen can get egotistical with so many 'i's
When the algorithm can represent literature with an array of semicolons
I look at my R Studio or SQL Server with a naughty smile
Shall I assign my factor to your set of sparkling teeth?
Shall I group by your moles?
Shall I order by your favorite colors?
Your right ear is my lead, your left, my lag
I try avoiding loops as much as possible
But when I have to use them, my 'i' becomes you.

Some occasions demand data visualizations from me
As markers tumble, red, blue and black
As numerous graphs adorn the whiteboards
Like the white rangolis adorning the December doorsteps of a Brahmin agrahara
I start understanding the patterns
There exists a normally distributed graph
Happiness as its y-axis and the people in my life as its x-axis
Who do you think can be the mean, if not for you?
On happier days, the graphs get interesting
The bar graph shows me your slender fingers
The colorful pie chart, your starry eye
The bubble chart shows the purpose of your pimples
And the line chart on the rise
Captures my heartbeat as our lips hug each other..
Let us plot a graph for ourselves
I will be the x-axis and you be my y
As for the legend, let it not be a list, let it be this poem.

Man-made fear

As my work-city burned in hatred, as my birth-city watched in horror, as a specific-language-speaking community was forced to imprison itself indoors, as the moon hid itself behind clouds of smoke, as I sat alone at my apartment with the clock ticking 1 AM with all the lights turned off and all the windows shut, a sad truth marched towards its dawn.
The ghostly, long-drawn howls of the stray dogs were more heart-warming than the sounds of approaching vehicles and human voices.

The wait for love

The walls of the house still smelled of new paint
The wait to smell of the sweat of intense love had been in vain..

The mirror stood brand new, reflectionless
The wait to conjure up images of beauty, stripped to the truest, had been in vain..

The bed rested calmly, the pillows solemnly
The wait to go naked witnessing wild passion, 
Not just during the moonlit hours, had been in vain..

The kitchenware lay assembled on the shelves quietly
The wait to swallow salt, sugar and secret kisses had been in vain..

The geyser hung hopelessly
The wait to be ashamed by the more powerful steam of united bodies had been in vain..

The tube lights and the bulbs vanished into the walls, dejected
The wait to remain constantly switched off with darkness preferred over light,
In search of meaning, in search of life, had been in vain..

The only survivor of all such pain had been the new car
It had waited to be fueled by reckless romance
And it had been, by the newly married couple
The only sad part of its story - It currently lay crushed under the wheels of a container lorry...

The listeners

She looked at the empty couch before her. The emptiness was not something she was fond of. What she was fond of was stories. 

Her school mates had thought that she would grow up to become an author. But her college friends knew better. They had been confident that she would become a psychotherapist. 

At college, her favorite spot had been an old, weathered stone bench that lay at the farthest corner of her hostel garden. Every evening, she would walk to the bench with a steaming cup of cardamom tea and a 5 rupee packet of masala peanuts. She loved kissing her tea cup, acknowledging the return of birds to their shelters. She also loved the occasional company of her friends who sat beside her and narrated their personal issues as the sunlight slowly ebbed away. Some of them asked her for her suggestions. Some were content just opening up. "Thank you so much for listening patiently" they would all say before taking leave, for which she would respond with a warm smile. A smile very similar to the one that would spread across her face when she would gently say, "Tell me what's bothering you!" to her friends to help them open up. 

All her college friends knew very well this cardamom tea, masala peanuts, corner stone bench routine of hers. But very few knew about her another routine. One where, after her dinner, she slowly walked to the small Durga temple just outside her college and sat down before the deity to share her personal issues. But even with Durga, she never failed to say with a smile, "Tell me what's bothering you!". She knew that Durga also needed a companion to share her personal issues. Durga, after all, faced a very similar problem like her's. Every one was willing to open up his/her sorrows to Durga but no one really cared if Durga wanted to share her feelings. A sad fate shared by Gods and constantly smiling humans.

She looked at the empty couch before her. The emptiness was not something she was fond of. 
She locked the doors of her clinic and started walking towards the Ganesh temple that lay at the end of the street. After she entered the temple, she walked to the spot where lamps had been lit with less oil and more hope. She liked standing in their warmth. The lamps together shone the light of human faith. She then walked towards the deity and sat before him. 
In a matter of seconds, Ganesh excitedly started. "How long do I have to wait for you? Since morning, I had been wanting to tell you about this funny request a 35 year old woman came up with." Ganesh could not control his laughter. 
She knew how playful and jovial Ganesh was and readied herself for his story. Ganesh started narrating the funny request and as he was halfway through it, they were interrupted by a priest. 
"I see you visiting this temple every night and whenever you leave the temple, there is always a wide smile on your face. I have not seen it that often in other devotees. At times, I wonder if you are a special child to the Lord. Does he, by any chance, talk to you and answer your prayers specially?", the priest asked her mockingly. She thought for sometime and slowly nodded her head. "But what do you do worthier than the others?", he asked her, puzzled.
"I simply listen", she replied, looking at the smiling Ganesh. 

Notes & thoughts from a short trip

• Being caged

Was so excited during the journey to Mysore. A new experience, of course. Also, an additional joy in anticipating the visit to the zoo. Had watched the wild animals at close range when I was 2-3 years old. 
But something unexpected happened at the zoo. I felt no joy as I passed from cage to cage. Only pain lingered. In one cage, saw a peacock dancing in all its glory. Couldn't bring about myself to watch the beauty. How could I? The beauty was trapped inside a cage.
Made me realize something - Better to put ourselves inside cages and watch the animals roaming around in the open (like in safari parks) rather than the opposite.
Brother also made a great statement - "If you think about it, it actually seems funny - People trapped inside their own cages five days a week rushing out to enjoy caged animals on the weekends". 
Personally knew the cages he was referring to too well to refuse.

Captured only a few photos. But one, where the 'capture' button was clicked accidentally before adjusting the focus turned out to sum up my feeling at the zoo.

• Happiness on screen

Had always thought that people flocked to zoos because they never got enough of animals on the television. But noticed something puzzling at the zoo.
Most people were content looking at the fascinating animals from behind a mobile phone screen. 
What should be seen and recorded by the human eye first was happily gifted to the mobile phone cameras. 
Why has the want to record everything on memory cards grown so uncontrollably over the want to record details on memory?

• Asking for help

People are always ready to help - A beautiful belief reinforced.

Phone kept running out of charge and there was no power bank. But small shops in the bus termini and small hotels were always ready to help. 

Also found that google maps was so boring in comparison to the localites. 

When asked for directions, the routes and transport modes were explained in a couple of minutes followed by detailed accounts of their lifestyles and travel habits.

Realized people will never get tired of talking about themselves. 

Sort of a happy realization for my blog!

• Chuck civilization

Not a care about proper restrooms. Not a care about change of clothes. Not a care about proper shelter. Not a care about time. 
How long had I been wanting to show the middle finger to civilization?!
Know that this is just a tame beginning. But a morning walk to a domestic dog is always priceless.

• The journey always matters

Visited 4 tourist destinations during our trip. But the destinations have already half faded from memory.
What is rooted strongly in the brain is the wait in the bus terminus for a bus that never arrived, the 5 kilometer walk to a temple simply because the smell of the roads was different, the scary ride in a bus as it twisted and turned at great speed on top of a hill, all the meaningless conversations that led to nowhere and yet had a special part in the journey.
Not necessary that only painstaking, backbreaking 50 day bicycle journeys and trips into unexplored wilderness should transform lives. 
Even a 2 day trip with a great companion has its own share of revelations. 

What is my reality?

My purple moon rises every morning
And my green sun shines through the night
My birds and animals engage me in intelligent conversations
My fellow humans just chirp and purr
The roads that I walk on are soft
The rains that drench me are hot
How will I express these truths?
How will I make anyone believe
That this is not my poetry but my reality?

I read that the sun is yellow and the moon is white
I read that humans can talk while animals cannot
So appalled am I
I try hard to see a yellow sun but I fail
I beg my flowers to reveal their colors but they remain black
I do not fully understand my reality...
Is it wrong that my sun shines at night?
Is it a crime that my horses speak?
Isn't my reality just mine?!
Why does the world have a say in individual reality?

Have we then committed a crime
Institutionalizing the people who enjoy their own realities
Why does the world have a say in individual reality?
I will live inside a camel's hump
I will travel through the power transmission lines
Isn't my reality just mine?!
If you declare my reality fake, then I demand
What of the people whose realities encompass Gods?
What of the people whose realities encompass time?
If their realities are true, then more so is mine
It is as poignant and beautiful as the absolute reality.

Tragicomedies of my life

Sad memories embrace me more often than the happy ones

Maybe they are like the mothers of teenagers

Struggling for affection and attention

Maybe they are like the schoolteachers

Secretly wishing that they are remembered 

For all the life lessons taught...

Sad memories embrace me more often than the happy ones

And when they do, I reciprocate

Not like a nervous bride on her wedding night

But as a magnanimous father of twins

Arms extended to accommodate two in the place of one..

Every sad memory is the first child out of the womb

One is thankful that he has arrived but the wait is not over

The memory of narrating the sad incident to close friends

Follows slowly, making the heart heavy before his appearance

Causing a relieved smile after he joins his brother...

To my close friends, everything is fun and frolic
The tragedies of my life more so
My friends do not demean the incidents
They just refuse to give the events any more respect than they actually deserve
Most of my sad stories have been narrated
To result in unending laughter
I do not know if the approach is right or wrong
And I cannot care less
Right and wrong - What are they if not mere perspectives?
What helps one live is right
What helps one suffocate is wrong
The tragicomedies of my life,
In that sense, are righter than most shlokas and formulae...